Cunningham explained that he wanted a word with Harry Davison and Bill Angelus, adding that a suspicious character was rumoured to have been on the bus which was in their charge that afternoon and evening.

The manager glanced at the clock. “They’ll be in any moment now,” he said. “As a matter of fact, they’re two or three minutes overdue already, but it’s difficult to keep up to time schedules with this beastly weather. The roads get so slippery that they have to be mighty careful with those heavy buses.”

Soon the two men arrived. Harry Davison was a heavy-jowled man with grizzled grey hair, and Bill Angelus a small man with bright red hair.

Cunningham explained his mission, and the driver announced at once that he knew nothing whatever about the incident, which, of course, was what the detective had anticipated, for it was not to be expected that the man in the front seat of the bus should have seen anything that was happening behind him. He would be far too intent in watching the road ahead and on listening for the conductor’s bell, signalling the restart.

“I remember it, mister,” said the conductor, and Cunningham breathed again. The information had taken some tracking down, but it looked as if he was to get the required confirmation of the evidence already gained in Pinner.

“Yes,” he said. “What happened? Tell me the whole story from the beginning.”

Bill took a deep breath and started.

“She got on in Streatham,” he said, “and took a sixpenny ticket to Pinner.”

“Do you usually remember each one of your passengers like this, Bill?” asked Cunningham, and the little man grinned cheerfully.

“Not everyone, by any means, governor,” he said. “But I do remember anybody when there’s anything peculiar happened to ’em, like there did to this young lady, as I’m about to tell you.”

“I see. Carry on.”

“Well, she sat there, reading her paper, and then, when we stopped at the first stop in Pinner High Street there was a big racing car roared up and stopped just ahead of us—I think Harry must have seen it, didn’t you?” he added, turning to the driver, who nodded surly confirmation.

“The young fellow who drove this car hopped out quick, as soon as he was stopped in front of us. He came around to the bus, jumped in, and went straight up to the young lady. ‘Miss Arnell, I think,’ he says, in a thick, foreign-sounding sort of voice.”

“Foreign-sounding?” said Cunningham. “What do you mean? Had he a foreign accent?”

“Not exactly accent. More like a thick, deep, rough sort of voice. Sort of German voice, if you know what I mean,” added the conductor, obviously finding it difficult to make his exact meaning clear.

“Yes, I think I understand,” said Cunningham. “And what did the lady say?”