Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Updated: May 13, 2025
When, on his second morning at Temple Colney, the Daily had struck him to white agony by its newest headlines; cooling, he was able to find comfort in the news it gave to the world. "On the advice of the eminent detective, Mr. David Brunger, who has the case in hand, the reward has been raised to 125 pounds." "Whoop!" cried George, spirits returning. Three days had passed.
In the five days that had passed he had not struck upon the glimmer of a notion regarding the whereabouts of the missing cat. This was no hiding in cupboard work, no marked coin work, no following the skittish wife of a greengrocer work. It was the real thing real detective work, and it had found Mr. Brunger most lamentably wanting. Till now, however, none had suspected his perplexity.
Brunger, feeling that his reputation was gone unless he said so. "Wants a little studying, that's all. Most extraordinary story I ever heard of." "I'm dashed if I understand a word of it," Bill put in. "Who are these gangs?" George rose: "Bill, old man, I'll explain that another time. The fact is, we're wasting time by sitting here. I was very near the end when you two arrived.
You're a detective I'm not. At least you say you are. You're a precious poor one, seems to me. You've not done much." In his bewilderment and fear my unfortunate George had unwittingly hit upon an admirable policy. Since first Mr. Marrapit had called Mr. Brunger it had sunk in upon the Confidential Inquiry Agent that indeed he was a precious poor detective.
Bill, old man, I want to tell you something. You don't know what the finding of this cat means to me. It " "I do know, old man," Bill earnestly assured him. "You're splendid, old man, splendid. I never dreamt you were so fond of your uncle. Old man, it means even more to me it means Margaret and success. Here's Brunger. We three together, George. Nothing shall stop us."
Every time the pencil seemed to slacken, away again George would fly and away in pursuit the pencil would laboriously toil. "Four gangs," George plunged along. "Gang A, gang B, gang C, gang D. Gang A breaks into the house and steals the cat. Gang B finds it gone and tracks down gang C." "Tracks gang A, surely," panted Mr. Brunger. "Gang A had the cat." "Gang B didn't know that.
Marrapit, writhing in the bitterness of crushed hope as each cat was held towards him. "Dolt and pumpkin-head! How could that wretched creature be my Rose?" How, indeed, when at that moment the Rose of Sharon in the ruined hut was lapping milk taken her by George in a lemonade bottle, her infamous captor smoking on the threshold? Precisely at three o'clock Mr. David Brunger arrived.
Gang C, very furious because it is gang A's great rival, starts in pursuit and gets it back again. Then gang B-D demands it, but gang A refuses to give it up." "Gang C!" Mr. Brunger panted. "Gang C had got it from gang A." "Yes, but gang A got it back again. Gang B-D Look here," George broke off, "that's perfectly clear about the gangs, isn't it?" "Perfectly," said Mr.
By then George had returned; the three held council in the study. Addressing Mr. Marrapit, Mr. Brunger tapped his note-book and his little packages. "We shall track the culprit, never fear, Mr. Marrapit," he said. "My impression is that this is the work of a gang a gang." "Precisely my impression," George agreed. Mr.
David Brunger has restored thousands of pounds' worth of stolen property, countless missing relatives. David Brunger, 7 Bolt Buildings, Strange Street, S.W. Tel. 0000 West." In London, with its myriad little eddies of crime and matrimonial infelicity, there is a neat sum to be made out of detective work.
Word Of The Day
Others Looking