everywhere, but couldn’t find the letter. Worraby shifted everything in the thwarts, by the engine, on the seats, and Norton did the same as a double-check.
“Must ‘a fallen overboard,” Norton muttered. “I could kick myself, Sarge.”
“Forget it,” Worraby said, uneasily.
He didn’t forget it, but reported verbally to his chief, without naming Norton as the culprit. His chief made a note, and told him not to worry about it. Worraby didn’t; duty done as well as it could be now, he went on with his job.
That was the last thing that the River Police did in the investigation proper, but the Inspector, Worraby’s chief, spoke to the Yard again. This time he found himself talking to the Yard’s expert on precious stones, an old hand in Superintendent William Bristow.
Bristow was really an expert; and all who knew him voted him a man worth knowing. He was conscious of his own shortcomings, a sensitivity which actually helped to make him a good officer.
Bristow looked what he was; thorough, conscientious, human. His one bad habit was chain-smoking; a glance at his brown fingers and browned moustache - which was now grey in its natural state, betrayed that. He smoked a lot because he worried about his jobs; lived, ate, slept and had his leisure with difficult cases.
Bristow sent men to 99b Riverside Walk, found the maid - Cissie - in sole possession, the party chaos still chaos after a fashion, the odour of tobacco smoke and spirits heavy everywhere. No one had thought of throwing a window up and letting some fresh air in.
The maid behaved well, when told a little of what had happened. She had a fairly straightforward story which might not help, but did enable Bristow to get a picture of a Francesca Lisle keenly disappointed because her father hadn’t arrived for the party which had mattered so much, and rushing off when she’d had a telephone message.
“I feel sure it was from her dad, sir,” the maid said.
“You’re probably right.” At times Bristow could be the most affable man at the Yard. “How many guests were there, do you say?”
“Oh, exactly fifty-three, sir. Miss Francesca wanted to have as many as she could, that’s why it was a cocktail party. We couldn’t seat more than a dozen at the table, and she has such a lot of friends, she’s ever so nice.” Real praise, from a maid. “I do hope she’s all right, sir.”
“Oh, I’m sure she’ll be back after a day or so, she’s not badly hurt,” Bristow said, glibly. The maid didn’t look reassured; but she did seem tired, almost ready to drop. It was half-past twelve, and she’d had quite a day. Should he postpone questioning her? He temporised: “Is there a list of the guests?”
“Oh, yes, Miss Francesca had two copies. She ticked off all the people who accepted, and I expect it will be in her bedroom.” That all came out in a breathless hurry. “She has a writing-bureau in there.” Cissie led the way into that charming bedroom overlooking the river. “Oo, look, it’s right on top!”
The list was written in very neat block capitals, with little red ticks against most of the names. Bristow ran his eye down these, and then suddenly started.
“Did Mr. Mannering come?”
“Oh, yes,” breathed the maid, “he was here.”
Bristow put up a commendable show, but could not hide the fact that the name of Mannering had startled him.
At that moment Bristow looked a tired sixty, with grey hair, thin, regular features, the short but bristly moustache which would have been silvery but for the yellow stain of nicotine. He lit a cigarette from the stub of another as he smiled at the maid.
“All right, Cissie, you can get off to bed. We’ll look after everything, there’s no need to worry.” He let the girl reach the door, and then called: “Oh, just one little thing. Ever seen this before?”
He held out the diamond.
Cissie’s eyes grew positively huge.
“Oo, isn’t that lovely. Isn’t it beaut-i-ful! Oo,
“Must ‘a fallen overboard,” Norton muttered. “I could kick myself, Sarge.”
“Forget it,” Worraby said, uneasily.
He didn’t forget it, but reported verbally to his chief, without naming Norton as the culprit. His chief made a note, and told him not to worry about it. Worraby didn’t; duty done as well as it could be now, he went on with his job.
That was the last thing that the River Police did in the investigation proper, but the Inspector, Worraby’s chief, spoke to the Yard again. This time he found himself talking to the Yard’s expert on precious stones, an old hand in Superintendent William Bristow.
Bristow was really an expert; and all who knew him voted him a man worth knowing. He was conscious of his own shortcomings, a sensitivity which actually helped to make him a good officer.
Bristow looked what he was; thorough, conscientious, human. His one bad habit was chain-smoking; a glance at his brown fingers and browned moustache - which was now grey in its natural state, betrayed that. He smoked a lot because he worried about his jobs; lived, ate, slept and had his leisure with difficult cases.
Bristow sent men to 99b Riverside Walk, found the maid - Cissie - in sole possession, the party chaos still chaos after a fashion, the odour of tobacco smoke and spirits heavy everywhere. No one had thought of throwing a window up and letting some fresh air in.
The maid behaved well, when told a little of what had happened. She had a fairly straightforward story which might not help, but did enable Bristow to get a picture of a Francesca Lisle keenly disappointed because her father hadn’t arrived for the party which had mattered so much, and rushing off when she’d had a telephone message.
“I feel sure it was from her dad, sir,” the maid said.
“You’re probably right.” At times Bristow could be the most affable man at the Yard. “How many guests were there, do you say?”
“Oh, exactly fifty-three, sir. Miss Francesca wanted to have as many as she could, that’s why it was a cocktail party. We couldn’t seat more than a dozen at the table, and she has such a lot of friends, she’s ever so nice.” Real praise, from a maid. “I do hope she’s all right, sir.”
“Oh, I’m sure she’ll be back after a day or so, she’s not badly hurt,” Bristow said, glibly. The maid didn’t look reassured; but she did seem tired, almost ready to drop. It was half-past twelve, and she’d had quite a day. Should he postpone questioning her? He temporised: “Is there a list of the guests?”
“Oh, yes, Miss Francesca had two copies. She ticked off all the people who accepted, and I expect it will be in her bedroom.” That all came out in a breathless hurry. “She has a writing-bureau in there.” Cissie led the way into that charming bedroom overlooking the river. “Oo, look, it’s right on top!”
The list was written in very neat block capitals, with little red ticks against most of the names. Bristow ran his eye down these, and then suddenly started.
“Did Mr. Mannering come?”
“Oh, yes,” breathed the maid, “he was here.”
Bristow put up a commendable show, but could not hide the fact that the name of Mannering had startled him.
At that moment Bristow looked a tired sixty, with grey hair, thin, regular features, the short but bristly moustache which would have been silvery but for the yellow stain of nicotine. He lit a cigarette from the stub of another as he smiled at the maid.
“All right, Cissie, you can get off to bed. We’ll look after everything, there’s no need to worry.” He let the girl reach the door, and then called: “Oh, just one little thing. Ever seen this before?”
He held out the diamond.
Cissie’s eyes grew positively huge.
“Oo, isn’t that lovely. Isn’t it beaut-i-ful! Oo,
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