Murder Must Advertise

Chapter XII. Surprising Acquisition of a Junior Reporter

Very early one morning, a junior reporter on the Morning Star, of no importance to anybody except himself and his widowed mother, walked out of that great newspaper’s palatial new offices and into the affairs of Chief-Inspector Parker. This nonentity’s name was Hector Puncheon, and he was in Fleet Street at that time because a fire had broken out the previous night in a large City warehouse, destroying a great deal of valuable property and involving the spectacular escapes of three night watchmen and a cat from the roofs of the adjacent buildings. Hector Puncheon, summoned to the scene for the excellent reason that he had lodgings in the West Central district and could be transported to the scene of action in a comparatively brief time, had written a short stop-press notice of the disaster for the early country editions, a longer and more exciting account for the London edition, and then a still longer and more detailed report, complete with the night-watchmen’s and eye-witnesses’ Stories and a personal interview with the cat, for the early editions of the Evening Comet, twin-organ to the Morning Star and housed in the same building.

After completing all this toil, he was wakeful and hungry. He sought an all-night restaurant in Fleet Street, accustomed to catering for the untimely needs of pressmen, and, having previously armed himself with a copy of the Morning Star as it poured out damp from the machines, sat down to a 3 a.m. breakfast of grilled sausages, coffee and rolls.

He ate with leisurely zest, pleased with himself and his good fortune, and persuaded that not even the most distinguished of the senior men could have turned in a column more full of snap, pep and human interest than his own. The interview with the cat had been particularly full of appeal. The animal was, it seemed, an illustrious rat-catcher, with many famous deeds to her credit. Not only that, but she had been the first to notice the smell of fire and had, by her anguished and intelligent mewings, attracted the attention of night-watchman number one, who had been in the act of brewing himself a cup of tea when the outbreak took place. Thirdly, the cat, an ugly black-and-white creature with a spotted face, was about to become a mother for the tenth time, and Hector Puncheon by a brilliant inspiration had secured the reversion of the expected family for the Morning Star, so that half a dozen or so fortunate readers might, by applying to their favourite paper and enclosing a small donation for the Animals’ Hospital, become the happy owners of kittens with a prenatal reputation and a magnificent rat-catching pedigree. Hector Puncheon felt that he had done well. He had been alert and courageous, offering the night-watchman ten shillings on his own responsibility the very moment the big idea occurred to him, and the night-editor had okayed the stunt and even remarked that it would do quite well.

Filled with sausages and contentment, Hector Puncheon lingered over his paper, reading the Special Friday Feature with approval and appreciating the political cartoon. At length, he folded the sheet, stuffed it in his pocket, tipped the waiter extravagantly with sixpence and emerged into Fleet Street.

The morning was fine, though chilly, and he felt that after his night’s labours, a little walk would do him good. He strolled happily along, past the Griffin at Temple Bar and the Law Courts and the churches of St. Clement Danes and St. Mary-le-Strand, and made his way up Kingsway. It was only when he got to the turning into Great Queen Street that he became aware of something lacking in an otherwise satisfactory universe. Great Queen Street led into Long Acre; off Long Acre lay Covent Garden; already the vans and lorries laden with fruit and flowers were rumbling in from all over the country and rumbling out again. Already the porters were unloading their stout sacks, huge crates, round baskets, frail punnets and long flat boxes filled with living scent and colour, sweating and grumbling over their labours as though their exquisite burdens were so much fish or pig-iron. And for the benefit of these men the pubs would be open, for Covent Garden interprets the London licensing regulations to suit its own topsy-turvy hours of labour. Hector Puncheon had had a successful night and had celebrated his success with sausages and coffee; but there are, dash it all! more suitable methods of celebration.

Hector Puncheon, swinging blithely along in his serviceable grey flannel bags and tweed jacket, covered by an old burberry, suddenly realized that he owned the world, including all the beer in Covent Garden Market. He turned into Great Queen Street, traversed half the length of Long Acre, dodged under the nose of a van horse at the entrance to the Underground Station, and set his face towards the market, picking his way cheerfully between the boxes and baskets and carts and straw that littered the pavement. Humming a lively tune, he turned in through the swing doors of the White Swan.

