Who Killed Stella Pomeroy? by Basil Thomson Read Free Book Online

Milsom, that he should push himself to the front, dragging the more modest Mitchell with him, to volunteer his own opinion upon the bloodstained raincoat, but he was brought up against a physical as well as a moral barrier: the police seemed to ignore his presence, and they opposed a rampart of broad official backs to his approach. One cannot slap an official back in order to open diplomatic negotiations. There is nothing in life so daunting as the back of a policeman.
    â€œWe don’t seem to be wanted here,” observed Milsom. “If we’re to do any good we shall have to take those official backs in flank.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œThat we go to Scotland Yard and beard the head of the C.I.D. They may, of course, take exception to our faces and push us politely down the granite steps into the street, but in that case we should be no worse off than we are now.”
    Mitchell looked at his watch. “Isn’t this the sacred hour of lunch, when no self-respecting civil servant is to be found in his office?”
    â€œThat’s all right, I’ll take you in my car to the club. We’ll lunch there comfortably and give them time to return to the pursuit of the lawless. I want to catch my friend Morden before he gets himself immersed in documents.”
    Jim Milsom’s style of driving through the suburbs to the centre of London was a trial to his companion’s nerves. He drove well and he drove boldly, yet the most pernickety of traffic officers could have found no fault with him since the needle of his speedometer never exceeded thirty in the built-up area.
    â€œI must warn you not to expect a gargantuan feast at the Sleuths’,” said Milsom. “We’re a new club, run upon economical lines. But for that our membership would be small. We demand no qualification for membership; there is no detective background to the club. Any fool can call himself a Sleuth if he wants a cheap lunching place and can afford to pay the entrance fee. If he expects to hear lectures on the analysis of dust found in a coat pocket he doesn’t come to us.”
    They were nearing the square in which the Sleuths had established themselves. It was a square of departed grandeur, dating from the regency, where members were free to park their cars under the direction of a beery-looking ex-soldier with a walrus moustache. It was he who directed Jim Milsom to his anchorage and assured him that everything he left in the car would be quite safe.
    The club cook, while not enjoying a decoration from the Association of Chefs, understood how to fry sole and roast joints.
    Mitchell glanced round the room, which now was fairly full. This was plainly a young man’s club: scarce one of the lunchers had been born thirty years before, and none could be pronounced a student of detective science.
    At half-past two Milsom consulted his wrist watch and pronounced it time to beard the head of criminal investigation in his den. In five minutes they were climbing the granite steps of the building that had been intended for an opera house in the days of Mapleson to the little centre hall where visitors are required to inscribe their names and their business on a form. The attendant constable could give them no information as to whether Mr Morden could be seen. They sat down before the window opening upon the Embankment and composed themselves to wait.
    â€œThe mills grind slowly here,” said Milsom, “unless there is really startling information to impart. I suppose that if we had rushed in and announced that a mob carrying the red flag was marching upon the palace of Westminster we might have galvanized the machine into action; as it is we must sit here killing time until Charles Morden has digested his lunch.”
    â€œProbably someone else has got in before us—some time-waster who won’t take No for an answer,” observed Mitchell, and as if to confirm his suggestion, a