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quite pleased with himself. The inspector responded with a baleful look at him, then shrugged, took off his coat, placed it on the wheelchair in the recess, and came back for his briefcase.
    'You'd hardly credit the fine day it is,' Sergeant Cadwallader went on. 'When you think of the terrible time we had getting here last night. The worst fog I've known in years. “The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes.” That's T.S. Eliot.' He waited for a reaction to his quotation from the inspector, but got none, so continued, 'It's no wonder the accidents piled up the way they did on the Cardiff road.'
    'Might have been worse,' was his inspector's uninterested comment.
    'I don't know about that,' said the sergeant, warming to his subject. 'At Porthcawl, that was a nasty smash. One killed and two children badly injured. And the mother crying her heart out there on the road. “The pretty wretch left crying” -'
    The inspector interrupted him. 'Have the fingerprint boys finished their job yet?' he asked.
    Suddenly realizing that he had better get back to the business in hand, Sergeant Cadwallader replied, 'Yes, sir. I've got them all ready here for you.' He picked up a folder from the desk and opened it. The inspector sat in the desk chair and started to examine the first sheet of fingerprints in the folder. 'No trouble from the household about taking their prints?' he asked the sergeant casually.
    'No trouble whatever,' the sergeant told him. 'Most obliging they were - anxious to help, as you might say. And that is only to be expected.'
    'I don't know about that,' the inspector observed. I've usually found most people kick up no end of a fuss. Seem to think their prints are going to be filed in the Rogues' Gallery.' He took a deep breath, stretching his arms, and continued to study the prints. 'Now, let's see. Mr Warwick - that's the deceased. Mrs Laura Warwick, his wife. Mrs Warwick senior, that's his mother. Young Jan Warwick, Miss Bennett and - who's this? Angle? Oh, Angell. Ah yes, that's his nurse-attendant, isn't it? And two other sets of prints. Let's see now - Hm. On outside of window, on decanter, on brandy glass overlaying prints of Richard Warwick and Angell and Mrs Laura Warwick, on cigarette lighter - and on the revolver. That will be that chap Michael Starkwedder. He gave Mrs Warwick brandy, and of course it was he who carried the gun in from the garden.'
    Sergeant Cadwallader nodded slowly. 'Mr Starkwedder,' he growled, in a voice of deep suspicion.
    The inspector, sounding amused, asked, 'You don't like him?'
    'What's he doing here? That's what I'd like to know,' the sergeant replied. 'Running his car into a ditch and coming up to a house where there's been a murder done?'
    The inspector turned in his chair to face his young colleague. 'You nearly ran our car into the ditch last night, coming up to a house where there'd been a murder done. And as to what he's doing here, he's been here ^ in this vicinity - for the last week, looking around for a small house or cottage.'
    The sergeant looked unconvinced, and the inspector turned back to the desk, adding wryly, 'It seems he had a Welsh grandmother and he used to come here for holidays when he was a boy.'
    Mollified, the sergeant conceded, 'Ah, well now, if he had a Welsh grandmother, that's a different matter, isn't it?' He raised his right arm and declaimed, '“One road leads to London, One road leads to Wales. My road leads me seawards, To the white dipping sails.” He was a fine poet, John Masefield. Very underrated.'
    The inspector opened his mouth to complain, but then thought better of it and grinned instead. 'We ought to get the report on Starkwedder from Abadan any moment now,' he told the young sergeant. 'Have you got his prints for comparison?'
    'I sent Jones round to the inn where he stayed last night,' Cadwallader informed his superior, 'but he'd gone out to the garage to see about getting his car salvaged. Jones rang the garage and spoke to