Although it was only a quarter past four, the Swan was already doing a brisk trade. Hector Puncheon edged his way up to the bar between two enormous carters and waited modestly for the landlord to finish serving his habitual customers before calling attention to himself. A lively discussion was going on about the merits of a dog named Forked Lightning. Hector, always ready to pick up a hint about anything that was, or might conceivably be turned into news, pulled his early Morning Star from his pocket and pretended to read it, while keeping his ears open.

“And what I say is,” said Carter the First, “-same again, Joe-what I say is, when a dawg that’s fancied like that dawg is, stops dead ’arf way round the course like as if ’e’d a-bin shot, wot I say is, I likes to know wot’s at the back of it.”

“Ar,” said Carter the Second.

“Mind you,” went on Carter the First, “I ain’t sayin’ as animals is always to be relied on. They ’as their off-days, same as you an’ me, but wot I says is-”

“That’s a fact,” put in a smaller man, from the other side of Carter the Second, “that’s a fact, that is. An’ wot’s more, they ’as their fancies. I ’ad a dawg once as couldn’t abide the sight of a goat. Or maybe it was the smell. I dunno. But show ’im a goat any time, and ’e got a fit of the trembles. Couldn’t run all day. I remember one time when I was bringin’ ’im up to run at the White City, there was a bloke in the street leadin’ two goats on a string-”

“Wot did a bloke want with two goats?” demanded Carter the Second, suspiciously.

“’Ow should I know wot ’e wanted with goats?” retorted the little man, indignantly. “They wasn’t my goats, was they? Well, that there dawg-”

“That’s different,” said Carter the First. “Nerves is nerves, and a thing like a goat might ’appen to anybody, but wot I says is-”

“What’s yours, sir?” inquired the landlord.

“Oh, I think I’ll have a Guinness,” said Hector. “Guinness is good for you-particularly on a chilly morning. Perhaps,” he added, feeling pleased with himself and the world, “these gentlemen will join me.”

The two carters and the little man expressed their gratification, and ordered beer.

“It’s a queer thing, this business of nerves,” said the little man. “Talking of Guinness, now, my old aunt had a parrot. Some bird it was, too. Learnt to speak from a sailor. Fortunately the old lady couldn’t ’ear ’alf of wot it said, and didn’t understand the other ’alf. Now, that there bird-”

“You seem to have had a wide experience with livestock,” observed Hector Puncheon.

“I ’ave that,” said the little man. “That there bird, as I was going to say, got fits of nerves as would surprise you. ’Unched ’isself up on ’is perch like, and shivered fit to shake ’isself to pieces. And wot was the reason of that, do you think?”

“Beggared if I know,” said Carter the Second. “Your ’ealth, sir.”

“Mice,” said the little man, triumphantly. “Couldn’t stand the sight of a mouse. And wot do you think we ’ad to give it to pull it round, like?”

“Brandy,” suggested Carter the First. “Nothing like brandy for parrots. We got one at ’ome-one o’ them green sort. My wife’s brother brought it ’ome with ’im-”

“They ain’t such good talkers as the grey ones,” said Carter the Second. “There was a parrot at the old Rose & Crown dahn Seven Dials way-”

“Brandy?” scoffed the little man, “not ’im. ’E wouldn’t look at brandy.”

“Wouldn’t ’e now?” said Carter the First. “Now, you show our old bird brandy, an’ ’el’ll ’op right out of ’is cage for it same as a Christian. Not too much, mind you, but give it ’im neat in a teaspoon-”

“Well, it wasn’t brandy,” persisted the little man, “Aunt’s was a teetotal bird, ’e was. Now, I’ll give you three guesses, an’ if you gets it right, I’ll stand drinks all round, and I can’t say fairer ’an that.”

“Aspirin?” suggested the landlord, anxious that the round of drinks should be stood by somebody.

The little man shook his head.

“Ginger,” said Carter the Second. “Birds is sometimes wonderful fond o’ ginger. Stimulates the innards. Though, mind you, some says it’s too ’eatin’, an’ brings their fevvers aht.”

