We left Mr. Hoopdriver standing outside the little shop where he had just finished his tea.
By an amusing twist of fate, the Angel Hotel stood right next door to Mrs. Wardor’s shop.
And that same night, staying at the Angel, were “Mr. and Miss Beaumont”—in reality, Bechamel and Jessie Milton.
There was nothing particularly strange about this coincidence.
Once you left Guildford and headed south, there were only a few major roads to choose from. You could go toward Portsmouth through Petersfield, or take the road through Midhurst toward Chichester.
There were also smaller roads leading toward Petworth and Pulborough, with various routes crossing toward Brighton.
So sooner or later, travelers heading in the same direction were likely to meet again.
Still, none of the three knew enough about the local roads to realize how likely their reunion was.
After dinner, Bechamel was standing in the yard of the Angel, tightening the chain on his bicycle.
Then he looked up.
Hoopdriver was walking slowly past the entrance, a cigarette hanging from his mouth and smoke drifting around his head.
Bechamel watched him disappear up the street.
The uneasiness that had been bothering him all day suddenly returned.
This time it quickly turned into suspicion.
He slipped his screwdriver into his pocket and followed.
Bechamel was a man who liked to believe he acted decisively.
Hoopdriver, meanwhile, was simply taking a walk.
The two men suddenly found themselves face to face.
For a moment, Hoopdriver felt a strange mixture of irritation and amusement.
“Oh, here we are again!” he said with an awkward laugh.
Bechamel stopped directly in front of him.
His expression became extremely polite.
“May I tell you something?”
“Certainly.”
“You appear to be following us.”
Hoopdriver normally would have apologized immediately.
But for some reason, he resisted the impulse.
He actually wanted to annoy this man.
A line he had practiced in his imagination earlier suddenly came back to him.
“Since when,” he asked, catching his breath, “did you buy the whole county of Sussex?”
Bechamel stared at him.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I mean, you seem to think you own the roads.”
“I object to your being around us all the time,” Bechamel said. “And frankly, I believe you are following us for some particular reason.”
“If you don’t like seeing me,” Hoopdriver replied, “you can always turn around and go back.”
Bechamel’s expression changed.
“Ah! So that’s it.”
Hoopdriver had no idea what “it” was.
“Is it?”
“I suspected as much.”
Suddenly Bechamel became almost friendly.
“Look, I’d like to have a word with you. Ten minutes, perhaps.”
Hoopdriver’s imagination immediately came alive.
What did this man think he was?
A spy?
A detective?
Some mysterious professional working on an important case?
At last, he thought, something interesting was happening.
He hesitated dramatically.
“You have some communication…”
“Let’s call it a communication.”
“I can spare you ten minutes.”
“This way, then.”
They began walking slowly down North Street.
For perhaps half a minute neither said anything.
Bechamel nervously stroked his moustache.
Hoopdriver’s imagination was now running at full speed.
He had no idea what role he was supposed to be playing, but clearly it was something secret and important.
He had read enough adventure stories to recognize the atmosphere.
Sherlock Holmes.
Victor Hugo.
Alexandre Dumas.
Men like that were never involved in ordinary conversations.
“I’ll be completely frank with you,” Bechamel finally said.
“Frankness is always best,” Hoopdriver replied.
“Then tell me this. Who sent you?”
“Who sent me?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t understand. Who is your employer? Who hired you?”
Hoopdriver blinked.
He was completely confused.
“Well…”
He paused, trying desperately to understand the question.
“I can’t say.”
“Are you sure?”
Bechamel glanced meaningfully at his hand.
Hoopdriver looked down.
A gold coin was catching the last light of the evening.
Bechamel was offering him a bribe.
Hoopdriver’s face suddenly became hot with anger.
“Put that away!”
Bechamel looked surprised.
“What?”
“Do you think you can bribe me?”
Hoopdriver stopped walking.
His imagination had now transformed the entire situation into something magnificent.
“By God, I’d follow you anywhere now!”
Bechamel stared at him.
Then he quickly put the coin back into his pocket.
“My dear sir, you’ve misunderstood me.”
“Have I?”
“I apologize. Truly. Let us continue walking.”
He paused.
“In your profession…”
Hoopdriver immediately bristled.
“What have you got against my profession?”
“Nothing personally. I simply assumed you were one of those…”
“One of what?”
“Private investigators.”
Hoopdriver’s eyes widened.
“A detective?”
“Yes.”
Bechamel was becoming increasingly cautious.
“There are various sorts of detectives, of course. Some are rather less respectable than others. I didn’t realize…”
He stopped.
“I hope you’ll forgive my mistake.”
Hoopdriver had to make an enormous effort not to laugh.
Detective!
The idea was so wonderful that he could hardly contain himself.
Bechamel noticed that he was struggling to suppress something, but misunderstood the reason.
He assumed Hoopdriver was offended by the implication that he was merely a low-class private detective.
“Men of honor are rare,” Bechamel continued.
“Especially in your profession, I imagine.”
Hoopdriver nearly exploded with laughter.
Fortunately, Midhurst did not light its street lamps during the summer.
Otherwise, Bechamel would have seen his face.
Instead, Hoopdriver grabbed his moustache and pulled hard, using the pain to control himself.
A detective!
He had never been so flattered in his life.
Bechamel, however, had drawn his own conclusion.
“He’ll give in eventually,” he thought.
“He’s probably holding out for five pounds.”
Aloud, he said:
“I still don’t understand why you can’t simply tell me who employed you.”
“Don’t you?”
“No.”
“I can.”
Hoopdriver enjoyed the mystery enormously.
He had no secret to reveal, but that made his silence even more satisfying.
“Then here’s what I really want to know,” Bechamel said.
“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”
Hoopdriver waited.
“Are you watching me?”
A pause.
“Or are you watching Miss Milton?”
Miss Milton.
At last, Hoopdriver knew her name.
He carefully kept his expression serious.
“I’m not the sort who gives things away.”
Bechamel studied him.
“So it is Miss Milton?”
Hoopdriver smiled mysteriously.
“There’s no point trying to get information out of me.”
Bechamel was impressed by his own cleverness.
He decided to reveal a little information of his own.
“I assume there are two people involved in this investigation.”
“Who is the other one?”
Hoopdriver asked the question calmly, although inside he was bursting with excitement.
He thought it was a brilliant question.
“Her stepmother,” Bechamel said.
“And my wife.”
“So you want to know which one hired me?”
“Exactly.”
Hoopdriver could no longer resist.
“Ask them both.”
Bechamel frowned.
Hoopdriver felt like the greatest detective who had ever lived.
Bechamel tried one final approach.
“I would pay five pounds just to know exactly what is going on.”
“Didn’t I tell you to put that away?”
Hoopdriver’s voice became threatening.
Then he leaned slightly toward Bechamel.
“You don’t really understand who you’re dealing with.”
Bechamel stared at him.
“But you will.”
Hoopdriver said it with such confidence that, for a brief moment, even he almost believed himself.
Perhaps somewhere in London there really was a mysterious office waiting for him.
Perhaps it was on Baker Street.
Perhaps he really was a private detective.
The interview ended there.
Bechamel returned to the Angel Hotel deeply disturbed.
“Detectives!” he muttered.
“This is not at all what I expected.”
Hoopdriver, meanwhile, walked toward the river.
He stood on the bridge for a while, staring down at the moonlit water.
Every now and then he murmured to himself:
“Private investigator…”
He smiled.
Then he walked back toward the town with an air of mystery in every step.