'Not even a «nut» to confess to the murder, he said dryly.
'Well, that is a nice change, Grant said.
'He'll be along, he'll be along, Rodgers said resignedly, and invited Grant home to lunch.
But Grant preferred to eat at the White Hart.
He was sitting in the dining-room of the White Hart eating the unpretentious but ample lunch that they provided, when the radio music in the kitchen ceased, and presently, oddly urbane among the castanet racket, came the voice of the announcer.
'Before the news, here is a police message. Would anyone who gave a lift to a young man on Wednesday night on the road between Wickham and Crome, in Orfordshire, or anywhere in that vicinity, please communicate with Scotland Yard —
'Telephone Whitehall One Two One Two, chanted the kitchen staff happily.
And then there was a rush of high-pitched conversation as the staff fell to on this latest tit-bit of news.
Grant ate the very good roly-poly without relish and went out again into the sunlight. The streets, which had been teeming with Saturday shoppers when he came in to lunch, were deserted, the shops shut. He drove out of town wishing once more that he was going fishing. How had he ever chosen a profession where he could not count on a Saturday afternoon holiday? Half the world was free to sit back and enjoy itself this sunny afternoon, but he had to spend it pottering about asking questions that led nowhere.
He drove back to Salcott in a state of mental dyspepsia, being only slightly cheered by Dora Siggins. He picked up Dora in the long straight of dull hedged lane that ran for a mile or more parallel to the river just outside the town. In the distance he had taken the plodding figure to be a youth carrying a kit of tools, but as he came nearer and slowed in answer to the raised thumb, he found that it was a girl in dungarees carrying a shopping bag. She grinned cheekily at him and said:
'Saved my life, you have! I missed the bus because I was buying slippers for the dance tonight.
'Oh, said Grant, looking at the parcel that had evidently refused to go into the overflowing bag. 'Glass ones?
'Not me, she said, banging the door shut behind her and wriggling comfortably into the seat. 'None of that home-by-midnight stuff about me. 'Sides, it wasn't a glass slipper at all, you know. It was fur. French, or something. We learned that at school.
Grant wondered privately if modern youth had been left any illusions at all. What would a world without fantasy be like? Or did the charming illusion that he was all-important fill for the modern child the place of earlier and more impersonal fantasies? The thought improved his temper considerably.
At least they were quick of wit, these modern children. The cinema, he supposed. It was always the one-and-tuppennys-the regulars-who got the point while the front balcony were still groping. His passenger had got his reference to dance slippers without a second for consideration.
She was a gay child, even after a week's work and missing the bus on a Saturday half-holiday, and poured out her history without any encouragement. Her name was Dora Siggins and she worked at a laundry, but she had a boy friend in a garage at Salcott, and they were going to get married as soon as the boy friend got a rise, which would be at Christmas, if all went as they expected.
When, long afterwards, Grant sent Dora Siggins a box of chocolates as an anonymous tribute to the help she had been to him, he hoped heartily that it would lead to no misunderstanding with the boy friend who was so sure of his rise at Christmas.
'You a commercial? she asked presently, having exhausted her personal story.
'No, said Grant. 'I'm a policeman.
'Go on! she said, and then, struck by the possibility that he might be telling the truth, took a more careful look at the interior of the car. 'Coo! she said at length. 'Blamed if you aren't, at that!
'What convinced you? Grant said curiously.
'Spit and polish, she said. 'Only the fire service and the police have the spare time to keep a car shiny this way. I thought the police were forbidden to give lifts?
'You're thinking of the Post Office, aren't you. Here is Salcott on the horizon. Where do you live?
'The cottage with the wild cherry tree. My, I can't tell you how glad I am I didn't have to walk those four miles. You got the car out on the fly?
'No, Grant said, and asked why she should think that.
'Oh, the plain clothes and all. Thought maybe you were out for the day on your little own. There's one thing you ought to have that the American police have.
'What is that? Grant asked bringing the car to a halt opposite the cottage with the cherry tree.
'Sirens to go yelling along the roads with.
'God forbid, Grant said.
'I've always wanted to go tearing along the streets behind a siren, seeing people scattering every way.
'Don't forget your shoes, Grant said, unsympathetically, indicating the parcel she was leaving on the seat.
'Oh, gee, no; thanks! Thanks a million for everything. I'll never say a word against the police as long as I live.
She ran up the cottage path, paused to wave to him, and disappeared.
Grant moved on into the village to resume his questioning.
13
When Grant walked into the Mill House at a quarter to seven he felt that he had riddled Salcott St Mary through a small-meshed sieve, and what he had left in the sieve was exactly nothing. He had had a very fine cross-section of life in England, and he was by that much the richer. But towards solving the problem that had been entrusted to him he had advanced not one foot.
Marta greeted him with her best contralto coo and drew him in to peace and refreshment. The living-room of the Mill House stood over the water, and in the daytime its furnishings swam in the wavering light; a green sub-aqueous light. But this evening Marta had drawn the curtains over the last of the sunset, and shut out the river light; she had prepared a refuge of warmth and reassurance, and Grant, tired and perplexed, was grateful to her.
'I am so glad that it is not Walter who has disappeared, she said, wafting him to a chair with one of her favourite gestures and beginning to pour sherry.
'Glad? Grant said, remembering Marta's expressed opinion of Walter.
'If it was Walter who had disappeared, I should be a suspect, instead of a sleeping partner.
Grant thought that Marta as sleeping partner must have much in common with sleeping dogs.
'As it is I can sit at the side of the law and see the wheels go round. Are you being brilliant, my dear?
'I'm flummoxed, Grant said brutally, but Marta took it in her stride.
'You feel that way only because you are tired and hungry; and probably suffering from dyspepsia, anyhow, after having to eat at the White Hart for two days. I'm going to leave you with the sherry decanter and go down and get the wine. Cellar-cooled Moselle. The kitchen is under this room, and the cellar is under the kitchen, and the wine comes up as cold as running water. Oh dear, I promised myself I wasn't going to think of running water any more today. I drew the curtains to shut out the river; I'm not so stuck on the river as I used to be. Perhaps we'll both feel better after the Moselle. When I've brought the wine up from the cellar I'm going to cook you an omelet as only I can cook one, and then we'll settle down. So relax for a little and get back your appetite. If the sherry isn't dry enough for you there's some Tio Pepe in the cupboard; but me, I think it is overrated stuff.
She went away, and Grant blessed her that she had not plagued him with the questions that must have been crowding her mind. She was a woman who not only appreciated good food and good drink but was possessed of that innate good sense that is half-way to kindness. He had never seen her to better advantage than in this unexpected country home of hers.