Colin Watson - Bump in the Night

Payne smiled gently and began to pour more wine. “We all have our unsuspected talents,” he observed.

The next morning, Purbright caught an early train to Flaxborough in order to report upon his perplexities to the county chief constable.

Mr Hessledine’s manner was courteous but clinical. He had, he said, studied already a verbatim report of the inquest. The affair had been closed to the coroner’s satisfaction, certainly, but the essential question of the source of that impossible fellow’s explosive had not even been touched upon. One of his officers was under a cloud, and he trusted that Mr Purbright had produced evidence sufficient either to eliminate Chief Inspector Larch—which was much to be desired—or to prove his complicity. Now then, what had Mr Purbright to say?

Mr Purbright confessed unhappily that he was in no position to relieve the Chief Constable of his doubts one way or the other. He had been unable to resolve the ominous coincidence of the explosions and the theft from the Civil Defence store. Worse, far worse, his inquiries had revealed a relationship between Biggadyke and the chief inspector that was at once paradoxical and pregnant with possibilities that did not exclude murder itself.

Hessledine listened impassively to the account of Larch’s friendship with Biggadyke; of the local rumours of their collusion; and of the seduction of Hilda Larch.

When he had finished, he looked apologetically at the Chief Constable and said: “I don’t seem to have made matters any easier, do I, sir?”

Hassledine gave him a magnanimous smile. “You’ve been very thorough, Mr Purbright. I’m only sorry that you found yourself placed in such invidious circumstances. Of course, I had no idea that...” He blinked and left the sentence unfinished.

“Quite so, sir.”

Hessledine rose from his desk and walked gracefully to the window. “The proper thing to do now,” he said to his reflection in its panes, “would be to suspend Mr Larch from duty until some sort of an official inquiry could be made. But you see the difficulty, don’t you?” He half turned in Purbright’s direction.

“I think I do, sir. You mean that if nothing more definite could be established, Mr Larch would appear to have been unjustly treated.”

“Exactly. Tantamount to wrongful arrest.” The Chief Constable shuddered and faced the window again. “I wonder,” he said very quietly, “if Mrs Larch could be prevailed upon to help.”

“I really don’t know, sir; I haven’t yet met Mrs Larch.”

“You don’t fancy trying?”

“No, sir.”

“Ah.” Hessledine nodded thoughtfully. “It would be rather awkward, wouldn’t it? Snooping on the wife of a colleague. I wouldn’t ask anyone to do that. Not unless some serious crime were involved. On the other hand, it is sometimes possible to have a confidential chat without giving offence or sowing suspicion, you know.”

Purbright said nothing.

“Of course,” the Chief Constable went on smoothly, “if you do happen to meet Mrs Larch in propitious circumstances at any time, I’m sure you won’t allow false chivalry to blind you to her possible value as a witness.” He waved his hand elegantly. “After all, she must have been moderately fond of this Biggadyke person. She ought to have some idea of what he was up to, if anyone has. And for all we know she might be eager to tell.”

“There’s just one thing I should like to know, sir.”

“Yes?”

“Has it occurred to anyone to ask Chief Inspector Larch about this explosive that is supposed to be missing?”

Hessledine moved a little from the window and stared at him. “I don’t think you quite understand,” he said. “Discrepancies in Civil Defence stores are a most serious matter. National security is involved.” He paused to make sure Purbright was impressed.

“Strictly between ourselves,” he went on, “this matter came to light as the result of stocktaking. No one apart from the Civil Defence Officer and the county committee has been told. They asked me to make confidential inquiries. It so happens that you’ve been, well, unlucky so far; but, my goodness, Mr Purbright, I do hope you realize the whole thing is fearfully hush-hush.”

He leaned forward from the waist to emphasize the import of his final sentence: “It’s quite on the cards that the Home Office will come into it.”

“I take it, then, that Mr Larch has not been questioned, sir.”

“Certainly not. The C.D. Officer was most insistent on maximum secrecy. He was in Intelligence during the last war you know. Very well up in this kind of thing.”

“I still think you should tackle Mr Larch directly, sir.”

The Chief Constable raised his brows. “Aren’t you being a little direct yourself, Mr Purbright?”

“You might put it that way, sir.”

There was a short silence, during which Hessledine seemed to find his left cuff-link a new and intriguing subject of study.

“You feel you would rather not proceed with this investigation: is that so?”

“Not in the role of a sort of security policeman. It goes very much against the grain.”

The faintest flush appeared in Hessledine’s cheek. “Just as you like, Mr Purbright. I should be the last to expect you to undertake anything you felt to be unethical.” He paused. “If I can think how Larch might be approached tactfully I may have a word with him. Meanwhile you’d better stay on in Chalmsbury for a couple more days just to give the impression that you’re clearing up the loose ends. I don’t want coroners to get the idea that they’ve only to say the word for the police to go skipping off like hired ponies.”

“Then you wish me to return to my own division at the end of the week, sir?”

“I think so, yes. I shall let your chief know, of course.”

They parted with cool formality.

Chapter Fifteen

Barrington Hoole humed contentedly as he dangled his short, plump legs from the visitor’s chair in the Chronicle office and read the galley proof of Kebble’s account of the inquest.

“A fitting consummation,” he remarked when he had finished.

Kebble rolled up the proof and put it like a telescope to his eye.

“Guess who saw it happen,” he invited, squinting round the room.

“Saw what happen?”

“Stanley’s catastrophe, old chap.”

“I didn’t,” said Hoole. “Worse luck.”

Kebble grinned and brought the paper tube to bear on Leaper, gloomily occupied with scissors and paste at his desk. “He did.”

Hoole turned, then looked back at Kebble. “You’re not being funny?”

The editor shook his head.

“Good Lord!” said Hoole, then, more softly: “But he didn’t give evidence, did he?”

“He’s told nobody but me. He was there all right, though. Nearly trod on the corpse.”

“Shouldn’t he have gone to the police?”

“What, and be third-degreed by Larch?”

Hoole wrinkled his nose. “You’ve a point there.”

“All the same, the lad is going to talk to a policeman. I advised him to.” Kebble had lowered his voice still further.

“You remember that Flaxborough fellow I mentioned? He’s coming in this morning.”

“The local force must be far gone in corruption if outsiders need to be imported to look into our fatalities. Anyway, I thought the whole thing had been cleared up at the inquest.”

Kebble leaned close. “They tell me this Purbright’s an absolute bloodhound. He must be on to something or he’d have left by now.” He added that he had met the inspector and found him an uncommonly decent fellow.

“Obviously an imposter,” propounded Hoole. “All policemen are repressed rapists. Tell me: Did you look at his neck?”