Her shoulders stiffened, tendons jerked into prominence amidst the flaccid flesh of the neck, her mouth set in prim dislike.
“Tonight, inspector” (genteel indignation raised the merest ghost of an aspirate before the word) “more than £370 worth of very high quality liquid refreshments were stolen from the club stockroom and handed out to all and sundry by a gang of hooligans. If that isn’t the work of an enemy, I don’t know what is.”
Purbright, marvelling at the promptness and precision of the widow’s stocktaking, asked if she had any idea who was responsible.
“Oh, certainly,” she replied. “The same gentleman” (bitter emphasis here) “who’s been waging a vendetta—and that’s what it is, a vendetta—against me and poor Arnie for a long time. He’s behind it, all right. Councillor—so called—Councillor Harry Crispin. And her as well, of course, but that goes without saying.”
“Mrs Crispin?”
“Missus Crispin! Ho, ho, ho.” Mrs Hatch’s acidulated mirth would have etched glass.
Before conducting any more personal interviews, Purbright set about the release of the hundred or so customers and guests penned in the gaming-room. All had identified themselves, some very reluctantly, and the crowd now displayed an aggrieved restiveness more appropriate to transit camps than to country clubs.
The inspector stated baldly what had happened. He asked if anyone had heard a noise that could have been the firing of a gun, a shotgun: as dwellers in a country area, most of them would know what that sounded like.
The question brought no response at all. It was clear, Purbright reflected, that the washroom, with its closed door and its single tiny window, through which the gun had been thrust before firing, must have acted as a kind of silencer.
Had Mr Hatch been seen that evening by anyone present? A murmur of assent. Where? Bar—gaming-room—lounge—it was his usual tour of the place, they supposed: keeping an eye on things. Time? Oh, half-past nine, perhaps ten; no one had especially noticed.
Did anyone recall seeing a rather dark-complexioned man, heavily-built, not tall, in his sixties but alert-looking, probably with an American accent? Silence. A few head shakes.
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. I’m sorry you’ve been kept waiting about. If anything occurs to any of you later, don’t hesitate to get in touch with me.”
They filed out, suddenly voluble, as though from an exciting film.
Sergeant Love had begun taking statements from members of the staff. He was by nature friendly, eager to please, and in consequence easily sidetracked. Thus, although he learned little or nothing relevant to the murder of their employer, he was treated by the interviewees to glimpses of life behind the bar, the roulette wheel and the serving counter which, he afterwards confessed to the inspector, had gee-whizzed him no little. Part of his sense of wonder had been engendered (though this he did not admit) by the revelatory nature of the costumes of the girls, who quite unselfconsciously presented themselves for questioning in their working gear.
It was as well, perhaps, that the susceptible sergeant did not share the discoveries of Patrolmen Brevitt and Heaney in their search of the motel chalets.
Despite strong objections by Mrs Shooter, whom they left gesticulating and threatening in her boudoir, Brevitt and Heaney set off stolidly in opposite circuits. By the time they met, half way round, they had trawled seven hastily dressed gentlemen and four club hostesses, whose claim to have been simply “turning down the beds” on the manageress’s instructions seemed to the policemen almost as laughable a subterfuge as the assertion by a trio of young gentlemen that they were engaged in a time and motion study.
Chapter Eighteen
The chief constable quietly entered the office in which Purbright was finishing the last interview he thought it reasonable to get through that night. It was with one of the girls Brevitt and Heaney had escorted from the chalets.
Mr Chubb stood close against the side wall and watched in silence. He looked like a schools inspector, observing a lesson.
The girl had been explaining to Purbright that although her real name was Janice Wilkinson, she was known in the club by both staff and customers as Daisy. It was a rule that every hostess had to have a flower name. Mr Hatch liked flower names because they gave the club a nicer tone... Oh, dear, but was it true about poor Mr...Yes, the inspector said, it was I quite true, unfortunately.
“How old are you, Janice?”
“Daisy,” she corrected. “I’m nineteen.”
“You like club work, do you?”
“Oh, yes. It’s super. I want to be a Bunny, though. In a Bunny Club.”
The chief constable stared at her as if she had just expressed a literal zoological ambition.
“Where is your home, Daisy?” Purbright asked.
“My mum and dad live in Chalmsbury. I’m in digs here with one of the other girls.”
“But Mrs Shooter lets you stay in one of the chalets occasionally, does she?”
“When I’ve been working late.”
“And the other girls?”
“Them too. Now and then. Well, it’s a long way out, isn’t it?”
“And of course the motel isn’t needed yet, because it isn’t properly finished. Right?”
Daisy nodded cheerfully. “That’s right. Yes.” She rewarded the inspector’s friendly percipience by shifting in her chair so as to redeploy her parts to their greater advantage.
Mr Chubb stared with grave preoccupation at a wall calendar opposite and began to tap his pursed lips with the knuckle of his right forefinger.
“How did you come to take this job, Daisy?” Purbright went on.
“A friend of mine worked here and I wanted to do modelling in those days and this friend said she sometimes did modelling here so I came along and asked Mr Hatch and he said yes I think I can use you.”
“And do you do modelling?”
A slight pause. “Sort of.”
The answer seemed to satisfy the inspector. “Now then,” he said, “I want you to think carefully about all your other friends here—the Flowers, they’re called—is that right?” (She nodded and made a face.) “Yes, well I want you to tell me if any of these girls are from other countries.”
“What, foreigners, you mean?” Her expression plainly refuted so unwholesome a notion.
“They are all English, are they? You’re sure?”
“Course I’m sure. Except Heather’s from somewhere up in Scotland. And Rose is Birmingham. Mostly they’re from round here.”
Very diffidently, Purbright put his final question.