“Well,” said Derrick, “I don’t know if the present owner puts any value on the thing, but I’ll find out.” He took back the wax impression and slipped it into his pocket. “I don’t suppose this model really interests you from what you tell me.”
The peddler shook his head. “The copy is dead,” he replied slowly, “but, from what I gathered in the East, the real thing may have a sort of life in it.”
“All right, I’ll see you both at six o’clock.”
The man touched his cap. Derrick strolled on through the white gates, and, turning to the right, took the road that led away from Bamberley. Following this a quarter of a mile, he left it abruptly, traversed a neighboring copse, and doubled back along a parallel lane. He walked fast and came to the village in a little more than half an hour. In the tiny police office sat Sergeant Burke. Derrick waved his hand, went in, and took the proffered chair. Burke’s face was full of sudden interest, but he asked no questions. Presently Derrick leaned forward.
“I think, sergeant, that an attempt at robbery will take place at Beech Lodge within the next hour or so.”
Burke sat up straighter than ever. “What’s that, sir?”
“I’ll explain in a minute, but first I want to make sure that, so far as the evidence went, no stranger was seen in the vicinity of the Lodge about the time of the murder.”
“No, sir. That seems to be without question.”
“No peddler or traveling tinker had been in Bamberley that week?”
“No, Mr. Derrick, these people are all licensed and registered, and we examine the license of every one who comes along. They are under the head of itinerant vendors.”