“Then Tom can tell us who actually took the parcel away,” Mallett exclaimed. He had no sooner uttered the words than he felt as if he had committed a blasphemy. Mrs. Bradworthy’s face took on an expression of pained reproach and Amelia looked as though she were about to cry.

“Oh, but haven’t you heard, Mr. Mallett?” Mrs. Bradworthy asked softly. “Poor old Tom—twenty-five years he’d been here—and then, only last week—those dreadful motor cars!”

Mallett’s hopes evaporated into thin air.

“So Tom is dead?” he said dully.

Mrs. Bradworthy nodded. Amelia blew her nose loudly and faded away.

“I see. Good afternoon, Mrs. Bradworthy, and thank you.”

“But what I want to know is, will Lord Bernard pay my bill or not?” asked Mrs. Bradworthy, overcoming her emotion with remarkable speed.

For the second time that day Mallett ended an interview on an unanswered question. He made his way back to Scotland Yard, oppressed with the strong realization that the evidence on which he had so confidently depended had failed him, and that all was to do again.

22
ARREST

Wednesday, November 25th

Sergeant Frant was busy, and perfectly happy. He kept the telephone fully employed on long-distance calls and was perpetually in and out of Mallett’s room, each time with a fresh piece of news to report. The inspector paid little attention. For the whole morning he sat at his desk, hunched up over a pile of documents, going over the statements of witnesses, the depositions at the inquest and his own memoranda. He refused the assistance which Frant offered him.

“There’s a link missing,” was all he would say, “and it’s somewhere here. I must find it myself.”

After a solitary lunch, he came back looking better pleased with himself. Frant met him on the stairs.

“I’m just going——” he began with a triumphant air.

“Can you tell me,” Mallett interrupted unceremoniously, “where Crabtree is to be found now?”

“Yes. He’s got a job in a wholesale fruiterer’s at Covent Garden.”

“Thanks. Where did you say you were going?”

“To Bow Street.”

“Then I’ll come with you.”

At the bottom of Bow Street, Frant indicated where the fruiterer in question was to be found, and the men parted. Mallett discovered Crabtree, a pile of orange-boxes on his head, on the pavement outside the shop. The man gave him a sour look as he recognized him.

“What is it this time?” he snarled.

“Just a question,” said Mallett genially. “You needn’t stop your work to answer it.”

“Then get out o’ the way!” Crabtree began to walk beneath his precarious load to a van drawn up some distance away. Mallett fell into step with him, as though interviewing in these circumstances was the most ordinary thing in the world.

“When you were with Mr. James,” he asked, “do you ever remember seeing him with an umbrella?”