“Nutrax for Nerves,” suggested Hector Puncheon, a little wildly, his eye having been caught by that morning’s half-double, which carried the intriguing headline: “WHY BLAME THE WOMAN?”

“Nutrax nothing,” snorted the little man, “Nor none o’ yer patent slops. No. Strong coffee wiv’ cayenne pepper in it-that’s wot that bird liked. Put ’im right in a jiff, it did. Well, seein’ as the drinks ain’t on me this time-”

He looked wistful, and Hector obliged again with the same all round. Carter the Second, jerking his beer off at one gulp and offering a general salute to the company, shouldered his way out, and the little man moved up closer to Hector Puncheon to make way for a florid person in evening dress, who had just shot his way in through the door and now stood swaying a little uncertainly against the bar.

“Scotch-and-soda,” said this person, without preface, “double Scotch and not too bloody much soda.”

The landlord looked at him keenly.

“Thass all right,” said the newcomer, “I know what you’re thinking, my boy, but I’m not drunk. Norra bittovit. Nerves a liddleoutavorder, ’tsall.” He paused, evidently conscious that his speech was getting a little ahead of itself. “Been sittin’ up with a sick friend,” he explained, carefully. “Very trying to the system, sittin’ up all night. Very hard on the conshi-conshishushion-excuse me-slight acshident to my dental plate, mush gettitsheento.”

He leaned one elbow on the bar, pawed vaguely with his foot for the brass rail, pushed his silk hat well to the back of his head and beamed pleasantly upon the company.

The landlord of the Swan looked at him again with a practised eye, calculated that his customer could probably carry one more Scotch-and-soda without actual disaster, and fulfilled his order.

“Thanks verrimush, old feller,” said the stranger. “Well, goo’ luck, all. What are these gentlemen taking?”

Hector Puncheon excused himself politely, explaining that he had really had all he wanted and must now be going home.

“No, no,” said the other, hurt. “Mustn’t say that. Not time to gome yet. Night yet young.” He flung an affectionate arm round Hector’s neck. “I like your face. You’re the sortafeller I like. You must come along one day ’n see my little place. Roses roun’ the porch an’ all that. Give you my card.” He hunted in his pockets and produced a note-case, which he flapped open on the bar-counter. A quantity of small pieces of paper flew out right and left.

“Dashitall,” said the gentleman in dress clothes, “what I mean, dashit.” Hector stooped to pick up some of the scattered oddments, but the little man was before him.

“Thanks, thanks,” said the gentleman. “Wheresh card? Thatsh not card, thatsh my wife’s shopping-list-you gorra-wife?”

“Not yet,” admitted Hector.

“Lucky devil,” replied the stranger with emphasis. “No wife, no damned shopping-list.” His vagrant attention was caught and held by the shopping-list, which he held up in one hand and tried, unsuccessfully, to focus with a slightly squinting gaze. “Alwaysh bringing home parcels like a blurry errand-boy. Where’d I put that parcel now?”

“You ’adn’t no parcel when you come in ’ere, guv’nor,” said Carter the First. The question of drinks seemed to have been shelved, and the worthy man no doubt felt it was time to remind the gentleman that there were others in the bar, besides the abstemious Mr. Puncheon. “Dry work,” he added, “cartin’ parcels round.”

“Damn dry,” said the married gentleman. “Mine’s a Scotch-and-soda. Whaddid you say you’d have, ol’ boy?” He again embraced Hector Puncheon, who gently disentangled himself.

“I really don’t want-” he began; but, seeing that this reiterated refusal might give offence, he gave way and asked for a half-tankard of bitter.

“Talking about parrots,” said a thin voice behind them. Hector started and, looking round, observed a dried-up old man seated at a small table in the corner of the bar, absorbing a gin-and-potash. He must have been there all the time, thought Hector.

The gentleman in dress clothes swung round upon him so sharply that he lost his balance and had to cling to the little man to save himself.

“I never mentioned parrots,” he said, enunciating the words very distinctly. “I shouldn’t think of talking about parrots.”

“I once knowed a parson wot ’ad a parrot,” continued the old man. “Joey, they called “im.”

“Wot, the parson?” asked the little man.

