THE car had not gone a hundred yards before Pike halted it. He felt in the darkness of the saloon the little start of surprise which Jeffson gave.
‘What is it?’ said Jeffson.
‘Had an idea,’ said Pike. ‘Get taken like that sometimes. Where’s the post-office? Never mind. Don’t tell me, I know. What I mean is this: Know the postmaster?’
‘Yes, sir. Name of Myers.’
Pike grunted. ‘Hmm! Where’s he live?’
‘’Bout two hundred yards,’ Jeffson said, his tone shewing his endeavour to conceal curiosity, ‘of where we are now.’
Pike started the car. ‘Stop me,’ he said, ‘opposite his house. When we get there, get out, knock him up, shove him into some clothes and bring him along. Can you do that?’
In the darkness Jeffson nodded. ‘I can, sir. Know ’im well.’
The car went on at a smooth fifteen miles an hour.
‘Whoa, sir!’ said Jeffson.
The car came to a halt. There was the click of one of its doors opening and a scraping shuffle as Jeffson got out. Pike switched off the car’s lights and waited in the darkness. He remembered his own theory of ‘not thinking’. He smiled wryly to himself as he realised that, now, even at this stage in this case, his mind was working as hard as never before. With a small percentage, as it were, of his senses, he was aware of Jeffson’s approach to the dim bulk of a little house; aware of the sound of a knocker; a silence; voices and then, after another and smaller silence, the opening and shutting of a door.
In what seemed an amazingly short time, there came the sound again of the door, this time followed by footsteps crunching upon the half-frozen gravel. Pike came to himself with a start. He shivered a little as he realised the cold. He leaned over as the footsteps drew nearer and opened the door.
‘’Ere’s Mr Myers!’ came Jeffson’s voice. ‘In you get, Myers.’
Behind Pike there came a scrambling and puffing and then the sound of a body settling itself upon the back cushions. Jeffson climbed in beside Pike. Once more the headlights cut a swathe through the night. The car moved off.
‘Which,’ said the driver, ‘is the nearest way to the post-office?
‘First left, second right, first left,’ came a high, eager voice from the back.
The car, seeming to gather speed all the way and take its bends without pause, did the half-mile in creditable time. There was a squeaking of brakes and a flurry of gravel, and the car came to a stand.
‘Out you get!’ said Pike, and within a moment was peering at a thin and bespectacled person introduced by Jeffson as Mr Myers, our postmaster.
‘I don’t know yet, Mr Myers, what the Superintendent wants …’
‘Easy!’ Pike said. ‘Can we get in? Got a key, Mr Myers?’
Mr Myers had got a key and, leading them round to the back of the small brick-tiled, rough-cast plaster house which was the post office, used it.
The side door of the post-office clicked behind them. They stood in darkness until at a touch of the postmaster’s fingers the lights sprang up all about them.
‘This,’ said Mr Myers, ‘is the Sorting Office.’ He peered at Pike with an avid curiosity. ‘Now, sir?’
Pike looked about him and saw two desks, walls bare save for almanacks and a clock, and three long trestle tables. The windows of the room—long, narrow windows—were barred and netted. ‘Sorting Office, eh?’ said Pike. ‘Now then, Mr Myers, that nine o’clock collection. The nine o’clock is the last collection, isn’t it?’
‘Except,’ said Mr Myers, ‘in the very outlyin’ boxes like Arrowcourt, Forest Road, Two Tiddlers Corner over The Other Side and such, the last collection is nine, Superintendent. With a final collection here at nine-thirty.’
‘Right!’ said Pike. ‘Right! When are letters cleared at this last collection sorted?’
‘The succeeding day, Superintendent, at 5 a.m. We have to have a five o’clock sort so’s to catch the 6.10 up-mail and the 6.30 down-mail. Letters wanted to be delivered in London first post have to be posted by the eight o’clock, but we have a nine o’clock collection to get London letters up by the second post and some others like Cambridge.’
‘What I want,’ said Pike, ‘is to have a look at the mail. Can we do it?’
‘Cer-tainly, cer-tainly!’ Mr Myers bounded like a consumptive, but eager antelope. In three strides he was at a small door facing the one by which they had entered. It swung upwards and closed again, only to re-open a moment later to admit the back of Mr Myers bent into the shape of a C. Mr Myers was dragging with both hands and all his inconsiderable weight at a bulky mail sack. With Jeffson’s help the sack was hoisted to one of the tables, tilted and emptied of a cascade of envelopes and cards and little parcels. Pike, with eager fingers and a look of concentration which somehow lent a sharp, knife-like appearance to his lean face, was busy among the great scattered pile of paper. There was a crack like a distant pistol shot: Jeffson had slapped his thigh.
‘Kor!’ said Jeffson. ‘Got it!’ The creased frown of worry which had been on his face since their arrival at the cottage of Mr Myers disappeared and was replaced by a grin of triumph at his own perspicacity and of admiration for the Superintendent. Jeffson, too, became busy. Mr Myers, his head on one side, his eyes twinkling like a small bird’s behind their metal-rimmed spectacles, watched them …
‘Right!’ said Pike suddenly and straightened himself.
‘God strike me dead!’ said Jeffson. He was staring round-eyed at what Pike was holding in his right hand. It was a square, yellowish envelope bearing a superscription written in a backward-sloping handwriting, and with curious jet-black, shining ink.
Pike, the envelope between his fingers, advanced upon Mr Myers. ‘Any way of telling,’ said Pike curtly, ‘which box any of these letters came out of?’
Mr Myers shook his head decisively. ‘’Fraid not, Superintendent. They’re all pitched in here together to wait the five o’clock sort.’ Suddenly his eyes fell upon the envelope and widened slowly, while the bright spot of colour upon each cheek-bone faded to leave a ghastly green patch. ‘The Butcher!’ said Mr Myers.
Pike nodded. He turned and spoke over his shoulder, and Jeffson produced a knife.
Jeffson, watching, saw that Superintendent Pike had only held this letter by its edges, and that now that he wished to open it he laid it down carefully upon a sheet of paper and, still taking great care not to touch more of its surface with his fingers than was necessary, carefully slit the top of the envelope.
There was a rustling. Delicately Pike drew out the envelope’s contents. Three sheets of paper this time. He opened the first. He read. Over his shoulders the other men read too. They saw:
My Reference THREE
R.I.P.
Amy Adams,
died Monday, 26th November …
THE BUTCHER
Pike opened out the second sheet. It read:
My Reference FOUR
R.I.P.
Albert Rogers,
died Friday, 30th November …
THE BUTCHER
Pike opened out the third sheet. It read:
DEAR POLICE,—Enclosed please find my memos regarding those unfortunates, Amy Adams (what a terrible name) and Albert Rogers (what a far worse one!)
I really am so very sorry that I am late with my memo, in regard to Amy Adams, but pressure of business (after all, you know, I have had a lot of staff work to do) has made it impossible for me to let you have this earlier.
I must now pass quickly on to the main point of this letter, and that is to tell you to keep your spirits up. I quite realise how disheartening, to say the least, it must be for you never to know when and how and where and who I am going to strike next. I hate causing unnecessary pain to others and am, therefore, undertaking to give you warning wherever possible of any future little jobs which I may be contemplating. This will, don’t you think? add quite another spice of excitement to our game?
Believe me, Police,
Yours tolerantly,
THE BUTCHER