Chapter XIII.
The Murder of the Informer
As he entered Sir Clinton's office on the following morning, Inspector Flamborough blurted out bad news without any preliminary beating about the bush.
“There's been another murder, sir,” he announced, with a tinge of what seemed grievance in his tone.
Sir Clinton looked up from the mass of papers upon his desk.
“Who is it, this time?” he demanded curtly.
“It's that fellow Whalley, sir—the man who seemed to have some information about the bungalow affair.”
The Chief Constable leaned back in his chair and gazed at Flamborough with an expressionless face.
“This is really growing into a wholesale trade,” he said, drily. “Four murders in quick succession, and we've nothing to show for it. We can't go on waiting until all the population of Westerhaven, bar one individual, is exterminated; and then justify ourselves by arresting the sole survivor on suspicion. The public's getting restive, Inspector. It wants to know what we do for our money, I gather.”
Inspector Flamborough looked resentful.
“The public'll have to lump it, if it doesn't like it,” he said crudely. “I've done my best. If you think I ought to hand the thing over to someone else, sir, I'll be only too glad to do so.”