Of course unquestionably it would be better to telephone. To stride through the village, suitcase in hand, would be to court a probably undesirable publicity.
So I unlatched Miss Marple’s garden gate and entered the house by the French window, and from the sanctity of the drawing-room with the door shut, I telephoned my news.
The result was that Inspector Slack announced he would be up himself in a couple of jiffies.
When he arrived it was in his most cantankerous mood.
“So we’ve got it, have we?” he said. “You know, sir, you shouldn’t keep things to yourself. If you’d any reason to believe you knew where the article in question was hidden, you ought to have reported it to the proper authorities.”
“It was a pure accident,” I said. “The idea just happened to occur to me.”
“And that’s a likely tale. Nearly three-quarters of a mile of woodland, and you go right to the proper spot and lay your hand upon it.”
I would have given Inspector Slack the steps in reasoning which led me to this particular spot, but he had achieved his usual result of putting my back up. I said nothing.
“Well?” said Inspector Slack, eyeing the suitcase with dislike and wouldbe indifference, “I suppose we might as well have a look at what’s inside.”
He had brought an assortment of keys and wire with him. The lock was a cheap affair. In a couple of seconds the case was open.
I don’t know what we had expected to find—something sternly sensational, I imagine. But the first thing that met our eyes was a greasy