Part 19 (1/2)
”What about it?”
”Where do you think it came from?”
”How should I know? Road, I suppose.”
Pillingshot smiled faintly.
”Eighteen different kinds of mud about here,” he said patronisingly.
”This is flower-bed mud from the house front-garden.”
”Well? What about it?”
”Sh--h--h!” said Pillingshot, and glided out of the room.
”Well?” asked Scott next day. ”Clues pouring in all right?”
”Rather.”
”What? Got another?”
Pillingshot walked silently to the door and flung it open. He looked up and down the pa.s.sage. Then he closed the door and returned to the table, where he took from his waistcoat-pocket a used match.
Scott turned it over inquiringly.
”What's the idea of this?”
”A clue,” said Pillingshot. ”See anything queer about it? See that rummy brown stain on it?”
”Yes.”
”Blood!” snorted Pillingshot.
”What's the good of blood? There's been no murder.”
Pillingshot looked serious.
”I never thought of that.”
”You must think of everything. The worst mistake a detective can make is to get switched off on to another track while he's working on a case. This match is a clue to something else. You can't work on it.”
”I suppose not,” said Pillingshot.
”Don't be discouraged. You're doing fine.”
”I know,” said Pillingshot. ”I shall find that quid all right.”
”Nothing like sticking to it.”