"Right you are, old chap. I'll have it looked up and let you know. How goes it? Anything doing?"
"Yes—rather a cozy little problem—nothing for you people—as far as I know, that is. Come round one evening and I'll tell you about it, unofficially."
"Thanks very much. Not for a day or two, though. We're run off our feet with this crate business."
"Oh, I know—the gentleman who was sent from Sheffield to Euston in a crate, disguised as York hams. Splendid. Work hard and you will be happy. No, thanks, my child, I don't want another twopenn'orth—I'm spending the money on sweets. Cheerio, Charles!"
The rest of the day Wimsey was obliged to pass in idleness, so far as the Bellona Club affair was concerned. On the following morning he was rung up by Parker.
"I say—that 'phone call you asked me to trace."
"Yes?"
"It was put through at 9.13 P.M. from a public call-box at Charing Cross Underground Station."
"Oh hell!—the operator didn't happen to notice the bloke, I suppose?"
"There isn't an operator. It's one of those automatic boxes."