They came back to the policeman in the lane. “They’ve beat it, sir,” he said. “Telling me off proper. She’s a wild cat, that Jessie Blunt.”
“All in the day’s work, George,” Bell comforted him, and went after Reggie. “I say, where are you going, sir?”
Reggie had not gone back by the way they had come, but on down the lane. He stopped, contemplating a swirl of the loose gravel made by the wheels of a car. “I don’t know,” he said. “Where does this dirt track go to?”
“Round by the edge of the common, and then into the high road. Matter of two miles to the police station, that way.”
“My only aunt,” Reggie mourned. He wandered on some little distance, and then turned back. “Well, well. Such heroism is futile.” He shivered, and huddled into his coat. ”’ Home, home the nearest way,’ same like Appius Claudius.”
They trudged back up the lane, and he was morosely silent. They came to Bournham police station. With a sigh of satisfaction Reggie settled down before the hot fire in a close little room, and Bell introduced the local detective - inspector. “Now, George, got anything new?”
“I have, sir; and I reckon Mr. Fortune will be glad of it. I’ve got a sample of Blunt’s blood.”
“Good for you,” Bell grinned.
It took a bit of wangling. We had him in again, and, going over his story quite civil, I said something about his bandaged thumb, sympathetic, you know - nasty thing, didn’t look too good and so on - leading up to the divisional surgeon having a look at it. It’s a long, dirty gash. The doctor says he couldn’t be sure how it was done - might have been from a chopper, like Blunt told us; might just as well have been from a fall on a sharp stone in that crazy paving. But he put on a nice fresh dressing, and so we got the old, bloody bandage. That’s what matters. Here you are, Mr. Fortune.”
Reggie contemplated the stained rag with disgust. “Yes. Quite improper,” he murmured. He put it away. He turned a gloomy gaze on the inspector. “Anything else?”
“I don’t know as there is.” The inspector hesitated. “Not anything new. What were you wanting, Mr. Fortune?”
“Only a fact. One solid certain fact. Just to go on with.”
“I thought we had quite a lot.” The inspector was annoyed.
“Then you’d better think again,” Reggie drawled. “What have you got? An old insurance broker who goes off for the week - end, leaving ten thousand pounds’ worth of jewellery in a house anybody could walk into - -”
“Well, of course it’s silly. But it’s just what people do do. Every day.”
“Yes. And he knows all about insurance. So that makes it more natural. And the man left in charge strolls away at night to sit in the pub. Also natural. Yet he manages to come back in time to see the chief shady character of your district prowling round. Very thoughtful of him. Very convenient. And he can’t be waked, except by a row to warn the burglar, and then nobody can find out what’s gone till the insurance broker comes back some time next day. Most convenient.”
“That’s how burglaries are,” the inspector protested. “If people weren’t such ruddy fools there wouldn’t be any. The way you put it, all this case is fishy. Anybody might be suspected. Everybody.”
“Oh, yes. Hadn’t you noticed that before? Policemen are so trustful. Try not believin’ anything you’re told. Then you might get to something. Good - bye.”
Bell escorted him to his car. “Well, you shook that lad up,” he grunted.
“Cross, wasn’t I?” Reggie sighed. “Cross with myself. We’re all so pleased and futile.”
“I’ll have it all gone over,” said Bell. “But I want your results, Mr. Fortune.”
“Yes. Quick. And then - ‘ there may be heaven, there must be hell.’” Reggie drove away…
On another bitter morning he came back to the fire in that little room. Bell and the inspector were waiting for him. “Well, well.” He put his feet on the fender; he stretched his long, capable surgeon’s hands to the blaze. “What are you going to tell me?”
“I hoped you were going to tell us something, Mr. Fortune,” the inspector grumbled. “I have nothing new here. Your notion of suspecting Goldschild or his chauffeur don’t work out at all. Nothing shady about Goldschild. He really is rich. He’s been in the City all his life. Reputation there, A1. The chauffeur’s always been in good service, and kept his places a long time, first - class references, and people who know him here say he’s a straight steady - going fellow. So all that falls down.”
“Grateful and comfortin’,” Reggie murmured. He turned to Bell. “Anybody seen the insurance assessor?”
“I haven’t seen him. I rang him up. The insurance people are satisfied Goldschild’s all right.”
“There you are,” said the inspector truculently.
“Where?” Reggie looked at him with narrowing eyes. “Any further indication from the Blunt family?”
“I can’t see there is anything new.”
“Well, well. You haven’t done any work on ‘em?”
