However, Hemingway had thrust his card under the grille, and the inscription it bore worked like a charm. The cashier abandoned his calculations, and looked a startled enquiry.
“Any one with the manager?” asked Hemingway.
“No, I don't think— That is to say, I'll go and—”
“That's all right,” said Hemingway cheerfully. He nodded towards a frosted-glass door. “That his office?”
“Yes, but—”
“Thanks!” said Hemingway, and turned, just as Plenmeller got up from the writing-table, and came towards the counter.
The Inspector, bewildered, but very much on the alert, thought that there was something more than natural surprise in Plenmeller's face. He gave no melodramatic start, but he seemed to stiffen, like an animal freezing, and the Inspector saw a muscle twitch in his cheek. The next moment the faintly sneering smile had curled his mouth, and he said coolly: “If it isn't Scotland Yard again! Good-morning, gentlemen! Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Yes, there's something I want to ask you,” responded Hemingway affably. “It's a lucky thing I caught sight of you. Not but what it's a bit too crowded here for my taste. Let's go into the manager's office!”
“I'm entirely at your disposal, but may I suggest that the King's Head is just across the street? I can't help feeling that the manager might not view with favour an invasion of his sanctum. If you don't mind waiting until I've cashed this cheque—”
“From the look of things, that'll be twenty minutes at least, and I'm in a hurry. I daresay the manager won't object,” said Hemingway, edging him towards the glass door.