Catt Out of the Bag by Clifford Witting

Author:Clifford Witting
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Galileo Publishing
Published: 2020-09-22T12:01:24+00:00

CHAPTER XI

NEWS OF WILLIE

Inspector Charlton, I was to learn afterwards, spent a busy Boxing Day. Judy, I knew, had been hoping to have him home for Christmas; but a C.I.D. man’s wife has to accustom herself to lonely spells, for wrong-doing has no recession, and Crime Marches On.

His first task was to find the boy who had picked up the collection-box on the Common and take his fingerprints for comparison. The boy was greatly diverted by the experience and will probably talk about it for the rest of his life.

The next call was at Porte Bonheur, a cottage two doors to the north of the Clock House, the old granary intervening. Mr. and Mrs. Peterson and their three-year old daughter, Heather, received him at the front door, which led straight into the dining-room-cum-lounge. Their faces straightened when they saw him; they had obviously expected to see somebody else.

“Good morning,” he said. “Will you spare me a few minutes? I am a police officer.”

“Come inside,” Peterson invited him. “Darling, you’d better take Heather into the other room.”

“I’m isn’t going to go,” announced the young woman firmly.

“Come along, dear. Don’t be naughty.”

“I yont to stay here.” She looked up at Charlton, who was smiling at her. “Aren’t woo tall and haven’t woo got nice teef? I hink so.”

“Heather,” pleaded her mother, “come and play with your dollies like a good girl.”

“I’m isn’t going to. I’m is going to stay here with the man, hank woo.”

While Charlton silently commended her for teaching the child to say “thank you”, instead of the abominable “ta”, Mrs. Peterson whisked Heather off her feet and carried her out. There were screams of protest, followed almost at once by shrill laughter as the storm blew over.

“Now, officer,” said Peterson, “what can I do for you?”

“You have probably guessed why I’m here, Mr. . . . Peterson, isn’t it?” The other nodded. “Last Sunday evening a Mr. Vavasour disappeared in One O’Clock Lane, and yesterday afternoon I discovered his body down a well in the garden of the Clock House, next door but one. Can you give me any information?”

“There’s nothing much to tell you, I’m afraid. All I know is mostly hearsay. Vavasour didn’t come here with his box, if that’s anything; but my wife has already mentioned it to a couple of fellows who called last Monday afternoon. Some of your men, I take it?”

Charlton did not give Cloud-Gledhill and me away.

“I understand that you were entertaining friends on Sunday evening?”

“Yes; we had the O’Royleys along. They live in the Clock House—but, of course, you know that.”

“How long were they here?”

“They came to dinner. Arrived somewhere round seven o’clock, I should say, and went soon after half-past eleven.”

“What did you do after dinner, Mr. Peterson?”

“Played solo.”

“The four of you were together all the time?”

“More or less. Before we got out the cards, Mrs. O’Royley and my wife had a heart-to-heart chinwag in the other room, while O’Royley and I chatted in here about painting. He’s a

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