The Birmingham age-herald., 1923-03-18

of pessimistic disposition and dsordered liver.
 Sergeant Westaway looked like man who found life a miserable business. quarter of century spent in dull round of official duties in the fishing village of Ashlingsea, as guardian of the morals of its eight hundred inhabitants, had deepened his natural bent toward pessimism and dyspep- ,ia He felt himself qualified to adorn much higher official post, bue he forbore to sir his grievance iE public because he thought the people with whom his lot was cast were not worth wasting speech upon. By his aloofness and taciturnity he had ac- auired local reputation for wisdom, which his mental gifts scarcely warranted.
 : Heather" he said, pausing in his writ ing and glancing up irritably as his subordi- nate entered the room, "do not make that noise''
 "What noise, Sergeant?" asked Constable Heather, who gathered his impressions slowly.
 "That whistling. It disturbs Be sides, there is dead man in the house."
 "Al right, Sergeant, I forgot all about him. Constable Heather stopped in the middle of lively slave, sat down on chair, got up again, and went out of the room with heavy tread.
 Sergeant Westaway returned to his off cial report with worried expression on his gaunt face. He was country police officer with no previous experience of mur- ders, and twenty-five years official vegeta- ton in Ashlingsea, with nothing more rious in the way of crime to handle than oc- casional outbreaks of drunkenness of an odd case of petty larceny, had made him rusty in official procedure, and fearful of violating the written and unwritten laws of depart mental red tape. He wrote and erased, and rewrote, occasionally laying down his pen to gaze out of the open window for inspira- ton.
 It was a beautiful day in early autumn. The violent storm of the previous night had left but few traces of its visit. The sun was shining in a clear blue sky, and the notes of a skylark singing joyously high above the meadow in front of the farm floated in through the open window. The winding cliff road was white and clean after the heavy rain, and the sea was once more clear and green, with little white flecked waves dancing and sparkling in the sunshine.
 Sergeant Westaway, goomily glan eing out at this pleasing prospect, saw two men entering the farm from the road. They had been cycling, and were now pushing their machines up the gravel path to the front door. One of them was in police uniform, and the other was young man about 30 years of age, clad in cycling tweeds and knickerbockers, with tweed cap on .he back of his curly head. He had blue eyes and snub nose, and cigarette dangled from his lower lip He was a stranger to Sergeant Westaway, but that acute official had no hesitation in placing him as a detec- tive from Scotland Yard. To the eye of pessimism he looked like the sort of man that Scotland Yard would send to assist county police headquarters at Lewes, ard fern was Detective Inspector Payne, of the count ypolice headquarters at Lewes, and was well known to Sergeant Westaway. The latter had no difficulty in arriving at the conciasion that the County Commis- sioner of Police, having several other mys- terious crimes to occupy the limited number of detectives at his disposal, had asked for the assistance of Scotland Yard in unravel- ing the murder at Cliff Farm. Sergeant Wes.away knew what this would mean to him. He would have 9 great deal to do in coacting the Scotland Yard man regarding local conditions, but would get none of the credi of sheeting home the crime to the murderer. The Scotland Yard man would see to that.