The Lake District Murder (British Library Crime Classics) by John Bude

case, sir. Said he was unable to come down and see you as he was confined to his bed with a chill.”
    “I’ll go up at once.”
    Railton being off duty, Meredith took the combination out of the garage and drove off in the direction of the Toll Gate. He had no difficulty in finding the house—a square, grey, weather-beaten edifice overlooking Derwentwater, standing back off the road in a fair-sized garden. The maid showed him at once into the Major’s bedroom, where the patient, a mahogany-skinned, hatchet-faced man, was lying propped up in bed reading the Cumberland News .
    “Come in! Sit down, Inspector,” he croaked. “Excuse my voice, but I’ve got a chronic touch of throat. That’s it—draw up that chair. The closer you are the better. I’m damned if I can manage much more than a whisper.”
    “That’s all right, sir,” said the Inspector heartily. “I understand you’ve got something to tell me about the Clayton case.”
    “Quite right. I have. Saw that notice of yours in the paper.” He waved the Cumberland News in the air. “This paper. Mid-weekly edition only came out this morning—otherwise I’d have got in touch with you before. Are you ready to take down my statement? Good!”
    In a series of fierce, staccato whispers Major Rickshaw described how he had visited the Derwent garage on Saturday night. He had been speaking at a Conservative meeting over at Cockermouth and was returning home with his wife in the car. At the Derwent he stopped for a couple of gallons of petrol, and was served, in his own words, “by the young chap with the Hitler moustache who was usually in charge of the pumps”. He supposed he had reached the garage about twenty minutes past seven. Neither he nor his wife got out of the car and as he handed over the exact money for the petrol he had no cause to hang about the garage for any length of time.
    “What happened to the money? Did you notice, sir?”
    “Yes—the fellow shoved it into the pocket of his dungarees.”
    “Buff dungarees?”
    “That’s it, Inspector.”
    “What was the denomination of the coins you handed over, sir?”
    “Just one coin, Inspector. A half-crown piece. I always swear by the cheaper forms of petrol. Never pay more than one and threepence a gallon. Though I don’t quite see——?”
    “Just a small point. Nothing of importance,” returned Meredith quickly. “The really important question is this—did you notice anybody else hanging around the garage?”
    “Not a soul! There was a light in the office, I remember. Couldn’t see if anybody was inside. Frosted glass, you see. There was a petrol-lorry drawn up in front of one of the pumps——”
    “A lorry! Then there must have been somebody about!”
    “Possibly,” snapped Major Rickshaw with some irritation. “But I’ve already told you, Inspector, that I didn’t see them.”
    “Did you notice the name on the petrol-lorry?”
    “Yes, I did! Nonock Petroleum Company. That’s Ormsby-Wright’s affair. Got shares in the concern. What’s more, they actually pay a dividend!”
    “You feel quite certain in your own mind that the man who served you with petrol was Clayton, I suppose?”
    “Confound it all, Inspector—I know a face when I see it.” With an irascible gesture the Major smoothed out the newspaper and jerked his finger at a photograph reproduced at the bottom of the column dealing with the tragedy. Where the Press had unearthed it Meredith could not imagine. Probably from the Reades.
    “That’s Clayton, isn’t it, eh?” went on the Major. Meredith nodded. “And that’s the face of the chap that served me with petrol. Good enough—what? If you want a second opinion, I’ll ring for my wife.”
    “It might be as well,” remarked the Inspector. “Not that I doubt your identification. But it was a dark night, remember, and one can’t be too careful in a case of this sort.”
    The Major, therefore, pressed the bell and sent the maid to fetch Mrs. Rickshaw.