“That's all right, Horace: he knew if he stuck to me he'd precious soon get promoted.”
“It's a fact your assistants do,” admitted Harbottle grudgingly.
“Of course they do! Recommending them for promotion is the only way I can get rid of them. Come on up to bed!”
On the following morning, Inspector Harbottle betook himself to Sampson Warrenby's office, and Hemingway went round to the police-station, where, after putting through a call to Headquarters, he had an interview with the Chief Constable, and received a brief report from Sergeant Knarsdale.
The Sergeant had already despatched the bullet, with its cartridge-case, which he had fired from Gavin Plenmeller's rifle, to London, but said frankly that he was not hopeful. “I wouldn't like to say, not for sure, without seeing them under the comparison-microscope,” he told Hemingway, “but I think they'll find there's some marks on this cartridge-case I couldn't spot on the other. Got any more for me, sir?”
“Sergeant Carsethorn will be bringing in three more this morning, unless they've got unaccountably mislaid.”
Knarsdale grinned. “Regular arsenal we'll have here!”
“You don't know the half of it! The Inspector's got thirty-seven on his list.”
“Ah, well! we'll be able to get up a competition,” said the Sergeant, who knew his Chief Inspector.
“That's right: I'm just off to Woolworth's to buy some nice prizes for you!” said Hemingway, and left him chuckling gently.