CHAPTER NINETEENSir Montague Paling, the chief commissioner, who was a soldier and a gentleman and everything that phrase implies, phoned his superintendent of the Central Criminal Investigation Department early in the morning.
“Oates? That you? You still there? Good man. Good man. About this girl-in-the-wood case of yours; is there a foreign element in that?”
“We don’t know yet, sir.” Stanislaus Oates tried to suppress any placatory tone which might have crept into his pleasant country voice. “Pullen found a quantity of drugs in her flat last night. We’re working on that angle with Wylde at the moment.”
“Who?”
“Detective Inspector Wylde, sir—Narcotics.”
“Oh yes, of course. I didn’t catch you. Oh well, that’s very promising. What is it? Cocaine?”
“No sir. Morphine. Quite a bit of it.
