Detective and mystery stories; Murder -- Investigation -- Fiction; Police -- England -- Fiction
But more than once he had learnt the folly of neglecting any clue, no
matter how slight. Therefore on arrival in London he prepared a
circular to be sent to every police station in England. It bore a
reproduction of the photograph, together with a paragraph asking if
the recipient could identify the place and send in a note of its
whereabouts, as well as a copy of the inscription on the tombstone.
Next morning he set out for 77B Gracechurch Street.
A suite of offices on the second floor of a large building bore the
legend ‘The Associated Insurance Company, Limited,’ and Tanner,
entering, asked for the manager. After a short delay he was shown into
the presence of a tall, gaunt man, with iron-grey hair, and tired
looking eyes. Tanner introduced himself as an Inspector from the Yard.
‘I have called, sir,’ he went on, ‘with reference to a man named
William Douglas, a small, elderly man with a grey beard, who lives
near Yelverton in Devon. I understand that he has had some dealings
recently with your Company. I imagine, but am not certain, that he
came here on Friday, the 2nd of July last.’
‘I cannot recall the man myself,’ the manager returned. ‘What is the
precise point in question?’
‘We have had to arrest him on a serious charge—in fact, that of
murder. I am endeavouring to trace his recent history and movements. I
want to know if he did call, and if so, on what business.’
The manager pressed twice a button on his desk. An elderly clerk
answered.
‘Mr Jones, do you recall our doing any business recently with a man
called William Douglas from Devonshire?’
‘Yes, sir,’ the clerk replied. ‘We were in correspondence about an
annuity, but the matter fell through.’
‘This gentleman is Mr Tanner, an Inspector from Scotland Yard. You
might let him have all the particulars he wants.’ Then to Tanner, ‘If,
sir, you will go with Mr Jones, he will tell you everything he can.’
Mr Jones led the way to a smaller office, and waved his visitor to a
chair.
‘William Douglas?’ he said, bending over a vertical file. ‘Here we
are, Mr Tanner.’
He withdrew a folder, and settling himself at his desk, took out some
papers.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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