“It may be a help. You never can tell,” was his summary of the situation. “By the way what about oars? Where do you keep yours?”
“They couldn’t have got the oars. They are never left in the boat. We take them up to the house when we’ve finished with them. The criminals must have stolen oars elsewhere or brought their own.”
“One other question. You’ve told me you didn’t see anyone about on that night or hear a car. Now can you suggest anyone who might possibly have been out?”
Farrar shrugged.
“How could I?”
“Well, who are the doctors in this part of the world? Was there a dance in the neighbourhood? You see what I mean?”
Farrar saw, but couldn’t help. He gave the names of four medical men, any one of whom might have been called in by residents in the district. But he didn’t know of anyone who had been. And then suddenly he slapped his thigh.
“But I do though, after all,” he exclaimed. “Findlay’s wife had a son that morning! You bet Findlay was out for the doctor. You should go and see him; he’s an architect in Portsmouth. Or if you like you can come back to the house and ring him up. I’ll introduce you.”
French accepted gratefully and in a few minutes the call was put through. Findlay was equally ready to help. Yes, his wife had been confined on the night in question and he had gone for the doctor shortly before —Dr. Lappin, of Lee. But he had met no one on the road nor had he seen a car.
“A call on Dr. Lappin seems to be indicated,” French declared as he once again thanked Farrar for his help.
“Well,” said the latter with a sidelong look, “since you mention it, do you know why I told you about Findlay?”
“Why?”
“For this reason. I know something about the police and I may tell you that you’re the first officer who has ever come to ask me a question in what I may call a really civil way. It is generally: ‘Tell me or it’ll be the worse for you.’ But when you treated me as a friend who might be able to help you, why, I thought I’d do it.”
“I don’t think our people are as bad as you make out, Mr. Farrar. But I’m much obliged to you all the same.”
After a hurriedly snatched cup of tea French presented himself at Dr. Lappin’s door. The doctor was just going out, but he turned back with his visitor.
“Yes,” he agreed, “I left here shortly after . It is about five minutes’ run to Mr. Findlay’s and I should say that I got there about .”
“And did you notice a car?”
“As a matter of fact I did. Now let me see where it was. Yes, I remember it distinctly. It was about half a mile on the Hill Head side of the wireless station, where the road turns inland. I can show you the very place if you wish me to.”
“It passed you there?”
“I passed it. It was standing at the side of the road and the driver was working at the engine. He had the lid of the bonnet raised and was bending over it. I slowed up and called out to know if there was anything wrong, but he replied only a dirty plug and that he had got it right.”
This was good news. French felt that he was on the trail once more. With his interest aroused to the keenest pitch he went on with his questions.
“There was only one man there?”
“I saw only one. The car was a fairly large one, a saloon. It was not lighted up and there might have been others inside, but I didn’t see anyone.”
“Was there a moon?”
“No, but dawn was breaking. I could see objects fairly clearly, but no more.”
“Now, what about the man outside? Could you describe him?”
“Not well. He was muffled up in a coat and had a soft hat pulled down over his eyes. As far as I could see he was a tallish, thin man with a pale face and small moustache. But I couldn’t be sure of that.”
“Anything peculiar about his accent?”
“It occurred to me that he had a sort of inflection in his voice such as you hear in Ireland or South Wales. I don’t know about North Wales, as I’ve never been there.”
“High pitched or low?”
“Rather high of the two.”
Better and better! If this was not Style, French would, so he said to himself, eat his hat.
“I see. Now, doctor, can you describe the car more fully?”
“I really don’t think I can, except that it was a middle-sized, grey saloon. Possibly a Daimler, though really I have no right to give such an opinion. But it seemed rather that shape. Of course that’s the shape of a lot of other makes as well. But I saw the number.”
“The number! Why, sir, you did well. What was it?”
The doctor smiled thinly.
“I’m afraid I don’t deserve as much credit as you seem to think,” he protested. “It happened to be the number of my own car, less one figure. Mine is 7385 and this one was 7395—one figure different, you see. But whereas my car is registered in Hampshire, this one had a Surrey initial.”
“This is valuable information, Dr. Lappin,” French declared. “Now before I go do you think there is anything else that you can tell me? You didn’t see anyone on the road, for instance?”
But Dr. Lappin had not noticed anyone. The facts he had mentioned he was sure of, but he knew no others. When he had returned about the car was gone. He promised French to give any evidence that might be required and that in the meantime he would say nothing of what he knew.
On his return to Portsmouth French drafted a police circular. It was believed that a middle-sized, grey saloon car, possibly a Daimler and possibly registered in Surrey
