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Ltd.
    The tale of Constable Franks, recalled from his beat, is best told backwards. Coming on duty at eight-thirty he was warned by the colleague he relieved that, in the yard of the new factory of Brengast’s, was a new push bicycle, which was likely to be stolen. About nine he passed the factory; leaning against a cement mixer was the bicycle, presumed to have been left by one of the workmen. There were lights in an upper room of the nearly completed building and in front of the entrance was parked an old Ford saloon with a crumpled wing and a broken rear window.
    Returning an hour later he observed a large Daimler parked close to the Ford. There was nothing remarkable in this as there was much coming and going in the new building at all hours. The bicycle was still leaning against the cement mixer.
    His third visit was at midnight. The Daimler had gone. The Ford was still in position. The lights were still on. But the bicycle was no longer leaning against the cement mixer.
    This little tale was told around one o’clock. A check-up revealed that the Ford, too, had gone. The register meantime had declared the Daimler to be the property of William Brengast himself. This strongly suggested that the corpse was that of Brengast, until the managing director, called on the telephone, asserted that Mr. Brengast was in Madrid; but the manager of the Red Lion gave positive identification.
    â€œWe want that Ford,” said the Chief Constable. There had been rude remarks in the murder of two years ago on the dilatoriness of the police in calling in Scotland Yard to help in what was obviously not a local crime.
    â€œThis is obviously not a local crime,” asserted the Chief Constable, without a twinge of conscience. “Put me through to Scotland Yard.”
    By eight o’clock, Detective Inspector Curwen had arrived from the Yard with a skeleton staff. The Chief Constable received him with magnificence. He allotted him an extensive suite in the town hall, recently adapted and awaiting occupation by his own C.I.D. He put a large number of cars at Curwen’s disposal and said that he wished him luck—which was not quite true.
    By this time reports had been turned in by the municipal and rural district police. The latter, per Constable Huggins of Peasebarrow village, offered provisional identification of the Ford with the crumpled wing, adding that at dawn he had ascertained that the Ford was in its “garage”, a disused cowshed adjacent to the lockhouse.
    After giving appropriate orders, Curwen went to WillyBee Products in Welback Street. The Chief Constable had cordoned-off the whole premises, leaving Curwen virgin soil. Constable Franks indicated the room in which he had seen the light burning, the relative positions of Ford and Daimler and added that an aluminium push bicycle had disappeared from the yard.
    There was every indication that the room had been the locale of the murder. It was the office adjoining what was to be a laboratory and experimental workshop. It was unfurnished except for a row of shelved lockers, two of which were open and empty. There were three packing cases, serviceable as chairs. The lid of a biscuit tin had been used as an ash tray. On the floor was a large wet patch, cleaner than the rest of the floor.
    â€œThey couldn’t wash between the boards,” said Curwen and left his staff in charge while he made a tour of the building, keeping an eye open for the “blunt instrument” that had smashed the skull of William Brengast—the doctor said—with a single blow. He need not have bothered. When he returned to the office he was shown an iron lever, some three feet long, with a forked end, such as is used for opening packing cases.
    â€œIt was standing up against the wall, sir—beside those lockers. Wiped clean with a wet rag.”
    â€œEverything has been wiped clean with a wet rag, said another. “Not a dab in the whole room except on the