“Oh, he thinks it's doubtful! That isn't worrying me. I know Plenmeller did it, but I don't like a case that rests only on circumstantial evidence.”
“A lot of murder-cases do,” Harbottle ventured to point out.
“Well, if this one does, I can see myself getting unpopular with the D.P.P. over this. I wouldn't mind so much with the ordinary run of criminals, but we're not dealing with that kind. Our interesting fiend is too clever to take any chances with.”
“Well, what do you— Hallo, there he is!”
“Where?”
“Just gone into that bank,” replied the Inspector, nodding towards a building a few yards farther down the street. “He didn't look as if he was worrying much, I must say. It beats me how a chap can—” He broke off, for he perceived that his Chief was not attending to him.
Hemingway had, in fact, stopped in front of a linen-draper's shop, a most peculiar look on his face, his eyes a little narrowed. Surprised, the Inspector said: “What's the matter, sir?”
His attention recalled, Hemingway looked at him. “Horace, I've got it!” he said. “Come on!”
Wholly at sea, the Inspector followed him down the street, and into the bank.
The bank was as crowded as the rest of Bellingham, most of those waiting in queues before the various cashier's guichets being housewives, much encumbered by baskets and parcels. Gavin Plenmeller had not joined any of the queues, but was writing a cheque at one of the tables provided for that purpose. His back was turned to the door, and, after a quick glance at him, the Chief Inspector stepped up to the broad counter, and ruthlessly interrupted a cashier who was engaged in counting thick wads of dirty-looking notes, behind a notice which gave customers to understand that he was in balk, and must not be disturbed. Upon being accosted, he began, in repressive accents, to request the Chief Inspector to go to the next desk.