But that wasn't his business; his duty had been quite clear. Not that that aspect of the case was likely to worry him. But if he wasn't careful he would find himselfin the unenviable position of accessory after the fact. And all because of what? He was damned if he knew.

He ran into Upper Nettlefold and drove to the police station, an old red-brick building in the Market Square. A young constable was there, the telephone receiver held to his ear, and an expression of weary boredom on his face. He glanced at Mr. Amberley without interest and said into the mouthpiece that nothing had been heard yet, but he was doing all he could about it. After which he listened for a moment, repeated the gist of his former remarks and hung up the receiver.

"Yes, sir?" he said, entering something on the sheet before him.

Mr. Amberley was busy filling a pipe. "Sergeant Gubbins about?" he inquired.

The young constable admitted that Sergeant Gubbins was about.

"I'll see him," said Mr. Amberley, striking a match.

The constable looked at him with disfavour. The hard eyes glanced up over the bowl of the pipe. "Rather quickly," said Mr. Amberley.

"I don't know about that, sir," said the constable stiffly. "I'll speak to the sergeant."

He withdrew, and Mr. Amberley strolled over to the wall to inspect a poster describing the delights in store for all those willing to purchase a ticket for the annual police concert.

The door at the end of the room which had the word PRIVATE painted forbiddingly on the frosted glass opened to admit the egress of a burly individual with very fierce moustache and a red face. "Well, sir, what can I do for you?" said this personage in a voice calculated to strike awe into the hearts of malefactors.