French rose.
“Good!” he said again. “Then let us go to this Makepeace and see if it is still there. You might introduce me as a friend who wants a second-hand car and who might take Mr. Berlyn’s. If possible we’ll get it out and do the same run that those men did that night. I want to get some times. Are you a driver?”
“Yes, I can handle it all right.”
The Makepeace garage was a surprisingly large establishment for so small a town. At least a dozen cars stood in the long low shed, and there were lorries and char-à-bancs in the yard behind. Daw hailed a youth who was polishing the brasswork of one of the “charries.”
“Your father about, John?”
Mr. Makepeace, it appeared, was in the office, and thither the two men walked, to be greeted by a stout individual with smiling lips and shrewd eyes.
“ ’Morning, sergeant! Looking for me?”
The sergeant nodded. “This is a friend of mine,” he explained, “who is looking for a good second-hand car. I told him about Mr. Berlyn’s, but I didn’t know whether you had it still. We came across to enquire.”
“It’s here, all right, and I can afford to sell it cheap.” Mr. Makepeace turned to French. “What kind of machine were you wanting, sir?”
“A medium-size four-seater, but I’m not particular as to make. If I saw one I liked I would take it.”