'"Truro as a Railway Centre",' Bowman was saying. 'That's the masterpiece I've been slaving over this morning. Truro, you know, is one of the largest towns in Cornwall . . . which is saying absolutely nothing. The station is quite modern; there is still some tin traffic.'
He was talking more than he had at Stone Farm - still sounding worried, but in a different way. A newspaper placard read 'African Doctor Cooked and Eaten By Natives', and the hundreds of people and the hundreds of cabs just flowed on by. It took more than that to cause a sensation in Fleet Street.
'In the end I decided on leading off with the fact that every train on the main line stops there, but then Fawcett walked up - he is the leading railwayac of the office - and he told me of two that don't, including one that stops everywhere but Truro.'
He had stopped walking, and was standing before two pubs, weighing them in the balance.
'It's champagne or beer,' he said.
Both pubs had black windows with white writing on them: 'Saloon Bar and Buffet', 'Luncheons and Teas', 'Dining Rooms First Floor'.
'Will you take a glass of champagne?' Bowman asked, pushing at the door of one of the pubs. 'No thanks,' I said, as we entered, 'I had a skinful last night, and I'm a little -'
But Bowman had already moved off towards the bar. It was a good-sized, jolly wooden hall in full swing with a decorated tree just inside the door and giant beer barrels end-on over the bar, like locomotive wheels. The customers stood at tall tables - or just anywhere. Bowman was giving good morning to a man at the bar; he held two glasses of champagne in his hand. As he turned away from the man and approached me, I said, 'I didn't want a drink, thanks', at which he just frowned.
'It's on expenses, for heaven's sake,' he said. 'You'd better force it down because I'm getting you another in half a minute.'
He emptied his glass and folded his arms.
'I don't want to over-dramatise, but do you carry a gun?'
'No,' I said, downing the champagne.
'What do you do if someone fires at you?'
I shrugged.
'I get shot, I suppose.'
'Well, that's heartening,' he said. 'This fellow who stands outside our house always has his right hand in his coat pocket. I'm sure he has a pistol there. I'm sorry, but I can't talk about this without a drink . . .'
He was about to move off to the bar again, but I checked him by asking, 'The man who keeps watch - he was definitely there again last night, was he?'
Bowman nodded. 'From eight to nine-thirty.'
'Did Violet not notice?'
He shook his head. 'We spend most of our time in the drawing room - at any rate, the room that she calls the drawing room - and that's at the back of the house. Fortunately, she's gone off to her mother's for two nights.'
'Where's that?'
'Environs of Hampstead Heath.' 'Eh?'
'Strictly speaking, it's Tufnell Park.'
And he went back to the bar again.
He returned with two more glasses and a bottle of red wine. The cork had been taken out and put back loosely. It was 'finest Algerian wine' according to the label.
'This fellow outside my house obviously thinks I know something about the death of Peters,' he said, filling the glasses, 'and of course he's right. I'm sure the only reason he hasn't acted is that the street's been busier than usual, what with all the Christmas coming and going ... You said there'd been developments in the case.'
I produced the photograph and explained how I'd come by it; told him as much as I knew about it.
'Is the man outside your door one of these?'
Bowman looked, shook his head and saw off another great gulp of the Algerian red, and looked again.
He said, 'You think Peters was killed for that picture?'
I nodded. 'I'm sure it's the one his killer was after - only it didn't come from the Stone Farm camera, but the one stolen at Middlesbrough.'
He handed back the photograph, pulling a face, and saying, 'It looks just like something that might appear in our magazine: an interesting new sidelight on First Class travel.'
'Well, that's what it was meant for, wasn't it?' I said.
'Of course,' said Bowman. 'I'm not thinking straight.'
I was not surprised over that. Bowman's glass was at his lips, and the bottle was half-empty. I myself had not yet tried the Algerian wine.
'How can you write, shipping all that stuff?' I said, pointing to the bottle.
'You might ask that of any man in here,' he said. 'I mean, it's all scribes in this place. Every paper in London's carried into print on a wave of booze, you know - it accounts for a lot of the rubbish you read and a lot of the best stuff too.'
Silence for a space.
'Well, I'll come back to Wimbledon this evening with you and have a look,' I said.
'What will you do?'
'Well, I'll quiz him as to what he's about.'
'Do you have authority here in London?' he asked.
'It's a matter that began on North Eastern Railway lands,' I said. 'It would be a poor lookout if all any villain had to do was flee the territory.'
He sighed.
'One more ought to do it,' he said, looking at the empty bottle. 'Will you not join me in -' He was squinting at the label on the bottle,'- in Algeria, then?'
But he was already at the bar.
'Do you not take wine at luncheon?' he said, returning. He never so much as grinned, but sometimes it was there in his voice; and I could tell that the wine was now working in him.
'I don't take luncheon for a start-off,' I said.
'I will generally have a wine,' he said, pouring out two more glasses. 'One wine, that is,' he added.
'One gallon is that?' I said.
'One wine means half a bottle in Fleet Street,' he said.
'That's handy,' I replied.
'I drink because my nerves are strung,' Bowman continued. 'I mean to say, is that unreasonable? Whoever is behind it all has killed Peters, a young lad, so obviously they'll stop at nothing.'
'We must identify the man following you,' I said. 'It will all come clear then. You've not seen him about round here as well, have you?'
Bowman frowned and looked about the pub.
'Not so far,' he said. 'Of course, most of the blokes in here would kill for this story - "Curious Affair of the Body in the Snow", "Travelling Club Men Disappear". It's a detective yarn, ready made.'
'You could write it up,' I said.
He shook his head.
'It's a sight too interesting for The Railway Rover. It lacks the necessary boredom.''
'Do it for someone else. The Times?'
He nodded once quickly.
'I've had articles in The Times, you know. I did some comical railway pieces for them - byline "Whiffs". A layman's guide to the railways. That was their idea. The series was stopped in '06 to make way for the General Election, and never put back.'
'I'm a Yorkshire Evening Press man myself,' I said. 'I don't want The Times. I want, you know, the lighting-up times.'