As the words left his lips a sharp rapping sounded on the door.
“What’s that?” he cried, starting.
At the same time, an assault began on the front of the house.
The door at the back was a flimsy affair. The lock gave almost immediately and Inspector Marriot showed in the doorway.
“Well done, Marriot,” said Tommy. “You were quite right as to the district. I’d like you to make the acquaintance of Mr. Hank Ryder who knows all the best fairy tales.”
“You see, Mr. Ryder,” he added gently, “I’ve had my suspicions of you. Albert (that important looking boy with the big ears is Albert) had orders to follow on his motor cycle if you and I went off joy riding at any time. And whilst I was ostentatiously marking a chalk cross on the door to engage your attention, I also emptied a little bottle of valerian on the ground. Nasty smell, but cats love it. All the cats in the neighborhood were assembled outside to mark the right house when Albert and the police arrived.”
He looked at the dumbfounded Mr. Ryder with a smile. Then rose to his feet.
“I said I would get you, Crackler, and I have got you,” he observed.
“What the Hell are you talking about?” asked Mr. Ryder. “What do you mean—Crackler?”
“You will find it in the glossary of the next criminal dictionary,” said Tommy. “Etymology doubtful.”
He looked round him with a happy smile.