The “sir” was another sort of tribute, not so much to Monty’s air of confidence as to his distinctly unburglar-like appearance. Monty produced a card which gave his address with the Consolidated Press but made no mention of his status as a director — apart from a genuine natural modesty which he did his best to conceal, it still amused him at times to play at being an ordinary reporter again, a game which those unostentatious cards made perpetually possible.
“Now that I’ve identified myself,” Monty said amiably, “what’s your name?”
“Yelland, sir.”
“Yelland? Where have I heard that name recently?... Oh, yes. You’re the Robert who raided the pub down the road, and caught ’em selling a drink after hours to the young daughter of the chap who’s building this factory.”
“It wasn’t exactly a raid, sir. Mr Thoat asked me to keep an eye on his daughter, and it’s my duty to look out for violations of the law.”
“Of course. But didn’t you think there was something a bit fishy about that conviction?”
Constable Yelland had another of those remotely unsettling qualms which had afflicted him since the previous morning.
“That isn’t for me to say, sir. I only gave evidence as to what I saw and heard with my own eyes and ears. It’s the magistrate who makes the conviction.”
“Oh, come off it, Robert!”
“The name is George, sir.”
“All right, Robert George. You’ve got opinions of your own, haven’t you?
“It’s against regulations for me to discuss the decision of a court in which I have been a witness, sir,” said the constable, taking refuge in asperity from his own uncertainty. “And anyhow, what are you so interested about?”
Monty Hayward grinned, and brought out a pipe and tobacco-pouch which he began to work together with a disarming assurance which he had practised in some considerably more risky situations than this one.
“Suppose I was doing an article on Mr Thoat,” he said. “I’d be interested in a lot of things. Not just that business about his daughter, though that might come into it. But about what’s going on here, too. For instance, do you know what he’s got in this barn?”
“Yes. Cocoa.”
“Ah.”
“What do you mean, Ah?”
“I only mean that items like that are what sometimes make headlines.”
“I don’t see what’s a headline in that.”
“Do you know where he got this cocoa?”
“No, sir. Only that it was a bargain.”
“He told you that, did he?”
“His daughter did.”
“That was careless of her.”
“Look here, sir,” Yelland said, with increasing impatience, “if you know something that I ought to know, it’s your duty to tell me, not tease me with it.”
“I don’t definitely know anything,” Monty replied. “Not yet. Suspicions aren’t evidence, as you know. But I am investigating what sounded like a rather hot tip—”
“Where did it come from?”
Monty gave a reproachful look.
“Now, officer, you know very well that no reporter would give away the source of some kinds of information, and even a judge couldn’t force him to. I can only tell you that it came from an acquaintance of mine who isn’t always on good terms with the police, but who usually knows what he’s talking about. I’ve got a few more inquiries to make here and there, and if they confirm each other there may be an interesting arrest. Would you like to make an interesting arrest?”
The spontaneous gleam in the young policeman’s eye was replaced almost instantly by a dampening recognition of fact.
“I’m not in the CID yet, sir.”
“But you’d like to be, wouldn’t you? You’re a lot smarter than a lot of chaps on a beat, I’ve noticed that. I wish I could give you a—”
Suddenly Monty Hayward froze, staring fixedly, one hand extending with his pipe pointing in the direction of the stare.
“Robert George, do you see that?”
“What, sir?”
“That piece of paper, just sticking out from under the barn door! Go and get it. This may save us all the trouble of applying for a search warrant!”
Constable Yelland perplexedly retrieved the fragment. It appeared to be the corner of a label, but the only printing that could be read on it was the words: Latropic Import Company, Cutts Lane, Stepney.
“Cocoa is a tropical product,” Monty said. “I think we can assume that that label came from some of the stuff that was delivered here.”
“Very likely, sir. But I still don’t see—”
“Of course not. But you will... Hang on to the clue, officer. And let me know where you can be reached tomorrow morning, especially if you’re off duty. I’ll pass the tip on to you before anyone else, if it turns out to be a sound one, and you can make the most of it. Meanwhile, mum’s the word.” Constable Yelland found himself left in a dreamy cloud not entirely unlike the one which had befogged Mr Thoat when Simon Templar took leave of him the day before. Which was not a fantastic coincidence, since the technique for creating both befuddlements had originated in the same disgracefully handsome head.
“A very nice job, Monty,” said the Saint, when he had listened to an almost verbatim report. “I don’t think you missed a trick. With a little more practice and a few less suburban scruples, you could soon be the perfect partner in crime again.”
“Thanks very much,” Monty said. “But I never was. This was an easy job, and it can’t get me into any trouble, whatever happens. I can still hide behind the Consolidated Press and the professional secrecy excuse. But when I think what it would be like if we’d been caught breaking into that Latropic warehouse, I wonder if I was ever qualified to be a company director.”
“Lots of them have ended up in jail,” Simon pointed out reassuringly. “But I’d’ve got you out of it somehow. Didn’t I always?”
“Like you did in that business about Prince Rudolf and his crown jewels. Yes, but my aging nerves can’t take so much any more. And suppose Young Sherlock identifies me as the driver of the truck that delivered the cocoa yesterday?” The Saint laughed at him shamelessly.
“He never saw you. And Isaiah never looked at you twice — you said that yourself. And anyhow, I made you up and messed you up until even I wondered what you really looked like. And I stole the truck myself while you were in a board meeting with some of the best alibis on Fleet Street. Now will you stop worrying long enough to work out the timing for tomorrow?”
“It seems to me that our timing’s a bit off already. I’ve been watching for a report on that Latropic robbery, and there still doesn’t seem to have been one.”
“Because their warehouse isn’t opened every day, only when shipments are coming in or going out. We did a nice quiet job that didn’t attract any attention in the neighbourhood, and obviously they didn’t have any reason to go to the place on Friday. That’s the first thing to take care of. You just use your reporter’s immunity again, call the head man at home and say you’ve heard through the underworld grapevine that his storehouse was cracked, and what does he know about it? If it hasn’t been discovered yet, he’ll soon find out. Then you see that it gets in the Sunday papers. Then tomorrow morning...”
At eight o’clock the next morning, George Yelland was just starting his breakfast and his Sunday paper simultaneously when his landlady called him to the telephone.
“This is the scoop I promised you, officer,” Monty Hayward said, after identifying himself. “Have you seen a newspaper yet?”
“I was just starting it, sir.”
“You’ll find a report that the Latropic Import Company — remember that label? — had their warehouse broken into on Thursday night and a lorry load of cocoa beans stolen, but the theft wasn’t discovered till yesterday afternoon, some time after I talked to you. Item two: if you check with Scotland Yard, you’ll find that they have a report of a lorry being stolen from a garage on Thursday afternoon which was found abandoned at Highgate on Friday afternoon. You might find out about its tires, and have another look at the tracks at Thoat’s barn. If you want to get credit for some fast thinking, you put that together with what Thoat’s daughter told you and take it to your Inspector. You needn’t bring me into it — tell him you figured it all out yourself. It should be good enough to take to any magistrate you can catch on his way to church, and get a search warrant for that barn.”