a transmitting apparatus is not bought for nothing. He shouldn’t be hard to trace.’
‘No,’ said the inspector. ‘That would be Septon, I should think.’
‘What was his crime?’ asked Linley.
‘Selling cocaine,’ said Ulton. ‘He peddled it on a very large scale round the wrong kind of houses. Mr Cambell found him out, and Island and Holbuck were both in it. He’d be out now. They had him at Parkhurst.’
‘Then you’ll find him in Yorkshire,’ said Linley. ‘There’d be another of them watching Piero’s, at the other end of the telephone. But Septon would have been in Yorkshire.’
‘How do you know which was at which end?’ asked Ulton.
‘Because that kind of man is always the furthest away from the crime,’ said Linley. ‘They put up the money for it and keep out of the way, when they can.’
‘I think you’re right there,’ said Ulton, who had known crime all over the British Isles. ‘We must get off to Henby, and the sooner the better. Number 15 Henby is the telephone number: it was the house of a doctor, but he went to Switzerland, and it’s been let for a year to a man giving the name of Brown. He’s been there just over two months.’
‘When did Septon come out of Parkhurst?’ asked Linley.
‘Some while ago,’ said Ulton. ‘And then he had to report at police-stations. That was finished with two and a half months ago.’
‘It shouldn’t be difficult to get him,’ I said, wondering if they’d let me come, too.
‘He shoots,’ said the inspector. ‘We had some difficulty with him last time.’
Well, of course that’s a little bit outside my line of business. I travel in Numnumo, a relish for meats and savouries; and I guarantee to get into any house, though of course I can’t promise to sell a bottle of relish every time. I don’t care how hard they try to keep me out: I get in in the end. But of course shooting would be something a bit new to me. And I don’t pretend that I’d like it. But I still wanted to go.
‘Well, of course, two can play at that game,’ I said.
‘No. We can do better than that,’ said Ulton.
He didn’t tell me any more of his plans, but turned to Linley and said: ‘Would you care to come? We’ll go by the 2.30 tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Earlier, if you like,’ said Linley.
‘No,’ said Ulton; ‘it’s on a hill, and he has too good a view.’
I didn’t see at first how going earlier or later would alter the view. But I soon saw that was silly of me. Linley understood at once. He glanced at me and then at the inspector, and I saw he meant to ask if I could come too. ‘Oh well,’ said Ulton. But I somehow saw that I might, though the words themselves meant nothing.
‘Well, you take that train, and I’ll join you on it,’ said Ulton. ‘We book to Arneth. Better go first-class and we shall probably be by ourselves.’
‘All right,’ said Linley. ‘And I should think he’d have an eye for detectives, with all that experience. It’s their boots they spot them by, isn’t it?’
And he looked at Ulton’s big boots.
‘We’re mostly large men,’ said Ulton, ‘and have to wear large boots.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Linley, seeing him to the door.
When Inspector Ulton had gone Linley came back to me and said, ‘You want to go, Smethers?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
So he went to a drawer and came back with two revolvers. ‘Better take one of these,’ he said. ‘Look out. It’s loaded. Better not tell Ulton you’ve got it. Because he ought to set you filling in forms, or send you to prison, or something like that, if he knew you’d got it.’
‘It’s a bit bulky,’ I said. ‘Won’t he see the bulge in my pocket?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Linley, ‘Ulton’ll see the bulge. But he isn’t the sort of fellow to ask what made it. I’ve another revolver for him. But I won’t offer it him until things begin to look nasty. Because he’d have to notice it if I actually held it out to him in the train.’
‘Won’t he have one of his own?’ I asked.
‘They’re supposed not to,’ he said.
‘Not fair on crime,’ I suggested.
‘That’s about it,’ said Linley.
Well, next day we went to King’s Cross to catch the 2.30; I with one revolver and Linley with two; and, as Linley was buying the tickets to Arneth, the booking-clerk told him that seats had been reserved for us. A porter showed us to the carriage and there we found the labels reserving our seats, and one seat reserved for ‘Mr Ulton’, and two seats reserved for a Mr and Mrs Smyth, and the sixth seat already occupied. It didn’t look like our having it to ourselves.
Well, time went by and no inspector came, and by 2.28 I began to get anxious. What should we do if the train started and we were off to Yorkshire to look for a dangerous criminal, without Ulton?
Linley said, ‘Oh, he’ll turn up.’ But he didn’t turn up.
And then I called out to a porter to ask if he had seen anyone like Ulton get on the train; and of course I had to describe him. And then the other man in the carriage joined in, asking me questions as to what my friend was like. He was a man with queer whiskers, this other man, and a large drooping moustache, and dapper little patent-leather boots. He spoke in a weak high voice. I described the inspector to him fairly well; a burly, clean-shaven, tall man. And then he said: ‘What kind of boots had he?’
‘Boots?’ I said. ‘Why?’
‘They show up on a platform,’ he said. ‘They would help one to recognize anybody.’
‘Oh, very big boots,’ I said.
And so they were, even to me. Doubly so, I should have said, to this little man, huddled up in a corner seat.
‘Ah, I know the kind of man you mean,’ he said in his queer little voice and the trace of some accent that I couldn’t quite place. ‘I’ve seen no one like him near the carriage, but I’ll help you look out for him.’
‘There’s only a minute,’ I said.
‘He might come yet,’ he answered.
Then we were off.
‘What shall we do now?’ I asked Linley.
‘What were you and your friend going to do, if I might ask?’ said the man in the corner, seeing me so put out.
‘Fishing,’ I said.
‘Ah, a pleasant sport,’ said he.
‘But
