Boston Rings Up Bristol
At eight o’clock on that same morning, an inspector even more important than Inspector Wetherby, of Boston—to boot, Detective-Inspector James, of Scotland Yard—sat in a room at Bristol Police Station, wondering whether a certain young man of his acquaintance would keep his promise or not.
“Any news of him, Dutton?” he inquired, as a rather tired man entered with a sheaf of papers. He was tired because he had been up half the night preparing the papers; and a bandage round his head added to his somewhat dilapidated appearance.
“Not yet, sir,” replied Dutton. “What’s the betting?”
“A hundred per cent. on his good faith,” answered James unhesitatingly, “but fifty-fifty on his ability to prove the good faith.”
“Well, it’s a pity some of these nice young chaps with good faith can’t trust a bit more in ours, and fall into line,” observed Dutton, feelingly.
James glanced at him, and smiled.
“Why, Dutton, that’s almost emotional,” he said, gentle reproof in his tone. “I didn’t know you went in for the passions!”
“Sorry, sir,” murmured Dutton, apologetically, “but if Mr. Temperley had given us his co-operation from the start, he might have saved me half this trouble!” And he held out the sheaf of papers. “And don’t forget, sir, I’ve had a knock on the head.”
“I never forget,” answered James, soberly. “That’s why I always insist that you work with me on cases that require special skill.”
“Thank you, sir. Will you look at these notes now?”
James glanced at the clock. “Two minutes past,” he remarked, and sighed. But, as he stretched his hand out for the papers, the telephone rang. “Ah, now what’s the betting?” he exclaimed, as he lifted the receiver.
“I’ll have sixpence on it,” responded Dutton.
“Done!” nodded James. A moment later he added, “Afraid I’ve lost my tanner. It’s a call from Boston.” But a moment after that, he added again, “No, sir! I’ve won! It’s Temperley!”
“Boston! So that’s where they were all heading for, is it?” muttered Dutton, glancing at his papers. “Damn! Why couldn’t I keep on the trail?”
Inspector James held up his hand. “Yes, it’s James speaking,” he called. “Got any news?”
Then he was silent, and Dutton, watching for signs, realised that big things were happening. The amiability left his superior’s face, and the lines around his mouth hardened. For a minute he merely listened. Then he chipped in.
“Hold hard a moment,” he said. “I want you to repeat every word you’ve said, and then to carry on. And speak slowly. I shall repeat after you, so that what you say can be taken down.…Note-book, Dutton. Another Z Murder, and…God, I’m worried!…Ready?”
Dutton nodded. An instant later, his pencil was racing over paper.
It raced for ten minutes. Then there was a short pause. During the pause, Dutton worked his aching knuckles up and down, while, at the other end of the line, Richard Temperley vacated his seat at the telephone, and Inspector Wetherby occupied it.
“Ready again, Dutton?”
Dutton was always ready. When Death itself came, he’d be ready. For another ten minutes the pencil raced. Then James spoke for two minutes, and the pencil rested. Then the receiver was replaced, and James turned to the faithful stenographer.
“Now, you’ve some additions for your notes, Dutton,” he said, gravely.
“Yes, sir,” answered Dutton, equally gravely. And all at once added, unexpectedly. “We’re up against some pretty damn blackguards, aren’t we?”
James nodded. Then asked, “Can you be ready in half-an-hour?”
“With the additions to the reports, sir?”
“Yes.”
“That’s O.K.”
“Good. Do them here. And then we can study them together on the way to Boston.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Dutton. “I hoped I wasn’t going to be left behind. Car or train?”
“What, with an aerodrome round the corner?” replied James. He rose, walked to the door, stopped, and abruptly shot a question. “What’s your opinion of all this?” he demanded.
Dutton, already seated at his notes, glanced up and shook his head. “I’m on facts, sir, not opinions,” he replied. “I’d sooner wait for yours when you’ve been through these dossiers.” Then the inspector left the room, and while he was making final arrangements his subordinate bent over his papers.
There were ten papers. Each was headed with a name, and each bore neat little writing in red and blue ink. The red came out of one end of Dutton’s pen, and the blue came out of the other. He often declared that on the day this pen was lost, his career would be over.
Each of the ten papers was now carefully read through, additions were made to some of them, taken from the new shorthand notes of the conversation with Boston. Most of the additions were in blue, and the speed and ease with which they were extracted from the shorthand notes, and added to the longhand notes already existing, formed a further tribute to Dutton’s efficiency. While he had taken the shorthand notes he had anticipated the next step, and had appended numbers in the margins. Thus, when he had anything to add to Sheet Seven, he merely had to consult the passages marked “7” in his shorthand to know where to find the required material. Dutton was a detail man. He knew his limitations, and worked meticulously up to them. Presently the inspector returned.
“Aeroplane’s O.K.,” he announced, “and the car’s ready to take us to Filton.”
“But I’m not ready,” replied Dutton, without looking up. “You gave me half-an-hour, and I’ve got another minute.”
“Well, take your pound of flesh,” smiled James, “but not an ounce more. We’ve got a busy day ahead of us.”
“Thanks for reminding me, sir,” murmured Dutton, writing hard.
The inspector went to the car and took a back seat. In fifty seconds, Dutton joined him. The car began to move. “You’ve something interesting in your mind!” challenged James.
“Yes, it is rather interesting, sir,” replied Dutton. “Do you know, this is the fourth journey that has started from Bristol for Boston in the last twenty-four hours?”
When there was a breathing space between one phase of a job and another, Detective-Inspector James liked to smoke a pipe and to think of nothing. He called the process “slipping into neutral.” Gradually into the nothingness of his mind returned the salient point of the first phase to be carried on into the second, but the trivial points dropped away like grit off a smoothed surface, and only essential matter remained.
Now James smoked his pipe, and Dutton, aware of his Chief’s idiosyncracies, did not disturb him. He watched the progress of the pipe, and, judging the moment to a nicety, held out the notes just before the car reached Filton.
“Thanks, Dutton,” said James. “I’ll read them in the air. Facts in blue and conjectures in red as usual?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Dutton, “and in this case most of the conjectures can be relied on. Mere queries and possibilities, of course, are set down as such.”
“And do these reports comprise all the information we have, up to date?” inquired James, as he took them.
“Everything, sir. Right up to the Boston telephone conversations. I have seen or ’phoned every person who, in addition to myself, has contributed information to the reports—and I may say, sir, I am quite satisfied with their work.”
“Good,” nodded James. “I hope I’ll be equally satisfied. Ah, Turndike. Here we are. No low flying this trip, please!”