Lonelyheart 4122 f-3

by Colin Watson

  “She lost you?”

  “Oh, yes, it was on purpose, all right. She kept dodging up and down in a lift.”

  “Did she, indeed?” Purbright sounded thoughtful. “Well, we can’t do anything about that now. All right, Mr Pook,” he nodded his dismissal, “don’t reproach yourself.” Alone with Love, the inspector stared vacantly at the ceiling.

  “This Miss Teatime,” he said at last, “seems to be quite an interesting character.”

  Love gave a short, bitter laugh.

  “There would appear,” Purbright went on, “to be very little to be gained from continuing to play hide and seek with the woman in lifts. She’s obviously aware that somebody’s following her, and she’s astute enough to do something about it.”

  “I reckon she’s a bit of an old villain,” said Love, irreverently.

  “Well, we don’t know that. As I said before, I don’t blame anybody for dodging narky coppers if they’ve a mind to. It doesn’t mean that they’re criminals. But in a case like this, it’s not encouraging to have our excellent intentions thwarted by a shrewd and surprisingly nippy female.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “I’ve been thinking again about a suggestion of yours, Sid. About taking Miss Teatime into our confidence. I was against the idea before because she seemed likely to be a bit silly and easily flummoxed. On her showing during the last couple of days, she’s nothing of the sort. I think she’s capable of being very helpful. At the same time, she will have to be warned of the risk she’s running.”

  “Can I be taken off the long distance lark, then?”

  “With pleasure.”

  “Thank God for that. By the way, what joy did we get out of that break-in business?”

  “Mrs Staunch’s office? What I expected. Damn-all. It made Harper happy, though. He’s got lots of lovely prints that might have been left by anybody from the window cleaner to the Archbishop of Bombay. It was a bit much to hope for that Rex should turn out to be some felon on file at Central.”

  “And the letters to Mrs Bannister?”

  “Just smudges.”

  “So much for the miracles of forensic science.” Love’s feet were beginning to feel better already. A little cynical truculence did not seem too bold a mark of celebration.

  Chapter Fourteen

  If there was one thing about Miss Teatime that seemed predictable, it was her appearance at breakfast shortly after nine o’clock. Purbright decided that this occasion, while perhaps unorthodox, would be the best opportunity of cornering her.

  He arrived at the Roebuck at ten to nine and explained his purpose to a very sleepy Mr Maddox, whose stiff morning attire was in curious contrast to the state of its occupant. He appeared to droop within his suit rather like a tortoise inside its up-ended shell.

  The manager showed Purbright to a corner table and left him to his own devices after sending one of the waitresses to fetch him a pot of coffee. The inspector tried to decline the coffee, but Maddox said no, it did not do for anyone to sit in the dining room unprovided: the consequent, ah, lurking look was not quite, er...

  Miss Teatime came through the door at precisely nine o’clock. Purbright felt sure of her identity even before he saw Maddox pass behind her and give a tired nod.

  She looked alert and ready to be pleased. Even a glance at the menu, which she took through spectacles that she fished from her handbag and afterwards replaced, did nothing to modify her blandly sanguine expression. A character of some strength, Purbright decided.

  He waited until she had finished eating and was pouring out another cup of coffee. Then he crossed to her table and introduced himself.

  Miss Teatime showed sign neither of surprise nor of apprehension. She might have been in the habit of breakfasting with inspectors of police every other morning in her life.

  “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Purbright,” she said, sounding as if she meant it. “Would you like me to ask the girl to bring you some coffee?” In the way she said “gairl” Purbright recognized a relic of the well-to-do female education of forty years ago.

  “That’s very kind of you, but I’d rather not have any more.”

  She gave a graceful little inclination of the head and began stirring her own coffee. “And what is it you wish to talk to me about, inspector?”

  “In the first place, I must apologize for the intrusion.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Oh, but yes. You see, the intrusion has gone more deeply than you are perhaps aware. My appearance this morning is, so to speak, the tip of the iceberg. There have been inquiries—very discreet inquiries, if that is any consolation—into what normally would be rightly regarded as your private affairs. A watchful eye has even been kept on you for part of the time you have been in Flaxborough. Now then, Miss Teatime, don’t you think you are entitled to my apologies?”

  Her frown was of puzzlement rather than anger.

  “It all sounds very intriguing, Mr Purbright, but I am sure you did not come here to work up my indignation against these things you say you have been up to.”

  He smiled. “No, but I thought I’d better prepare you for the explanation which I propose to give now.

  “There has been much concern felt here over the disappearance of two local women. They were perfectly respectable and, as far as I am aware, unknown to each other. We don’t know if any harm has befallen them, but if not, it seems quite incredible that neither has got into touch with any of her relatives or friends.

  “One factor is common to both these cases, Miss Teatime. The women had registered, not long before their disappearance, with a matrimonial agency here in the town called Handclasp House. I’m not going to be obtuse about this—we do know that you have approached the same organization...”

  He paused, as if to invite comment.

  Miss Teatime, who had been listening intently, one finger touching her cheek, said simply: “That is quite true.”

  “...and naturally we hope that whatever has transpired will have a happy outcome for you. On the other hand, I think you ought to be on your guard.”

  “Against disappearing?” There was a twinkle in Miss Teatime’s eye.

  Purbright shrugged. “Both the women who did had recently been successful in finding companionship through this agency. The coincidence cannot be ignored. We think it was the same man in each case and that he was responsible for whatever has happened to them.”

  “But you must not stretch coincidence too far, must you, inspector? Are you suggesting that this hard working gentleman has now turned his attention to me?”

