Roger said: “Say that again.”

Turnbull spoke with great deliberation: “Paul- Raeburn’s-under-arrest.”

Roger drew on the cigarette, and rested it carefully on an ash tray. He could hear Turnbull speaking impatiently to someone in the office; Turnbull was impatient by nature. Roger stared at the fireplace, his lips set and his eyes half closed.

Turnbull’s voice became loud again. “Are you still there? Did you get it?”

“Yes, I got it,” said Roger. “It isn’t April 1st.”

“It isn’t a joke, either. Raeburn ran over a man on Clapham Common last night. A divisional copper found the body. He’d seen Raeburn’s Rolls pass him near the Common, and had stopped because of trouble with his lamp. He says he thinks the Rolls stopped after the collision, then went on. The copper knew the Rolls belonged to Raeburn, who was picked up an hour or so afterward blind drunk.” Turnbull was still elated. “They kept him at Clapham overnight. We’ve got the swine on a hit-and- run-charge. Better than nothing anyhow.”

“Undoubtedly,” said Roger, but none of Turnbull’s excitement sounded in his voice. “Who did he knock down?”

“We haven’t identified the poor devil yet,” said Turn- bull. “We’ll get Raeburn for manslaughter, though, it’s in the bag. No doubt that it was his car, there’s blood on the offside wheel and a splash or two underneath the wing. He was on the Common about the time of the accident, too. How about it?”

“Where’s the body?”

“At the Clapham morgue,” Turnbull answered. “You sound as if it couldn’t matter less.”

“Just remembering all I know about Raeburn,” Roger said, carefully. “Sure it was manslaughter?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s not like Raeburn to be tight at the wheel, and he’s a better than average driver,” Roger replied. “Ask Gubby if he can go and sec the body at once, will you? I’ll be there in half an hour’s time. And—are you listening?”