Plenmeller checked, found the Inspector immediately behind him, and shot a quick, searching glance at Hemingway. His brows went up. “Is it so urgent?” he asked lightly.
“Just a point I've an idea you may be able to clear up for me,” replied Hemingway, opening the glass door, and pushing him into the room beyond it.
The manager was seated at a large knee-hole desk, the cashier to whom Hemingway had spoken at his elbow. He looked up over the top of his spectacles, by no means pleased by the unceremonious entrance of three uninvited persons. “Mr. Plenmeller?” he said, surprised. He glanced from Harbottle to Hemingway, and then at the card in his hand. “Chief Inspector—er—Hemingway? You wish to see me?”
“Properly speaking, it's Mr. Plenmeller who wishes to see you,” said Hemingway. “He deposited a package with you on Monday, for safe-keeping, and now he wants to show me what's in it.—Take him, Harbottle!”
“But how did you know, Chief?” Harbottle demanded, when at last he found himself alone with the Chief Inspector.
“I didn't,” replied Hemingway calmly. “I took a chance on it.”
“Took— You never!” said Harbottle, with conviction. A look of foreboding crept into his face. “You aren't going to tell me it was this flair of yours?” he said imploringly.
“I oughtn't to have to tell you!” retorted Hemingway. “Not but what there was a bit more to it than than,” he added truthfully. “In fact, I ought to have tumbled to it before I actually did. I told the Chief Constable yesterday that if this were London I should be nosing round the safe-deposits, and why I didn't carry straight on from there, and think of bank strong-rooms, I can't tell you.”
“Everyone was talking you silly,” suggested the Inspector helpfully.
“Very likely! And if I have any lip from you, my lad, you'll be sorry!”