“Who handled this?” demanded Hemingway suspiciously.
“Jimmy Wroxham.”
“Oh,” said Hemingway. “Well, it's not like him to miss anything that's wanted. You did tell him to look into the wife, Bob?”
“Yes, I did, and if I ever see half a chance of getting you dismissed from the service with ignominy—”
“You won't,” interrupted Hemingway. “No, look here, Bob, Jimmy must have slipped up! I've seen the set-up: husband and wife, and one baby, a year old. By what Lindale told me, I should say he was married about two years ago.”
“No record,” replied the Superintendent. “Jimmy had a talk with one of the partners of the firm he used to be with, and he didn't seem to know where he was now, or what he was doing. Said he left the Stock Exchange because he was unsettled by the War.”
“That's pretty much what Lindale told me. But, by what you've just read out to me, it looks as though it took him five years to decide he couldn't stick city life any longer. Did you say he had a couple of sisters living?”
“Yes. The elder one lives with the father—he's got a parish somewhere in the Midlands—and the younger one's married to a shipowner. Lives up near Birkenhead.”
“Birkenhead . . . Well, that's some way off. Might account for her never having been seen in these parts. I should have thought the other one would have visited him, though. Oh, well! Perhaps she can't leave the old man. Did Jimmy see the uncle?”
“No, he died in the last year of the War. No Lindales at all in the firm since your man pulled out.”