“Well, you get ’old of them this afternoon. Don’t touch the chauffeur till you’ve seen ’oo was in the car. Then ask respectful if you may see ’im. If their statemen’s is O.K., we’ll get legal assistance ’ere.”
“We did ought to,” said the constable earnestly. “It’s as wicked a case of——”
“No case ain’t wicked without evidence,” said the Inspector. “Don’t you forget that, sonny. An’ yours alone ain’t worth a couple o’ kicks. You must ’ave corroboration. That coopy’ll bring down counsel—you see if it don’t. An’ if you ’adn’t got no backing—why, ’e’d turn you inside out before your eyes.” He raised his own to heaven and sighed as one who trusts that his enemies’ offences against him are not forgotten. “I’ve ’ad some,” he added heavily. “Never min’. Statemen’s, summons, legal assistance and conviction. That’s the order, me boy, an’ statemen’s first.”
“Very good, sir,” said P.C. Bloke.
The constable was ambitious.
Ever since orders had come through that the reckless driving of motor vehicles was to be actively discouraged, P.C. Albert Bloke had been awaiting his chance. This, until one that morning, an inscrutable Fortune had obstinately withheld. Then all of a sudden she had smiled—dazzlingly.
At dangerous cross-roads a coupé, proceeding at an unlawful speed, had swerved right across the roadway, almost collided with a limousine, very nearly knocked him down, passed a refuge on the wrong side and taken no notice at all of his orders to stop. (Such disregard was hardly surprising, for by the time the orders were given the car was out of earshot: but P.C. Bloke had decided that the ends of justice should not be defeated like that, and that if the coupé’s misconduct had cramped his style that was its own funeral.) More. The coupé’s tail-light was luminous, its number-plate clean, and P.C. Bloke had his note-book in his hand. As though to crown his endeavours, the limousine, plainly indignant, had dallied just long enough to enable him to add her number to that of the offending car.
Reference to the licensing authorities had given him the names of the owners of the respective cars, and an interview with his Inspector had, as we have seen, pointed the path to glory and the surest way to tread.
When he turned into Curzon Street at a quarter past five, P.C. Albert Bloke was prepared to wring a statement from a Trappist.
Peering into the library of the house which he was seeking, you might have thought that the bird of Care had there no rest for the sole of its foot. To be frank, it was on the wing.