She lifted out a sheet of blotting-paper and a cash-box and began to rummage at the back of the drawer. Mr. Bredon detained her by laying his left hand on hers.
“What a pretty ring you’re wearing.”
“Do you like it? It belonged to my mother. Garnets, you know. Old-fashioned, but quaint, don’t you think?”
“A pretty ring, and it suits the hand,” said Mr. Bredon, gallantly. He held the hand pensively in his. “Allow me.” He slipped his right hand into the drawer and brought out the catapult. “This appears to be the engine of destruction-a good, strong one, from the look of it.”
“Have you cut your finger, Mr. Bredon?”
“It’s nothing; my penknife slipped and it’s opened up again. But I think it has stopped bleeding.”
Mr. Bredon unwound his handkerchief from his right hand, wrapped it carelessly round the catapult, and dropped both together into his pocket. Mrs. Johnson inspected the finger he held out to her.
“You’d better have a bit of sticking-plaster for that,” she pronounced. “Wait a moment, and I’ll get you some from the first-aid cupboard.” She took up her keys and departed. Mr. Bredon, whistling thoughtfully to himself, looked round. On a bench at the end of the room sat four messenger-boys, waiting to be sent upon any errand that might present itself. Conspicuous among them was Ginger Joe, his red head bent over the pages of the latest Sexton Blake.
“Ginger!”
“Yessir.”
The boy ran up and stood expectantly by the desk.
“When do you get off duty tonight?”
“’Bout a quarter to six, sir, when I’ve taken the letters down and cleared up here.”
“Come along then and find me in my room. I’ve got a small job for you. You need not say anything about it. Just a private matter.”
“Yessir.” Ginger grinned confidentially. A messenger to a young lady, his experience told him. Mr. Bredon waved him back to his bench as Mrs. Johnson’s footsteps approached.
The sticking-plaster was fixed in its place.
“And now,” said Mrs. Johnson, playfully, “you must run away, Mr. Bredon. I see Mr. Tallboy’s got a little spot of trouble for me, and I’ve got fifty stereos to pack and dispatch.”
“I want this got down to the printer urgently,” said Mr. Tallboy, approaching with a large envelope.
“Cedric!” cried Mrs. Johnson.
A boy ran up. Another lad, arriving from the staircase, dumped a large tray full of stereo-blocks on the desk. The interlude was over. Mrs. Johnson addressed herself briskly to the important task of seeing that the right block went to the right newspaper, and that all were safely packed in corrugated cardboard and correctly stamped.
Punctually at a quarter to six, Ginger Joe presented himself at Mr. Bredon’s door. The office was almost empty; the cleaners had begun their rounds, and the chink of pails, the slosh of soap and water and the whirr of the vacuum-cleaner resounded through the deserted corridors.
“Come in, Ginger; is this your catapult?”
“Yessir.”
“It’s a good one. Made it yourself?”
“Yessir.”
“Good shot with it?”
“Pretty fair, sir.”
“Like to have it back?”
“Yes, please, sir.”
“Well, don’t touch it for the moment. I want to see whether you’re the sort of fellow to be trusted with a catapult.”
Ginger grinned a little sheepishly.
“Why did Mrs. Johnson take it away from you?”
“We ain’t supposed to carry them sort of things in our uniform pockets, sir. Mrs. Johnson caught me a-showin’ it to the other fellows, sir, and constickated it.”
“Confiscated.”
“Confiscated it, sir.”
“I see. Had you been shooting with it in the office, Ginger?”
“No, sir.”
“H’m. You’re the bright lad who’s broken a window, aren’t you?”
“Yessir. But that wasn’t with a catapult. It was a Yo-Yo, sir.”
“Quite so. You’re sure you’ve never used a catapult in the office?”
“Oh, no, sir, never, sir.”
“What made you bring this thing to the office at all?”
“Well, sir-” Ginger stood on one leg. “I’d been telling the other chaps about me shooting me Aunt Emily’s tomcat, sir, and they wanted to see it, sir.”
“You’re a dangerous man, Ginger. Nothing is safe from you. Tomcats and windows and maiden aunts-they’re all your victims, aren’t they?”
“Yessir.” Understanding this to be in the nature of a jest, Joe sniggered happily.
“How long ago did this bereavement take place, Ginger?”
“Bereavement, sir? Did you mean Auntie’s cat?”
“No, I meant, how long ago was your catapult confiscated?”
“Bit over a month ago, it would be, sir.”
“About the middle of May?”
“That’s right, sir.”
“And you’ve never laid hands on it since?”
“No, sir.”
“Have you any other catapult?”
“No, sir.”
“Has any of the other boys got a catapult?”
“No, sir.”
“Or a sling, or any other infernal machine for projecting stones?”
“No, sir; leastways, not here, sir. Tom Faggott has a peashooter at home, sir.”
“I said stones, not peas. Did you ever shoot with this, or any other catapult, on the roof?”
“On the roof of the office, sir?”
“Yes.”
“No, sir.”
“Or anybody else that you know of?”
“No, sir.”
“Are you absolutely sure?”
“Nobody that I know of, sir.”
“Now, look here, son; I’ve got an idea that you’re a straight sort of fellow, that mightn’t like to split on a pal. You’re quite sure there isn’t anything at all about this catapult that you know and don’t like to tell me? Because, if there is, I shall quite understand, and I’ll explain to you exactly why it would be better that you should tell me.”
Ginger’s eyes opened very wide in bewilderment.
“Honest injun, sir,” he said, with earnest sincerity, “I don’t know nothing at all about no catapult, bar Mrs. Johnson taking that one and putting it away in her desk. Cross me heart and wish I may die, sir.”
“All right. What was that book I saw you reading just now?”
Ginger, accustomed to the curious habit grown-up people have of interrogating their youngers and betters on any unrelated subjects that happen to stroke a roving fancy, replied without hesitation or surprise:
“The Clue of the Crimson Star, sir. About Sexton Blake; he’s a detective, you know, sir. It’s a top-hole yarn.”
“Like detective-stories, Ginger?”
“Oh, yes, sir. I reads a lot of them. I’m going to be a detective one day, sir. My eldest brother’s in the police, sir.”
“Is he? Splendid fellow. Well, the first thing a detective has to learn to do is to keep his mouth shut. You know that?”
“Yessir.”
“If I show you something now, can you keep quiet about it?”
“Yessir.”
“Very well. Here’s a ten-bob note. Hop out to the nearest chemist and get me some grey powder and an insufflator.”
“What sort of powder, sir?”
“Grey powder-mercury powder-the man will know. And an insufflator; it’s a little rubber bulb with a nozzle to it.”
“Yessir.”
Ginger Joe hopped with speed.
“An ally,” said Mr. Bredon to himself, “an ally-indispensable, I fear, and I fancy I’ve picked the right one.”
Ginger came panting back in record time. He scented adventure. Mr. Bredon, in the meantime, had attached a discreet curtain of brown paper to the glass panel of his door. Mrs. Crump was not surprised. That proceeding was familiar to her. It usually meant that a gentleman was going out, and wished to change his trousers in a decent privacy.
“Now,” said Mr. Bredon, shutting the door, “we will see whether your catapult can tell us anything about its adventures since it left your hands.” He filled the insufflator with the grey powder and directed an experimental puff upon the edge of the desk. On blowing away the surplus powder, he thus disclosed a surprising collection of greasy finger-prints. Ginger was enthralled.