“They are certainly not Vera Findlater’s—there was no mud on her shoes when we found her.”
“Oh! you were taking notice, then. I thought you were feeling a bit dead to the world.”
“So I was, old dear, but I can’t help noticin’ things, though moribund. Hullo! what’s this?”
He put his hand down behind the cushions of the car and pulled out an American magazine—that monthly collection of mystery and sensational fiction published under the name of The Black Mask.
“Light reading for the masses,” said Parker.
“Brought by the gentleman in the yellow boots, perhaps,” suggested the Chief Constable.
“More likely by Miss Findlater,” said Wimsey.
“Hardly a lady’s choice,” said Sir Charles, in a pained tone.
“Oh, I dunno. From all I hear, Miss Whittaker was dead against sentimentality and roses round the porch, and the other poor girl copied her in everything. They might have a boyish taste in fiction.”
“Well, it’s not important,” said Parker.