“So you’ve heard nothing of him this week?” said the inspector, preparing to take his leave.
“Beg pardon, sir,” replied the porter. “It had almost slipped my memory. Mr. Walter Brooklyn rang up one night this week on the telephone. I have a note of the call somewhere.”
“What was it about?”
“He asked if a registered parcel had come for him, because if it had he wanted it sent round to him at once by hand.”
“Sent to his other club?”
“No. He wanted it sent to Sir Vernon Brooklyn’s, Liskeard House, Piccadilly. He gave us the name and address over the ’phone.”
“Did you send the parcel?”
“No. Because we told him no parcel had come.”
“Has it arrived since?”
“No.”