“We shall ’ave to get our own back.”
This was the state of things when the cigar robberies began. Parcels of cigars came up regularly from a certain firm and from a certain local station, sometimes for delivery in London, sometimes for transfer to another railway; one parcel in four reached its destination in good appearance outwardly, but with part of the contents abstracted. The firm made heavy claims, wrote furious letters, and at last managed to get a communication into the public press in which bitter reference was made to the supineness and slothful behaviour of the railway company. The Superintendent of the Line sent for Bellchambers, withdrawing him from easy duties on the station square.
“The only question is—” said the high official.
“Where do these robberies take place?” suggested Bellchambers. “That’s the point,” he added sagely, “that’s what we’ve got to get at.”
“What is your opinion, Sergeant?”
Sergeant Bellchambers made a fine pretence of taking thought before he answered. Then with red-ink pen he wrote on an envelope and passed it across the table.
“Up Office,” read the Superintendent.
“’Ush,” said Bellchambers warningly.
“Do you think you can find the thieves?”
“If I’m given a free hand,” said Bellchambers, “and no quibble raised, sir, about my petty disbursements.”