“It might well be that Flaxborough’s present ordeal is but a rehearsal for an unimaginably more horrible onslaught upon the Christian world in the not far distant future,” Miss Cornelius declared.
In a small final paragraph, the paper noted that the Medical Officer had not been available for comment.
“I wonder if he’s available now,” remarked Purbright. “Come on, Sid.”
Sergeant Love’s second appearance at the Municipal Offices was acknowledged by excited whispering amongst the totties, surreptitious stares, and even—to his almost unbearable gratification—a slow and sultry wink from Miss O’Conlon. Patriarch Purbright, naturally, was ignored.
House, the chief clerk, hastily put himself between the policemen and his girls. He was a fussy, dusty, ink-stained man, with creases of chronic suspiciousness about his eyes.
Purbright asked if it would be convenient to see Dr Cropper.
House pouted dubiously and crept to a big oak panelled door marked Private. He touched it delicately with one knuckle, listened for ten whole seconds, and went in.
Like opening a safe, Love reflected.
When House re-emerged, his chief could be seen immediately behind him, one open hand already thrust forward.
“Lovely to see you, inspector!”
There was a vigorous handshake for each of them, an extended chair, a wave towards a box of cigarettes, a nod of genial professional approval when they declined. Then the big man with the pink, handsome face strode back behind his desk and sat, straight as a company director on audit day.
“And what can I do for you, gentlemen?”
The tiny click of the switch of Love’s recording gear brought Cropper’s eyes round at once.
“Aha!” he said, roguishly, on seeing the sergeant unwind the microphone flex. “Bugged, eh?”
“I hope you’ve no objection, sir,” the inspector said. “The more conventional kind of note-taking does tend to hold things up rather.”
For a few moments more, Cropper continued to watch the recorder with amused interest. Then he returned his attention to the inspector.
“I’m sure you will be aware, doctor,” Purbright began, “that an investigation is in progress into the death of the Bridge Street supermarket manager, Mr Bertram Persimmon...”
“Aware?” interrupted Cropper, suddenly grave-faced. “I am very deeply aware, inspector. He was a friend. In a sense, a colleague. But you must know this, surely? Sir Henry...” He waited, his head slightly forward, inviting Purbright to adopt a franker approach.
“Sir Henry has been in touch with you, has he, sir?”
“But of course. He is as concerned as I am to learn the truth of this terrible affair. I trust I have not broken a confidence of some kind?”
“Certainly not, sir. I am glad to think that you’ll be better prepared to answer some of the questions I shall be putting to you. For the moment, though, I’m rather interested in the incident which the Evening Advertiser describes so graphically.”
Purbright began to unfold the newspaper that he had taken from his pocket.
Dr Cropper waved it aside.
“Don’t bother. I’ve seen it. And really, inspector, of all the nonsensical fuss...”
“Is the account not accurate?”
“As far as it goes, yes. But, good God, ‘killer curse’—‘voodoo town’—I ask you! Are you aware, my dear inspector, of the amount of offensive rubbish dumped by crack-brained members of the public at this office during the year? We get rotting fish, underweight sausages, beer with tadpoles in it... Listen, somebody once actually managed to get in and tether a sheep to the door handle. Don’t ask me why. One gets used to it.”
“I appreciate that, doctor. But it seems to me that what was left here this morning was intended to convey a threat—a threat to you personally.”
Cropper grinned beamishly. “Oh, I fancy I’m able to look after myself, inspector.”
“Mr Persimmon wasn’t, though, was he?”
The grin was switched off.
“I don’t think I quite understand.”
“Look sir, four of you gentlemen have been associated in what I gather is a kind of vigilante committee. Sir Henry Bird has explained its purpose. And if this reading of the situation is correct, you all have been running certain risks.”
“But very willingly, inspector. Remember that.”
“I don’t doubt it. At the same time, I have to remind you that it is the job of the police to run risks, not the ordinary citizen’s, however public-spirited.”
Cropper leaned forward and spoke very quietly.
“You cannot put handcuffs on Satan, my friend.”
“Perhaps not, sir. But do you contend that it was Satan who murdered Persimmon?”
“Indirectly. Yes, I do.”
“And then made threats of what I can only call a particularly vicious and dangerous kind to each in turn of Persimmon’s collaborators?”
“Through some human agency. Again, yes.”
“You don’t dispute that they were threats, then, doctor including the so-called spell addressed to you?”
Cropper shrugged. “No, of course I don’t. Perhaps I should not have tried to impress you with my indifference, but for anyone in a job like mine publicity is an extremely unwelcome thing. You must see that.”
“Oh, I do. But I am not a journalist, Dr Cropper. What goes into that little box the sergeant is holding does not come out again for public consumption.”
“The press arrived here remarkably promptly this morning. I find that rather puzzling.”
“Reporters are around in some strength at the moment, sir. I expect they’ve established their own intelligence system. Would there, though, be anyone you can think of who might have let them know?”
“No one in the department, certainly.”
“Talking of the department, doctor, do you happen to have any idea of Miss Edna Hillyard’s choice of friends?”
There was a pause.
“Inspector...”
Cropper was regarding Purbright with an expression that was at once respectful, wily and reproving.
“Sir?”
“You are trying to trap me into pretending that I occupy far too elevated a position here to be aware of what mere clerks get up to.”
“And what do they get up to, sir?”
Cropper smiled and shook his head.
“I know perfectly well, Mr Purbright, that Miss Hillyard associated—that is the word, I believe—with Bertie Persimmon.”