Colin Watson - Hopjoy Was Here

“You can follow the ball-point indentations that have come through,” Purbright pointed out. “They persist for two or three pages down.”

“Not very anonymous now,” remarked Mr Chubb drily. He watched Purbright re-fold the letter and slip it into its parent pad. Then he frowned. “What the dickens are we supposed to make of it all? Some sort of a joke, or what?”

“It would have been no joke for Periam if he’d been convicted of murder, sir.”

“No, by jove, it wouldn’t,” murmured Mr Chubb.

“And yet,” said Purbright, “he very well might have been. The evidence that he killed his lodger and then disposed of his body is very impressive at first sight. We get this letter and naturally presume it’s from a neighbour who has heard a quarrel and might even have seen something suggestive of violence. It makes particular mention of the bathroom—a rather convincing touch, somehow. We have no choice but to investigate. And there they all are, the signs of very nasty goings on—bloodstains, wax coating on the bath, acid burns on the floor, a hammer stuck up with blood and hair. And buried in the garden, the smashed carboy, whose iron basket—too big to bury and too tough to be broken up—has been hastily pushed out of sight in a wardrobe.

“We look in the drains—quite predictably, of course—and sure enough they prove that a body has been destroyed by acid. Whose? Obviously, the loser of the midnight fight in the bathroom which was so considerately reported to us by a watchful neighbour. The winner, if and when we trace him, is bound to be the murderer.

“The survivor, Gordon Periam, is duly found. He is not far away, but that fact in itself is consistent with the self-confidence of the sort of man who can commit and conceal an exceptionally horrid crime. Indeed, all the circumstances in which he is found (as you doubtless recognized yourself, sir) are classically in line. The refuge in sex relations, the flashy hotel with its novel comforts and expense, enjoyment of the victim’s car as well as his girl...the pattern’s complete and absolutely damning.”

The inspector paused to light a cigarette. Mr Chubb regarded him very thoughtfully. He was trying to persuade himself that the point about the classic behaviour of murderers had, indeed, already occurred to him.

“And that, sir,” resumed Purbright, “was the situation as it was presented to us. ‘Presented’ is the operative word, of course. It could have gone straight to the Director of Public Prosecutions there and then, and I dare say that Periam’s indictment would have been automatic. But you were wise not to rush it, sir.”

The Chief Constable modestly turned his gaze to a group of border plants near his foot.

“It was almost inevitable,” Purbright went on, “that some part of so elaborate a set-up would prove faulty. The lab. people spotted it. Those hairs on the hammer were Hopjoy’s all right—or at least they corresponded with some found on his clothing—but they hadn’t arrived there through his having been bashed over the head. According to Warlock, they’d been snipped and stuck on.”

“Yes, but the blood...”

“It doesn’t need too much of a self-inflicted cut, possibly with the corner of a razor blade, to provide enough blood to be smeared on a hammer head. And perhaps a few splashes around the place as well.”

“There was a quarrel, though, Mr Purbright. I don’t think we should let ourselves be led too far away from that fact by chaps with microscopes.”

“Oh, yes, there was a row,” Purbright agreed. “Periam didn’t deny that, as he could very well have persisted in doing. But I think I told you that he said it was a very one-sided affair, with Hopjoy doing all the shouting. If we accept that, might we not consider whether the noise had a special object—to disturb neighbours and put in their minds the presumption of a quarrel?”

“And were they disturbed?”

“Those I’ve spoken to myself say they heard nothing. But Sergeant Love is making inquiries in the houses that back on to Beatrice Avenue. The people there are far more likely to have heard whatever there was to hear; the sound would travel straight across the gardens.”

The Chief Constable nodded. “All right. Now about this business of the body—how do you explain that away? The stuff in the drains and all that.”

“Have you ever read anything about cannibalism, sir?”

“Not avidly, Mr Purbright, no.”

“Well, it seems that human flesh quite closely resembles pork.”

“Indeed.”

“And I learned more or less by chance yesterday that half a pig carcass was stolen recently from a farm where Hopjoy had been a regular and quite intimate visitor. In the boot of that car of his, and in one or two places at the house, Warlock turned up traces of animal blood.”

For nearly a minute, Mr Chubb silently regarded an earwig’s progress along one of the trellis spars.

“I suppose we have to remember,” he said at last, “that tom-foolery of that kind was just the fellow’s line of country. It’s perfectly disgraceful, though, when you think of all the money that’s being spent on the intelligence service. The trouble is, they live in a world of their own. I can’t see that there’s anything we can do about him. I mean there’s nothing we can charge him with.”

Purbright pursed his lips. “Conduct likely to lead...”

“...to a breach of the peace?” Mr Chubb capped the phrase with a sort of sad derision. “You can see his people letting us go ahead with that one, can’t you? Worse than the blasted Diplomatic Corps. He’ll turn up somewhere else with a cock and bull story and start working up a new set of creditors, just you see.”

“There’s rather more to this,” said Purbright slowly, “than mere debt-dodging. A man can arrange his own disappearance without leaving somebody else to face a murder charge. In this case, a great deal of trouble and ingenuity was spent specifically on the incrimination of Periam. But the only thing poor old Periam wasn’t carefully provided with was a motive. Why should he have wanted to kill Hopjoy? If anyone had a motive for murder it was Hopjoy himself—the man whose girl Periam had appropriated.”

Mr Chubb considered. “I see your point. But surely Hopjoy was a bit of a blackguard where women were concerned. Would he have been all that upset about one in particular?”

“Promiscuity and jealousy are by no means incompatible, sir.”

The Chief Constable raised his brows.

“In fact, the more sexually adventurous a man is, the more violently he tends to resent trespass on his own preserves.”

“Oh,” said Mr Chubb, meekly. “You think then...”—he turned to see where the earwig had got to—“we should be wrong to let the whole thing drop?”

Purbright rose. “I quite agree with you, sir; we should keep an eye on things a little longer. Hopjoy certainly ought to be traced, even if Major Ross tries to go against your judgment.”

Mr Chubb resolutely picked the earwig from the trellis and trod on it.

“After all,” said Purbright, “there has been, in a sense, one attempt on Periam’s life. When it is seen to have failed, there may be another—on less unorthodox lines.”

Chapter Fourteen

To the multitude of elusives for whom watch is proclaimed to be kept at British ports, rail termini and airports, was added the name of Brian Hopjoy. If encountered, he was to be asked simply to get into touch with the Chief Constable of Flaxborough. The request had been difficult to frame. “What do we say we want him for?” Mr Chubb had asked; “...to collect his hat?” He had carefully refrained from mentioning the matter to Ross or Pumphrey, although he did ask, at Purbright’s suggestion, if he might borrow from them the photograph of Hopjoy which, as far as anyone could find out, was the only one in existence. Pumphrey, looking as if he had been casually requested to assassinate the Prime Minister when he next happened to be in London, had emphasized with some asperity the topness of the secrecy involved and begged him to be more circumspect.