“I want to have a little talk with you.”
“Come in,” she said shrilly.
The boarding of the passage-way was broken in half a dozen places and was indescribably dirty, but it represented the spirit of pure hygiene compared with the stuffy horror which was her sitting-room and kitchen.
“What are you, horspital or p’lice?”
“Police,” said Michael. “I want three letters you’ve collected.”
To his surprise, the woman showed relief.
“Oh, is that all?” she said. “Well, that’s a job I do for a gentleman. I’ve done it for years. I’ve never had any complaint before.”
“What is his name?”
“Don’t know his name. Just whatever name happens to be on the letters. I send ’em on to him.”
From under a heap of rubbish she produced three envelopes, addressed in typewritten characters. The typewriting Michael recognized. They were addressed to a street in Guildford.