“No, the parrot,” said the old fellow, mildly, “and that there parrot hadn’t ever been out of the parson’s family. Joined in family prayers, he did and said ‘Amen’ like a Christian. Well, one day this here parson-”

A rush of customers entering from the market drew the landlord’s attention away and drowned the next sentence or so of the story. The carter hailed some acquaintances and joined them in a fresh round of beer. Hector, shaking off the intoxicated gentleman, who seemed now to be inviting him to join a cozy little fishing party in Scotland, turned to go, but found himself caught and held by the old man.

“-and old parson found the bishop sitting over the cage with a lump of sugar in his fingers, saying, ‘Come on, Joey, say it! B… b… b…!’ And that, mind you,” said the old man, “was a Church of England bishop. And what do you think the bishop did then?”

“I can’t imagine,” said Hector.

“Made the parson a canon,” said the old man, triumphantly.

“Never!” said Hector.

“But that’s nothing,” pursued the old man. “There was a parrot I knew down in Somerset -”

Hector felt he really could not bear to hear about the parrot down in Somerset. He extricated himself politely and fled.

His next activity was to go home and have a bath, after which he coiled himself up on his bed and slept placidly till his normal breakfast-time at nine.

He breakfasted in his dressing-gown, and it was when he was transferring his various possessions from his grey flannels to his navy lounge suit that he came upon the little packet. It was neatly done up with sealing-wax in white paper, and bore the innocent label “Bicarbonate of Soda.” He stared at it in surprise.

Hector Puncheon was a young man with a hearty and healthy digestion. He had heard, of course, of sodium bicarb, and its virtues, but only as a wealthy man hears of hire-purchase. For the moment he thought he must have accidentally picked the little package up in the bathroom and slipped it into his pocket unaware. Then he remembered that he had not taken his coat into the bathroom that morning, and that he had emptied out the pockets the previous night. He distinctly recollected that, when the summons to the fire had reached him, he had had to tumble hurriedly into them the few odds and ends he habitually carried about him-handkerchief, keys, loose cash, pencils and what-not, taken from his dressing-table. It was quite inconceivable that there should have been any bicarbonate on his dressing-table.

Hector Puncheon was puzzled. A glance at the clock, however, reminded him that he had not time for puzzlement just then. He had to get down to St. Margaret’s, Westminster, by 10.30 to report the wedding of a fashionable beauty who was being married in the strictest secrecy at that unfashionable hour. He had then to hasten back to report a political meeting in Kingsway Hall, and thence he must gallop round the corner to attend a luncheon given to a distinguished airman in the Connaught Rooms. If the speeches were over by 3 o’clock, he could then make a dash for a train and get out to Esher, where a royalty was opening a new school and inaugurating it with a children’s tea-party. After which, if he were still alive, and had contrived to get his copy written up in the train, he could turn it in at the office and find time to think.

This strenuous programme was carried out without more than the usual number of exasperating hitches, and not until he had pushed the last sheet of copy over to the sub-editor, and was sitting, tired but conscious of work well done, in the Cock Tavern, tackling a beef-steak, did he give another thought to the mysterious packet of sodium bicarb. And now, the more he thought about it, the odder the incident became.

He ran over in his mind the various activities of the previous night. At the fire, he remembered now quite distinctly, he had put on his burberry and buttoned it up, by way of protecting his light grey flannels against showers of smuts and the spray of the firemen’s hoses. The mysterious package could hardly have been placed in his jacket-pocket then. After that, there had been interviews with various people-including the cat-the writing of his copy in the Morning Star offices and his breakfast in the Fleet Street eating-house. To suppose that he had accidentally found and pocketed four ounces of bicarbonate on any of these occasions seemed to him fantastic. Unless, of course, one of his newspaper colleagues had put the thing there for a joke. But who? And why?

