Slate smiled at Sara Bosustow behind the counter of the Serpentine souvenir booth and strolled towards the gate. Really, he thought, apart from the absence of someone pestering the clients to have their photographs taken, the circus was going about its daily business as though the blackmailer had never existed...
He was a few yards from the gate when somebody hailed him. He swung round. Superintendent Curnow, blue eyes twinkling, was talking to the man on duty.
"Hallo, there, Mr. Slate," the policeman called. "What are you doing up here, eh? Soaking up a bit of our local colour or trying to make your hotel expenses at the Bingo stall?"
"Taking an afternoon off, if you must know," the agent grinned. He walked over and shook hands. "How are your enquiries going? May we, the public, expect an early arrest?"
Curnow's expressive face darkened. "I'm not too sure of that," he said, "and that's the truth. We can't make up our minds whether the two murders are connected or not. On the one hand, there are things about the manner of them, the particular kind of callousness involved, that make me think they are; on the other hand, despite the fact that both victims worked here, there seems little doubt that there is nothing motive-wise to connect them... As a matter of fact, I'm on my way to Harry Bosustow's caravan now to collect all his negatives. We received an anonymous tip-off today that there might be something there — and while we don't normally act on anonymous letters, we have to explore every avenue we can in a murder case, don't we?"
"How do you mean 'something there'?" Mark asked. "Haven't you gone over the caravan? — If you don't mind my asking, that is."
"Naturally we have. But we didn't actually take out each individual negative and project it; we just saw the kind of thing they were and, as it were, filed them away for future reference. Our unknown helper seems to think there may actually be a clue in the subjects of these pictures. So we have to look just in case."
"I see. Any other developments?"
"Not in the case of Miss Duncan, no. But the pathologist in Penzance passed on a message from the lab that may have a bearing on Harry Bosustow's murder. It seems there were traces of paint behind the knees of his trousers — and it's a paint sold by ship's chandlers. Carries a built-in rust-inhibitor and an anti-saltwater-corrosion agent."
"So it looks as though...?"
"It looks as though it's a clue to the craft he was taken out and drowned in. Marked his trousers when he struggled as they pushed him over the gunwale, I guess. Poor devil."
"It's fresh paint, is it?"
"Oh, yes. Been painted pretty recently, the lab said, otherwise it'd never have come off in sufficient quantities to register like that— specially after a few hours of immersion."
"Can you trace it to any specific boat here?"
"Not here, no. I had thought perhaps he might have been taken off in one of the crabbers — he was pretty friendly with some of the crews. But there's not but five fishing boats left in Porthallow today, and every one of them's blue and black with a white line around her waist."
"The paint was none of those colours, I assume?"
"Bless you, no. Didn't I say...? No, it was a very unusual colour — and that may be a help or it may be a hindrance; it all depends. All we know for certain is that there's no craft in Porthallow painted that way."
"What was the colour?"
"It's a kind of orangey-red. Oriental Dawn, they call it!" Curnow chuckled. "The names they think of! But it's an odd colour for the outside of a boat, and that's the truth."
"It couldn't have been from the inside? From a cabin, for instance?"
The policeman shook his head. "No. That's one thing they were sure about. It came from a gunwale. They can tell by the way it's come off on the material, for one thing. For another, there were traces of salt in it. And fish scales."
"So all you have to do is look for a boat…
"With a hull in Oriental Dawn. Exactly. As I say, it may be a help or it may be a hindrance... Here, I say, look at the time! I must be getting along for those photos."
"Good luck, then," Mark said.
"We shall probably need it, Mr. Slate. We shall probably need it... I say, I do like that coat! Those short overcoats are very practical, aren't they… I could do with one like that when I'm out on the moors sometime with the Customs and Excise boys!"
The agent smiled at his unabashed enthusiasm and began to walk back towards April's caravan. He must leave Curnow time to start ferretting about in the locker below the bed before he re-entered the adjacent trailer…
Sara Bosustow called him over as he passed the Serpentine booth. "Saw you talking to the Law," she said. "Haven't they arrested Handsome Gerry yet?... I can't for the life of me think why they don't pull him in. Everyone but them knows he's the one as killed Sheila... and it wouldn't surprise me if he done in poor Harry too." Her smouldering eyes filled with tears at the memory.
"Don't worry, Sara," he said. "I'm sure they'll pull in the murderer as soon as they have all the evidence they need — whoever it is." He waved and went on.
Round a corner behind the sideshows, he almost ran full tilt into Curnow again. The Superintendent was talking to Ernie Bosustow — and the boy's face was dark with rage. "... call off your rotten tails and leave me alone," he was saying defiantly, "or, so help me, I'll turn round and land one of the bleeders such a swipe as he'll never forget! Give a dog a bad name, that's your motto, isn't it? Just because I got a bit of a temper, then I'm the one must of done it."
"That's enough of that, Bosustow. Drop it now," Curnow grated — sounding very different from the slow-spoken saloon-bar friend Mark had just left.
"Drop it, is it?" the boy raved. "Just because you're determined to railroad me into gaol for a murder someone else committed, I'm supposed to sit tight and say 'Yes, sir,' and 'No, sir' and 'Thank you, Mr. Curnow' — is that it?"
"You know that isn't true —"
"I know a social climber when I see one, and I know the real murderer has a handle to his name — so I know, too, how much chance I have of getting a fair trial! And talking of trials, why don't you arrest me? Go on, take me in... I'll come. Arrest me! Maybe a jury would give me a better deal than I get here."
"I'm a patient man, lad, but if you don't button that lip..."
Slate rolled his eyes heavenwards and turned back. Neither man had seen him. If he hurried round the other way, he could make the caravan before the policeman reached Bosustow's next door.
He had only just closed the door and sunk, panting, to the bed when the bleep of his Communicator told him that April was ready to talk again. He snatched it from his pocket and pulled up the aerial.
"Channel open," he said crisply. "How goes the walk?"
"Freezing!" the girl's voice said. "But the breakers down below the path as you walk round the corner into the cove are something to write home about. Fabulous!"