The conversation, which was well sustained by Mr. Wiseman, was usually of himself, his wife being content to punctuate his autobiography with such encouraging phrases as, “Dear, dear!” “Well, whatever next!” the children doing no more than ask in a whisper for more food. This they did at regular and frequent intervals, but because of their whispers they were supposed to be unheard.
Constable Wiseman spoke about himself because he knew of nothing more interesting to talk about. His evening conversation usually took the form of a very full résumé of his previous day’s experience. He left the impression upon his wife—and glad enough she was to have such an impression—that Eastbourne was a well-conducted town mainly as a result of P.C. Wiseman’s ceaseless and tireless efforts.
“I never had a clue yet that I never follered to the bitter end,” said the preening constable.
“You remember when Raggett’s orchard was robbed—who found the thieves?”
“You did, of course; I’m sure you did,” said Mrs. Wiseman, jigging her youngest on her knee, the youngest not having arrived at the age where he recognized the necessity for expressing his desires in whispers.
“Who caught them three-card-trick men after the Lewes races last year?” went on Constable Wiseman passionately. “Who has had more summonses for smoking chimneys than any other man in the force? Some people,” he added, as he rose heavily and took down his tunic, which hung on the wall—“some people would ask for promotion; but I’m perfectly satisfied. I’m not one of those ambitious sort. Why, I wouldn’t know at all what to do with myself if they made me a sergeant.”
“You deserve it, anyway,” said Mrs. Wiseman.
“I don’t deserve anything I don’t want,” said Mr. Wiseman loftily. “I’ve learned a few things, too, but I’ve never made use of what’s come to me officially to get me pushed along. You’ll hear something in a day or two,” he said mysteriously, “and in high life, too, in a manner of speaking—that is, if you can call old Minute high life, which I very much doubt.”
“You don’t say so!” said Mrs. Wiseman, appropriately amazed.
Her husband nodded his head.
“There’s trouble up there,” he said. “From certain information I’ve received, there has been a big row between young Mr. Merrill and the old man, and the C.I.D. people have been down about it. What’s more,” he said, “I could tell a thing or two. I’ve seen that boy look at the old man as though he’d like to kill him. You wouldn’t believe it, would you, but I know, and it didn’t happen so long ago either. He was always snubbing him when young Merrill was down here acting as his secretary, and as good as called him a fool in front of my face when I served him with that summons for having his lights up. You’ll hear something one of these days.”
Constable Wiseman was an excellent prophet, vague as his prophecy was.
He went out of the cottage to his duty in a complacent frame of mind, which was not unusual, for Constable Wiseman was nothing if not satisfied with his fate. His complacency continued until a little after seven o’clock that evening.
It so happened that Constable Wiseman, no less than every other member of the force on duty that night, had much to think about, much that was at once exciting and absorbing. It had been whispered before the evening parade that Sergeant Smith was to leave the force. There was some talk of his being dismissed, but it was clear that he had been given the opportunity of resigning, for he was still doing duty, which would not have been the case had he been forcibly removed.
Sergeant Smith’s mien and attitude had confirmed the rumor. Nobody was surprised, since this dour officer had been in trouble before. Twice had he been before the deputy chief constable for neglect of, and being drunk while on, duty. On the earlier occasions he had had remarkable escapes. Some people talked of influence, but it is more likely that the man’s record had helped him, for he was a first-class policeman with a nose for crime, absolutely fearless, and had, moreover, assisted in the capture of one or two very desperate criminals who had made their way to the south-coast town.
His last offense, however, was too grave to overlook. His inspector, going the rounds, had missed him, and after a search he was discovered outside a public house. It is no great crime to be found outside a public house, particularly when an officer has a fairly extensive area to cover, and in this respect he was well within the limits of that area. But it must be explained that the reason the sergeant was outside the public house was because he had challenged a fellow carouser to fight, and at the moment he was discovered he was stripped to the waist and setting about his task with rare workmanlike skill.
He was also drunk.
To have retained his services thereafter would have been little less than a crying scandal. There is no doubt, however, that Sergeant Smith had made a desperate attempt to use the influence behind him, and use it to its fullest extent.
He had had one stormy interview with John Minute, and had planned another. Constable Wiseman, patrolling the London Road, his mind filled with the great news, was suddenly confronted with the object of his thoughts. The sergeant rode up to where the constable was standing in a professional attitude at the corner of two roads, and jumped off with the manner of a man who has an object in view.
“Wiseman,” he said—and his voice was such as to suggest that he had been drinking again—“where will you
