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familiar with them. . . . ’
    Littlejohn interrupted his lamentations.
    â€˜Do you buy wine from Todd and Co.?’
    â€˜Yes. It’s carafe stuff, you know. Bottled here. If you want château bottled or the better class wines we get those from a London firm. Todds’ don’t handle the classy ones. Mind you, the carafe wines are good and cheap for washing down a meal, but for connoisseurs . . . No. We’ve a good cellar here.’
    â€˜I’m sure you have. Who takes the orders for Todds’ wines?’
    â€˜They have two travellers, representatives they call them, who go round to the hotels and licensed grocers advertising their lines and taking orders.’
    â€˜Who are they?’
    â€˜Two elderly men who’ve been with the family since they were boys. John James Dawson and John Willie Lever. Were you wanting to buy some to take back to London, because I could attend to it . . .?’
    â€˜No, thanks. I was just interested in their selling systems.’
    â€˜It’s a bit old-fashioned compared with modern ways, but it works very well. They have considerable sales for about 50 miles round Portwich and these two experienced salesmen rake in the custom. They’re a popular couple and bring in a lot of business for the firm.’
    â€˜Where do they live?’
    â€˜Somewhere in the locality. I could find their addresses if you like. But you’ll see them in one of the bars here most evenings. Dawson is a seasoned drinker, but Lever drinks very little. He’s troubled with his liver and wine doesn’t agree with him.’
    The yachts were now all at sea and the waiters were taking more interest in their jobs. The manager left to remind them that lunch was waiting and the usual routine commenced.

Chapter 5

Dinner-Table Gossip
    It was the drab hour between tea and dinner. Littlejohn stood at the window of the hotel which overlooked the waterfront watching the boat owners clearing the decks and tying everything down. Those who were lucky enough to have shelter in the very limited boathouse accommodation were eagerly seeking it and steering their craft out of harm’s way. In the basin the ships were tugging at their cables. The great day had been something of a washout. No sooner had the mayor fired the starting gun than the wind got up, as though by his efforts Mr. Pollitt had disturbed the elements.
    As the races proceeded, so did the wind. Finally, in the later afternoon, only the best of the yachts completed the course and a lot of weaklings and stragglers had to be helped in. Ultimately, a short but sharp freak storm of tropical rain crowned the lot. The prognostications of the official forecasters had been clear skies and favourable winds. Everyone was furious about it and they refused to be pacified even when the deputy mayor made it known that he had telephoned the B.B.C., told them off,and demanded an inquiry and a full explanation.
    The gala atmosphere and the subsequent fury at the weather and the weather-prophets thoroughly upset the daily routine of the town. Littlejohn was at loss how to proceed with the investigation of Heck Todd’s murder, which had been quite forgotten in the prevailing turmoil. There were a number of people the detectives wished to interview, but they all seemed mixed up in the crowds.
    Lunch at the
Trident
was a cold one and there weren’t many partaking even of that. It was a day for sandwiches for those who lined the quay, beach and coastline intent on the races. Not that the bulk of them knew much about sailing and its mysteries, but it was an outing and the bookies were everywhere and a lot of bets had been laid.
    Far from being bored by the hiatus in the inquiry, Hopkinson was eager and enthusiastic to be doing something. The encounter with Mrs. Todd earlier in the day had stimulated him and he seemed to have formed a theory that to interview all and sundry connected with the case would bring results if not a