“There must be a first time for everything,” the Chief Constable observed.
“Yes and no,” said the alderman, who tried always to see both sides of a question. “But be that as it may, our committee is far from satisfied that everything possible is being done in this case.”
Elsie, who had been perched on the edge of his chair in readiness to extinguish with lawyer’s qualifications any indiscretion that his companions might drop, shifted to a more comfortable position. “I think,” he said, “that I should respectfully advise these gentlemen to regard their points as made and to elaborate no further. Unless, of course, the Chief Constable wishes to put any questions.”
Giving him a little bow, Mr Hessledine glanced at a piece of paper on which he had been unobtrusively pencilling a few notes.
“There has been mention of a confession, gentlemen,” he began. “That, I admit, is news to me. I shall have inquiries made, but I shall not be at all surprised to learn that my officers at Chalmsbury had good reason to ignore this confession, or whatever it was. Jokers and half-wits are forever giving themselves up for things that happen to have caught their imagination.
“The rest of what you say is rather more serious, isn’t it?”
He folded his arms and looked briefly at each of the deputation. Then he swung his chair through a quarter turn, fixed his gaze on the ceiling and continued talking quietly, like a tutor recapitulating for the benefit of tiresomely zealous students.
“You naturally will understand that I cannot accept the implied criticism of Chief Inspector Larch and that my position obliges me to refute, in the absence of evidence, the suggestion that he has some ulterior motive for leaving this dynamiter of yours at large. I might reasonably feel very angry about what you have said, but I recognize that you are doing an official duty, as you and your colleagues see it, and also that these crimes must have put you all under a considerable strain.
“Now this is what I propose.
“Officially, I must send you away with a flea in your ear, so to speak. Unofficially, though, I shall do what I can to give our fellows over in Chalmsbury a little help in running this character to earth. You mustn’t ask me to be more explicit, gentlemen. The less that’s known, the more effective the help I have in mind will be.”
This pleasantly mysterious undertaking having been won, the trio took leave. Even Councillor Pointer felt that things could have gone far worse.
When he was alone once more, the Chief Constable allowed his expression to lapse into something a good deal more like anxiety than he would have permitted his visitors to see. He stared moodily at the telephone, then suddenly picked it up and asked to speak to Mr Chubb on his private line.
Harcourt Chubb was the Chief Constable of Flaxborough, the county town. He was a tall, ascetic-looking man who had scarcely ever been seen by his subordinates to sit down. This was not because he was energetic: his devotion to a quiet life was almost religious; but because he had learned that his insistence on standing in the seated presence of callers disheartened petitioners, frustrated complainants and generally reduced interviews to a minimum.
The system did not work over the telephone, of course.
“Harcourt! My dear fellow, how are you?” The County Chief Constable’s swift injection of bonhomie left Mr Chubb paralysed, as though by a curare-tipped arrow.
“I’m in something of a fix, Harcourt. A very delicate matter, as it happens... No, I’m sorry, it must be over the phone: I simply can’t get round at the moment and things won’t wait. Most of the explaining I’ll do later, of course... Yes, it would be nice to get together again. Dogs all well?... Fine. And Mrs Chubb?... Anyway, to get down to brass tacks I want to borrow one of your men for a spell. One who’s unlikely to be known in Chalmsbury...Chalmsbury, yes. And I want someone a cut above those layabouts in dirty raincoats who can do nothing but harrass bookies for free bets. A real detective, old man. Now then, can you run to one?”
Mr Chubb explained icily that all his detectives were real.
“Naturally, my dear fellow. I was just pulling your leg. You know the man I want—cleared up that fearful brothel and butchery business of yours last year1...Purbright, yes, that’s the chap... Hard to say; two or three weeks possibly. Depends how lucky or good he is...I say, that really is uncommonly obliging of you, Harcourt... You will? Fine! And I’ll tell you the whole story when we meet. Keep your powder dry, old man!”
Hessledine replaced the phone with a God-forgive-me expression. The affectation of heartiness pained him a good deal, but he knew it was the only weapon to use upon Chubb, who would have parried any reasonably delivered request with courteous obtuseness and painstaking prevarication.
1 Reported in Coffin Scarcely Used
“Chief Inspector Larch? My name is Purbright. Flaxborough C.I.D. I expect the Chief Constable...”
“Of course, Mr Purbright.” Larch coldly appraised the man whose hand he shook. He was nearly as tall as himself, of slightly diffident manner and with a quick, apologetic smile. The fresh-complexioned face had a touch of foolish amiability about the mouth. Above grey eyes, steadily interested, it seemed, in what they saw, the high forehead was crowned with short but unruly hair of preposterous king-cup yellow.
“Yes, I’d heard you were being loaned to us in our distress.” Larch resumed his seat and waved Purbright to another. “I only hope someone’s told you what you’re supposed to do. We”—he gestured largely with his hand—“are baffled.”
“Perhaps the best arrangement,” said Purbright, cheerfully ignoring the irony, “would be for me—the interloping damn nuisance—to be hived off where I shan’t be always getting in your hair. The Chiefs idea, apparently, is that my not being a local man might make me useful as a...” He shrugged; the suggestion had come out clumsily.
“As a Special Investigator,” Larch maliciously provided.
“Sounds dreadful, doesn’t it? Seriously, though, you don’t want me cluttering up this place, do you. Let me go snooping in the open air.” Purbright stared enviously at the sun-slaked pantiles of an old warehouse opposite the window.
“You are free to do what you please, Mr Purbright. I shouldn’t be so childish as to try and make you feel uncomfortable. You’re only carrying out instructions—however goddam stupid I happen to think them.”
“I was rather afraid that you’d kick me out.”
“So I should if I thought you’d have any success in making me look small. But you’re just wasting your time.”
“Nothing could be a waste of time in weather like this.” Purbright was still looking out of the window.
“All right. Make it a holiday. You might as well. Because this much I will tell you. The town’s chock-a-block with lunatics. They’ll chatter and natter for as long as you’ve a mind to listen. You’ll get your criminal all right—a dozen times over. I only hope you’ve brought a cart.”
Purbright smiled appreciatively. “Tell me, Mr Larch: what would be your own selected cart-load?”