“Very well, sir,” said the Inspector, recognising that it was useless to convert Sir Clinton to his own view.
He picked up the telegram, put it in his pocket, and left the room.
When the Inspector had gone, Sir Clinton ran rapidly through his letters, and then turned to the documents in the wire baskets. He had the knack of working his mind by compartments when he chose, and it was not until Flamborough returned with his report that the Chief Constable gave any further thought to the Hassendean case. He knew that the Inspector could be trusted to get the last tittle of useful information when he had been ordered to do so.
“The Hassendeans have a bungalow on the Lizardbridge Road, sir,” Flamborough confessed when he came back once more. “I got the local postman to the 'phone and he gave me as much as one could expect. Old Hassendean built the thing as a spec., hoping to get a good price for it. Ran it up just after the war. But it cost too much, and he's been left with it on his hands. It's just off the road, on the hill about half-way between here and the new place they've been building lately, that farm affair.”
“Oh, there?” Sir Clinton answered. “I think I know the place. I've driven past it often: a brown-tiled roof and a lot of wood on the front of the house.”
“That's it, sir. The postman described it to me.”
“Anything more about it?”
“It's empty most of the year, sir. The Hassendeans use it as a kind of summer place—shift up there in the late spring, usually, the postman said. It overlooks the sea and stands high, you remember. Plenty of fresh air. But it's shut up just now, sir. They came back to town over two months ago—middle of September or thereabouts.”
Sir Clinton seemed to wake up suddenly.
“That fails to stir you, Inspector? Strange! Now it interests me devilishly, I can assure you. We'll run up there now in my car.”