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By Root 887 0

up behind Billy as he was standing talking to someone, though I should have thought him too wary. At any rate, they disposed of Billy with a cosh, and chloroform was applied by Small Boots. The destruction of your clothing was carried out by the two big men while the smaller stayed with Billy and kept the chloroform dripping onto his face. When they had finished, Small Boots climbed in and applied the knife methodically to the seat, at which time the fibres of the other fabric pieces became embedded in the cuts, despite the extreme sharpness of the blade. It was, incidentally, a short-handled, double-edged knife, the blade being about six inches in length and relatively narrow.”

“Nasty weapon. A flick-knife?”

“Probably. The circumstances of the cab destruction troubled me. Did you see anything amiss?”

“The slashes seemed odd. They’re so precise, all the same height and direction, but they stop before the end of the seat. It was almost as if they were searching for something under the leather. There was no sign that a hand had pushed into the cuts, was there?”

“There was not. And of equal interest is the question, why was it given over to Small Boots, the boss, to do those final cuts? I am miss-ing something there, Russell. I desire to study the photographs. Per-haps that will refresh my memory.”

“And when will that be?” A look of grim humour flickered across his face.

“That, Russell, is up to you. No, let me explain that in its logical place, at the end. I dislike having to leap about in the narration of evidence, as you well know.

“To continue: Left in the cab were one button, complete with a well-defined thumbprint of a large man, one blonde hair, and a num-ber of smudges of light brown mud on the floor and the seats. We shall return to that last item in a moment.

“As you were sifting through the wreckage of your wardrobe, I was tracking. The mud was quite clearly followed: It had come across the park on the soft gravel pathway. Or so it seemed at first. Of the big boots there was no sign, which was singular. It was not until you found the same mud in the Ladies’ that I discovered the truth: that the three had not come across the park, but rather had come around the side of the park on the hard, well-travelled paved path. The two big boots had returned that way, but Small Boots, walking backwards, had crossed on the soft central path, entered the Ladies’, backwards, washed and walked, still backwards, to the same point where they had entered the park. The three then boarded a vehicle of some kind and drove away.”

“And you needed to see the prints by daylight to be certain that the set running down the middle was indeed backwards?”

“Precisely. You have seen my monograph on footprints, Forty-Seven Methods of Concealing One’s Trail? No? In it I mention that I have used various means of reversing footprints and, as you saw Tuesday morning, hiding one inside the other, but there seem to be flaws detectable to the careful eye. Another article I am working on is concerned with the in-nate differences between the male and female footprint. Have I shown that to you? No, of course, you’ve been away. I have found that no mat-ter what kind of shoe is on the foot, the lie of the toes and the way the heel hits the ground differ between the sexes. I took the idea from a conversation we once had. At night, I suspected. After your find, and after I had seen the footprints by day, I knew. This is a woman, five and a half feet tall, and slim—less than eight stone. She may be blonde—”

“Just may be?”

“Just may be,” he repeated. “She is intelligent, well-read, and has a particularly grotesque and creative sense of humour.”

“The note, you mean?”

“I was aware of it before that arrived. You know my monograph on London soils?”

“Notes on Some Distinctive Characteristics—” I began.

“That one, yes. I have not demanded of you an expertise in the study of London, but as you know, I spent most of my life there before I retired. I breathed her air, I trod her ground, and I knew her like—as a husband knows