“Have you ever heard young Mr. Harper mention Ballantine’s name?” asked Mallett suddenly.

Crabtree, his head still full of dreams, came back to the present with a start.

“That——!” he exclaimed, “I should think I——”

He checked himself abruptly, and then with a puerile attempt at deception went on:

“What name did you say, sir? Ballantine? I’m sure I’ve never ’eard ’im mention that name in me life!”

He repeated with emphasis: “No, sir! Not Mr. ’Arper! Never!”

11
MALLETT FEELS BETTER

Wednesday, November 18th

The long delayed meal, and the pint of bitter that went with it, did Mallett good. It was fortunate, he reflected, as he puffed at his cigarette, that he was gifted with a good digestion. No detective, in his experience, could do his work satisfactorily unless he were on good terms with his stomach. Men are most proud of the qualities for which they have to thank nature rather than their own efforts, and Mallett’s self-satisfaction remained with him as he took a brief post-prandial stroll in St. James’s Park. It was, for London, an ideal November day. Over the leafless trees the sky was a clear pale blue, and there was a nip in the air that was invigorating without being chilly. Mallett paced the walks, breathing deep gulps of the wintry air, exulting in his own well-being. But when one is faced with a question of paramount importance, it will intrude itself everywhere, and any subject, however far removed from it, will, by some trick of the brain, present itself as in some way connected with the overmastering preoccupation. So it was with the inspector now. He stopped in mid-stride, swung on his heel and stared absently across the lake.

“Digestion, now!” he murmured to the unheeding pelicans. “What was it Harper said? A fattish man with a lean face, as though he had a bad digestion? Something like that. But Crabtree said he wasn’t particular. Crabtree’s cooking was pretty rough and ready, I should think, and he seems to have eaten his breakfasts all right. Odd!”

He remained irresolute for a few moments. Then, throwing the butt end of his cigarette at a fat pigeon near his feet, he muttered: “Well, it’s a long shot, but it might be worth trying,” and walked out of the park to St. James’s Underground Station.