Power on the Scent by Henrietta Clandon

Author:Henrietta Clandon
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dean Street Press
Published: 2020-02-05T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER XIV

We were asked out to tea. As a rule, being gregarious, and fond of tea, we accept without a qualm. This time we had several qualms, but accepted.

The invitation, of course, was from Mr. Tressy Withers. He added in his note that he had also asked Mr. Bone to tea. He underlined tea. Power was certain that Mr. Withers wanted to know how things were going. He took it that we, being boon companions of Mr. Power, and obviously in the pockets of the “Cat and the Kitten,” had, what our friend called, the “low-down” on the case.

“What is it that he is afraid will come out?” Power asked next morning.

“And what does he hope to extract from Bone?” I demanded.

“The marrow of the mystery,” said Vincie.

We regarded him with contempt. Power shook his head. “Mr. Bone may have seen something at some time, babbled under the influence, and now forgotten what it was, or muddled it in his alcoholic mind. But I do feel sure, from looking at Mr. Tressy, that he does nothing without an object. And that object is never an altruistic, or generous one.”

We were both with him, though it was logically absurd to regard a man as a blackguard on the strength of an oily, curly, impudent, and self-confident appearance. But people do, and always will, judge others in that way, and intelligent ones come out fifty-fifty at worst.

“In fact,” Vincie remarked, “we all agree that dope is not prevalent. We all feel that, if it is here, Mr. Withers would be a willing and eager retailer. So we’ll go easy on the dope while we’re there. We don’t want him to think we attach much importance to it.”

“Work the dog for all you’re worth,” said Power, whose anxiety to give me a story, as I knew, was partly accounted for by the fact that we could carry on his good work while he was absent.

“Mr. Sibbins is also quite capable of handling the stuff,” I said.

“And coming from Africa, via Port Sudan, Aden, and the Canal, may know how to get it,” Power agreed. “But I’ll sort him for myself when I get back.”

Voce, as we knew later, had already invoked the services of the narcotic department at Scotland Yard. They were investigating not only the odyssey of Mr. Sibbins, but the commercial ventures of the Greek merchant who supplied Morgan with his Turkish Delight.

As we set off to walk into Malpertuis, we met several people who appeared to regard us as “in the know,” and apologising for stopping us, asked what really had happened at the gravel-pit.

To all of them we replied that Mr. Jolson had fallen over. Captain Hollick was the best man to give them further information.

“Let him hold the baby,” Vincie said to me. “I don’t like this growing feeling that we belong to a private inquiry agency.”

“But we do, darling,” I said, “very private. We’re both feeling thoroughly nosey, bad as it sounds.”

It isn’t really an excuse, but your novelist simply has to know things.

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