“Nothing of the sort in that night. It was the day of the murder, wasn’t it? Blowing big guns and bitterly cold and there weren’t many people out. We had nothing in at all, from lunch-time onwards, and I’m not surprised.”
“You didn’t let out any car answering to that description?”
“It’s not much of description, if you’ll excuse me!” said the man with a friendly grin. “You can’t say you’ve given us much to go by! I’ve only two cars for hire and naturally neither of them has got a London number. One’s too small for you and the other’s well known round here.”
He referred to his book again.
“Dr. Gregg had it that night. His own car was laid up. He took it out about five-thirty.”
“Is it in now?” asked Fayre. “I know the doctor and I certainly don’t suspect him of careless driving, but I promised my friend I’d have a thorough look round.”
“Righto, I’ll show it to you. If it was anybody but the doctor I might suspect a faked number. It’s been done often enough. Except for the number, the car answers to your description, such as it is. So do half the other cars in this county, for the matter of that.”
He was closing the book when his eye fell on another entry and he gave a sudden exclamation.
“Wait a minute! There was a car went out on the evening of the twenty-third, at about six o’clock. I’ve a kind of feeling it was a London car, too. Owner’s name, Page. The number ought to have been entered, but my wife evidently forgot to do it. She’s usually in charge of the desk here, and you know what women are!”
“Then six o’clock was the last you saw of it?”