“She did not,” said the Sergeant. “That's my point, Super. I figured she would.”
“Why?”
“Psychology,” said the Sergeant, vaguely waving his fourth slice of bread-and-butter in the air.
“Cut it out,” said his superior unkindly. “What did you find out about Vereker's chauffeur?”
“It wasn't him. You'll have to rule him out, Super. No good at all. I'll tell you what he was doing on Saturday.”
“You needn't bother. Put it in a report. I think I'll pay a call on Miss Vereker.”
The Sergeant cocked a wise eyebrow, “All on account of Light-fingered Rudolph? She gets a letter from Arnold, spilling the beans about him cooking the accounts, and threatening to ruin him, so down she goes to plead for Rudolph, and when that turns out to be no use, sticks a knife in the cruel half-brother. I haven't worked out how she got him in the stocks, but from what I can make out about these Verekers that's just the sort of joke they would pull, and think a proper scream. Myself, I haven't got that type of humour, but it takes all sorts to make a world. It's a wonder anyone ever gets out of these tea and bun bazaars, the trouble it is to get the girls to come across with the bill. I've been trying to catch Hennaed Hannah's eye for the past ten minutes. I know what my job is now, Super. I've got to check up on Friend Rudolph.” He looked shrewdly at his chief, for he had worked with him often before, and knew him. “Worried about Rudolph, aren't you, Super?”
“Yes, I am,” replied Hannasyde. “He fits, and yet he doesn't fit. See what you can find out, Hemingway.”
The Sergeant nodded. “I will that, sir. But he can't have done it. Not to my way of thinking. Here, Gladys - Maud - Gwendolyn, whatever your name is - tell me this: Are you standing us this tea?”
“I never did! You haven't half got a nerve!” said the waitress, giggling.