A Blunt Instrument
of paper. I believe friend Ichabod wasn’t so far off the mark after all, with his pursuit-of-evil stuff.’ ‘My name is not Ichabod, Sergeant, but Malachi,’ said Glass stiffly, from the window. ‘It had to be,’ said the Sergeant. ‘What price those footprints, Chief ?’ ‘ The medical evidence goes to show that it is in the highest degree improbable that a woman could have struck the blow which killed Ernest Fletcher. Still, I agree that these notes will bear looking into.’ ‘Young Neville know anything about this Helen North?’ ‘I haven’t asked him. In the event of those IOUs having no bearing on the case, I’m not anxious to stir up any mud.’ He glanced up to see Glass staring at him with knit brows. ‘Well? Does the name convey anything to you?’ ‘ There’s a man of that name living with his wife not five minutes’ walk from this house,’ replied Glass slowly. The Sergeant pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. Hannasyde said: ‘Know anything about them?’ ‘No, sir.’ ‘Address?’ ‘You will find the house in the road which runs parallel to Maple Grove. It is called the Chestnuts.’ Hannasyde jotted it down. The Sergeant, meanwhile, was turning over a collection of photographs and snapshots laid on the desk. ‘Looks like you weren’t so far out, Glass,’ he remarked. ‘I have to hand it to the late Ernest. He certainly knew how to pick ’em. Regular harem!’ He picked up a large portrait of a dazzling blonde, dressed, apparently, in 49
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