“Murder?” echoed the other in surprise. “Why, not the Seven Kings murder, surely?”
The detective gave a brisk nod.
“That’s it,” he replied, “I’m in charge of that case, if you follow me. I found that pass in the front garden of the Mackwayte’s house in Laleham Villas, half trodden into the earth of the flower-bed by a heavy boot, a service boot, studded with nails. There had been a lot of rain in the night, and it had washed the mosaic-tiled pathway up to the front door almost clean. When I was having a look round the garden, I picked up this pass, and then I spotted the trace of service boots, a bit faint, on the beds. You know the way the nails are set in the issue boots?”
The officer nodded:
“I ought to know that foot-print,” he said. “It’s all over the roads in northern France.”
“We made inquiries through you,” the detective resumed, “and when I found that this Gunner Barling, the owner of the pass, was missing, well, you will admit, it looked a bit suspicious.”
“Still, you know,” the A.P.M. objected, “this man appears to have the most excellent character. He’s got a clean sheet; he’s never gone absent before. And he’s been out with his battery almost since the beginning of the war.”
“I’m not making any charge against him as yet,” answered the detective, picking up his hat, “but it would interest me very much, very much indeed, Captain Beardiston, to have five minutes’ chat with this gunner. And so I ask you to keep a sharp lookout for a man answering to his description, and if you come across him, freeze on to him hard, and give me a ring on the telephone.”
“Right you are,” said the officer, “I’ll hold him for you, Mr. Marigold. But I hope your suspicions are not well-founded.”
For a brief moment the detective became a human being.