“Convictions?”

Crome’s small grey eyes hardened. He hunted a purpose behind the bland eyes lazily looking at him.

“There’s been four robberies this summer, sir. We wound up only one. The other three were done by an expert. Someone who’s slipped into the Hill without our knowing him.”

Bony made a note.

“What is your criminal investigation strength?”

“I’m the senior officer. Under me is Senior Detective Abbot and seven plain-clothes men. One of them is fingerprint expert and photographer and records clerk combined. Good man. Our laboratory work don’t exist, but we depend on Dr Hoadly, and without him we’d be sunk.”

“Patrol cars?”

“Two. No two-way radio.”

“H’m! Well, now, relax and tell me about these two poisoning cases.”

“You know nothing about them?” Crome asked, plainly astonished.

“I’ve read the official summaries prepared by Inspector Stillman,” Bony said, almost languidly. “Nothing of any value in them. You tell me.”

Crome tried to keep the satisfaction from his eyes.

“Old Sam Goldspink was the first victim, and we didn’t know he died of cyanide poisoning till eight hours after. Consequently the scene was all mussed up in the minds of the witnesses. It was on a Friday afternoon, our busiest afternoon of the week down Argent Street. One of the assistants took the old chap a cup of tea, and, as he was talking to a customer, he told her to put the cup on the counter. When the customer had gone old Sam took up his cup of tea, drank it, turned round, and threw a seven on the floor of his shop.

“The fact was that Goldspink was under his doctor for heart trouble, and Mrs Robinov, the housekeeper, naturally thought that was the cause of death. When she was called, she emptied the shop, phoned the doctor, Dr Whyte, and had the delivery man help her carry the body to a fitting-room at the rear. Dr Whyte was up at the hospital with a midwifery case, and, knowing he couldn’t do anything about old Sam Goldspink, he didn’t hurry particularly.