“No luck, Mr. Marigold,” said the Assistant Provost Marshal, “I’m sorry, but there it is! We’ve made every possible inquiry about this Private... er...” he glanced at the buff-colored leave pass in his hand, “... this Gunner Barling, but we can’t trace him so far. He should have gone back to France the afternoon before the day on which you found his pass. But he hasn’t rejoined his unit. He’s been posted as an absentee, and the police have been warned. I’m afraid we can’t do any more than that!”
The detective looked at the officer with mild reproach in his eyes.
“Dear, dear,” he replied, “and I made sure you’d be able to trace him with that pass!”
He clicked his tongue against his teeth and shook his head.
“Dear, dear!” he said again.
“What’s the feller been up to?” asked the A.P.M. Detectives have a horror of leading questions, and Mr. Marigold shrank visibly before the directness of the other’s inquiry. Before replying, however, he measured the officer with his calm, shrewd eye. Mr. Marigold was not above breaking his own rules of etiquette if thereby he might gain a useful ally.
“Well, Captain Beardiston,” he answered slowly, “I’ll tell you because I think that you may be able to help me a little bit. It’s part of your work to look after deserters and absentees and those sort o’ folk, isn’t it?”
The A.P.M. groaned.
“Part of my work?” he repeated, “it seems to be my whole life ever since I came back from the front.”
“If you want to know what this young fellow has been up to,” said Mr. Marigold in his even voice, “it’s murder, if I’m not mistaken!”