Inspector Parminter nodded. Later he would get down to exact details of time and place. Jarman Street, he knew was in the close vicinity of Culver Street where the tragedy had taken place.
"You hadn't got a match," he repeated encouragingly.
"No. Finished my box, I 'ad, and Bill's lighter wouldn't work, and so I spoke to a bloke as was passing. 'Can you give us a match, mister?' I says. Didn't think nothing particular, I didn't, not then. He was just passing - like lots of others -1 just 'appened to arsk 'im."
Again Parminter nodded.
"Well, he give us a match, 'e did. Didn't say nothing. 'Cruel cold,' Bill said to 'im, and he just answered, whispering-like, 'Yes, it is.' Got a cold on his chest, I thought. He was all wrapped up, anyway. 'Thanks mister,' I says and gives him back his matches, and he moves off quick, so quick that when I sees 'e'd dropped something, it's almost too late to call 'im back. It was a little notebook as he must 'ave pulled out of 'is pocket when he got the matches out. 'Hi, mister/ I calls after 'im, 'you've dropped something.' But he didn't seem to hear - he just quickens up and bolts round the corner, didn't 'e, Bill?"
"That's right," agreed Bill. "Like a scurrying rabbit."
"Into the Harrow Road, that was, and it didn't seem as we'd catch up with him there, not the rate 'e was going, and, anyway, by then it was a bit late - it was only a little book, not a wallet or anything like that - maybe it wasn't important. 'Funny bloke,' I says. 'His hat pulled down over his eyes, and all buttoned up - like a crook on the pictures,' I says to Bill, didn't I, Bill?"
"That's what you said," agreed Bill.
"Funny I should have said that, not that I thought anything at the time. Just in a hurry to get home, that's what I thought, and I didn't blame 'im. Not 'arf cold, it was!"
"Not' arf," agreed Bill.
"So I says to Bill, 'Let's 'ave a look at this little book and see if it's important.' Well, sir, I took a look. 'Only a couple of addresses,' I says to Bill. Seventy-Four Culver Street and some blinking manor 'ouse."
"Ritzy," said Bill with a snort of disapproval.
Joe continued his tale with a certain gusto now that he had got wound up.
'"Seventy-Four Culver Street,' I says to Bill. 'That's just round the corner from 'ere. When we knock off, we'll take it round' - and then I sees something written across the top of the page. 'What's this?' I says to Bill. And he takes it and reads it out. '"Three blind mice" -must be off 'is Knocker,' he says - and just at that very moment - yes, it was that very moment, sir, we 'ears some woman yelling, 'Murder!' a couple of streets away!"
Joe paused at this artistic climax.
"Didn't half yell, did she?" he resumed. "'Here,' I says to Bill, 'you nip along.' And by and by he comes back and says there's a big crowd and the police are there and some woman's had her throat cut or been strangled and that was the landlady who found her, yelling for the police. 'Where was it?' I says to him. 'In Culver Street,' he says. 'What number?' I asks, and he says he didn't rightly notice."
Bill coughed and shuffled his feet with the sheepish air of one who has not done himself justice.
"So I says, 'We'll nip around and make sure,' and when we finds it's number seventy-four we talked it over, and 'Maybe,' Bill says, 'the address in the notebook's got nothing to do with it,' and I says as maybe it has, and, anyway, after we've talked it over and heard the police want to interview a man who left the 'ouse about that time, well, we come along 'ere and ask if we can see the gentleman who's handling the case, and I'm sure I 'ope as we aren't wasting your time."
"You acted very properly," said Parminter approvingly. "You've brought the notebook with you? Thank you. Now -"
His questions became brisk and professional. He got places, times, dates - the only thing he did not get was a description of the man who had dropped the notebook. Instead he got the same description as he had already got from a hysterical landlady, the description of a hat pulled down over the eyes, a buttoned-up coat, a muffler swathed round the lower part of a face, a voice that was only a whisper, gloved hands.
When the men had gone he remained staring down at the little book lying open on his table. Presently it would go to the appropriate department to see what evidence, if any, of fingerprints it might reveal. But now his attention was held by the two addresses and by the line of small handwriting along the top of the page.
He turned his head as Sergeant Kane came into the room. "Come here, Kane. Look at this."
Kane stood behind him and let out a low whistle as he read out, '"Three Blind Mice!' Well, I'm dashed!"
"Yes." Parminter opened a drawer and took out a half sheet of notepaper which he laid beside the notebook on his desk. It had been found pinned carefully to the murdered woman.
On it was written, This is the first. Below was a childish drawing of three mice and a bar of music.
Kane whistled the tune softly. Three Blind Mice, See how they run -
"That's it, all right. That's the signature tune."
"Crazy, isn't it, sir?"
"Yes." Parminter frowned. "The identification of the woman is quite certain?"
"Yes, sir. Here's the report from the fingerprints department. Mrs Lyon, as she called herself, was really Maureen Gregg. She was released from Holloway two months ago on completion of her sentence."
Parminter said thoughtfully, "She went to Seventy-Four Culver Street calling herself Maureen Lyon. She occasionally drank a bit and she had been known to bring a man home with her once or twice. She displayed no fear of anything or anyone. There's no reason to believe she thought herself in any danger. This man rings the bell, asks for her, and is told by the landlady to go up to the second floor. She can't describe him, says only that he was of medium height and seemed to have a bad cold and lost his voice. She went back again to the basement and heard nothing of a suspicious nature. She did not hear the man go out. Ten minutes or so later she took tea to her lodger and discovered her strangled."
"This wasn't a casual murder, Kane. It was carefully planned."
He paused and then added abruptly, "I wonder how many houses there are in England called Monkswell Manor?"
"There might be only one, sir."
"That would probably be too much luck. But get on with it. There's no time to lose."
The sergeant's eye rested appreciatively on two entries in the notebook - 74 Culver Street; Monkswell Manor. He said, "So you think -"
Parminter said swiftly, "Yes. Don't you?"
"Could be. Monkswell Manor - now where - Do you know, sir, I could swear I've seen that name quite lately."
"Where?"
"That's what I'm trying to remember. Wait a minute - Newspaper - Times. Back page. Wait a minute - Hotels and boarding-houses - Half a sec, sir - it's an old one. I was doing the crossword."
He hurried out of the room and returned in triumph, "Here you are, sir, look." The inspector followed the pointing finger.
"Monkswell Manor, Harpleden, Berks." He drew the telephone toward him. "Get me the Berkshire County police."
With the arrival of Major Metcalf, Monkswell Manor settled into its routine as a going concern. Major Metcalf was neither formidable like Mrs Boyle, nor erratic like Christopher Wren. He was a stolid, middle-aged man of spruce military appearance, who had done most of his service in India. He appeared satisfied with his room and its furniture, and while he and Mrs Boyle did not actually find mutual friends, he had known cousins of friends of hers - "the Yorkshire branch," out in Poonah. His luggage, however, two heavy pigskin cases, satisfied even Giles's suspicious nature.
Truth to tell, Molly and Giles did not have much time for speculating about their guests. Between them, dinner was cooked, served, eaten, and washed up satisfactorily. Major Metcalf praised the coffee, and Giles and Molly retired to bed, tired but triumphant - to be roused about two in the morning by the persistent ringing of a bell.