The inspector was already present when Celia stepped out of the cab and onto an innocuous terrace street somewhere in Canning Town. She was five minutes early, but the policeman screwed his face up as if she was thirty minutes late. She was suddenly quite annoyed that she took his call.
While she straightened her dress, Celia stole a glimpse of the house. 33 Rathbone Street looked identical to 31, and the spitting image of 35, the only difference being the perplexing death that occurred here three days ago. The window of the top room caught the glare of the setting sun, just as Land caught her eye by ostentatiously tapping his boots on the garden wall. Finally, she turned to greet him. "Inspector Land?"
"Miss Swift," Inspector Land said. It wasn't a question. He stood up straight, removed his hat, and offered his hand to Celia, who reciprocated with her own in the biting wind. "As I said over the phone," Land had no time for pleasantries, "we're rather keen for a solution, to make it stick. He was shot behind a locked door, Wednesday night, by an invisible flautist. I'm having beef for tea, if I hurry. Shall we go inside?"
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