“It does seem rather a pity,” Mr Chubb said, “that we have to get this sort of information at second hand, so to speak. I should have thought that it fell into the category of gossip.”
“We must not despise gossip if it proves useful, sir.”
“No, but don’t you think that this fellow might get tired of roaming around and making a nuisance of himself if he isn’t encouraged by a lot of fuss? I’ll have a word with Lintz, if you like. He owes me a favour.”
Purbright shook his head. “An editor would want a much better reason than that for suppressing a news item, if you don’t mind my saying so. I’m afraid he would tell you that facts are not private property, sir. And he would be right.”
The Chief Constable made a non-committal murmur and looked gravely wise.
“In any case,” Purbright went on, “I think it will be just as well if the public is put on its guard. This man may have given some pretty futile performances up to now, but I think he’s dangerous—potentially dangerous, at any rate. And if we can’t warn people, I’m sure you wouldn’t want to prevent the newspapers from doing so, sir.”
“Well, not if danger really exists, naturally.”
“I believe it does. That is why I expect you would like me to put as many men as possible on night patrol for a while.”
“I’m sure I can leave you to do what you consider best, Mr Purbright.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The inspector closed the folder he had been holding on his knee and stood up. He was a head taller than the Chief Constable.
Returning to his own office, he discussed with Sergeant Love the deployment of those nocturnal unfortunates whom Love was quick to dub his ‘Crab-catchers’. They agreed that there would be no point in dissipating such meagre resources by trying to cover places like Gorry Wood. Better to give what eye they could to the housing estates within the town boundaries, with special concern for whatever had been troubling the insomniac housewives of Abdication Avenue and its vicinity.
That night, two detectives and five constables gathered in the canteen to be briefed by the inspector.
The detectives looked their usual nondescript selves. The men from the uniformed branch, however, had responded to the instruction to appear in plain, dark clothes by donning their best Sunday suits. They made Purbright think of a bunch of mourners, fortifying themselves with mugs of cocoa before the journey to the cemetery.
After he had assigned them their areas of operation, the inspector told the men what little was known of the characteristics of the quarry. Related baldly, it sounded almost useless, and he noticed that several of his troop looked even more like mourners than they had before.
“Couldn’t we take some decoys with us, sir?”
This suggestion came from Constable Wilkinson, who rose and stood to attention while making it.
In the ensuing murmur of jocular approval could be distinguished such remarks as “Comforts for the troops’ and “Where’s Sadie Bellweather?”
“I think you’d better see what you can do on your own at this stage, gentlemen,” Purbright said. “I’m sorry you’ve so little to work on, but specific information is nearly always lacking in cases of this kind. Victims of sexual assault seldom make good witnesses, as you yourselves will doubtless have found...”
He paused, aware of a certain unfortunate ambiguity in his words, and added:
“But this time at least there seems to be general agreement on one feature—the very peculiar manner of running that your man adopts when challenged. I’m sure you will have no difficulty in recognizing it.
“There is just one hazard of which perhaps I ought to remind you before you leave. This man has been reported as varying his more violent activities with spells of window-watching in the areas you have been given to patrol. Now then, it is right and proper that you should watch for the watcher. That is part of your job. But you will, I am sure, be aware of the unfortunate impression that would be created—not least in the minds of vigilant husbands—if your solicitude were to be observed in turn.”
“What he means,” whispered Detective Pook to the stolid constable at his side, “is that you’re to keep your eyes off the cheesecake in the bathrooms, mate.”
The seven policemen took their final swigs of cocoa, nodded respectful farewells to the inspector, and filed out into the night. Their duty was to end at two o’clock in the morning, which Purbright and Love had decided between them to be a reasonable upper limit to the libidinous potentialities of even the Crab.
For the next four hours, each officer was to stroll as quietly as he was able up and down the streets of his allotted area, linger here and there in whatever concealed vantage points offered, traverse back lanes, peer into gardens and yards, avoid encounters, resist the lure of carelessly curtained windows, and stave off sleep.
It was not the most congenial assignment he could have wished.
Nor, in any instance, did it achieve its object.
The night’s only excitement fell to the lot of Constable Burke.
He had been given surveillance over a group of five interconnecting streets that formed the southern half of the Burton Lane council estate. The area was popularly, if now unjustly, known as ‘Bottle Hill’. This name had been bestowed in days when the place was garrisoned by families of quite remarkably bibulous and quarrelsome tendencies, but no more than three or four of these households had survived the twin ravages of feud and eviction order, and a comparatively conformist type of tenant was now in the majority.
Constable Burke was aware, nevertheless, that the Cutlocks, the O’Shaunessys and the Trings still maintained some of the traditions of a more colourful era. He was not surprised, on passing the home of Grandma Tring and her brood, to hear shrieks suggestive of multiple disembowellings. Nor, when he drew near the scarred homestead known in probation circles as ‘Cutlock Castle’, was he unduly alarmed by the sight of two women trying to pull a third into a bonfire that blazed amidst the weeds of the front garden. It was a little after midnight. The constable strolled on. The prevention of cremations was not in his brief.
What did surprise him very much was the appearance of the O’Shaunessy residence, two hundred yards farther on. With the exception of a single illuminated window on the upper floor, it was in darkness.
Constable Burke halted and ruminated.
He had never before seen the house at any hour of the night otherwise than lit up like a gin palace. This, one supposed, was to facilitate the drift from floor to floor and room to room of the almost perpetual parties and fights that constituted O’Shaunessy hospitality.
Yet tonight the entire galaxy had been snuffed, but for that one lamp upstairs. More strangely still, the place was silent.
For a moment, Constable Burke felt like the first visitor to Glencoe after the departure of the Campbells. Massacre—or perhaps plague—seemed the only possible explanation of the peace that now cloaked the neighbourhood.
Then he glimpsed movement in the one lighted room. There was still life in the house, apparently. He crossed the road and moved slowly towards it.