CHAPTER 12Inspector Bull finished a satisfying breakfast of oatmeal, fish, bacon, eggs, grilled tomatoes, cold toast, marmalade, and hot black tea.
The fog had lifted. The February sun shone pale gold through the long windows giving into the Bulls’ back garden. Inspector Bull looked across the table at his wife, with satisfaction. There were only two flies, so to speak, in the ointment of his existence. One was the horse-faced old lady dressed like a girl of sixteen who sat to his right. That was Mrs. Bull’s aunt, deaf as a post. The other fly was Mr. Pinkerton. A message from Scotland Yard informed him that Inspector Davey’s man had found Pinkerton’s house deserted, and with the appearance of having been deserted for days, but that at about 7.25 last night Mr. Pinkerton himself had calle
