‘Oh, no. That was Charles Martin. About whom there is no mystery whatever.’
‘But you can identify Martin as Kenrick!’
‘I can say, of course, that in my opinion that face in the snapshot is the face I saw in Compartment B Seven on the morning of March the 4th. Scotland Yard will say that I am entitled to my opinion, but that I am without doubt misled by a resemblance, since the man in Compartment B Seven is one Charles Martin, a mechanic, and a native of Marseilles, in the suburbs of which his parents still live.’
‘You’re very smooth in the part of Scotland Yard, aren’t you! All the same—’
‘I ought to be. I’ve worked there for more years than I care to think about. I shall be going back there a week Monday, as soon as my holiday is over.’
‘You mean that you are Scotland Yard?’
‘Not the whole of it. One of its minor props. Props in the support sense. I don’t carry cards in my fishing clothes but if you come up to my host’s house with me he will vouch for my genuineness.’
‘Oh. No. No, of course I believe you, Mr—er—’
‘Inspector. But we’ll stick to Mr, since I’m off duty.’
‘I’m sorry if I was fresh. It just didn’t occur to me—You see, you don’t expect to meet Scotland Yard in real life. It’s just something you read about. You don’t expect them to—to—’