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his manner embarrassed, as if he felt that everyone was looking at him.
    The sergeant’s notes were unintelligible. Toby gave them back to him.
    â€˜What’s it all about, Sam?’
    Before answering the question the sergeant asked: ‘You still a newspaper reporter, Toby, like you were when we first met?’
    â€˜Why?’
    â€˜Are you or ain’t you?’
    â€˜I’m not. Living by my wits—and George’s. Why?’
    The sergeant gazed ahead of him with a heavy stare. ‘Bein’ the way it is,’ he said slowly, ‘I reckon us don’t want this in the papers—yet.’ He turned his stare up at the narrow, hook-nosed face. ‘There’s some men,’ he said, ‘you can’t trust not to put their jobs before everythin’ else.’
    Toby Dyke grinned. ‘Well, get on with it. I’ve told you it isn’t my job any more.’
    â€˜Then ’tis this way,’ said the sergeant. ‘Last night Mrs Milne, the lady you see in to the Ring o’ Bells, she runs over a man and kills’n. Comes straight here and tells us about it. She don’t know who ’tis, and none of us don’t recognize’n. You heard on the wireless what kind o’ man he was. He was drunk and his clothes weren’t none too good and he’d just sixpence-ha’penny on him. His face was nought to go upon—’twasn’t there, for the most part. But there was a bit o’ paper in his pocket, stuck away in a corner like, a check for somethin’ he’d bought. Cape Town was where that came from. Well, Mrs Milne’s a South African lady—and there’s her name and address written on the back o’ this check. But she goes on sayin’ as she never seen nor heard of’n. Well, then, I get that announcement on the wireless …’
    â€˜And your answer comes in right away.’ Toby Dyke sat down on a corner of the table. ‘Bit of luck,’ he remarked, but he made it sound like a question.
    â€˜Aye,’ said the sergeant, also doubtfully.
    On his chair by the stove George made a little coughing sound, as if he wished to draw attention to something he intended to say.
    But before he had begun it the sergeant was continuing: ‘A woman in to Wallaford, a Mrs Quantick by name, as keeps a boardin’-house in Francis Street—that ain’t one o’ the best streets—her phones up to say that on Monday night a man answering to the description on the wireless occupied one o’ the rooms in her house. He left in the mornin’, carryin’ a suitcase.’
    The constable put in: ‘Where’s the suitcase to now, then?’
    â€˜How do I know?’ snapped Eggbear. ‘How do I know if ’tis the same man? We’ll be fetchin’ Mrs Quantick over tomorrow to see if her can identify him. Till then … But still,’ he added, ‘this is what she tells us. When he went off with his suitcase—’twas a leather suitcase, with initials stamped on it—when he went off he left a coat behind as he forgot to pack, seemingly. ’Tis hangin’ in the cupboard on a hanger, and in the pocket, her says, there’s some papers and a handkerchief and a passport. And the passport’s the property of one Shelley Maxwell.’ He broke off and looked up again at Toby Dyke. ‘Plenty of people in the world called Maxwell.’
    â€˜But there can’t be many people who’d put Shelley in front of it,’ said Toby. ‘Go on, Sam, who is it you don’t want it to be? I’m not up in your local politics.’
    â€˜Did you see that man in the bar, Toby, that gave me that look?’
    Toby nodded.
    â€˜Well, that’s Major Stuart Maxwell, and he’s the brother of Sir Joseph Maxwell, and Sir Joseph Maxwell’s the owner of Chovey Place, and I’m just thinkin’ …’
    â€˜I can guess the sort of thing