At Bertram's Hotel - Agatha Christie [13]
Comstock said:
“It’s like a giant network. I agree that there must be an operational headquarters somewhere. A place where each operation is planned and detailed and dovetailed completely. Somewhere, someone plots it all, and produces a working blueprint of Operation Mailbag or Operation Payroll. Those are the people we’re out to get.”
“Possibly they are not even in this country,” said Father quietly.
“No, I dare say that’s true. Perhaps they’re in an igloo somewhere, or in a tent in Morocco or in a chalet in Switzerland.”
“I don’t believe in these masterminds,” said McNeill, shaking his head: “they sound all right in a story. There’s got to be a head, of course, but I don’t believe in a Master Criminal. I’d say there was a very clever little Board of Directors behind this. Centrally planned, with a Chairman. They’ve got on to something good, and they’re improving their technique all the time. All the same—”
“Yes?” said Sir Ronald encouragingly.
“Even in a right tight little team, there are probably expendables. What I call the Russian Sledge principle. From time to time, if they think we might be getting hot on the scent, they throw off one of them, the one they think they can best afford.”
“Would they dare to do that? Wouldn’t it be rather risky?”
“I’d say it could be done in such a way that whoever it was wouldn’t even know he had been pushed off the sledge. He’d just think he’d fallen off. He’d keep quiet because he’d think it was worth his while to keep quiet. So it would be, of course. They’ve got plenty of money to play with, and they can afford to be generous. Family looked after, if he’s got one, whilst he’s in prison. Possibly an escape engineered.”
“There’s been too much of that,” said Comstock.
“I think, you know,” said Sir Ronald, “that it’s not much good going over and over our speculations again. We always say much the same thing.”
McNeill laughed.
“What is it you really wanted us for, sir?”
“Well—” Sir Ronald thought a moment, “we’re all agreed on the main things,” he said slowly. “We’re agreed on our main policy, on what we’re trying to do. I think it might be profitable to have a look around for some of the small things, the things that don’t matter much, that are just a bit out of the usual run. It’s hard to explain what I mean, but like that business some years ago in the Culver case. An ink stain. Do you remember? An ink stain round a mouse hole. Now why on earth should a man empty a bottle of ink into a mouse hole? It didn’t seem important. It was hard to get at the answer. But when we did hit on the answer, it led somewhere. That’s—roughly—the sort of thing I was thinking about. Odd things. Don’t mind saying if you come across something that strikes you as a bit out of the usual. Petty if you like, but irritating, because it doesn’t quite fit in. I see Father’s nodding his head.”
“Couldn’t agree with you more,” said Chief-Inspector Davy. “Come on, boys, try to come up with something. Even if it’s only a man wearing a funny hat.”
There was no immediate response. Everyone looked a little uncertain and doubtful.
“Come on,” said Father. “I’ll stick my neck out first. It’s just a funny story, really, but you might as well have it for what it’s worth. The London and Metropolitan Bank holdup. Carmolly Street Branch. Remember it? A whole list of car numbers and car colours and makes. We appealed to people to come forward and they responded—how they responded! About a hundred and fifty pieces of misleading information! Got it sorted out in the end to about seven cars that had been seen in the neighbourhood, anyone of which might have been concerned in the robbery.”
“Yes,” said Sir Ronald, “go on.”
“There were one or