'Talk sense! Flash Charley would have passed it on to Mr Croaker and 'A' Division, Portman Square being their manor.' Verity's plump scowl relaxed, as if he suddenly saw the solution to a difficulty. 'Yes,' he said brightly, more pleased than Samson had seen him all afternoon. 'Of course, Mr Samson. That's just how it would have been. Wouldn't it? I should'a seen it from the start. I'd say that just about does it!' Henry Croaker wagged Verity's memorandum in his fingers. A gleam in his narrowed porcine eyes might equally have been anger or triumph. From the oak swivel chair at his desk, he looked up at the hatless sergeant paraded before him. Verity stood at attention, chest out, chin up, facing his commander. Croaker wagged the paper again. The dry withered tones of the chief inspector's voice were finely adapted to the flights of official irony in which he lashed his subordinates. 'Be assured, Sergeant,' he said quietly, 'the man that would box clever with me shall drink a bitter broth!' A slight frown of incomprehension clouded Verity's features.
