All these things were of little importance as regarded the actual crime, if there was one; they served, however, to support the general accuracy of Weldon’s statement.
One of the minor irritations of detective; work is, the delay which usually occurs in the putting-through of inquiries. Trunk-calls are held up, people urgently required for interviews are absent from home; letters take time to travel. It was therefore gratifying and surprising to find the identification of the owner of 01 0101 going along like oiled clockwork. Within an hour, a telegram arrived from the — Shire County Council, stating that 01 0101 had been last — transferred to a Mrs Morecambe, living at 17 Popcorn Street, Kensington.; Within ten minutes, the Wilvercombe Telephone Exchange had put through a trunk-call. Within fifteen minutes the bell rang and Superintendent Glaisher was learning from Mrs Morecambe’s maid that her mistress was staying at Heathbury Vicarage. A call to the vicarage received immediate attention. Yes, Mrs Morecambe was staying there; yes, she was at home; yes, they would fetch her; yes, this was Mrs Morecambe speaking; yes, she distinctly remembered driving a gentleman in dark glasses from Darley to Wilvercombe and back last Thursday; yes, she thought she could remember the times; she must have picked him up about ten o’clock, judging by the time she had started out from Heathbury, and she knew she had dropped him in Darley again at one o’clock, because she had consulted her watch to see if she would be in time for her luncheon and tennis-party at Colonel Cranton’s, the other side of Heathbury. No, she had never seen the gentleman before and did not know his name, but she thought she could identify him if required. No trouble at all, thanks — she was only glad to know that the police had nothing against her (silvery laughter); when the maid said the Superintendent was on the phone she had been afraid she might have been trespassing on the white lines, or parking in the wrong place or something. She would be staying at the vicarage till next Monday and would he happy to assist the police in any way. She did hope she hadn’t been helping a gangster to escape or anything of that sort.
The Superintendent-scratched his head. ‘It’s uncanny,’ he said. ‘Here we are and we know all about it — not so much as a wrong number! But anyhow, if the lady’s a friend of the Rev. Trevor’s, she’s, O.K. He’s lived here for fifteen years and is the nicest gentleman you could wish to meet — quite one of the old school. We’ll just find out how well he knows this Mrs Morecambe, but I expect it’s ‘ all right. As to this identification, I don’t know that it’s worth while.’
‘You probably couldn’t expect her to identify him without his dark hair and glasses,’ said Wimsey. ‘It’s astonishing what a difference it makes having the eyes concealed. You could make him put the spectacles on, of course, or you could bring her over and get him to identify her. I’ll tell you what. Ring up again and ask if she can come over here now. I’ll get hold of Weldon and park him out on the verandah of the Resplendent, and you can fetch her along casually. If he spots her, all’s well; if she spots him, we may feel differently about it.’
‘I, see,’ said Glaisher. ‘That’s not a bad idea. We’ll do that.’ He rang up Heathbury Vicarage and spoke again.
‘It’s all right; she’s coming.’
‘Good. I’ll toddle round and try to detach Weldon from his mamma. If she’s present at the interview the good Henry will be in the soup. If I can’t get him, I’ll ring you.’
Henry Weldon was readily found in the lounge. He was having tea with his mother, but, excused himself when Wimsey came up and asked for a word in private. They selected a table about-half-way along the verandah, and Weldon ordered drinks, while Wimsey embarked on a rather verbose account of his interview with the police that morning. He harped a good deal on the trouble he had
taken to persuade Glaisher not to let the story come to Mrs Weldon’s ears, and Henry expressed a proper sense of gratitude.
Presently a burly figure made his appearance, looking exactly like a police-constable out of uniform, and escorting a rather young-old lady; dressed, in the extreme of fashion. They passed slowly along the verandah, which was well filled with people, making for an empty table at the far end. Wimsey watched the lady’s glance roam over the assembly; it rested on him, passed on to Weldon and, then, without a pause or sign of recognition, to a young man in blue glasses who was toying. with a chocolate sundae at the next table. Here it paused for a moment — then it moved on again. At the same time Weldon gave quite a convulsive start.
‘I beg your pardon,’ said Wimsey, breaking off short in his monologue., ‘Did you speak?’
‘I — er — no,’ said Weldon. ‘I thought I recognised somebody, that’s all. Probably a chance resemblance.’ He followed Mrs Morecambe with his eyes as she approached them, and raised a tentative hand to his hat.
Mrs Morecambe saw the movement and looked at Weldon, with a faint expression of puzzlement. She opened her mouth as though to speak, but shut it again. Weldon completed the hat-raising gesture and stood up.
‘Good afternoon,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid you don’t—’
Mrs Morecambe stared with polite surprise.
‘Surely I’m not mistaken,’ said Weldon. ‘You were good enough to give me a lift the other day’
‘Did I?’ said Mrs Morecambe. She looked more closely and said.
‘Yes, I believe I did — but weren’t you wearing dark glasses that day?’
‘I was it makes rather a difference, doesn’t it?’
‘I really shouldn’t have known you. But I recognise your voice now. Only I had an idea — But there! I’m not very observant. I earned away an impression that you were quite dark. Probably the glasses put it into my head. So stupid of me I hope the Morgan has recovered itself.’
‘Oh, yes, thanks. Fancy — meeting you here. The world’s a small place, isn’t it?’
‘Very. I hope you are having an enjoyable holiday.’
‘Oh, very much so, thanks — now that my car is. Behaving itself again. I’m tremendously grateful for you for having taken compassion on me that day.’
Not at all; it was a pleasure.’
Mrs Morecambe bowed politely and moved away with her companion. Wimsey grinned.
‘So that was your attractive lady. Well, well. You’re.a gay dog, Weldon. Young or old, they all go down before you, spectacles or no spectacles.’