He went on to consider the walk home and the conversation in the White Swan. His exhilarated acquaintance in dress clothes was the kind of man, he thought, who might from time to time require the assistance of a mild digestive and carminative. Possibly in one of his more affectionate moments he might have slipped the packet into Hector’s coat-pocket by mistake for his own. The two carters would not, Mr. Puncheon felt sure, be carrying drugs round with them…

Drugs. As the word shaped itself in his mind-for Hector Puncheon usually thought articulately, and often, indeed, conversed quite sensibly aloud with his own soul-an enormous query shot up in his brain. Bicarbonate of soda, hell! He was ready to stake his journalistic reputation it was nothing of the sort. His fingers sought the packet, which he had thrust back into the pocket where he had found it, and he was on the point of opening it and investigating the contents when a better idea struck him. Leaving his rump-steak half finished, and muttering to the astonished waiter that he would be back in a minute, he ran out hatless to the establishment of the nearest chemist, one Mr. Tweedle, who knew him well.

Mr. Tweedle s shop was shut, but a light still burned within, and Hector hammered violently until the door was opened by an assistant. Was Mr. Tweedle in? Yes, he was in, but he was just going. On being assured that Mr. Puncheon wanted to see Mr. Tweedle personally, the assistant volunteered to see what could be done.

Mr. Tweedle, hatted and coated, appeared from the inner recesses of the shop with just enough delay to make Hector feel that he had acted with some precipitation and had probably started out upon a wild-goose chase. Once started, however, he had to go through with it.

“Look here, Tweedle,” he said, “I’m sorry to bother you, and there’s probably nothing in it, but I wish you’d have a look at this for me. It came into my hands in rather a curious way.”

The chemist received the packet and held it balanced in his hand for a moment.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“I don’t know that anything’s wrong with it. I want you to tell me.”

“Bicarbonate of soda,” said Mr. Tweedle, glancing at the label and at the sealed flaps of the package. “No chemist’s name-the ordinary printed label. You don’t seem to have opened it.”

“No, I haven’t, and I want you to bear witness to that, if necessary. It appears to be just as it came from the chemist, doesn’t it?”

“It appears to be, certainly,” rejoined Mr. Tweedle in some surprise. “The label seems to be the original label and the ends have apparently only been sealed once, if that is what you want to know.”

“Yes, and I couldn’t have sealed it up like that, could I? I mean, it looks professional.”

“Quite.”

“Well, now, if you’re quite satisfied about that, open it.”

Mr. Tweedle carefully inserted a penknife beneath one flap, broke the wax and opened up the paper. The packet was, as might have been expected, filled with a fine white powder.

“What next?” inquired Mr. Tweedle.

“Well, is it bicarbonate of soda?”

Mr. Tweedle shook some of the powder out into the palm of his hand, looked closely at it, smelt it, moistened his finger and took up a few grains, and then carried them to his tongue. Then his face changed. He took out his handkerchief, wiped his mouth, poured the powder from his palm carefully back into the paper and asked:

“How did you get hold of this?”

“I’ll tell you in a moment,” said Hector. “What is it?”

“Cocaine,” said Mr. Tweedle.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“My God!” cried Hector, jubilantly. “I’m on to something! What a day! Here, Tweedle, can you spare a moment? I want you to come round to our place and tell Hawkins about this.”

“Where? What?” demanded Mr. Tweedle.

Hector Puncheon wasted no more words, but grabbed him by the arm. Thus, on Mr. Hawkins, news-editor of the Morning Star, there burst an agitated member of his own staff, with a breathless witness in tow, and an exhibit of cocaine. Mr. Hawkins was a keen newspaper man and rejoiced in a stunt. He had, nevertheless, a certain conscience in such matters, so far as giving information to the police was concerned. For one thing, it does a newspaper no good to be on bad terms with the police, and, for another, there had only recently been trouble about another case in which information had been held up. Having, therefore, heard Hector Puncheon’s story and scolded him soundly for having waited so long before examining the mysterious package, he telephoned to Scotland Yard.

Chief-Inspector Parker, with his arm in a sling and his nerves very much on edge, received the information in his own home, just as he thought his day’s work was happily done with. He grumbled horribly; but there had been a good deal of fuss made lately at the yard about dope-gangs, and things had been said which he resented. He irritably called a taxi and trundled down to the Morning Star offices, accompanied by a morose person called Sergeant Lumley, who disliked him, and whom he disliked, but who happened to be the only sergeant available.

