“What?” Reggie opened dull eyes. “Who is the Smiler?”
The inspector chuckled. “You don’t mean to say you don’t know, Mr. Fortune? I thought so. I told Mr. Bell you were just bluffing that vixen.”
“You’re so zoological out here,” Reggie complained. “Your constable called her a wild cat. You call her a vixen. Seems to me just like a woman.”
“Same thing.” The inspector was very pleased.
“You made her sweat all right. That was a fine tale you put up -” Reggie turned and surveyed him with dislike.
“Don’t be a fool, George,” Bell growled. “I’ve had enough from you, and a bit more.”
“I didn’t mean any offence, sir.” The respectful words were belied by the surly tone. “I was only saving it was wonderful how Mr. Fortune could describe a man in the hut, and what he did, and what the Blunt girl did for him, all out of two or three drops o’ blood.”
“Yes. You would wonder,” Reggie said. “Simple results of doin’ a job marvellous to a fellow who don’t do it. I found the evidence you ought to have found. Man who jumped from Goldschild’s window caught his foot as he fell - left white skin and black hairs from the arm that he scraped, besides his blood. Limped badly going down the lane: small footprints, with long strides growing shorter and shorter; same footprints on the allotment, up to the hut. Hence the inference that the burglar was a tall man with small feet, black hair, and very fair complexion - which makes the probability that his eyes were blue or grey - -”
“And that’s the Smiler, to the life,” Bell broke in.
“Very gratifyin’,” Reggie murmured. “And who is the Smiler?”
“Irishman, name of Leary. That, and his good looks, got him called Smiler. We’ve only caught him once, and then for a little job. But he’s been in a lot of things. He’s as smart as they make ‘em. He’s just the man for all these neat burglaries you’ve had out here, George, and you’ve never got a line on him. Spent all your time sniffing after that poor old wreck, Blunt, I suppose.”
“Begging your pardon, sir.” The inspector gave a sullen, contumacious stare. “I’ve got to say that’s not right. Suppose you believe all Mr. Fortune’s tale, it don’t let the Blunts out, does it? Not much! He says the burglar went straight to the Blunts’ hut to hide, and Jessie Blunt nipped off there, good and quick, doctored him and fed him, and got him safe away - and now she won’t tell us anything about him, though it leaves her and her father in the soup. If that don’t mean the Blunts were working in with him, it don’t make sense at all.” He stopped, and gave a resentful, distrustful look at Reggie. “Oh, I’m not saying it’s true. Too much guess - work for me. You wouldn’t dare put it up to a jury. How can you tell what Jessie Blunt did in the hut - and your limping footprints when old Blunt has a limp - who’s going to believe there was another man? - and - -”
“Don’t you ever notice anything?” Reggie asked sadly. “Blunt has big feet. Blunt don’t lift ‘em. He shuffles. Blood in the hut was on the middle of the matting, just where it would be if a man with a bleeding arm lay there all out. Very unlikely Blunt’s thumb would drop blood just in that place and nowhere else. Bread and milk had been brought to the hut just lately, and stuff to bind up a wound. And, finally, a car came up to the allotment, and went away again. Quite clear what happened. Jessie Blunt attended to the wounded warrior, and he was subsequently removed by motor transport.”
“I dare say,” the inspector sneered. “Are you going to tell all that in court, Mr. Fortune? I don’t mind, I’m sure. The more they believe you, the worse for the Blunts. That’s all.”
“Yes, that is so,” Reggie murmured. “And you’d like that. I had noticed it.”
“I only want to get a straight case.” The inspector was loud. Reggie inspected him with bleak curiosity. Reggie stood up, wearily, bit by bit. “A straight case!” he mumbled. “Disgustin’, composite, increasin’ mess. And we’re futile, wholly futile.” He wandered out.
“Lardy - dardy way with him,” the inspector complained. “What has he really got in his head?”
Bell exploded. “Much about the same idea of you that I have. You’d better do some work on tracing the Smiler down here. Look over all those other burglary cases. It don’t do you any credit drawing blank every time.” He went after Reggie.
So, themselves irritated, they left the inspector in a furious temper with them and all the wicked world. It has been remarked by Reggie, philosophising, that the power of the case to generate bad temper points to something wholesome in the nature of things: a moral reaction comparable to the angry inflammation of the body against toxic matter; and equally unreliable as a cure.
Reggie was standing outside the police station, a hunched back to the wind, looking along the high road. The trams clanged between a diversity of buildings, some humble survivals from the time when Bournham was a village, some showy modern blocks of shops. “What did you think of doing, sir?” Bell asked.
“I want to see the shop Blunt had.” Reggie was plaintive.
Bell went into the station again, and soon returned. “Blunt’s place was pulled down after the fire,” he announced. “All along there has been rebuilt. Makes part of a big store - Garner’s, the shop of the place. I can take you to it, if you like, it’s only a little way down the road.”
“Yes. Let’s go and look at the shops.” Reggie took his arm.
Garner’s store was of ample, suburban grandeur. Its brilliant windows stretched far, its upper floors were show - rooms and store - rooms. In the service road, at the back of the block of which it was part, stood vans emblazoned with Garner’s fame.
“Now, Blunt’s shop was somewhere here.” Bell pointed. “It was the draper’s of the old village, you know. Garner’s used to be a sort of general shop. After Blunt crashed, Garner built on his site.”
“I see, yes.” Reggie strolled on to the end of the block, and looked down the service road at the back. Garner’s had a yard of its own there - behind gates defended on the top by spiked railings, which looked new. “Oh. Protectin’ themselves,” Reggie murmured.
“Put up since the run of burglaries, I reckon,” said Bell. “Don’t blame ‘em. I wish everybody would be as careful.”
“Yes. Considerin’ the efficiency of our detective work. Yes.”
“Well, now,” Bell remonstrated. “You’re taking it hard, Mr. Fortune. Some of us ought to be sore about this case. But I don’t know why you should be.”
“My dear old Bell!” Reggie sighed. “Because I’m useless. Painful condition.”
