Detective-Sergeant Joseph Bragg of the City of London Police finished his report and added his signature with a flourish. He leaned his bulk back in his chair and sighed with satisfaction. A nice little case, that one, just the right mixture of routine and intuition. He disliked investigations which turned into a mechanical grind, they dragged police work down to the same level as the crimes themselves. No, there had to be an element of artistry in it, and the Peters case was a perfect example. He leafed through his report again, tugging the end of his untidy moustache in concentration. Yes, it was just about right; a few nice touches to show up modestly the crucial deductions - should do his reputation a bit of good. He rose and, crossing to the window, peered out at the traffic in Old Jewry below. A large closed van had become entangled with a coal lorry. Probably from a bonded warehouse on the river, full of port for Christmas. Its driver was shaking his whip furiously at the coalmen, who went on emptying their sacks with uncaring slowness. The blocked traffic stretched back as far as the main road. Bragg glanced across at the church and auto- matically checked his watch by the clock. It looked bad, a traffic jam in front of the police headquarters. The uniformed branch ought to manage things better than that. There was a tap at the door. Come in! The young man who entered was dressed in a faultlessly cut vicuna frock-coat and immaculate grey checked trousers. He carried a silk top-hat and gloves, and from his right hand dan- gled a silver-topped cane. Sergeant Bragg? Yes, sir, what can I do for you? I m Constable Morton. I was told to report to you this morning. You re who? exclaimed Bragg.
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