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Mr Chubb considered. “I see your point. But surely Hopjoy was a bit of a blackguard where women were concerned. Would he have been all that upset about one in particular?”

“Promiscuity and jealousy are by no means incompatible, sir.”

The Chief Constable raised his brows.

“In fact, the more sexually adventurous a man is, the more violently he tends to resent trespass on his own preserves.”

“Oh,” said Mr Chubb, meekly. “You think then...”—he turned to see where the earwig had got to—“we should be wrong to let the whole thing drop?”

Purbright rose. “I quite agree with you, sir; we should keep an eye on things a little longer. Hopjoy certainly ought to be traced, even if Major Ross tries to go against your judgment.”

Mr Chubb resolutely picked the earwig from the trellis and trod on it.

“After all,” said Purbright, “there has been, in a sense, one attempt on Periam’s life. When it is seen to have failed, there may be another—on less unorthodox lines.”

Chapter Fourteen

To the multitude of elusives for whom watch is proclaimed to be kept at British ports, rail termini and airports, was added the name of Brian Hopjoy. If encountered, he was to be asked simply to get into touch with the Chief Constable of Flaxborough. The request had been difficult to frame. “What do we say we want him for?” Mr Chubb had asked; “...to collect his hat?” He had carefully refrained from mentioning the matter to Ross or Pumphrey, although he did ask, at Purbright’s suggestion, if he might borrow from them the photograph of Hopjoy which, as far as anyone could find out, was the only one in existence. Pumphrey, looking as if he had been casually requested to assassinate the Prime Minister when he next happened to be in London, had emphasized with some asperity the topness of the secrecy involved and begged him to be more circumspect.

The withholding of the photograph made local inquiries more difficult, too. Purbright prepared a composite of descriptions offered by the next-door neighbours, Mr Tozer, and the manager of the Neptune Hotel—who seemed especially eager to help—and gave it to the two plain clothes men who could be spared for visits to railway stations and bus depots and taxi firms within a radius of three or four miles. The usual feats of memory were forthcoming: Hopjoys had entrained for London, Birmingham and Newcastle simultaneously with their journeys by road to Lincoln, Cambridge, Swindon and Keswick.

Sergeant Love, conscientiously but fruitlessly urging the residents of Pawson’s Lane to recall sounds of angry altercation in a house ‘over the back’, found time to present the inspector with a theory he had evolved on his own.

“This chap was in hospital fairly recently, according to Bill Malley, wasn’t he?”

“He was. A lover’s tiff, I gather—with the husband.”

“Yes, well if it was something serious he might still need treatment. You know—you hear of fellows on the run who have to nip into a doctor’s when they use up their special pills.”

“That field’s a bit narrow, Sid. We should have heard if Hopjoy were a diabetic, surely. Still, it’s worth a try; that description badly needs strengthening, if only with a scar or two.”

The sergeant, one of whose private dreams accommodated Editor Love, waistcoated and dynamic, appraising a re-plated page one, set off again for Pawson’s Lane with his mind embannered by SCARFACED PLAYBOY SOUGHT IN WARD TEN: MUST RENEW MIRACLE DRUG.

No such dramatic and socially desirable potentialities appeared to have occurred to Sister Howell, in charge of the male surgical ward at Flaxborough General Hospital. She was a cool, smooth, stiffly laundered woman, with an indestructible smile guarding the pink sugar fortress of her face while her eyes were absent on their continual darting quest for faults. Purbright delivered his inquiry with the sense of being accounted no more important than one of the dust motes that submissively descended through a shaft of sunlight to the level of Sister Howell’s sensible shoes.

She heard him out. Then she slightly re-arranged the smile (the eyes still could not be spared, even for the briefest introduction) and told him that much as she would like to be obliging, he would, of course, understand that it was quite, quite impossible to divulge confidential medical matters even to an inspector of police.

Purbright assured her that he did appreciate and respect her loyalty, but wondered if perhaps she could modify it in the wider interests of justice. It had, unhappily, become the task of the police to trace her former patient, who had disappeared, and knowledge of his late injuries or ailments might be of considerable assistance.

“I’m sorry,” said Sister Howell, folding fingers devotionally over her apron.

“Then perhaps if I were to refer to Mr Harton personally...”

The eyes, instantly obedient to recall in appropriate circumstances, were trained upon him at last. “Mr Harton is a very busy man. He’s probably in theatre. I really couldn’t...”

The door at the end of the corridor swung open abruptly. A procession bore down upon them. Sister Howell plucked Purbright’s sleeve and drew him against the wall. “There’s Mr Harton now,” she whispered urgently. Purbright wondered if he were expected to kneel.

The surgeon advanced with a slow, easy stroll. Keeping precisely level with him were the short, sturdy legs of the Matron, to the rhythm of whose ponderous trot her cassock-red dewlap rose and fell. Harton and his consort were closely followed by a young nurse who carried a stack of folders and gazed idolatrously at the back of the surgeon’s head. Then came a pair of house physicians in white coats, unbuttoned and trailing black tentacles from the pockets. Seven or eight students, murmuring to one another and looking at their hands, shuffled along in the rear. Every now and again the parade was halted while Mr Harton paid particular, head-inclined attention to the Matron’s commentary and rewarded her with a mellifluent ring of laughter.

As the procession was about to wheel off into the ward, Purbright politely but firmly removed Sister Howell’s restraining hand and stepped forward. He smiled apologetically at the Matron, then introduced himself to Harton. The surgeon, imperturbably gracious, took him aside into the empty duty room. Through the closed glass door Purbright saw the retinue congeal into attitudes of respectful patience.

Harton, whom Purbright had thought it politic to give fairly fully the reasons for his inquiry, nodded with good-humoured sagacity. Nearly as tall as the policeman, he had skin the colour of an advertisement for tinned ham. This slightly incredible wholesomeness of complexion was emphasized (quite horridly, some thought) by strong, disciplined waves of prematurely white hair. His were the bright, steady eyes of one who has learned to render charm intimidating. The flawless cheeks flanked an unexpectedly tiny, drawn-in mouth, his only unrelaxed feature, which ambition had prinked like a flan edging. When he spoke, which he did most musically, his lower teeth were displayed more than the upper.