“Hush!” said Guy, holding up a hand.
They listened. Somewhere in the near distance a rumbling voice was inquiring for Mr. Nesbitt.
“The Inspector,” Doyle murmured. “Let’s take him out to the scene of the body’s embarkment and watch his reactions.”
Inspector Cottingham greeted them genially. “Morning, gents,” he said with an air of importance. “Morning, Mr. Doyle, sir. I’ve had a look at the Sunday Courier.”
“Oh, yes. Satisfied, Inspector?”
“They’ve done it pretty well,” the Inspector admitted. “Pretty well, yes. Barring all that clap-trap about the police, of course.”
“Oh, you mustn’t take any notice of that. It’s the usual thing, you know. They must put it down to somebody’s fault. Still, on the whole it wasn’t so bad, eh? And you saw I brought your name well to the front.”
“That’s right, sir,” agreed the Inspector, endeavouring to conceal his gratification. “That’s right. Well, it won’t be long before you’ll have something more to tell ’em, I’m thinking. I took the liberty, Mr. Nesbitt, sir, of poking round a bit this morning before you were up.”
“Of course, Inspector,” said Guy. “It’s understood that the place is open to you whenever you like. I suppose you didn’t find anything much?”
The Inspector swelled gently. “Didn’t I, then, sir? Didn’t I? Oh, yes, I did. You come along with me, gents, and I’ll show you something as’ll surprise you. Though mind you,” he added with a belated return to officialdom, “all this is ’ighly confidential. You mustn’t,” he explained kindly, “go telling people about it, if you please.”