cold feet, I suppose, and didn't dare carry it on him."
He stretched out his hand across the table and clumsily patted hers. "Sorry, Sis. Loathsome for you. Poor old girl!"
She said hardly: "That's all right. Only it's a nuisance."
"Nuisance! I should say it is. Why, we're no better off than we were before! If the thing really does exist. And if this chap was shot it looks pretty certain that it does."
She threw him an impatient look. "It exists all right. I know where it is too. He told me."
"He told you?" Her brother leaned forward. "Where then?" he said eagerly.
She got up. "Do you think I'd tell you?" she said contemptuously. "And have you blurt it out the next time you're drunk?"
He flushed. "Damn it, it's my affair, isn't it?"
She said fiercely: "Yes, it's your affair, and you leave me to do the work. All right, I'll do it, but you'll keep out of it! See?"
He wilted, but said obstinately: "You're a girl. You can't do it. Gosh, I don't like the sound of this murder."
"I don't suppose you do," she said. "You'd better keep your mouth shut about it." Her face softened. "Oh, Mark, for God's sake, leave the drink alone for a bit!" she said. "We're going to need all our nerve for this job, and what use are you, fuddled six hours out of the twelve?"
"All right," he muttered, looking away from her. "Honestly, it wasn't my fault today. I didn't mean even to go into the pub, but…'
"I know," she said. "You met a chap who wouldn't let you off. I've heard it before."
----
Chapter Two
Quite a short drive brought Frank Amberley into Upper Nettlefold, a small country town some ten miles from Carchester. His original annoyance received a spur from the knowledge that if he had not previously ignored the turning to the left off the Pittingly Road he would not only have arrived at Greythorne in time for a belated dinner, but he would also have escaped running into a nasty and probably troublesome murder case.
"And why the devil did I let her go?" he demanded aloud.
No answer was forthcoming. He scowled. "Dam' fool!" he said.
He really did not know what had prompted him to leave the woman standing there in the road. He was not susceptible, and although her brusque self-possession had amused him he had not been attracted by her. A sulky-looking wench! The sort that would stick at nothing. But she hadn't done that murder, all the same. He ought to have taken her into the police station of course. If she didn't actually shoot the man she knew something about it. No disguising that fact from one who had abundant opportunity of observing crime every working day in the year. At the same time if He had given her up to the police what chance would she have had? The thing looked pretty black. Given a little more data (and he had no doubt there was plenty to be found) he could make a nice damning case for the Grown Himself.
But that wasn't his business; his duty had been quite clear. Not that that aspect of the case was likely to worry him. But if he wasn't careful he would find himselfin the unenviable position of accessory after the fact. And all because of what? He was damned if he knew.
He ran into Upper Nettlefold and drove to the police station, an old red-brick building in the Market Square. A young constable was there, the telephone receiver held to his ear, and an expression of weary boredom on his face. He glanced at Mr. Amberley without interest and said into the mouthpiece that nothing had been heard yet, but he was doing all he could about it. After which he listened for a moment, repeated the gist of his former remarks and hung up the receiver.
"Yes, sir?" he said, entering something on the sheet before him.
Mr. Amberley was busy filling a pipe. "Sergeant Gubbins about?" he inquired.
The young constable admitted that Sergeant Gubbins was about.
"I'll see him," said Mr. Amberley, striking a match.
The constable looked at him with disfavour. The hard eyes glanced up over the bowl of the pipe. "Rather quickly,"
He stretched out his hand across the table and clumsily patted hers. "Sorry, Sis. Loathsome for you. Poor old girl!"
She said hardly: "That's all right. Only it's a nuisance."
"Nuisance! I should say it is. Why, we're no better off than we were before! If the thing really does exist. And if this chap was shot it looks pretty certain that it does."
She threw him an impatient look. "It exists all right. I know where it is too. He told me."
"He told you?" Her brother leaned forward. "Where then?" he said eagerly.
She got up. "Do you think I'd tell you?" she said contemptuously. "And have you blurt it out the next time you're drunk?"
He flushed. "Damn it, it's my affair, isn't it?"
She said fiercely: "Yes, it's your affair, and you leave me to do the work. All right, I'll do it, but you'll keep out of it! See?"
He wilted, but said obstinately: "You're a girl. You can't do it. Gosh, I don't like the sound of this murder."
"I don't suppose you do," she said. "You'd better keep your mouth shut about it." Her face softened. "Oh, Mark, for God's sake, leave the drink alone for a bit!" she said. "We're going to need all our nerve for this job, and what use are you, fuddled six hours out of the twelve?"
"All right," he muttered, looking away from her. "Honestly, it wasn't my fault today. I didn't mean even to go into the pub, but…'
"I know," she said. "You met a chap who wouldn't let you off. I've heard it before."
----
Chapter Two
Quite a short drive brought Frank Amberley into Upper Nettlefold, a small country town some ten miles from Carchester. His original annoyance received a spur from the knowledge that if he had not previously ignored the turning to the left off the Pittingly Road he would not only have arrived at Greythorne in time for a belated dinner, but he would also have escaped running into a nasty and probably troublesome murder case.
"And why the devil did I let her go?" he demanded aloud.
No answer was forthcoming. He scowled. "Dam' fool!" he said.
He really did not know what had prompted him to leave the woman standing there in the road. He was not susceptible, and although her brusque self-possession had amused him he had not been attracted by her. A sulky-looking wench! The sort that would stick at nothing. But she hadn't done that murder, all the same. He ought to have taken her into the police station of course. If she didn't actually shoot the man she knew something about it. No disguising that fact from one who had abundant opportunity of observing crime every working day in the year. At the same time if He had given her up to the police what chance would she have had? The thing looked pretty black. Given a little more data (and he had no doubt there was plenty to be found) he could make a nice damning case for the Grown Himself.
But that wasn't his business; his duty had been quite clear. Not that that aspect of the case was likely to worry him. But if he wasn't careful he would find himselfin the unenviable position of accessory after the fact. And all because of what? He was damned if he knew.
He ran into Upper Nettlefold and drove to the police station, an old red-brick building in the Market Square. A young constable was there, the telephone receiver held to his ear, and an expression of weary boredom on his face. He glanced at Mr. Amberley without interest and said into the mouthpiece that nothing had been heard yet, but he was doing all he could about it. After which he listened for a moment, repeated the gist of his former remarks and hung up the receiver.
"Yes, sir?" he said, entering something on the sheet before him.
Mr. Amberley was busy filling a pipe. "Sergeant Gubbins about?" he inquired.
The young constable admitted that Sergeant Gubbins was about.
"I'll see him," said Mr. Amberley, striking a match.
The constable looked at him with disfavour. The hard eyes glanced up over the bowl of the pipe. "Rather quickly,"
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