By this time, Hector Puncheon’s excitement had rather worn off. He was getting sleepy and stupid after a broken night and a hard day’s work. He could not control his yawns, and the Chief-Inspector snapped at him. In answer to questions he managed, however, to give a fairly complete account of his movements during the night and early morning.

“Actually, then,” said Parker, when the tale was finished, “you can’t say with any certainty when you received this packet?”

“No, I can’t,” said Hector, resentfully. He could not help feeling that it was very clever of him to have received the packet at all, and that everybody ought, somehow, to be grateful to him. Instead of which, they almost seemed to think he was to blame for something.

“You say you found it in your right hand coat-pocket. Did you at no time previously to that put your hand in that pocket for anything?”

“I should think I must have,” said Hector. He yawned. “But I can’t exactly remember.” He yawned again, uncontrollably.

“What do you keep in that pocket?”

“Odds and ends,” said Hector. He dipped into the pocket and drew out a mixed collection-a pencil, a box of matches, a pair of nail-scissors, some string, a thing for opening beer-bottles with patent caps, a corkscrew for opening ordinary beer-bottles, a very dirty handkerchief and some crumbs.

“If you could remember using any of those things during the night-” suggested Parker.

“I must have used the handkerchief,” said Hector, gazing at it in some dismay. “I meant to take a clean one out this morning. I did, too. Where is it? Oh, in my trousers-pocket. Here it is. But of course,” he added, helpfully, “this isn’t the suit I wore last night. I had my old tweed jacket on then. I must have put the dirty handkerchief in this pocket with the other things instead of into the clothesbasket. I know it’s the one I had at the fire. Look at the soot on it.”

“Quite so,” said Parker, “but can you remember when you used this handkerchief last night? Surely, if you had felt in your pocket at any time, you couldn’t have failed to come on the packet if it was there.”

“Oh, yes, I could,” said Hector, brightly. “I shouldn’t notice. I’m so accustomed to having a lot of junk in my pocket. I can’t help you there, I’m afraid.”

Another frightful yawn attacked him. He stifled it manfully, and it forced itself painfully out at his nose, nearly breaking his ear-drums on the way. Parker gazed crossly at his grimacing countenance.

“Do try to keep your mind on what I am asking you, Mr. Firkin,” he said. “If only-”

“Puncheon,” said Hector, annoyed.

“Puncheon,” said Parker. “I beg your pardon. Did you at any time, Mr. Puncheon-?”

“I don’t know,” interrupted Hector. “I honestly don’t know. It’s no good asking. I can’t tell you. I would if I could, but I simply can’t.”

Mr. Hawkins, looking from one to the other, discovered in himself a little elementary knowledge of human nature.

“I think,” he said, “a small drink is indicated.”

He fetched a bottle of Johnnie Walker and some glasses from a locker and set them on the desk, together with a siphon. Parker thanked him and, suddenly ashamed of himself and his bad temper, apologized.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m afraid I was a bit curt. I got my collar-bone broken a little time ago and it still aches a bit and makes me abominably peevish. Let’s go about this business another way. Why do you suppose, Mr. Puncheon, that anybody should have picked you out to take charge of this hefty dose of dope?”

“I thought whoever it was must have mistaken me for some one else.”

“So I should imagine. And you think that’s more likely to have happened at the pub than anywhere else?”

“Yes; unless it was in the crowd at the fire. Because in the other places-I mean in this office and when I was interviewing people, everybody knew me, or at last they knew what I was there for.”

“That seems sound,” agreed Parker. “How about this restaurant where you had your sausages?”

“There’s that, of course. But I can’t recollect anybody coming near enough to me to shove things in my pocket. And it couldn’t have been during the fire either, because I had my burberry on, buttoned up. But in the pub, I had my burberry open, and there were at least four people barging up against me-one of two carters who were there before me, and a little man who looked like a bookmaker’s tout or something, and the drunken chap in dress clothes and the old boy sitting in the corner. I don’t think it can have been the carter, though; he looked quite genuine.”

“Had you ever been to the White Swan before?”

“Once, I think, ages ago. Certainly not often. And I think there’s a new landlord since then.”

“Well, then,” said Parker, “what is there about you, Mr. Puncheon, that induces people to hand you out valuable cargoes of dope on sight and without payment?”

