"I don't know. It looks fairly obvious though. His pockets had been searched, so whoever shot him must have known about this meeting. Anyway they didn't get it."
"How do you know?"
"He hadn't got it with him. He just managed to tell me that. Had cold feet, I suppose, and didn't dare carry it on him."
He stretched out his hand across the table and clumsily patted hers. "Sorry, Sis. Loathsome for you. Poor old girl!"
She said hardly: "That's all right. Only it's a nuisance."
"Nuisance! I should say it is. Why, we're no better off than we were before! If the thing really does exist. And if this chap was shot it looks pretty certain that it does."
She threw him an impatient look. "It exists all right. I know where it is too. He told me."
"He told you?" Her brother leaned forward. "Where then?" he said eagerly.
She got up. "Do you think I'd tell you?" she said contemptuously. "And have you blurt it out the next time you're drunk?"
He flushed. "Damn it, it's my affair, isn't it?"
She said fiercely: "Yes, it's your affair, and you leave me to do the work. All right, I'll do it, but you'll keep out of it! See?"
He wilted, but said obstinately: "You're a girl. You can't do it. Gosh, I don't like the sound of this murder."
"I don't suppose you do," she said. "You'd better keep your mouth shut about it." Her face softened. "Oh, Mark, for God's sake, leave the drink alone for a bit!" she said. "We're going to need all our nerve for this job, and what use are you, fuddled six hours out of the twelve?"
"All right," he muttered, looking away from her. "Honestly, it wasn't my fault today. I didn't mean even to go into the pub, but…'
"I know," she said. "You met a chap who wouldn't let you off. I've heard it before."
Chapter Two
Quite a short drive brought Frank Amberley into Upper Nettlefold, a small country town some ten miles from Carchester. His original annoyance received a spur from the knowledge that if he had not previously ignored the turning to the left off the Pittingly Road he would not only have arrived at Greythorne in time for a belated dinner, but he would also have escaped running into a nasty and probably troublesome murder case.
"And why the devil did I let her go?" he demanded aloud.
No answer was forthcoming. He scowled. "Dam' fool!" he said.
He really did not know what had prompted him to leave the woman standing there in the road. He was not susceptible, and although her brusque self-possession had amused him he had not been attracted by her. A sulky-looking wench! The sort that would stick at nothing. But she hadn't done that murder, all the same. He ought to have taken her into the police station of course. If she didn't actually shoot the man she knew something about it. No disguising that fact from one who had abundant opportunity of observing crime every working day in the year. At the same time if He had given her up to the police what chance would she have had? The thing looked pretty black. Given a little more data (and he had no doubt there was plenty to be found) he could make a nice damning case for the Grown Himself.
But that wasn't his business; his duty had been quite clear. Not that that aspect of the case was likely to worry him. But if he wasn't careful he would find himselfin the unenviable position of accessory after the fact. And all because of what? He was damned if he knew.
He ran into Upper Nettlefold and drove to the police station, an old red-brick building in the Market Square. A young constable was there, the telephone receiver held to his ear, and an expression of weary boredom on his face. He glanced at Mr. Amberley without interest and said into the mouthpiece that nothing had been heard yet, but he was doing all he could about it. After which he listened for a moment, repeated the gist of his former remarks and hung up the receiver.
"Yes, sir?" he said, entering something on the sheet before him.
Mr. Amberley was busy filling a pipe. "Sergeant Gubbins about?" he inquired.
The young constable admitted that Sergeant Gubbins was about.
"I'll see him," said Mr. Amberley, striking a match.
The constable looked at him with disfavour. The hard eyes glanced up over the bowl of the pipe. "Rather quickly," said Mr. Amberley.
"I don't know about that, sir," said the constable stiffly. "I'll speak to the sergeant."
He withdrew, and Mr. Amberley strolled over to the wall to inspect a poster describing the delights in store for all those willing to purchase a ticket for the annual police concert.
The door at the end of the room which had the word PRIVATE painted forbiddingly on the frosted glass opened to admit the egress of a burly individual with very fierce moustache and a red face. "Well, sir, what can I do for you?" said this personage in a voice calculated to strike awe into the hearts of malefactors.
Mr. Amberley turned. "Evening, Sergeant," he said.
The sergeant abandoned his severity. "Well, Mr. Amberley, sir!" he said. "I haven't seen you down in these parts, not for six months. I hope I see you well, sir? Anything I can do for you?"
"Oh, no!" said Mr. Amberley. "But I thought you'd like to know there's a dead man on the Pittingly Road."
The constable, who had gone back to his place by the desk, gasped at this, but the sergeant took it in good part.
"You will have your joke, sir," he said indulgently.
"Yes," said Mr. Amberley. "But this isn't my joke. You'd better send someone along. I'm at Greythorne when you want me."
The smile faded. "You're not serious, sir?" said the sergeant.
"Perfectly. Sober, too. A man in an Austin Seven, shot through the chest. Very messy."
"Murder!" said the sergeant. "Good Lord! Here, sir, just a moment! Where did you say you found him?"
Mr. Amberley returned to the desk and demanded a sheet of paper. Supplied with this he drew a rough diagram. "Where that accursed place Pittingly is I don't know, but the car is approximately at this point, about a mile from the turning into this town. I stopped to ask the way to Greythorne and found the fellow was dead. Probably murdered. I'd come with you, but I'm an hour late for dinner already."
"That's all right, sir. You'll be at Greythorne for a day or two, I take it? There'll be an inquest - but I don't have to tell you that. Get on to Carchester, Wilkins. You didn't happen to notice anything particular, did you, sir? Didn't pass anyone on the road?"
"No. It's pretty foggy, though. The man wasn't cold when I touched him, if that's any use to you. Good night."
"Good night, sir, and thank you."
The constable held out the telephone receiver, and while the sergeant reported to headquarters he stood rubbing his chin and staring at the door which had swung to behind Mr. Amberley. As the sergeant hung up the receiver he said blankly: "Well, he's a cool customer and no mistake."
"That's Mr. Frank Amberley, Sir Humphrey's nephew," said the sergeant. "He's a very clever young man, that's what he is."
"Walks in here as bold as brass talking about dead men on the road like as if they was as common as dandelions," said the disapproving constable.
"So they are to him," replied the sergeant severely. "If you ever read the papers, my lad, you'd know all about him. He's a barrister. Going a long way, he is, by all accounts."
"Well, he can't go too far for me," said the constable. "I don't like him, Sergeant, and that's a fact."
"You send Harper in to me and stop mooning around the place," commanded the sergeant. "There's plenty don't like Mr. Amberley, but that isn't going to bother him."
Meanwhile Frank Amberley's car had shot off in the direction of the High Street. From Upper Nettlefold he had no doubt of his way and he reached Greythorne, a substantial stone house standing in grounds that ran down to the river Nettle, in little more than ten minutes.