We’ve got a jumbled lot of information. It’s simply a matter of sorting it out.…’ Littlejohn thought Cromwell was being a bit optimistic, but Cromwell was that way. He often turned out to be right. They were sitting in Littlejohn’s room at Scotland Yard, drinking coffee. So many things had happened since Charles Blunt’s death that the two detectives hadn’t much time for anything else. This morning they had both stayed indoors to clear up routine work. Littlejohn was going with Blunt’s father to the crematorium at noon. He wore a dark suit and a black tie. It seemed a bit strange for a policeman to wear mourning for a crook, but he thought it would please the old man. Charles Blunt was going to be more comfortably disposed of than his associate Kaltbad, of whom no relatives had been traced and whose body was in the official refrigerators waiting for something to turn up. ‘Let’s just go through the case,’ said Cromwell, ‘and see if we can get things in order.…’ There was a pause.
