Colin Watson: Hopjoy Was Here

The withholding of the photograph made local inquiries more difficult, too. Purbright prepared a composite of descriptions offered by the next-door neighbours, Mr Tozer, and the manager of the Neptune Hotel—who seemed especially eager to help—and gave it to the two plain clothes men who could be spared for visits to railway stations and bus depots and taxi firms within a radius of three or four miles. The usual feats of memory were forthcoming: Hopjoys had entrained for London, Birmingham and Newcastle simultaneously with their journeys by road to Lincoln, Cambridge, Swindon and Keswick.

Sergeant Love, conscientiously but fruitlessly urging the residents of Pawson’s Lane to recall sounds of angry altercation in a house ‘over the back’, found time to present the inspector with a theory he had evolved on his own.

“This chap was in hospital fairly recently, according to Bill Malley, wasn’t he?”

“He was. A lover’s tiff, I gather—with the husband.”

“Yes, well if it was something serious he might still need treatment. You know—you hear of fellows on the run who have to nip into a doctor’s when they use up their special pills.”

“That field’s a bit narrow, Sid. We should have heard if Hopjoy were a diabetic, surely. Still, it’s worth a try; that description badly needs strengthening, if only with a scar or two.”

The sergeant, one of whose private dreams accommodated Editor Love, waistcoated and dynamic, appraising a re-plated page one, set off again for Pawson’s Lane with his mind embannered by SCARFACED PLAYBOY SOUGHT IN WARD TEN: MUST RENEW MIRACLE DRUG.

No such dramatic and socially desirable potentialities appeared to have occurred to Sister Howell, in charge of the male surgical ward at Flaxborough General Hospital. She was a cool, smooth, stiffly laundered woman, with an indestructible smile guarding the pink sugar fortress of her face while her eyes were absent on their continual darting quest for faults. Purbright delivered his inquiry with the sense of being accounted no more important than one of the dust motes that submissively descended through a shaft of sunlight to the level of Sister Howell’s sensible shoes.

She heard him out. Then she slightly re-arranged the smile (the eyes still could not be spared, even for the briefest introduction) and told him that much as she would like to be obliging, he would, of course, understand that it was quite, quite impossible to divulge confidential medical matters even to an inspector of police.

Purbright assured her that he did appreciate and respect her loyalty, but wondered if perhaps she could modify it in the wider interests of justice. It had, unhappily, become the task of the police to trace her former patient, who had disappeared, and knowledge of his late injuries or ailments might be of considerable assistance.

“I’m sorry,” said Sister Howell, folding fingers devotionally over her apron.

“Then perhaps if I were to refer to Mr Harton personally...”

The eyes, instantly obedient to recall in appropriate circumstances, were trained upon him at last. “Mr Harton is a very busy man. He’s probably in theatre. I really couldn’t...”

The door at the end of the corridor swung open abruptly. A procession bore down upon them. Sister Howell plucked Purbright’s sleeve and drew him against the wall. “There’s Mr Harton now,” she whispered urgently. Purbright wondered if he were expected to kneel.

The surgeon advanced with a slow, easy stroll. Keeping precisely level with him were the short, sturdy legs of the Matron, to the rhythm of whose ponderous trot her cassock-red dewlap rose and fell. Harton and his consort were closely followed by a young nurse who carried a stack of folders and gazed idolatrously at the back of the surgeon’s head. Then came a pair of house physicians in white coats, unbuttoned and trailing black tentacles from the pockets. Seven or eight students, murmuring to one another and looking at their hands, shuffled along in the rear. Every now and again the parade was halted while Mr Harton paid particular, head-inclined attention to the Matron’s commentary and rewarded her with a mellifluent ring of laughter.

As the procession was about to wheel off into the ward, Purbright politely but firmly removed Sister Howell’s restraining hand and stepped forward. He smiled apologetically at the Matron, then introduced himself to Harton. The surgeon, imperturbably gracious, took him aside into the empty duty room. Through the closed glass door Purbright saw the retinue congeal into attitudes of respectful patience.

Harton, whom Purbright had thought it politic to give fairly fully the reasons for his inquiry, nodded with good-humoured sagacity. Nearly as tall as the policeman, he had skin the colour of an advertisement for tinned ham. This slightly incredible wholesomeness of complexion was emphasized (quite horridly, some thought) by strong, disciplined waves of prematurely white hair. His were the bright, steady eyes of one who has learned to render charm intimidating. The flawless cheeks flanked an unexpectedly tiny, drawn-in mouth, his only unrelaxed feature, which ambition had prinked like a flan edging. When he spoke, which he did most musically, his lower teeth were displayed more than the upper.

“My dear inspector...”—he felt behind him for the table and leaned against it with some of his weight supported upon spread fingertips—“you mustn’t take all this medical etiquette too seriously. It’s designed to give our dear old girls something to occupy them.” He grinned boyishly through the window at the Matron.

“So you’ve no objection to giving me this information, sir?”

“None whatsoever.”

Purbright waited, but Harton merely continued to regard him placidly.

“Well, sir...?”

“Well, inspector?”

“You were about to tell me the nature of the operation you performed upon Mr Trevelyan.”

“Oh, no; that is not so.”

Purbright stared. “Perhaps we’ve misunderstood each other, sir.”

“Ah, possibly we have. What I said was that I, I personally, you understand, have no objection to telling you what you wish to know. That is quite true. But I did not say that no objection existed, did I?”

The inspector sighed. Here, he reflected, was the type of man who would enjoy confusing shop assistants with pedantic pleasantries.

“The fact is, inspector”—Harton thrust a hand deep into his trousers pocket and energetically stirred some coins—“that I simply am not at liberty to follow my personal inclination to tell you what was the matter with our mutual friend.”

“Oh, you do know, then, sir?”

Harton smiled away the calculated impertinence. “Certainly I know. Surgeons do occasionally remember what they have done and why. In their own way they are possibly as methodical as policemen.”

“I suppose that what you really mean to say, sir, is that you have received instructions to divulge nothing concerning Mr Trevelyan’s stay in hospital?”

“I must say I do not much care for the word ‘instructions’ but, roughly speaking, that is the position, inspector. Dare I whisper that old cliché ‘national security’?” Elegantly, Harton drew himself erect and stepped to the door. “Incidentally, we found Mr Trevelyan a most charming fellow; I do hope your anxiety regarding him proves to have been groundless.”

Placing a hand lightly on Purbright’s shoulder, he opened the door with the other. “I am sure it will, you know.” He patted him out and jauntily gestured the procession to re-form.

Purbright drove at once to Brockleston.

Among the cars in the Neptune forecourt was Hopjoy’s Armstrong, which he had ordered to be placed again at the disposal of Mr and Mrs Periam. The honeymooners he found playing clock golf in the hotel grounds. Doreen, her coiled plaits looking like some kind of protective sporting gear, wore a long pink cardigan over a flowered dress. Her husband was in flannel trousers and the dark brown blazer of the Flaxborough Grammar School Old Boys’ Association.