“I told you he was a shy bird, Inspector.”
The Inspector put his paper down on the desk before Sir Clinton.
“He's all that, sir. He hasn't even given us a scrap of his handwriting.”
The Chief Constable leaned forward and examined the document. It was an ordinary telegram despatch form, but the message: “Try hassendean bungalow lizardbridge road justice,” had been constructed by gumming isolated letters and groups of letters on to the paper. No handwriting of any sort had been used.
Sir Clinton scanned the type for a moment, running his eye over the official printed directions on the form as well.
“He's simply cut his letters out of another telegram blank, apparently?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Rather ingenious, that, since it leaves absolutely no chance of identification. It's useless to begin inquiring where a telegraphic blank came from, even if one could identify the particular sheet that he's been using. He's evidently got one of these rare minds that can see the obvious and turn it to account. I'd like to meet Mr. Justice.”
“Well, sir, it certainly doesn't leave much to take hold of, does it? Yarrow's done his best; and I don't see how he could have done more. But the result's just a blank end.”
Sir Clinton looked at his watch, took out his case and offered the Inspector a cigarette.