Twenty-four

COLIN LAMB’S NARRATIVE

IWhen Sheila had gone, I went across to the Clarendon, packed my bag andleft it ready with the porter. It was the kind of hotel where they are partic-ular about your checking out before noon.

Then I set out. My route took me past the police station, and after hesit-ating a moment, I went in. I asked for Hardcastle and he was there. Ifound him frowning down at a letter in his hand.

“I’m off again this evening, Dick,” I said. “Back to London.”

He looked up at me with a thoughtful expression.

“Will you take a piece of advice from me?”

“No,” I said immediately.

He paid no attention. People never do when they want to give you ad-vice.

“I should get away—and stay away—if you know what’s best for you.”

“Nobody can judge what’s best for anyone else.”

“I doubt that.”

“I’ll tell you something, Dick. When I’ve tidied up my present assign-ment, I’m quitting. At least—I think I am.”

“Why?”

“I’m like an old-fashioned Victorian clergyman. I have Doubts.”

“Give yourself time.”

I wasn’t sure what he meant by that. I asked him what he himself waslooking so worried about.

“Read that.” He passed me the letter he had been studying.

Dear Sir,

I’ve just thought of something. You asked me if my husband had any identi-fying marks and I said he hadn’t. But I was wrong. Actually he has a kind ofscar behind his left ear. He cut himself with a razor when a dog we hadjumped up at him, and he had to have it stitched up. It was so small and un-important I never thought of it the other day.

Yours truly,

Merlina Rival

“She writes a nice dashing hand,” I said, “though I’ve never really fan-cied purple ink. Did the deceased have a scar?”

“He had a scar all right. Just where she says.”

“Didn’t she see it when she was shown the body?”

Hardcastle shook his head.

“The ear covers it. You have to bend the ear forward before you can seeit.”

“Then that’s all right. Nice piece of corroboration. What’s eating you?”

Hardcastle said gloomily that this case was the devil! He asked if I wouldbe seeing my French or Belgian friend in London.

“Probably. Why?”

“I mentioned him to the chief constable who says he remembers himquite well—that Girl Guide murder case. I was to extend a very cordialwelcome to him if he is thinking of coming down here.”

“Not he,” I said. “The man is practically a limpet.”