Purbright followed. They were in a lobby which, though spacious, did not quite allow that distancing of parties essential to the proper display of indignation. Dr Gule nevertheless made no move towards accommodation more suitable for that purpose. He remained standing—tight-lipped and uncertain beside a table bearing a telephone, a litter of magazines and a brassière.
Bradley glanced about him. There were three doors, one ajar, revealing a lavatory; also an arched opening through which the girl had retreated. Music pulsed out of it like a chain of muffled explosions.
“What exactly is it you want?” Dr Gule inquired. “I have an appointment very shortly.”
“I beg your pardon?” Bradley was cupping a hand to his ear.
The doctor swung about and marched out of the lobby. A moment or two later the sudden muting of the sounds within was followed by a nasal wail of objection. Gule reappeared, pale with annoyance.
“Yes?” His look suggested that they had been waiting to try and sell him an home pharmacopoeia.
“Look, sir,” said Purbright, “don’t you think it would be better if we went inside and sat down comfortably to talk?”
“No, I don’t. I have an important appointment in a matter of a few minutes.”
Bradley lit an understanding smile. “Come now, doctor: Inspector Purbright and I are used to a little untidiness. You should see some of the homes I’ve had to visit off the Caledonian Road.”
Dr Gule looked at Purbright. “What is your chief constable’s telephone number?
“His home number is ex-directory, sir.”
“No doubt. You know it, though, surely?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Well?”
“If you wish to speak to Mr Chubb, I could ask the station if he is available and willing to receive the call on his extension line.”
“Do that.”
Purbright crossed to the telephone and disinterred it from the pile of magazines. He dialled, then dangled the bra from one finger, and held it out towards Gule in an absent-minded offer of custodianship, which the doctor pointedly ignored. After a while Bradley relieved Purbright of the brassière and, at the moment of the doctor’s reaching to accept the phone, draped it reverently over his forearm.
Purbright’s helpfulness was not uninspired by his knowledge that Mr Chubb would, at this time of day, almost certainly be engaged either in tending his greenhouse cultures or in grooming his Yorkshire terriers: both tasks of pre-eminent importance to him. He therefore was not surprised by the difficulty the consultant appeared to experience in making his identity known and appreciated; nor by the early termination—obviously on the initiative of the chief constable—of the ensuing exchange.
When, trembling and white-faced, Dr Gule put down the receiver, Purbright addressed him firmly and with seriousness.
“Let us waste no further time, doctor. We are investigating what may be murder. It is in your own interest as well as ours that you answer our questions as fully and clearly as you can. If you wish me to emphasize that point, I shall have to tell you—and this is no more and no less than the truth—that you, as far as the evidence goes at the moment, were the last person to see the victim alive.”
“Victim? What victim?” The repetition of the word was made quietly, without bluster, as though Gule found puzzling the use by Purbright of so melodramatic a term.
Bradley answered. His attitude, too, was now more grave. “The man’s name is O’Dwyer. A Londoner.”
“Why should you suppose I might know anything about such a man? O’Dwyer... Who is he—a patient?”
“I doubt it, sir,” said Purbright. “But he did call to see you. Here. Late on Thursday night.”
Gule’s implacably cold expression did not change, but there was a distinct pause before he spoke again.
“And from what source did you obtain that piece of information?”
“Would you mind telling me why Mr O’Dwyer came to see you on Thursday night, sir?”
The doctor stared defiantly at Purbright for some seconds longer, then half turned aside, shrugging.
“Someone did call here, yes. Fellow in his forties. An unpleasant and obstreperous man whose name I do not know and have no desire to know. From the fact that...”
“Such a man?” Bradley was holding up by one corner the photograph of O’Dwyer.
Gule glowered at it. “Yes. Obvious psychopath. I gathered afterwards that he’d been causing trouble at the Close. He put his hand through a glass door, apparently.”
“He was injured?”
“One hand was wrapped up. It had bled. I assumed that there had been an accident nearby and that some fool had sent the wretched man round to me. Consultants might as well be plumbers as far as some people are concerned.”
“You did admit this man, though,” said Bradley.
“He pushed his way in,” Gule amended. The tone implied that psychopaths and police inspectors had certain traits in common.
“Without explanation?”
“Without any coherent explanation. He raved and made threats. I thought he was drunk.”
“What was the nature of his threats, sir?” Purbright asked.
“I have no idea.”
“You mean you have forgotten them, doctor?”
“I mean that I paid no attention to them. They simply did not register.”
“You thought the man was drunk,” said Bradley, helpfully.
“I did, yes—as I have said already.”
“And ever since,” pursued Bradley, with no less solicitude, “you have been anxious.”
“Anxious? Anxious about what?”
“A motor car was driven away that night by a man you assumed to be drunk. You are a public-spirited citizen. You cannot have been indifferent to the possible consequences.”
Dr Gule looked at his watch. “I have had more important things to think about.”
Bradley considered, then nodded. “Which would explain why you did not report to the police that a drunken stranger who had forced his way into your house and threatened you was now at large on the public highway in charge of a motor car.”
Gule by now was looking extremely angry. “If you have finished with the insinuations, inspector...” He made as if to open the front door. The move had no effect on Bradley. He made another of his bland announcements.
“We are pleased to bring you reassurance, doctor. Mr O’Dwyer was not intoxicated when he intruded upon your hospitality. My colleague”—with a slightly courtly gesture he indicated Purbright—“will confirm that the post-mortem showed his system at death to have been absolutely innocent of alcohol.”