calm. I want the thing cleared up, man. I want my father to have justice. Whether you act for me or act for the police it's the same thing."
"If you take it that way, I'll act for the police, Beaver," said Reggie placidly.
Geoffrey Charlecote stared at him. "That's enough, thanks," he said. "Stop the car. I won't worry you any more, Mr. Fortune."
"Mr. be blowed. Don't be an ass. Beaver. It's a bad business. Let's make the best of it."
"Will you stop the car?" Geoffrey said loudly, and stood up.
"Five miles from nowhere? Oh, go easy." But Geoffrey turned and opened the door. So the car was stopped, and Geoffrey Charlecote left forlorn in his rage on the road.
Reggie Fortune lay back and sighed. "Poor beggar, I wonder. Poor beggar," he said. And when he came back to Wimpole Street the first thing he did was to ring up the Hon. Stanley Lomas, the Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department. As a consequence you behold him sitting under the French prints in the study of Mr. Lomas.
"I thought you'd be on to this, don't you know?" Lomas said. "It's a pretty case. Wealthy old gentleman, impecunious heirs, sudden death. That's natural enough. But impecunious heirs don't stab much—not in England."
