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The events that transpired concerning my transit of Dover are related in the story called Sherlock, where I was visited by a couple of homicide detectives. It was my big event in London.

From the story Sherlock : maybe on the fourth or fifth evening, in my room I had my pipes laid out on the floor. I was a pipe smoker in those days and was collecting pipes, one from Greece, one from France and one or two I had just bought in London, plus my mainstay of the last several years. There was a knock on the door and two gentlemen were in the hall. They said they were from Scotland Yard and wanted to talk to me and could they come in.

So they came in. The lead detective did all the talking and was the older of the two, maybe early fifties. He and I sat down in chairs facing each other, and the younger one about thirty, placed his chair in such a way that he sat facing me from the side, but slightly to my rear, apparently so that he could observe me closely while I was not able to easily notice the inspection. "I am Inspector Whoomfield and this is Detective Fowler. We have come to investigate your whereabouts on the night of April" whatever it was. He asked to see my passport. They were very polite. I told them I had gotten off the ferry about six at Dover, drove through town, found some-place to sleep and left the next morning.

Detective side-kick began to write it all down in a notepad. "Slept under a hedge", the inspector repeated. This was a quaint way of putting it I thought. "Do you know exactly where it was that you slept?" he asked. "No idea" I answered.

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