Grant was silent.
'Come on, Grant. I'm not ribbing you. I really want to know. How do you arrive at the conclusion that a man isn't drowned after finding his shoe in the river? How did the shoe get there?
'If I knew that, sir, I'd have my case.
'Did Searle have a spare pair of shoes with him?
'No. Just the ones he was wearing.
'The one that was found in the river.
'Yes, sir.
'And you still think he didn't drown?
'Yes.
There was a silence.
'I don't know which to admire more, Grant: your nerve or your imagination.
Grant said nothing. There seemed to be nothing to say. He was bitterly aware that he had already said too much.
'Can you think of any theory, however wild, that would fit your idea of his being alive?
'I can think of one. He could have been abducted, and the shoe tossed in the river as evidence of drowning.
Bryce regarded him with dramatised respect. 'You mistook your vocation, Grant. You're a very good detective, but as a writer of detective fiction you'd make a fortune.
'I was only answering your challenge and supplying a theory to fit the facts, sir, Grant said mildly. 'I didn't say I believed in it.
This slowed Bryce down a little. 'Take them out of a hat like rabbits, do you. Theories in all sizes to fit any figure! No compulsion to buy! Walk up! Walk up! He stopped and looked for a long moment at Grant's imperturbable face, sat slowly back in his chair, relaxed, and smiled. 'You damned poker-face, you! he said amiably. He searched in his pocket for matches. 'Do you know what I envy about you, Grant? Your self-control. I'm always flying off the handle about something or other; and it doesn't do me or anyone else any good. My wife says that it is because I'm not sure of myself and I'm afraid I'm not going to get my way. She attended a course of six lectures on psychology at Morley College, and there is nothing about the human mind she doesn't know. I can only conclude that you must be damned sure of yourself behind that nice equable temper of yours.
'I don't know, sir, Grant said, amused. 'I was anything but equable when I came in to report, and had nothing to show you but a situation that was exactly the same as it was when you handed it over to me four days ago.
'So you said: "How's the old man's rheumatism today? Is he approachable or do I go on all fours?" His little elephant eyes twinkled for a moment. 'Well, I suppose we present the Commissioner with your neat report of the facts as they exist, and leave him in ignorance of the finer flights of your imagination.
'Oh, yes, sir. I can't very well explain to the Commissioner that I have a feeling in the pit of my stomach.
'No. And if you'll take my advice, you'll stop paying so much attention to the rumblings of your stomach, and stick to what goes on in your head. There is a little phrase commonly used in police work that says, "in accordance with the evidence". You say that over six times a day as a grace before and after meals, and perhaps it will keep your feet on the ground and stop you ending up thinking you're Frederick the Great or a hedgehog or something.
18
In his schooldays Grant had learned that if he was stumped by a problem it paid to leave it alone for a while. A proposition that had seemed insoluble the night before was simple to the point of being obvious in the light of morning. This was a lesson that he learned for himself and consequently never forgot, and he took it with him both into his personal life and into his work. Whenever he reached deadlock he transferred his attention. So now, although he did not follow Bryce's advice about the daily ritual, he did give heed to his words about ignoring 'the rumblings of his stomach'. Where the Searle affair was concerned he had reached deadlock, so he withdrew his attention and thought upon Tom Thumb. The current Tom Thumb being an 'Arab' potentate who had lived at a Strand hotel for a fortnight, and had disappeared without the formality of paying his bill.
The daily routine, a routine where there was always more work than men to do it, sucked him back into its vortex, and Salcott St Mary disappeared from the forefront of his mind.
Then, on a morning six days later, his mind flung it back at him.
He was walking along the south pavement of the Strand on his way to lunch in Maiden Lane, pleased with the report that he was going to give Bryce when he went back to the Yard, and wondering idly at the large display of women's shoes in a street as unpopular with women as the Strand. The thought of women's shoes reminded him of Dora Siggins and the slippers she had bought for the dance, and he smiled a little to himself as he began to cross the street, remembering her vitality and her chatter and her friendly sharpness. She had nearly left the shoes behind after all, he remembered; even after missing a bus home in order to buy them. They had been lying on the seat because they wouldn't fit into her packed shopping bag, and he had had to point them out to her. An untidy parcel in cheap brown paper, with the heels —
He stopped dead.
A taxi driver, his face contorted with rage and fright, yelled something into his ear. Brakes screamed as a lorry came to a halt at his elbow. A policeman, hearing the yelling brakes and the protests, made slow but purposeful movements in his direction. But Grant did not wait. He flung himself against the next approaching taxi, wrenched the door open, and said 'Scotland Yard and quick' to the driver.
'Exhibitionist! said the driver, and chugged away to the Embankment.
But Grant did not hear him. His mind was busy on the old sucked-dry problem that suddenly seemed so new and exciting now that he had taken it out again. At the Yard he looked for Williams and when he had found him he said: 'Williams, remember saying on the telephone that all your Wickham notes were good for was the wastepaper basket? And I said never to destroy notes.
'I remember, Williams said. 'When I was in town picking up Benny Skoll and you were at Salcott dragging the river.
'You didn't by any chance take my advice, did you?
'Of course I took your advice, sir. I always take your advice.
'You have those notes somewhere?
'I have them right here in my desk.
'May I see them?
'Certainly, sir. Though I don't know if you can read them.
It was certainly not easy. When Williams wrote a report it was in a faultless schoolboy script, but when making notes for his own use he indulged in a hieroglyphic shorthand of his own.
Grant flipped over the pages looking for what he wanted.
'"The 9.30 Wickham to Crome", he murmured. "The 10.5 Crome to Wickham. The 10.15 Wickham to Crome." 'M. 'M. "Farm lane: old" — old what and child?
'Old labourer and child. I didn't detail what they had in the buses to start with. Just what they picked up on the road.
'Yes, yes; I know; I understand. "Long Leat crossroads." Where is that?
'It's a «green» place, a sort of common, on the outskirts of Wickham, where there's a collection of Fair stuff. A merry-go-round and things.
'I remember. "Two roundabout men, known." Is it "known"?
'Yes; known to the conductor personally from other journeys.
'"Woman going to Warren Farm, known." What comes after that, Williams?
Williams translated to him what came after that.
Grant wondered what Williams would think if he flung his arms round him and embraced him, after the fashion of Association Footballers to successful goal shooters.
'May I keep this for the moment? he asked.
He could keep it for good, Williams said. It wasn't likely to be much good now. Unless-unless, of course —
Grant could see the dawning realisation that this sudden interest in his notes must come from more than academic curiosity on Grant's part; but he did not wait to answer the coming question. He went to see Bryce.