“Of course, I would,” remarked Hemingway, as the door shut behind the triumphant Sergeant.
“You're having a thoroughly demoralising effect upon my officers,” said the Colonel severely. “By the way, have you done anything more about that other affair? Ainstable's business?”
“I asked my Chief to make discreet enquiries, sir. Which reminds me that I may as well tell him to forget it,” said Hemingway, getting up, and gathering his various papers together.
“I won't pretend I'm not glad you're dropping that,” said the Colonel frankly.
“Nothing to do with me, sir,” said Hemingway, tucking the papers under his arm. “Unless there's anything more you want to discuss with me, I'll be getting along. Precious little more I can do till Harbottle gets back, except get Warrenby's clerk to go through the documents I took away from Fox House, and that can wait till I've had my supper.”
“Do you know where he lives?”
“I'll find out, sir.”
The Colonel got up, and held out his hand, saying, with a faint smile: “You do find things out, don't you? Good-night, then—and good luck!”
Upon the following morning, the Chief Inspector consumed a leisurely and a somewhat belated breakfast. He liked to be left in peace at this meal, and since he did not expect Harbottle to arrive in Bellingham until twenty-seven minutes past ten, when the fast train from London made Bellingham its first stop, and knew very well that his identity had been disclosed by the landlord to the three Commercials who had arrived at the Sun on the previous day, it seemed desirable to him not to emerge from his bedroom until these fellow-guests had departed on their several errands. He timed his appearance in the coffee-room well, but he had reckoned without his host, Mr. Wick, proprietor of the Sun, and also its chef, not only fried for him four rashers of bacon, two eggs, two sausages, and a tomato, with his own far from fair hands, but elected to carry this slight repast in to the coffee-room as well, and to stand over the Chief Inspector while he ate it. Simply clad in a stained pair of grey slacks and a dirty vest, he leaned his hairy arms on the back of a chair, and entertained Hemingway with an account of his own career, inviting, at the same time, any interesting confidences Hemingway might feel encouraged to repose in him. But as the Chief Inspector's only contribution to the conversation took the form of an earnestly worded piece of advice, to the effect that he should never show himself to his clients for fear of putting them off their food, he took himself off at last, leaving Hemingway to drink a third cup of well-sweetened tea, and to peruse the columns of his chosen newspaper.
He left the inn a little while before the London train was due, and walked through the town towards the station. He found South Street extremely congested, with various persons trying to park their cars against the kerb, and holding up all the traffic while they performed their complicated evolutions; and when he reached the market-place he discovered the reason for all this activity. Wednesday was Bellingham's market-day, and the wide square was crowded with omnibuses, stalls, vociferous merchants, and keen shoppers. Every branch of trade seemed to be represented, from a stall displaying bric-a-brac to one presided over by a stout individual who invitingly slapped a large and bright yellow object, stentoriously proclaiming: “HaddOCKS, haddOCKS, haddOCKS!”