Hardcastle's Traitors Read Online Free PDF

motor car. ‘A telegraph message from Chelsea nick, Sergeant,’ he said, handing the form over.
    Marriott scanned the brief details and crossed the corridor to the DDI’s office. ‘It would appear that a car was stolen on Chelsea’s manor, sir.’
    â€˜Does it fit the description?’ asked Hardcastle.
    â€˜Yes, sir. An open tourer with what the loser describes as white-walled tyres. According to the message, the vehicle disappeared between eight o’clock last night and seven o’clock this morning, sir. It was an American car called a Haxe-Doulton, manufactured in 1915 and imported from Detroit in Michigan.’
    â€˜If that’s the car we’re interested in, Marriott, I think we can narrow the time down to between eight o’clock yesterday evening and shortly before midnight. Where was it nicked from?’
    â€˜From outside a house in Flood Street, sir.’
    â€˜What’s that, a couple of miles from Vauxhall Bridge Road? Sounds promising, Marriott. Who reported it lost?’
    â€˜A man by the name of Sinclair Villiers, sir.’
    Hardcastle took out his hunter and stared at it. Briefly rewinding it, he dropped it back into his waistcoat pocket. ‘Time for lunch, Marriott, and then we’ll have a chat with this here Sinclair Villiers. We’ll make it four o’clock; that’ll give Mr Villiers time to sleep off the New Year festivities.’
    â€˜Very good, sir,’ said Marriott with a grin. Lunch for the DDI consisted of a couple of pints of best bitter and a fourpenny cannon in the downstairs bar of the Red Lion public house, immediately outside the west gates of New Scotland Yard.
    As the two detectives were about to leave the police station, a constable presented Hardcastle with a large envelope.
    â€˜This just arrived in a cab for you, sir.’
    Hardcastle took the proffered letter and opened it. ‘Ah, the photographs of the footprint and the showcases that Simpson took, Marriott. They’re pretty good, too.’ He turned to the PC. ‘Leave them on my desk, lad.’
    Alighting from their cab, Hardcastle and Marriott mounted the steps of the three-storied house in Flood Street, Chelsea.
    Hardcastle hammered on the knocker. ‘Looks like there’s a bit of sausage and mash here, Marriott,’ he said.
    â€˜It certainly looks as if it’s worth a few pounds, sir.’
    â€˜Yes?’ A butler opened the door. Sensing that the two detectives were not the usual sort of visitors his master received, he looked down his nose with an air of disdain.
    â€˜I’m here to see a Mr Sinclair Villiers,’ said Hardcastle.
    â€˜Do you have an appointment?’
    â€˜No, I don’t have an appointment,’ snapped Hardcastle, ‘but perhaps you’d tell your employer that the police wish to speak to him.’
    â€˜Step inside,’ said the butler. ‘I’ll enquire if the master is at home.’
    â€˜Why are butlers always toffee-nosed flunkeys, Marriott?’ muttered Hardcastle, while they waited for the butler to make his enquiries. ‘Mind you, if this conscription business is brought in, he’ll be off to the Colours a bit tout de suite. That’ll take the edge off of him.’
    â€˜If you come with me, the master will see you in the drawing room.’ The butler sniffed and turned to lead the way. His very demeanour gave an impression of surprise that his employer had yielded to Hardcastle’s request for an interview.
    â€˜I’m Sinclair Villiers, gentlemen. What’s this about?’ The tall silver-haired man standing in front of a blazing fire was about fifty, and was attired in a maroon smoking jacket. In his right hand he held a cigarette in an amber holder.
    â€˜I’m Divisional Detective Inspector Hardcastle of the Whitehall Division, sir, and this here is Detective Sergeant Marriott.’
    â€˜Take a seat, gentlemen.’ Villiers glanced