With a habit ingrained by years of training he took a pencil from his pocket and made a note of the number. Then, with a philosophic shrug of his shoulders, he slit the blank envelope that he held, and glanced at its contents. A Bank of England note for a hundred pounds lay in his hand. He inspected the envelope again, and threw an eye around to make sure that nothing had been dropped. There was nothing. Just a hundred pound note in a blank envelope.

“Well I’m damned,” determined Detective Inspector Labar.

The method rather than the event had startled him. Although one hundred pound notes do not descend on detective inspectors every day of the week, there are philanthropists who attempt at times to impose money on police officers. It was a bribe of course. But the touch of melodrama was amateurish and clumsy. The most illiterate crook in London should have known that a hundred pound note was ridiculously easy to trace. The whole thing was raw. It was just possible that the car had a false number, but leaving that aside he would remember the girl. Yes, decidedly he would remember the girl.