As soon as Bradley reached the platform, Purbright stepped forward in greeting. Bradley carefully set down his case and shook Purbright’s hand with a Stanley-Livingstone zeal that might have been considered fulsome save that the accompanying gaze of appraisal warmed quickly to friendliness. Then he took off his sash, folded it and put it in his pocket.
“It was very kind of you to come and meet me.”
Bradley made the observation sound like a considered statement.
They walked out into the station square. It was flooded with hot sunshine. Three taxi drivers leaned talking to one another in the lea of their cars; with cap-shaded eyes they marked the emergence of the few passengers and followed them to reunions with waiting friends. Only one arrival appeared to want a taxi. A driver reluctantly peeled himself off the side of his cab and got in.
Purbright led Bradley to his own car. He hoisted the case into the boot; it was as heavy as it looked.
“I’ve brought one or two books,” Bradley explained. “A couple of cassettes, as well.” He declined, despite the heat, to add his overcoat to the luggage.
“We must see if we can make this a little holiday for you—at least in part,” said Purbright.
“I have been much looking forward to something of the kind. The opportunity presents itself dismally seldom.”
“Do you know anything of this eastern side of England?”
“I once was confined to camp at a place somewhere near Skegness.”
“I was confined to one somewhere near Vienna.”
“Ah, it was very important in those days to know one’s place. Promiscuity in any military sense was most unwise. You did not, incidentally, get to the opera by any chance?”
“Not on that occasion, no.”
“I am fond of opera, but the English in general seem to regard it as pretty offensive.”
“Have you ever come across something called amateur operatics?”
“Ah, now there’s an exotic aberration for you.”
“It is still practised in Flaxborough.”
By the time the car drew up in the yard of the Roebuck Hotel, the heady exchange of unprofessional pleasantries, verging as it did upon the fatuous, had given both men a slightly intoxicated feeling.
“We might as well book you in and then have a drink in the bar,” Purbright suggested. “Your meeting my chief constable is unlikely until tomorrow or Monday.”
“Good,” said Bradley.
The receptionist, a tall girl with big, pink-framed spectacles and a loose-knit jumper that draped her bra like a net over whelk shells, watched very attentively the forming of Bradley’s slow, small, neat signature. She turned the book round again, examined the signature right way up, and handed him his key.
Purbright noticed the number.
“Ah, you’ve got the room that Dr Meadows’s murderer occupied.” 1
Bradley glanced at the key, then slipped it in his pocket. He shook his head. “Spoiling me.”
1 Reported in The Flaxborough Crab
Mr Maddox, the manager, was in personal charge of the bar. He was not by nature a cheerful man and he somehow invested his present role with clerical dignity rather than anything in the hospitality line.
Purbright introduced his new friend. Mr Maddox’s solemnity deepened.
“Ah, inspector...” He took a good look, then turned to Purbright again. “A colleague of yours, sir?” He leaned nearer. “A police colleague?” The voice was lowered to a quite intimidating level of what Mr Loughbury would have called confidentiality.
Purbright also leaned forward. “Food and drugs division,” he whispered.
They found seats near a window that overlooked the street. For several minutes Bradley took small, reflective sips of beer while he gazed at the conflict, perpetual in East Street between motorists and pedestrians—or, to be more accurate, between people who had managed to park their cars and those who had not.
It must have reminded him, at least, of another motorist on whose account Mr Bradley now found himself in Flaxborough.
“No sight yet, I presume, of our friend O’Dwyer,” he said.
Purbright shook his head. “He certainly hasn’t been to ask for his car back.”
Bradley pondered a little longer before saying: “You know, that is distinctly out of character.”
“In the circumstances, I’d have thought it very sensible.”
“Ah, but Frankie is not sensible. He is a woefully inept criminal. Would there were more like him.”
“On his record, he should be fairly easily catchable,” said Purbright.
Bradley said, “Hm,” and looked at his beer. “In London,” he said, “the most heinous malefactors are the brewers.” He shrugged back to the subject in hand. “No, we really are worried about Frankie. Domestically, he is very much a creature of habit. He always rings home after a job to put Edna’s mind at rest. I find that quite touching.”
“Edna being...?”
“His common-law wife. A large, industrious woman with yellow ringlets. I went to see her last night. She was very upset. She feels strongly that Frankie is dead.”
“Is that your opinion, too?” Purbright was frowning.
“Not opinion, exactly. Shall we say that I shouldn’t be surprised?”
“What I find especially perplexing at the moment,” said Purbright, “is the man’s presence so far from his own territory. Why should a London burglar—that is his main vocation, I understand?—yes, well, why should he take it into his head to cross half England and turn up at a small town auction sale?”
Bradley smiled slowly. “Yes, it is rather bizarre. But I think I have part of an answer.” He brought out a handful of folded pieces of paper and envelopes from an inner pocket and began to sort through them. “Have you,” he asked “heard of a Mr Anderson?”
“Any particular Anderson? It is not a very uncommon name.”
Bradley selected one of his pieces of paper, unfolded it and placed it carefully on the table beside his beer. “This one signs himself simply ‘Mr Anderson’. There is a certain regality in that, I think; a presumption of universal recognition. Particularly as he sees no necessity to give an address.”
Purbright picked up the paper. It was dark blue, lined, and the writing had been done with a leaky ball-point.