Returning to the table, Masters sat down, took a blue-bound folder of typewritten sheets out of the brief-case, and opened it.
The date," he continued, "was November 4th, 1927. Just so. Let me emphasize a few points about that roof.
"It's a very big roof, fiat and perfectly square. Ifs floored with cement; they used it for sun-bathing. On the edge of the south side there's a low chimney-stack, narrow and oblong, flat on top. In the middle of the roof there's another chimney-stack just like it, and a third on the edge of the north side. All in a straight line dead across the middle of the roof. Got it?"
"Got it Sure."
"Just so. At the time this happened, there was nothing at all on the roof except two beach-chairs and a wicker settee, all of 'em pushed back dead against the little chimney-stack in the middle."
ELM., eyes closed, blew out his cheeks hideously. "Stop a bit, son. What were beach-chairs doin' there in November?"
"It'd been a warm autumn, and still wasn't cold. They'd just been left there." "Any smoke from the chimneys?" "No. Not a fire lighted. Gas-range in the kitchen." "What colour were the beach-chairs?" Masters stared at him.
"How in lum's name should I know? This report deals with—"
"Now, now, Masters! Keep your shirt on!"
Again the Chief Inspector's forefinger; somewhat agitated by his blood-pressure, travelled down the typewritten lines.