“Goodness knows,” said Hector.

The desk telephone buzzed furiously, and Mr. Hawkins, snatching the receiver, plunged into a long conversation with some unknown person. The two policemen with their witness retired into a distant corner and carried on the inquiry in low tones.

“Either,” said Parker, “you must be the dead spit of some habitual dope-peddler, or you must have led them in some way to imagine that you were the person they expected to see. What did you talk about?”

Hector Puncheon racked his brains.

“Greyhounds,” he said at last, “and parrots. Chiefly parrots. Oh, yes-and goats.”

“Greyhounds, parrots and goats?”

“We were swapping stories about parrots,” said Hector Puncheon. “No, wait, we began about dogs. The little tout person said he’d had a dog that couldn’t abide goats and that led on to parrots and mice (I’d forgotten the mice)-and doping parrots with coffee and cayenne.”

“Doping?” said Parker, quickly. “Was that word used?”

“No, I don’t know that it was. The parrot was frightened of mice, and they had to cure it of shock by giving it coffee.”

“Whose parrot?”

“The little fellow’s aunt’s, I think. The old boy knew a parrot, too, but that belonged to a clergyman, and the bishop tried to teach it to swear and promoted the parson. I don’t know whether it was blackmail, or just that he liked the parrot.”

“But what did you contribute to the conversation?”

“Hardly anything. I just listened and paid for the drinks.”

“And the man in dress clothes?”

“Oh, he talked about his wife’s shopping-list and a parcel-yes, there was something about a parcel he ought to have brought with him.”

“Was the parcel produced?”

“No, he never had a parcel.”

“All right,” said Parker, after a little more of this unsatisfactory conversation. “We’ll go into the matter, Mr. Puncheon. We’re very much obliged to you and Mr.-er-Hawkins for having called our attention to the matter. We will take charge of the packet, and if we want you again, we’ll let you know.”

He rose to his feet. Mr. Hawkins shot across from his desk.

“Got all you want? You don’t want this story to go in, I suppose?” he added, wistfully.

“No; you mustn’t say anything about it at present,” said Parker, firmly. “But we’re very much indebted to you, and if anything comes of it, you shall have the story first with all the details we can give you. I can’t say fairer than that.”

He left the office with Sergeant Lumley, mournful and silent, at his heels.

“It’s a thousand pities, Lumley, that we didn’t get this information earlier. We could have put a man in at that pub for the rest of the day. It’s too late to do anything now.”

“Yes, sir, it is,” said Sergeant Lumley.

“The pub’s the place, I fancy.”

“Very likely, sir.”

“The cargo of dope was a pretty large one. That means that it was meant for some one who distributes the stuff on a fairly extensive scale. And it didn’t have to be paid for. That suggests to me that the man they expected to see was only a messenger for this distributor, who, no doubt, settles up direct with the top man by some other route.”

“Very possibly, sir,” said Sergeant Lumley, in an unbelieving tone.

“The thing is, what are we to do? We could raid the place, of course, but I don’t think that would be advisable. We probably shouldn’t find anything, and we should merely give the alarm to no purpose.”

“That wouldn’t be anything unusual,” grunted the Sergeant, disagreeably.

“Too true. We haven’t anything against the White Swan so far, have we?”

“Not that I know of, sir.”

“We shall have to make certain about it first. The landlord may or may not be concerned in the business. Quite possibly he isn’t, but we shall have to make sure. You had better arrange for at least two men to investigate the Swan. They mustn’t make themselves conspicuous. They can drop in from time to time and talk about parrots and goats and see if anything peculiar happens to them. And they can try and get a line of those people-the little chap, and the old man, and the fellow in the boiled shirt. It ought not to be difficult. Put on two sensible, tactful men who are not teetotallers, and if they don’t get anything in the course of a day or two, change them for two others. And see that they look like what they’re supposed to be and don’t wear regulation boots or anything foolish.”

“Very well, sir.”

“And for God’s sake, Lumley, look a little more cheerful about it,” said the Chief-Inspector. “I like to see duties undertaken in a pleasant spirit.”

“I do my best,” replied Sergeant Lumley, offended.

Chief-Inspector Parker went resolutely home to bed.