“He's been pretty sharp with his help. It's handed in at 8.5 a.m. and the only thing published about the affair is a stop-press note shoved into the Herald. I bought a copy as I came along the road. Candidly, sir, it looks to me like a leg-pull.”
He glanced over the telegram disparagingly.
“What does he mean by ‘Lizardbridge road justice’? There's no J.P. living on the Lizardbridge Road; and even if there were, the thing doesn't make sense to me.”
“I think ‘justice’ is the signature, Inspector—what one might term his nom-de-kid, if one leaned towards slang, which of course you never do.”
The Inspector grinned. His unofficial language differed considerably from his official vocabulary, and Sir Clinton knew it.
“Justice? I like that!” Flamborough ejaculated contemptuously, as he put the telegram down on the desk.
“It looks rather as though he wanted somebody's blood,” Sir Clinton answered carelessly. “But all the same, Inspector, we can't afford to put it into the waste-paper basket. We're very short of anything you could call a real clue in both these cases last night, remember. It won't do to neglect this, even if it does turn out to be a mare's nest.”
Inspector Flamborough shrugged his shoulders almost imperceptibly, as though to indicate that the decision was none of his.
“I'll send a man down to the G.P.O. to make inquiries at once, sir, if you think it necessary. At that time in the morning there can't have been many wires handed in and we ought to be able to get some description of the sender.”
“Possibly,” was as far as Sir Clinton seemed inclined to go. “Send off your man, Inspector. And while he's away, please find out something about this Hassendean Bungalow, as our friend calls it. It's bound to be known to the Post Office people, and you'd better get on the local P.O. which sends out letters to it. The man who delivers the post there will be able to tell you something about it. Get the 'phone to work at once. If it's a hoax, we may as well know that at the earliest moment.”