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Garage—which took the lady to Wheatley Junction to catch the three-fifteen to Salisbury.
    â€œAll that girl can give us is that one man stayed behind at the lockhouse—which we know,” he told Benjoy. “I shall make the arrest myself. Tell the team to follow on. We shall want three of the Chief Constable’s cars.”
    To the eye trained to observe trifles it was obvious that the front door of the lockhouse had not been opened for a long time. Curwen followed the tarred path round the house. Through the side window that gave a view of the road in the Renchester direction, he saw one of the young men bending over a photographic printing frame.
    As he turned the corner and came in view of the lock he saw another of the young men standing stark naked, his toes over the edge of the lockside. Apparently unaware of the presence of a stranger he plunged into the lock.
    Curwen knocked with his knuckles on the open side door. A voice from within shouted:
    â€œCome in, Huggins.”
    Huggins, Curwen remembered as he went in, was the rural constable who had supplied information about these men and their Ford car.
    â€œGood morning! Are you Mr. Stranack?”
    â€œNo. I’m Eddis. Stranack is probably somewhere in the river. I’ll fish him out for you.”
    â€œDon’t bother, thanks, I’d like a word with you first, Mr. Eddis. My name is Curwen—Detective Inspector, Scotland Yard.”
    â€œOh-h, I say! Do forgive me for gaping, but I’ve never seen a detective before. What can I do for you? You want to use the telephone, I expect? It’s behind you.” As Curwen shook his head: “Do sit down. I gather poor old Stranack must have broken the law in a big way.”
    â€œI don’t know,” said Curwen. “I’ll tell you why I’m here. Last night Mr. William Brengast was murdered in Renchester and—”
    He broke off as Eddis laughed.
    â€œOh no! No, my dear Inspector, he was not! WillyBee—that’s what we call him—we’re all on his staff—was not murdered in Renchester last night. He’s not in England. I’ll show you a cutting from The Times —”
    â€œI know he was supposed to be in Madrid having one of his factories opened for him by a minister. There was a political crisis in Spain yesterday. And Brengast flew back in his own helicopter to Diddington, here.”
    â€œSo WillyBee really is dead!” Eddis spoke as if talking to himself. Curwen was watching him, wondering whether he was putting on an act. “Don’t think me ghoulish, Inspector—this is a bit of good news! His death solves a lot of our problems. No malice, mind! But—there you are! The others will be pleased.”
    It was at this point that Curwen got his first suspicion that the case might not be as simple as he had thought. Get down to bedrock.
    â€œMr. Eddis, were you in Renchester last night?”
    â€œNo.”
    That was a straight answer, anyhow. But it had come a little too pat—as if the question had been expected.
    â€œI will give you a chance to revise that answer, Mr. Eddis. We know that your Ford left here a little after eight last night and that it was parked for some hours of the night outside the new depot. I now ask you—”
    â€œHullo!”
    The voice had come from the open window behind him, which faced the lock. Curwen turned and saw the upper part of a young man with wet hair.
    â€œAre you Mr. Stranack?”
    â€œYes, who are you?”
    â€œMeet Detective Inspector Curwen of New Scotland Yard,” cried Eddis. “WillyBee has been murdered, It’ll be all right now. Marchmont and the others are on our side.”
    â€œDon’t spoil it. Keep it until I get some clothes on. Shan’t be a minute!”
    â€œHi!” shouted Eddis. “Mr. Curwen is asking me official questions. He won’t want an audience. You’d better stay out until I call