“You think it’s something else, Sir Clinton?” he inquired.
The Chief Constable refused to be explicit.
“You’ve got all the evidence, Inspector. Do you really think a gang would take the trouble to steal replicas when they could just as easily have taken the three originals—that’s the point. The replicas have no intrinsic value beyond the gold in them, and that can’t be worth more than twenty or thirty pounds at the very outside. A mediocre haul for a smart gang, isn’t it? Hardly Trade Union wages, I should think.”
“It seems queer at first sight, sir,” he admitted, “but I think I can account for that all right when you come to the rest of your rhyme.”
Sir Clinton showed his interest.
“Then let’s go on,” he suggested. “The next question is: ‘Who did it?’ What’s your answer to that, Inspector?”
“To my mind, there seems to be only one possible thief.”
Sir Clinton pricked up his ears.
“You mean it was a single-handed job? Who was the man, then?”
“Foxton Polegate,” asserted the Inspector.