Colin Watson - Coffin Scarcely Used

“The original idea was Carobleat’s. He had a flair for that kind of thing—as we suspected, but couldn’t prove before his death. As you know, sir, a town like this has hardly any open prostitution. Members of a small community daren’t risk their reputations.

“Not so long ago, of course, the shipping trade brought seamen here who had no reason to be scrupulous, so some prostitution did exist in the harbour district. But since the war most of the ships using Flaxborough have been small coasters manned by pretty stolid types who are a poor proposition for the ladies of Broad Street. Then there was all the cleaning up agitation in the council and the local paper. Mr Carobleat was largely responsible for that, you’ll remember, sir.”

“And a damned nuisance he made of himself,” confirmed the Chief Constable bitterly. “Oddly enough, the wife tumbled to him straight away.”

“Really, sir?”

“Rather. She used to tell me many a time about his having had his ‘hot little eyes’—that’s what she called them—all over the women on that moral welfare committee he started.”

Purbright tried briefly to visualize this mass flirtation. He failed and went on: “What Carobleat had seen, of course, was his opportunity to reorganize the declining and amateurish vice trade on a novel, very profitable basis. He used his spurious moral welfare approach to recruit a dozen or so of the more presentable women and promised them a regular living on good-class clients. But he made it clear that he was to manage the financial side himself and pay them commission. They must have found the proposition fairly attractive—especially as he undertook to arrange the ticklish question of premises.”

Chubb was looking doubtful. “Just how do we come to know all this, Mr Purbright?”

“Quite simply, sir. One of the women was interviewed by our persuasive Mr Harper. She told him a great deal. The system was rather ingenious. She used to receive by post at regular intervals a list of appointments, so called, together with a sum of money in notes at the rate of a pound for each appointment.”

“In advance?”

“That’s so,” Purbright agreed. “All she had to do then was to arrive at Dr Hillyard’s surgery by the back door just before the stated time and go straight upstairs to what were ostensibly women’s treatment cubicles. The actual...er...assignations took place in small rooms connecting the male and female cubicles.”

“How abominable,” murmured the Chief Constable.

“You’ll not wish me to elaborate on that particular aspect, sir?”

“No, no. Certainly not. I’d like to know how the others came into it, though.”

“Yes, sir. Bradlaw, now. My guess at the moment is that he did the conversion work on the first floor of Hillyard’s house. He’s a builder as well as an undertaker. We know him to have been fairly thick with Carobleat and Hillyard, and they’d naturally want someone who could be trusted to keep his mouth shut. Another point. The job seems to have been done without a licence, which would have been needed at that time if an ordinary firm had been called in. We can assume that Bradlaw was promised a cut from the proceeds, and got it.

“As you know now, I think, sir, the fourth member of what might be called the syndicate—or the fifth, if we count Mrs Carobleat, as we must—was Gwill. Less imaginative organizers would have been content to run their business as a camouflaged brothel with nothing really elaborate about it. But these people were inspired as well as thorough.

“They knew that the best customer would be the well-off married tradesman or farmer or business man who would be only too ready to make a fool of himself as long as he could insist on the most stringent and even melodramatic safeguards. Actually, it’s often the trimmings—you know, the peephole and the password and that sort of thing—that are half the attraction for middle-aged men who dabble in vice.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Chubb remarked.

Purbright gave a little bow. “Anyway, sir, that’s where Gwill was valuable. The complicated system of coded advertisements and box replies for which his newspaper was used may seem absurd to us; after all, arrangements could have been made quite easily over the phone or through a reliable go-between. But that wouldn’t have been so exciting.”

Chubb gave one of his gentle, thin smiles. “You really are far too sophisticated for a policeman, Mr Purbright. Never mind; go on.”

“So here in Flaxborough was a flourishing and excellently organized traffic in comforts for gentlemen,” continued the inspector. “Carobleat was the managing genius—up to last summer, that is. His next door neighbour was what you might call the public relations expert. Bradlaw won his directorship with an astute piece of construction work. Hillyard was all-important as provider of accommodation and camouflage. He might also have been useful as the M.O. of the concern—the woman we interviewed was a trifle coy on that point. And Mrs Carobleat looked after the secretarial side.”

“What about the solicitor?” asked Chubb.

Purbright thought a moment. “Well, he certainly knew what was going on. It was he who collected that last lot of box replies, presumably to pass them on—a businesslike touch, that. I doubt if he was a regularly active partner, though. There doesn’t seem to have been much he could do to help—unless we can imagine one of the ladies suing the firm for breach of contract.”

“Then why do you suppose the fellow was murdered? You don’t suggest he intended to give the show away? He told me precious little, scared as he was.”

“That is one of the questions we can’t answer yet, sir. My belief is that Gloss was killed for the same reason as Gwill, and by the same person.”

“Hillyard?”

Purbright shook his head. “Hillyard was lucky that night. The blood that soaked his sleeve came from a wound in his own arm; he was holding it tightly all the time we were talking to him. That knife had been meant for him as well.”

“He might have gashed himself to give that impression.”

“In that case, he would have made no secret of the wound.”

Chubb grunted. After a pause he said: “That leaves only Bradlaw, then?”

“On the face of it, yes. Yet I can’t see him as a footpath assassin. Whoever attacked a relatively powerful pair like Gloss and Hillyard must have been exceptionally confident and tough. It’s the audacity of the thing that sounds so unlike Bradlaw.”

“And unlike Mrs Carobleat too, I suppose?”

Purbright smiled. “Oh, yes...Mrs Carobleat. As it happens, she’s the only one with an alibi for the night Gwill was murdered.”

“You’ve checked that?” A gleam of recollection showed suddenly in Chubb’s face. “Of course...your little trip to Shropshire. How did you get on?”

“It should prove useful, sir. For one thing, we found where Mrs Carobleat was in the habit of staying. And we learned of the existence of a gentleman called Barnaby.”

“Barnaby?”

“Yes, sir. The local people are looking for him now.”

“You mean he’ll be able to help?”

“I doubt it, sir. We can but try.”

The Chief Constable looked fixedly at Purbright for several moments. “You know,” he said slowly, “you’re hedging to a perfectly scandalous degree. No”—he raised his hand—“don’t spoil it, my dear fellow; I’m sure you know what you’re doing.” He rose, walked to the desk and picked up his gloves. “There’s just one little thing I must ask of you, though.”

“Yes, sir?” Purbright also was standing. He met Chubb’s gaze with a politely solicitous eye.

“Arrest your murderer or murderers within the next twenty-four hours, or I shall ask Scotland Yard to give me assistance.” He reached for the door. “I thought you should know how I’m placed. I’m the last to want some outsider to scoop the credit for what you and your chaps have done. But you do see that I cannot possibly delay any longer.”