Chubb lacked his inspector’s advantage of having chatted over the phone half an hour previously with the branch manager of Boots. He waited a moment, then yielded. “Those sources being?”
“Two types of proprietary medicine, sir, both unrestrictedly on sale, I understand. One is a tablet for the relief of menstrual pain; the other is intended to prevent motion sickness—a so-called travel pill, in fact.”
“In that case, the man could have taken the stuff himself. Even an overdose by accident. They are not too bright in that district, you know.”
Purbright knew better than to dispute the chief constable’s method of assessment by address. He said merely: “It was a fairly substantial overdose—probably ten tablets or more.”
“Of the travel sickness stuff, you mean?”
“I doubt if even a man living in Abdication Avenue would suppose himself to be suffering from period pains, sir.”
“Perhaps not,” conceded Mr Chubb, impassively. He frowned at his finger ends. “What does this hyoscine whatsitsname do? In that sort of quantity.”
“I’m told the effects would vary a good deal from person to person. There would almost certainly be excitement, though, to begin with, quickly followed by loss of control and even collapse.”
The chief constable sighed. “I suppose this is all part of what they call getting kicks nowadays. It seems a pity, though, that a grown man has to play the fool on a roundabout. Fairs are for children. This sort of thing spoils them.”
“We do not know,” Purbright pointed out, “that Tring took the drug of his own volition. There was another man with him on the ride. Girls in the car behind say that both men were having drinks from the same bottle, but Tring more than his companion.”
“Who was this other fellow?”
“He hasn’t come forward, sir. And no one so far has been able to identify him. The fairground attendant who took their money remembers the pair, but only because of the things they were wearing—their motor-cycling outfits. He didn’t get a look at the face of either.”
By this time, Mr Chubb was wearing that expression of mournful omniscience which betokened an inability to make sense of what he had been told. Purbright recognised that he need offer only a couple more pieces of confusing evidence for the chief constable suddenly to consult his watch, express alarm lest he be late for an undefined appointment, and hasten away to the sanctuary of the greenhouse at his home in Queen’s Road.
“A bottle,” persisted the inspector, “which might well be the one from which Tring and his friend were taking nips, fell among the crowd just before Tring’s body came down. It was smashed, of course, but P.C. Johnson very sensibly collected the pieces, including a corner of the base that still held a few drops of whisky. I asked the analyst to do what he could with it.”
Purbright glanced at the second report before replacing it in his pocket. “The sample wasn’t big enough to yield much information, but there’s no doubt it was whisky, or something very similar. One queer thing, sir. An unusually high proportion of sugar.”
“What about that drug, though?” Mr Chubb inquired. “The hyoscine?” He began to move a hand towards the watch pocket of his waistcoat.
The inspector shook his head. “Too small a sample, sir. It’s the sugar reading that could be significant, though.”
“Oh, yes, Mr Purbright?” Finger and thumb closed upon the silver watch chain.
“The motion sickness pills I mentioned earlier consist mainly of a chewable, palatable base—some kind of sugary substance. Ten or a dozen dissolved in part of a quartern bottle of whisky would account for what the analyst found. Of course, I don’t need to tell you that a straight malt is not normally sweetened for drinking.”
The chief constable perceptibly paled. It was two or three seconds before he hauled up his slim silver watch and muttered “Gracious me, road safety committee.”
“You will wish me to push ahead with inquiries as a matter of some urgency, sir?” Purbright rose to his feet.
“Certainly, Mr Purbright. If there is anything further you wish to ask me, please don’t hesitate.”
“Thank you, sir.” Almost at the door, Purbright turned. “One small point, sir. Glenmurren whisky is a fairly unusual brand, I understand; do you happen to know anyone who buys it? We shall be asking the various suppliers, but short cuts are always appreciated.”
Mr Chubb stared ruminatively at the opposite wall. He shook his head. “It does ring a bell.” A pause. “But rather distantly.”
Purbright grasped the door handle, then saw the chief constable raise his hand.
“Gwill,” said Mr Chubb, very affirmatively and with satisfaction. “Gwill. Old Marcus. He used to drink the stuff. I remember they kept some in for him at the club before he passed on.”
Purbright’s ease of recall of the “passing on” in question was not surprising. The bizarre electrocution in 1958 of Marcus Gwill, proprietor of the Flaxborough Citizen, had provided the inspector with his first murder case. 1
“Mind you,” added Mr Chubb, “I can’t see that poor old Marcus’s preferences can have any bearing on this business of yours. Just one of those odd little memories.”
“Yes, sir. Funny old world.” And Purbright departed before Mr Chubb could decide whether the remark had been philosophic or fatuous.
Back in his own office, he found Detective Sergeant Love in wait, looking pleased.
“We’ve been trying to get hold of you,” Love announced. “A missing person case has turned up.”
“Do you mean that a disappearance has become apparent?”
“No, it’s this tottie. She’s gone.”
Purbright closed his eyes and lowered himself gently into the chair behind his desk. “Look, Sid—one thing at a time. First of all, I want a whole lot more questions asked about the Tring business. I’ll help you make a list, then we can get the infantry organised.”
A programme of inquiry was devised. The main task would be the thankless one of questioning Tring’s known associates in an effort to find the identity of his companion on what Love, a reckless coiner of journalistic phrases, was pleased to term his “death ride”. Also there would need to be a closer and more persistent examination of the man’s activities both at his place of work and elsewhere, on the principle, as expressed by the sergeant, that “nobody gets done in without asking for it”. And lastly—again the definition of objective was owed to Love’s earthy percipience—there was that “pricey Scotch jollop” to be traced to source.
“And now,” Purbright said after disposition of manpower had been sketched out, “what is this about a missing tottie?”
1 Reported in Coffin Scarcely Used
Chapter Eleven
Upon Mr and Mrs M. H. Rothermere, of Hampstead, London, emerging from connubial slumber on the first floor of the Jesmondia Hotel, attended the proprietoress in person, with breakfast tray borne in her wake by her husband, the major.