“He was knocked about, was poor old Crutchy. One of the ladies on ‘B’ was going past when somebody opened the door and she saw him. He’d had a bash on the face, she said.”
“She’d say anything, that one,” said the fat lady.
“You don’t know who it was. I never said.”
“You didn’t have to. It was that Lily Harrison, out of George Street.”
The old lady with the knitting spoke. “The doctor was with him yesterday morning, I know that. He came special.”
“Who was this visitor he was supposed to have had, then?” inquired Arthur, not quite so contemptuously, of the fat lady.
She gave a shake of the head, steamed a little, then turned to Walt. “Somebody said he looked like a clergyman—who was that?” (Walt did not know.) “Aye, well, he did.”
“Fine sort of clergyman he turned out to be,” said the knitting lady.
By now the two inspectors were being either ignored altogether by those taking part in the conversation or treated as friendly neutrals to be smiled at and invited to bear witness to the things said.
After ten minutes or so, they wandered off and compared gleanings as they strolled along one of the paths that promised to lead eventually to where they had left their car.
“It would appear,” said Bradley, “that my Mr O’Dwyer paid a personal call on his correspondent on Thursday night. At supper time—that does sound characteristic.”
“But it hardly squares with what we thought at first,” said Purbright. “His car having been left nearby, we supposed he had paid his visit here after the Moldham break-in—about two in the morning.”
“He could have come twice.”
Purbright looked doubtful. “Too risky, surely. That ‘set-to’ we heard about must have put the night staff on their guard. O’Dwyer would realize that.”
Bradley was silent for a moment. Then he asked: “Why, do you suppose, was Mr Wellbeloved so much worse informed of attacks on residents than Lily Harrison of George Street?”
They were walking past a long brick outbuilding. Purbright glanced into one of its windows. He pulled at Bradley’s sleeve and pointed to a bench inside the hut.
Laid on the bench were three rectangular plaster casts, at various stages of painting. One picture, though incomplete, Purbright recognized as a fellow of lot thirty-four. Some empty frames also were on the bench. Hanging on the wall nearby were several moulds.
“The source,” remarked Purbright, “of Mrs Moldham-Clegg’s work of art.”
They walked on.
“We were talking of Mr Wellbeloved,” said Inspector Bradley, “and his failure to know about a visitor who beat up one of his dear old souls.”
Purbright was looking with some concentration at the next outbuilding on their route. “If I am not mistaken, that is where the dear old soul in question will have been put.”
“The infirmary?”
“I believe so.”
A concrete ramp led from the path to white double doors in the building’s gable end. When they drew level with it, they stopped and glanced at each other.
“I wonder,” said Purbright softly, as they pushed and found yielding one of the doors, “if he still takes bets?”
Chapter Nine
Beyond the double doors was a small lobby and a further door. Purbright knocked gently. There was no response. He pushed it open.
Bradley followed him into a white-tiled room with a sink, cupboards and a desk. It looked likely to be a combination of dispensary and office. A door in the opposite wall was ajar. They heard the sounds of light footsteps and of glassware being set down. Purbright opened wide the door and beckoned Bradley to stand beside him.
“Good afternoon,” he called.
There were four very white-looking beds in the big, peach-glossed room. Three were empty, their covers folded and set in a neat pile on each. The second bed on the left was bulged by an occupant. A young girl in nurse’s uniform with a round, button-nosed face and a fringe of pale blonde hair was standing by the bed, half turned, looking surprised. She held a small conical glass.
“We are looking,” said Purbright, in a stage whisper, “for Mr Anderson—Mr Harold Anderson.”
The girl raised her nearly colourless eyebrows and pointed at the bed. She appeared to be somewhat at a loss.
The policemen moved nearer. Bradley gave the girl an avuncular grin but desisted when she looked startled.
“I don’t think he’s supposed to see anybody,” she said. “Are you family?”
Purbright said no, they were, regrettably, policemen, but they would not trouble the old gentleman for long; they only wished to ask him a couple of questions.
“It’s a pity you weren’t here five minutes ago,” the nurse said. “Doctor’s only just gone. You could have asked him if it was all right.”
“Doctor Gule, do you mean?” Purbright asked, quickly.
“That’s right.”
“He was here this afternoon?”
“Yes. You must have passed him at the gate if you’ve only just arrived.”
There came a weak but cheerful croak from the bed.
“ ’Ullo, skipper.”
“Hello, Crutchy,” responded Purbright.
The bony old head on the pillow looked as if it had been knocked about on jetties, hatch covers and pub doorways all its life. It was pitted and creased with black, like long-weathered wood. On jaw, cheek and brow were small strips of sticking plaster, startlingly bright pink.
“What have they been doing to you, then?”
The head gave a little jerk of disgust and one of the cavernous eye sockets creased into a dreadful wink. “Whurrh,” growled Crutchy.
The nurse looked at patient and policeman in turn. “Doctor said nobody, actually, but I suppose he meant ordinary people. Don’t be long, though, will you? Mr Anderson’s just had a sedative and he’ll want to go to sleep again.”
She gave the bed-covers a tweak and left.
Purbright recognized in Anderson the drowsy amiability of the slightly drunk or doped; this was going to be like playing twenty questions.
“It was this fellow Charlie Chubb, was it, who duffed you up on Thursday night, Crutchy?”
The old man hesitated, then shrugged one shoulder. “Aye, I suppose so.”
“Who is he?”
“I dunno. Fellow from London.”
“Yes, but not just any fellow. You wrote to him and told him about a picture and things that Whippy Arnold wanted him to have.”
Craftiness surfaced through Anderson’s dose of sedative. “I never ’ad no picture, skipper. Dunno about it.”