“Then that's where we'll go. The Inspector's a bit upset, and needs something to pull him round.”
“Well you know that I never drink alcohol!” said Harbottle, under his breath, as he got into the car beside him.
“Who said anything about alcohol? A nice glass of orangeade is what you'll have, my lad, and like it!”
“Give over, sir, do!” Harbottle besought him.
The Sergeant spoke over his shoulder. “Did you get anything more than I did out of Mr. Drybeck, sir?”
“Yes, I got the whole story of the crime,” said Hemingway cheerfully. “What you boys wanted me and Harbottle for when you had Mr. Drybeck beats me! He's got a trained mind, and he's bringing it to bear on this crime.”
“A trained mind!” snorted the incensed Inspector. “You haven't that, of course, Chief!”
“You're dead right I haven't!”
“He fairly turned my gorge!” said the Inspector, ignoring this piece of facetiousness. “Him and his trained mind! A real, wicked mind, that's what he has! Trying to cast suspicion on a nice young lady!”
“Taken your fancy, has she?” said Hemingway. “I'm bound to say she didn't take mine.”