“Did he say anything?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“What did he look like?”
“I couldn’t really say, sir. Just a tramp.”
“Had he a moustache—a beard?”
“There again I couldn’t say, sir, at this distance of time. He was a dirty sort of bloke—that’s all I could swear to.”
Poole could get nothing more definite; he did not try very hard—it was obvious that the man would be effectively disguised. Thanking the constable and Glant for their help and taking a note of the latter’s address, Poole walked across the Park in the direction of Queen Anne’s Gate. He was not feeling in the least tired now and was eager to press closely along the growing scent; for a time he thought of looking up Mangane, to see what the latter had discovered about the Victory Finance Company, but second thoughts told him that if he were to throw himself into a complicated financial maze his brain must first have a night’s rest. With some regret therefore, he took a bus home from Victoria Street.
The following morning he reported the progress of the case fully to Chief Inspector Barrod. The latter was unexpectedly reasonable about Poole’s failure to track either Ryland Fratten or Daphne and her companion—possibly because he could see from Poole’s manner that the latter had something besides failure to report. He listened with close attention to the combination of evidence and experiment which had led up to the solving of the “method” of the murder—the waiting car, the woman driver, and the firing of the heavy rubber bullet from the passing car.
“It all points one way, Poole,” he said at last. “Or rather, it points definitely in one direction and suggestively—and supernumerarily—in a second.”
Poole looked at him questioningly.