just called in here in case there was some other details you people wanted to know.”
I watched him doodling with his cheap government pencil on a blank page of his notebook. After a while he said:
“Well, we appreciate that, sir, we appreciate that very much. Just for the record, perhaps you would give me a detailed description of the woman you travelled with from Brighton.”
I described her without hesitation and without difficulty. When I had finished he said:
“Well, sir, the best thing I can do is to attach a note to the sergeant’s report, saying you called, and if there’s anything further we want, we’ll get in touch with you. Right?”
“Fine,” I said, and got to my feet. But he hesitated.
“Perhaps I’d better just look for the old sergeant’s report, sir, as I haven’t seen it. It’s a big station here, we don’t see everybody else’s reports. I mean, that wouldn’t be on the cards, would it? I mean, we can’t see everybody’s reports, can we? Otherwise we’d spend all our day reading. See what I mean? I mean, there might be some point or other we could clarify at once. So if you wouldn’t mind just hanging on a minute, sir?”
I liked his eager, babbling incoherent manner. It was nice and friendly.
“It might save us troubling you further,” he added, as an afterthought.
“Certainly, if you wish,” I said, and sat down again. He went out of the room. He was a pleasant, ingenuous character, probably a young uniformed officer on probation to be a detective.
I waited for ten minutes. When the door opened again two other plain-clothes men came in. They were different.
One of them announced himself briefly as the superintendent in charge of what he called “the Paradise case.” Later, he referred to the other man as “sergeant.”
My first impression of the superintendent was of a tall, well-built man in his early fifties, with grey eyes, a good head of grey hair, dressed in a grey suit. His face seemed grey, too. It was a strong face, with a good brow and a firm but not cruel mouth. The nose was a little too long, and the chin was pointed rather than square, but it was a pleasant enough, intelligent face. He spoke good English with a strong voice, and had a slight north-country accent.
The sergeant, on the other hand, gave an impression of fawnness. He was shorter and stouter than the superintendent, and had a round, bullet head, a short nose, and a jaw and underlip which protruded aggressively. His hair was spread in bootlace style over a nearly bald skull, and was brown except for the grey bits above his ears. He had brown eyes, and wore a brown suit, and had a putty-coloured complexion. He was of about the same age as the superintendent but, I think, lacked the former’s education and general intellect. He was more of the “old sweat” type of N.C.O. which one used to find in the Army.
They had, however, one dreadful thing in common-fatigue. It was not the superficial fatigue which can be shed by a good nine hours’ sleep. It was something far deeper, something that had been built up over a long period of years. Just as the dirt and grime of certain industrial cities seems to become ingrained in the skins of the workers, so the greyness and the lines of fatigue were implanted on the faces of these two detectives. Their appearance spoke more forcefully than any leading article of a Force below establishment, of cancelled week-ends and shortened holidays, of long nights and days at work, and little appreciation, and no joy.
The superintendent held some typescript in his hand. He said:
“Good evening. You’re Mr. James Compton, of 274 Stratford Road?”
“That’s right. I just called in-”
“Yes, sir, thank you very much,” he said quickly. “There are one or two points I want to clear up.”
“Carry on,” I said.
He gave me the impression of a man in a hurry, which is never very complimentary.
“Last night you were returning home, according to this station report, when you allege you were threatened by two men, at present unidentified. Right?”
“I thought only one man was actually threatening me. The other man-”
But he wouldn’t let me finish.
“Well, anyway, you thought you were being threatened?”
“Correct,” I said shortly.
“You reported the incident. Very properly. You then went to your flat in Stratford Road, where your suspicions were aroused, and you thought some person or persons unknown were in the flat. But a search showed your suspicions were apparently unfounded. Right?”
“Yes-you could put it that way.”
The tired lines round his mouth deepened. He said:
“Look, sir, I don’t want to put it any way except the correct way.”
“Well, that’s right,” I said reluctantly. “But I think my suspicions were right, and I think it’s connected with this woman in the train who complained about me.”
He interrupted me again.
“Tell me about her, sir.”
“There’s not much to tell, and I’ve told Sergeant Matthews already.”
He sat down opposite me. The sergeant shouted through the doorway, “Bert, bring another chair in, will you?” The superintendent waited until the sergeant was seated. Then he said:
“Tell me the story briefly, right from the beginning, sir.”
“Going right back? Back to Mrs. Dawson and Pompeii?”
“Who’s Mrs. Dawson?” he asked.
I guessed that Sergeant Matthews had not bothered to put in a report about anything other than the matter about which he had called.
I had a feeling he wouldn’t do more than briefly mention what I had told him, because of the bored way he had put poor Bunface’s communication in his notebook. But I hadn’t expected him to put in no report at all.
There was nothing for it but to go over the whole thing again. I saw the bald-headed sergeant scribbling shorthand notes. When I had finished there was a silence.
The superintendent was picking at the wooden table with a pin he had found lying on it.
“Can you think of any reason why this unfortunate woman should have made any complaint against you, sir?”
“Certainly not, except that she was in a highly emotional state, and probably neurotic.”
“Can you think of any reason why this woman, whom you had met for the first time, should know your name and address, unless you gave it to her for some purpose, and if you gave it to her, why did you?”
“I dealt with that point with Sergeant Matthews,” I said. The fawn-coloured sergeant spoke for the first time. He had a rasping voice which contrasted with the superintendent’s soft tones. He sounded as though he had spent much of his life shouting at dogs, or horses, or men.
“The superintendent here, he isn’t Sergeant Matthews, sir. He is just asking-”
“I know what the superintendent wants to know, and the answer is, I didn’t give her my name and address and I don’t know how she got it.”
I liked the grey superintendent, but I didn’t like the fawn-coloured sergeant with his jutting jaw and lower lip.
“About this message you think was written on your machine and paper,” began the sergeant.
“I don’t think it was written on my machine. I
“Why should the message have been typed on your machine, and taken down to the coast, and then brought up again, why shouldn’t it have just been put through your letter box or posted?” asked the superintendent gently.
He had his left elbow on the table, his left hand supporting his head, and was looking thoughtfully. I shook my head helplessly.
“I don’t know,” I said, “I just don’t know. It doesn’t make sense.”
“No, it doesn’t,” said the sergeant.
The superintendent made no comment.
Suddenly the whole thing infuriated me.
“Anyway, why should anyone wish to prevent me probing into Mrs. Dawson’s background? Why should they
