“No, it’s never unbolted except when the dustmen come, and I bolted it myself after them yesterday.”
The inspector nodded, and jotted a line in his notebook. Stepping out into the street, he glanced up and down. It was a particularly quiet and respectable little street, the upper end flanked by the walls of the gardens belonging to the two corner houses, the lower by small suburban villas, each with its tiny garden in front: a street where usually at this time of day the only passers-by were children returning to school, but where already a big and increasing crowd was assembled at the corner by the Cave’s shop and house.
“There’s the inspector; you just come along and tell him what you saw, Margie,” cried a woman, who thereupon ran towards him, dragging a pretty little girl by the hand. “Please, sir, my Margie saw a man come out of the side door and run away just before the screaming began.”
“What’s that? Come, tell me all about it, my dear. Quick, where did he come from? This door?”
“No, sir—that,” said the child promptly, pointing to the house door. “Mother sent me for a lemon, and——”
“What was he like?”
“One of them shovers, sir, that drives the taxis. He was saying swear words, and run ever so fast down the street.” Again she pointed.
“Did you see his cab—a taxicab?”
“No, there wasn’t only me and the man.”
“Should you know him again?”