“There’s a cloth in there,” he said, “also the whisky, if my laundress has left any, and a siphon and there should be some claret—Mrs. Bragg doesn’t care about red wine. Set the table, and I’ll take a root round in the kitchen and dig up some tinned stuff.”
They supped off a tinned tongue and some pâté de foie gras. Over their meal Bruce told Robin of his adventure in the library at Harkings.
“Jeekes must have collected that letter,” Bruce said. “Before I came to you, I went to Lincoln’s Inn Fields to see if he was still at Bardy’s—Parrish’s solicitor, you know. But the office was closed, and the place in darkness. I went on to the Junior Pantheon, that’s Jeekes’s club, but he wasn’t in. He hadn’t been there all day, the porter told me. So I left a note asking him to ring you up here ...”
“The case reeks of blackmail,” said Robin thoughtfully, “but I am wondering how much we shall glean from this precious letter when we do see it. I am glad you asked Jeekes to ring me up, though. He should be able to tell us something about these mysterious letters on the blue paper that used to put Parrish in such a stew ... Hullo, who can that be?”
An electric bell trilled through the flat. It rang once ... twice ... and then a third time, a long, insistent peal.
“See who’s there, will you, Bruce?” said Robin.
“Suppose it’s the police ...” began the boy.
Robin shrugged his shoulders.
“You can say I’m at home and ask them in,” he said.
He heard the heavy oaken door swing open, a murmur of voices in the hall. The next moment Detective-Inspector Manderton entered the sitting-room.