‘Ah, Hilton,’ the Inspector greeted him. ‘I want you to go over to Knightsbridge and look up a man for me—a Mr Cosgrove Ponson who has rooms at Number 174B. All you need find out is whether or not he is at home. I’ll follow you round in a couple of hours, and you can report to me there.’
This arranged, Tanner took a taxi and was driven to his house at Fulham.
Town was very hot. The sun poured down out of an almost brazen sky, taking the freshness from the air and turning the streets into canals of swimming heat. The narrow courts were stifling, the open spaces shone with a blinding glare. Dust was everywhere, a dry burning dust which parched the throat and made the eyeballs smart. As Tanner looked around him he recalled with regret the green lawns and shady trees of Luce Manor.
A couple of hours later he emerged from his house, resplendent in a silk hat and frock coat, with well-fitting gloves and a gold-headed cane. Taking another taxi, he drove to Knightsbridge. There he dismissed his vehicle, and approaching his man, Hilton, made him a slight sign. The other responded by nodding his head. Cosgrove, the Inspector understood, had gone out.
Sauntering leisurely across the road, Tanner mounted the steps of the house and rang. The door was opened by a dark, clean-shaven manservant.
‘Mr Ponson is not at home, sir,’ he said in reply to the Inspector’s inquiry, as he reached back for a salver.
Tanner held out a card engraved ‘Mr Reginald Willoughby, The Albany.’
‘I rather wanted to see Mr Ponson on business,’ he went on. ‘Do you think he’ll soon be back?’
‘I think so, sir. He’ll almost certainly be in before seven.’
The Inspector glanced at his watch.