Purbright spoke to Hive. “Give me a few seconds, though I don’t expect he’ll give anything away over the phone. Try and make an appointment. That will give us time to arrange things.” He hurried to the door.
In the other office, he lifted the receiver of the little one-line switchboard and heard Hive’s call ringing out. It was answered by a woman. Purbright recognized the voice of Doreen Booker.
“May I speak to Mr Booker, please?”
“Who is that?”
“Hastings is my name.”
“I’m afraid Mr Booker isn’t back yet.”
“Are you expecting him shortly?”
“Well, not really. He’ll be busy at the school until about seven.”
“He’s there now, is he?”
“That’s right. But I could get him to...”
“I’m in a bit of a hurry, actually, Mrs Booker. If you could just give me the school number...”
Purbright replaced the receiver and waited until he judged the second call to have been put through. On listening again, he heard only the breathing of Mr Hive and a succession of small, distant noises suggestive of a telephone left off its rest. Nothing else happened for quite a long time. Then he heard hasty footsteps, the closing of a door, the rumble of the picked-up phone.
“Booker here...” The voice was guarded, but laden with annoyance.
“Don’t ring off. This is extremely important.”
A pause.
“Who is that?”
“Hastings—but don’t ring off. I’ve something urgent to tell you.”
There was another interval. Purbright could hear faint shouts. They sounded like those of boys. A car engine was being started somewhere. The echoing slam of a distant door.
“Are you listening?”
No reply.
“Dover—I said, are you listening?”
“All right. What is it?” Booker sounded very close to the telephone mouthpiece; he spoke in a kind of curt, lipless murmur.
“Don’t you know?” Purbright recognized that Hive was trying to put the right degree of casual menace into his tone, but all too obviously he was no expert.
“The money? It’s there. I sent a boy.”
“I don’t mean the money. I’m talking about Folkestone.”
“I...don’t think I follow you.”
“Folkestone—I know who he is.”
“Well.”
“He’s a man called Palgrove. His wife...”
“Now look here, Hive; I’m not concerned with this business any more. It’s all forgiven and forgotten. You’ll have the rest of your money just as soon as I pick up your account. Or tell me what it is now, if you like, and I’ll put a cheque in the post tonight.”
Purbright waited. Hive seemed to be undecided what to say.
“Will that suit you?” Booker asked.
“Well, it’s eighty-five guineas, actually. There’s been quite a lot of...”
“It will be waiting for you when you get back to London tomorrow.”
Again Hive hesitated. Purbright swore to himself. The man was hopeless, absolutely hope...
“No.”
It was Mr Hive’s voice, suddenly firm and challenging.
“No, I am not going to be paid off like a taxi-driver. I consider that you owe me an explanation.”
“Of what?”
“Of, of...yes, all right, then—of this wretched woman’s murder!”
Purbright gripped the phone close to his ear while he delved urgently with his free hand for paper and pencil. For what seemed a long time after he had found them, there came to him nothing but background sounds from the echoing corridors of the school.
Then the cold, restrained voice of Booker.
“This conversation is becoming a little too foolish to be continued over the telephone. I think you’d better come over here. Straight away, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Hello...” said Mr Hive, several times. There was no answer.
Chapter Sixteen
Om his return to Miss Teatime’s office, Purbright found Mr Hive in a mood approaching elation.
“Ah, my dear Inspector! Did you hear that?” A sweeping gesture indicated the phone. “We are to beard him in his den!”
“I don’t wish to discourage you, Mr Hive, but you must not expect too much from this interview. Booker strikes me as a very circumspect gentleman.”
“That is exactly what I have been trying to tell him, Mr Purbright,” said Miss Teatime, who was gathering together the cups and saucers. “He is also very resourceful.” She caught the inspector’s eye and gave him a private little head-shake. Purbright saw that it was meant as an appeal for Mr Hive’s protection.
“One thing must be understood,” Purbright said to Mr Hive. “In your own interests, you must avoid provoking this man too rashly. I shall keep as close to you as I can without arousing his suspicion. If he incriminates himself in my hearing, well and good. But for heaven’s sake don’t drive him into making an attack on you or anything like that.”
Hive smiled. “My dear chap, this is no time for boasting, but if you think I have never before faced danger you are sadly mistaken. I have collected my fair share of honourable scars, as Lucy here will tell you.”
“I will tell the inspector nothing of the sort, Mortimer. Neither bedroom nor bar-room wounds qualify for medals in this country, and even those have long since healed in your case. It is only your juvenile exuberance that is undiminished, and I am afraid that it will get you into trouble.”
“Heavens above, woman! Would you have me grow old?” Hive threw back his shoulders. “I am a soldier of fortune, and justice”—he glanced winningly at Purbright—“is my new captain! Have I not just given up eighty-five guineas for him?”
Suddenly he looked serious. “Do you suppose the court will recompense me for that? I mean, it is a legitimate fee, you know.”
“There’s nothing to stop you suing the estate of a convicted felon, so far as I know,” said Purbright.
Mr Hive looked dubious. “It would be rather like kicking a man when he was down, wouldn’t it? Those unspeakable bloody lawyers would get it, anyway.” He shrugged and took up his coat from the back of the chair.
As the two men were leaving, Miss Teatime touched Hive’s sleeve. She looked at him earnestly.
“Now, Mortimer—none of this Rupert of Hentzau nonsense. You promise?”
Hive closed his eyes and for a moment of self-dedication held his hat against his breast. Then he twirled about and in three long, springing strides reached the door, which Purbright was holding open for him.
They evolved their plan on the way to the school. Hive was to enter first, on his own. From a shop doorway opposite the school gates, Purbright would be able to keep him under observation while he walked up a short carriageway and through glass doors into the entrance hall. There he was to wait for Booker. In the hall were the doors of two, perhaps three, small interview rooms, and the inspector thought that one or other of these rooms would almost certainly be Booker’s choice for a private talk. The staff room he obviously would avoid, as he would the headmaster’s study; and the various offices and storerooms were likely to be locked. Once Purbright had noted through which door Booker had taken his visitor, he would follow and do what he could to hear what was said.