“To us,” said Elk ominously. “I dare not eat a grilled sausage since that fellow was killed! And I’m partial to sausages.”
CHAPTER XVIII
THE BROADCAST
HIS jaundiced clerk was, as usual, in a complaining mood. “Records have been making a fuss and have been blaming me,” he said bitterly. “Records give themselves more airs than the whole darned office.”
The war between Balder and “Records”—which was a short title for that section of Headquarters which kept exact data of criminals’ pasts,—was of long standing. “Records” was aloof, detached, sublimely superior to everything except tabulated facts. It was no respecter of persons; would as soon snap at a Chief Commissioner who broke its inflexible rules, as it would at the latest joined constable.
“What’s the trouble?” asked Elk.
“You remember you had a lot of stuff out the other day about a man called—I can’t remember his name now.”
“Lyme?” suggested Elk.
“That’s the fellow. Well, it appears that one of the portraits is missing. The morning after you were looking at them, I went to Records and got the documents again for you, thinking you wanted to see them in the morning. When you didn’t turn up, I returned them, and now they say the portrait and measurements are short.”
“Do you mean to say they’re lost?”