“I don’t——”
“Because, if so, there has been a mistake. Mr. Ukridge is a personal friend of Mr. Coote, and——”
“I don’t know whose name it is’s car’s been stolen,” said the constable, elliptically. “All I know is, there’s been an enquiry sent out, and this feller’s got it.”
At this point something hard dug into the small of my back as I pressed against the door. I stole a hand round behind me, and my fingers closed upon a key. The policeman was stooping to retrieve a dropped notebook. I turned the key softly and pocketed it.
“If you would kindly not object to standing back a bit and giving a feller a chance to get at that door,” said the policeman, straightening himself. He conducted experiments with the handle. “’Ere, it’s locked!”
“Is it?” I said. “Is it?”
“’Ow did you get out through this door if it’s locked?”
“It wasn’t locked when I came through.”
He eyed me with dull suspicion for a moment, then knocked imperatively with a large red knuckle.
“Shush! Shush!” came a scandalised whisper through the keyhole.