Grail and Miss Clemenceaux had not yet returned when the man from Baghdad and his interpreter were admitted by Mrs Patmore. Convinced by now that “the newspaper lot” had turned the house into an assembly point for some kind of white slaving conference, the housekeeper stared at both new arrivals with what appeared to be sustained malevolence. In fact, she was trying to memorize their respective features in readiness for helping the Vice Squad with identikit details.
Mr Suffri smiled nervously and said what a pretty hovel and had the corns grown well that year? The housekeeper’s only response to this inquiry was to clutch her breast and squeeze past him, and he later confided sadly to Robin Marr-Newton that he feared it was on account of his colour. Mr Marr-Newton, impeccably pink-cheeked and golden-haired son of the titled Foreign Office official whose relationship by marriage to the chairman of Herald Newspapers was Robin’s chief, if not solitary, journalistic qualification, replied nonsense, there was no racial prejudice these days, he’d even seen wogs in Brook Street, Benny wasn’t to worry.
Lanching and Becket were upstairs, assembling the projector in one of the unused bedrooms. The screen had been hung across the only window, effectively blocking, out daylight. A collection of several chairs stood outside on the landing. Becket was weaving cable in and out of doorways and testing switches.
Marr-Newton introduced himself and his companion, and Lanching made a couple of jokes suitable to the occasion, such as had they brought any dancing girls with them? and would they mind emptying the sand out of their shoes because otherwise Mrs Patmore would have their balls for pincushions.
Some cans of beer were produced and within half an hour a convivial atmosphere prevailed in which stories of Fleet Street coups by Becket and Lanching found exotic counterpoint in Marr-Newton’s tales of a foreign correspondent’s tribulations in the embassies and ministries of the Middle East, most of which, it appeared, were concerned either with alcohol or venery.
“Have you seen the flick, by the way?” Robin asked eventually.
“Just a few stills,” said Lanching. “Odd, but tame, I thought.” He turned towards Becket. “Didn’t you think them pretty innocuous, Bob?”
“No,” said Becket. “Very suggestive.”
Lanching looked at him, uncertain of whether he was being facedous or not. He asked, as a test: “That one of men dressed as boy scouts, for instance?”
Becket shook his head. “Boy scouts, nothing. They were supposed to be Mounties. You know—Royal North West Canadian whatsits. Sinister, I thought.”
Robin Marr-Newton had one hand over his face. He was giggling. The others glanced at him.
“Christ! You should hear what the commentator says about that scene. According to him, they’re English gentlemen on their way to hunt foxes.”
“Commentator?” Becket was frowning.
Robin shrugged. “Sort of. In Arabic, of course. Benny here says its incredibly indecent. I thought it hilarious, actually.”
“Do you mean,” said Becket, “that the film’s only verbally obscene?” He sounded suddenly concerned, apprehensive almost.
Robin, inclined to answer simply with a guffaw, caught the note in his voice and paused. “Oh, no,” he said, flatly. “By no means, duckie.” And he twitched his long, straight, well-bred nose.
Lanching nodded slowly, not looking at him, then said: “Clive, as you will have gathered, has plunged pretty deeply with this one. I don’t want you to think I’m questioning his judgment, or yours—or anybody’s, for God’s sake—but did he go to town on this strictly on the strength of your say-so? I mean, you were a long way off.”
Marr-Newton frowned. “I don’t quite see what you’re getting at, Ken. Long way? Sure, but there are phones, dear lad. One gets asked to chase something up, and one chases. Then all one needs do is produce some money and the job’s done. Simple as that. In Baghdad or Biggleswade. Distance no object.”
“You were asked to get this film, then?” Lanching sounded surprised.
“Sure. You don’t suppose I trog round all the blue picture shows in the Gulf looking for home movies from England, do you?”
Mr Suffri, who had remained silently attentive hitherto, apparently found this notion too funny to be allowed to pass. He grinned at the other three in strict rotation, as if handing round cake, and declared: “The old red and white and blue more sodding likely, gents!”
Robin gave the interpreter a pat of commendation and said: “Yes, rather,” to no one in particular. Then, to Lanching: “The London office was tipped off. Didn’t Grail tell you? Who unearthed the original story I don’t know, but both Grail and Ricky seemed to think it was someone absolutely reliable. Knew the town, according to Rick. Described details in the film. As I said, I just chased it through the old randy reeler circuit and snaffled a print. The things we do for bloody editors!”
There was a swish of tyres on gravel below the window. Becket moved the screen a little aside and peered down. “Grail’s back.” He stretched to extend his view. “Somebody else, as well. I think it’s a taxi.”
Marr-Newton joined him. They heard voices, one of them plummily imperious. Robin nudged Becket. “Here comes your own personal legal eagle, old son. My God, the Herald must love its children.”
Chapter Eight
“What do you know, Sid,” inquired Inspector Purbright of his sergeant, “about the Flaxborough Camera and Cinematograph Society?”
“I believe Mr Chubb belonged to it at one time,” said Love, putting first things first.
“Indeed? Apart from that, though, should we be aware of anything to its discredit?”
Love considered the question carefully, then shook his head.
Purbright resumed examination of the copy of the Sunday Herald which the chief constable, with an air of great gravity, but no comment, had placed on his desk an hour previously.
“It does seem odd,” he said, “that so blameless an institution seems to appear to this Mr Grail to be some sort of satanic pleasure palace. He promises pretty horrific revelations.”
“Yes, I read it,” declared Love.
Purbright regarded him narrowly. “Oh?”
“My landlady gets it for her horoscope,” the sergeant explained.
“I only hope,” said Purbright, “that the planets are more specific than Mr Grail.” He folded and put the paper aside.
Love waited patiently for whatever the inspector had been leading up to. Purbright, he knew very well, did not deliver random questions like a schoolmaster testing the awareness of his pupils.
Purbright rose from his desk and went over to the window. He stared down into the yard where a couple of patrol cars were being hosed.