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"London ways, and London books, and London detectives!" he muttered. "We're not up to date in Sussex. Now, if I could please myself, I'd be hot-foot after Elkin. I see what Winter has in his mind, but surely Elkin fills the bill, and Siddle doesn't.... What was that word volt what!" Doris was lucky. She met Mr. Siddle as she emerged from the back passage to the cake-shop.
The chemist thumbed a dog-eared volume, read an entry carefully, and retired to a dispensing counter in the rear of the shop. "Shall I send it?" came his voice. "No. I'll wait. Give me a dose now, if you don't mind." For some reason, Fred Elkin was not himself that day. He was moody, and fretful as a sick colt.
He did more damage in two minutes than Elkin could achieve in as many months." "How?" "He showed very clearly that Grant was guilty of gross bad taste in inviting Mr. Martin and his daughter to dinner that evening. I'm inclined to agree with him, if the story has been told fairly. But that is beside the main issue. Siddle aroused the sleeping dogs of the village, and the pack is in full cry again.
Elkin nudged Tomlin, and sniggered at the rest of his colleagues, as much as to say: "What did I tell you? The cheek of him!" Elkin, by the way, looked ill. When his interest flagged for an instant his haggard aspect became more noticeable. Ingerman was there, of course. Furneaux sat beside Mr. Fowler. A stranger, whom Grant did not recognize, proved to be the County Chief Constable.
He was looking through the window, and Robinson considered that the question showed a lack of interest in his statement, though he dared not hint at such a thing. "He's a Mr. Elkin, sir," he said. "As I was saying " "How does Mr. Elkin make a living?" broke in the other. "He breeds hacks and polo ponies," said Robinson, rather shortly. "Ah, I thought so. Well, go on with your story."
It's Gatwick today. Dash! I might have saved you a journey." "Oh, it doesn't matter. In my business there is no call for hurry." Elkin looked around. "Where's our friend, the 'tec?" he said. "I think you're wrong about 'im, meanin' Mr. Peters," said Tomlin. "'E's 'ere for a noospaper, not for the Yard." "That's his blarney," smirked Elkin.
"Your man, Robinson, has been drawing Elkin, or Elkin drew him I am not quite sure which, but think it matterless either way." He sketched Robinson's activities briefly, but in sufficient outline. "A new figure has come on the screen Siddle, the chemist," he added thoughtfully. "Siddle!" Mr. Fowler was surprised. "Why, he is supposed to be a model of the law-abiding citizen."
"Once I established that fact," went on the other severely, "a real stumbling-block was removed. You see, Elkin, you have behaved throughout like a perfect fool, and thus lent a sort of credibility to an otherwise absurd notion. Your furious hatred of Mr.
As a fitting end to the strange story of wayward love and maniacal frenzy which found an unusual habitat in a secluded hamlet like Steynholme, a small vignette of its normal life may be etched in. The trope is germane to the scene. On a wet afternoon in October Hobbs and Elkin had adjourned to the Hare and Hounds. Tomlin was reading a newspaper spread on the bar counter. He was alone.
I really fancied I had a clew to the Steynholme murderer. And where do you think it ended? In the loft of your club-room, Mr. Tomlin. In a box of old clothes at that. Silly, isn't it?" "Wot! Them amatoor play-hactin' things?" "Exactly." Elkin grunted, though intending to laugh. "Not so sharp for a London 'tec, I must say," he cried. "Why, those props have been there since before Christmas." "Yes.
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