“We must try,” said Parker. “It’s ingenious, and it explains a lot of things. Doctor, will you go down to the mortuary again and see if you can find any puncture mark on the body. I really think you’ve got the explanation of the whole thing, Peter. Oh, dear! Who’s on the ’phone now? . . . What?—what?—oh, hell!—Well, that’s torn it. She’ll never come back now. Warn all the ports—send out an all-stations call—watch the railways and go through Bloomsbury with a toothcomb—that’s the part she knows best. I’m coming straight up to Town now—yes, immediately. Right you are.” He hung up the receiver with a few brief, choice expressions.
“That adjectival imbecile, Pillington, has let out all he knows. The whole story is in the early editions of the Banner. We’re doing no good here. Mary Whittaker will know the game’s up, and she’ll be out of the country in two twos, if she isn’t already. Coming back to Town, Wimsey?”
“Naturally. Take you up in the car. Lose no time. Ring the bell for Bunter, would you? Oh, Bunter, we’re going up to Town. How soon can we start?”
“At once, my lord. I have been holding your lordship’s and Mr. Parker’s things ready packed from hour to hour, in case a hurried adjournment should be necessary.”
“Good man.”
“And there is a letter for you, Mr. Parker, sir.”
“Oh, thanks. Ah, yes. The finger-prints off the cheque. H’m. Two sets only—besides those of the cashier, of course—Cousin Hallelujah’s and a female set, presumably those of Mary Whittaker. Yes, obviously—here are the four fingers of the left hand, just as one would place them to hold the cheque flat while signing.
“Pardon me, sir—but might I look at that photograph?”
“Certainly. Take a copy for yourself. I know it interests you as a photographer. Well, cheerio, doctor. See you in Town some time. Come on, Peter.”
Lord Peter came on. And that, as Dr. Faulkner would say, was why Miss Climpson’s second letter was brought up from the police-station too late to catch him.