The Clifford Affair. Dorothy Fielding

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      CHAPTER 3

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      AN elderly-looking, round-shouldered man, whose stoop took from his real height, walked up to the gates of Thornbush half an hour later.

      Pointer had looked out the hours of postal deliveries. He had timed himself so as to be on the drive when a postman overtook him. He turned.

      "Any letters for me—Marbury?" he asked pleasantly. "And I'll take on any for the household at the same time."

      The postman thanked him, told him there were none for him, and handed him four for the house.

      Though Pointer looked a typical civil servant from his neatly-trimmed beard to his neatly-adjusted spats, he knocked at the front door with the four letters—three for Julian Clifford, Esq., and one for Mrs. Clifford—in his pocket. He might re-post them after the briefest of delays—or he might not.

      "I telephoned to Mr. Clifford just now, and was told that he is not at his home." The very way in which Pointer felt for his card-case suggested near sight and a certain precise fussiness.

      "Mr. Clifford is away, sir. But will you see Mr. Hobbs? Mr. Hobbs said he particularly wanted to see you, sir." The butler led the caller into a room near by. A young man rose civilly.

      "Mr. Marbury? From the Home Office?"

      "I called to inquire why Mr. Clifford failed to keep an appointment he had this morning with the Home Secretary. Can I see him a moment? The matter is connected with the Metropolitan Special Constabulary Reserve, and is very urgent. We are drawing up our lists."

      Hobbs seemed puzzled. "Did Mr. Clifford have an appointment? I think there's some mistake."

      "Exactly!" Pointer broke in. "I'm sure there is. Kindly let me know where I can reach him on the 'phone."

      Hobbs stroked his smooth black hair. Then he stroked his smooth blue chin.

      The Chief Inspector was by nature and training a remarkably astute reader of faces, but he was looking at one now which—like his own—hid completely the character behind it. Like himself, Adrian Hobbs looked about thirty, more or less. Like himself, too, he suggested an out-of-door man. Like himself, Hobbs was exceedingly neat in appearance. From his hair to his well-shod feet he satisfied the most fastidious eye. His mind, again like Pointer's, was clearly a tidy mind. But beyond that even Pointer could not size him up. The eyes were large and wide apart. Were they frank or merely bold? The nose was long. Was it predatory or merely self-assertive? Was the large mouth frank? Or was there something just a shade sinister to it when he smiled?

      "I really can't understand it," Hobbs said finally. "I had no idea that Mr. Clifford took any interest in the matter—"

      "That is precisely why I must trouble you for his address. Or a telephone number that will reach him," Pointer again put in swiftly.

      "Sorry," Hobbs smiled slightly, "impossible to give you either. Mr. Clifford has gone off in search of local colour, and where he gets it is always his own closely-kept secret. He left no address. He never does. In good time—a day, a week, two weeks—he'll be back."

      "But a man doesn't make an appointment a week ahead with the Home Secretary and not keep it!" Pointer ejaculated; in the tone of a man whose patience is wearing thin.

      The truism seemed to worry Hobbs. He nodded, but said nothing.

      "I feel sure that he has left some word with some one. He must have!" Pointer urged.

      "Mr. Clifford's engagement-book shows nothing for this morning," Hobbs said finally.

      "When did he leave?"

      "This morning. I got down to breakfast to find that he was gone. There was a note for me to say that he had left to explore some Chinese haunts. Liverpool rather than London, I fancy."

      "Incredible!" Pointer murmured. "But"—an idea seemed СКАЧАТЬ