Mr. Pinkerton at the Old Angel. Zenith Brown
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cricket, he thought wretchedly, frightening the child . . . especially since his connection with the Great Umbilicus of the Yard was about as real as a year-old litter of kittens to a forgotten alley cat. And Inspector Bull, he knew, would never have missed the implication of that cry. “Oh, dear,” Mr. Pinkerton thought, “if only I’d stopped on in Golders Green where I belong, this never would have happened!”
The door opened below; a man came in whom he recognized as a detective-sergeant of the C. I. D. who had worked with Bull before. He drew Bull aside. Mr. Pinkerton saw the Inspector’s face go a little heavier, as it did when he was annoyed. He nodded to Inspector Kirtin, and, for a moment, the three of them went into what Mr. Pinkerton believed the Americans called a huddle. When they came up from it—he was not quite sure if that was what the Americans would call disengaging themselves—the sergeant went out into the night again. Mr. Pinkerton heard a motor-car start.
Inspector Bull moved over to the fireplace with his usual deliberateness. Whether he had known all the time that Mr. Pinkerton was standing up there in the makeshift balcony, the little man could not tell, but Bull nodded to him as if he were not surprised at all at seeing him.
“Come along with me,” he said briefly.
Mr. Pinkerton scurried down his stairs, and up the others, avoiding Mrs. Humpage’s incredulous and somewhat hostile gaze and Kathleen’s disillusioned one, and crept along in the solid wake of his protector.
“Is . . . is something amiss?” he enquired anxiously, as he rounded the old corridor and passed the W. C., where the light still burned feebly, illuminating the dark panelled walls and an old print of Europa fording a stream on the broad back of a decorated and benign bull.
Inspector Bull, undecorated, his broad back looking definitely not benign, grunted.
“Plenty,” he said. He opened the door of the sitting room.
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