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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