"You will have your joke, sir," he said indulgently.
"Yes," said Mr. Amberley. "But this isn't my joke. You'd better send someone along. I'm at Greythorne when you want me."
The smile faded. "You're not serious, sir?" said the sergeant.
"Perfectly. Sober, too. A man in an Austin Seven, shot through the chest. Very messy."
"Murder!" said the sergeant. "Good Lord! Here, sir, just a moment! Where did you say you found him?"
Mr. Amberley returned to the desk and demanded a sheet of paper. Supplied with this he drew a rough diagram. "Where that accursed place Pittingly is I don't know, but the car is approximately at this point, about a mile from the turning into this town. I stopped to ask the way to Greythorne and found the fellow was dead. Probably murdered. I'd come with you, but I'm an hour late for dinner already."
"That's all right, sir. You'll be at Greythorne for a day or two, I take it? There'll be an inquest - but I don't have to tell you that. Get on to Carchester, Wilkins. You didn't happen to notice anything particular, did you, sir? Didn't pass anyone on the road?"
"No. It's pretty foggy, though. The man wasn't cold when I touched him, if that's any use to you. Good night."
"Good night, sir, and thank you."
The constable held out the telephone receiver, and while the sergeant reported to headquarters he stood rubbing his chin and staring at the door which had swung to behind Mr. Amberley. As the sergeant hung up the receiver he said blankly: "Well, he's a cool customer and no mistake."