  “I am suggesting nothing,” said Purbright. “But I believe that a plausible and dangerous man is using the agency as a means of finding victims. If that sounds a trifle melodramatic, I’m sorry; it just happens to be the only explanation for what has been going on.”

  “Then why have you not found him?”

  “Because plausible and dangerous men are also as a rule very clever,” said Purbright, a shade defensively.

  “Someone must have seen him in the company of these ladies, surely?”

  “No one who had reason to be observant. The accounts we have been able to obtain are sketchy, to say the least.”

  “You have no indication at all of his identity, then?”

  Suddenly her manner relaxed.

  “I’m sorry if I seem to be cross-examining you, inspector. You must see, though, that a mere general suspicion could have terribly unjust consequences. Let me be frank. I have met a gentleman through this bureau you are talking about. He impresses me as being kind and honourable. In due course, I shall doubtless learn more about his background. But the relationship is scarcely likely to prosper if I must now regard him as a police suspect.”

  The inspector reflected that in Miss Teatime he, like poor Love, had got rather more than he had bargained for.

  “Of course I see your point,” he assured her. “And if I may say so, you certainly don’t impress me as a gullible or
incapable person. The fact remains that your—how shall I put it—your qualifications—are exactly those which we could expect to attract the attention of the man we are looking for. For instance, I believe you are not without means...”

  “That is so.”

  “You are also a newcomer to the district and living on your own.”

  “As you can see, Mr Purbright.”

  “Yes, well I don’t have to spell this out for you, do I? No policeman in similar circumstances would be doing his duty if he failed to warn you.”

  She surprised him with a broad, fond smile.

  “Of course not, my dear inspector. I appreciate it. But I must beg you not to worry.”

  “I shall try not to,” he said drily.

  “Good. Now is there anything else I can do for you? Are you sure you will not have coffee?”

  “Quite sure, thank you.” He reached to an inside pocket. “But there is one way in which you can be specifically helpful. This gentleman you say you have met...oh, what’s his name, by the way?”

  She hesitated, then shook her head. “I think, if you do not mind, inspector, that I should keep that to myself for the time being.”

  “Are you sure you’re being wise?”

  “Not unwise, I hope. Ethical, certainly.”

  He shrugged. “As you wish. But at least you can tell me if you have received any letters from him.”

  “Naturally. That is how these introductions are effected, you know.”

  Purbright placed on the table a slip of stiff white paper on which were five or six lines of writing.

  “This is a photographic copy,” he explained, “of part of a letter which we are satisfied was written by the man who made contact with the two missing women. Would you mind letting me see one of the letters you have received from your friend?”

  “I should have no objection at all, Mr Purbright, but there is not one here for you to see. They were simply formal meeting arrangements. I did not keep them.”

  Purbright looked disappointed. “Mightn’t you be able to find something, Miss Teatime? Even an odd piece or two in a wastepaper basket would be enough.”

  She smiled. “In an hotel, Mr Purbright, one does not throw letters into a wastepaper basket. One tears them up and consigns them to the toilet.”

  “I see. Well, will you take a careful look at this writing and tell me if you notice any resemblance to what you can remember of your friend’s.”

  He waited until she had taken out her spectacles, then handed her the slip.

  Miss Teatime scrutinized it for nearly a minute. She removed her glasses, replaced them in her bag, picked up the slip and gave it to the inspector.

  “Quite, quite different,” she said. “Of that I am perfectly sure.”

  The inspector sighed. “At least I seem to have been able to put your mind at rest.”

  “Oh, but it was never anything else, Mr Purbright. Not really.”

  When the inspector had gone, Miss Teatime had a nice long think. Then she left the table and sought out the young lady in the reception office, whom she asked to recommend a car hire firm that might be able to oblige her at somewhat short notice.

  The girl gave her an address in St Ann’s Place. Ten minutes later, Miss Teatime was on her way there, unfollowed by policemen.

  The garage manager prided himself on an ability to guess, from his first look at a customer, what kind of a vehicle was likely to be preferred.

  He regarded Miss Teatime judiciously while she made her request, then nodded like a store Father Christmas and announced: “Just the very thing for you.”

  He led her behind the service bay to an enclosure where about a dozen cars were standing. He went straight to a pale blue Ford Anglia and opened the door.

  “Full tank. Key’s in. Just drive away. Lovely.”

  He shut the door and motioned Miss Teatime to precede him back to the office where minor formalities could now be disposed of.

  To his surprise, she stayed where she was.

  “Is this the only car which is available?”

  “Well...not exactly, but...”

  She stood back, to get a view of the line.

  “May I choose from these?”

  He shrugged, a prophet without honour.

  Miss Teatime scrutinized the row of bonnets in a single, slow-ranging inspection, then stepped forward and placed a gloved finger on the bronze paintwork of a car near the end.

  “I shall have this one, if you please.”

  The manager gazed dubiously at the low, clean-lined Renault, crouched in the row like some cat-napping athlete.

  “I’m not sure you’d find that very suitable. It’s not English, you know.”

  “I am prepared to forego the luxury of patriotism in the interests of comfort and dependability on this one occasion, Mr Hall.”

  He made a last effort to redeem his own judgment.

  “It’s awfully fast,” he said, in the tone wherewith a child is warned to throw away a sweet picked up in the street.

  “Good,” said Miss Teatime. “I should hate to think that all those modifications to the cylinder head and manifold and valve springs and suspension had been wasted.”

  The managed closed his eyes and offered a little prayer to the god of garages: O, please let her hit a lamp-post! Please let these old eyes see her being towed in!

  Even after Miss Teatime had driven off—with depressing obvious proficiency—the man was still so upset that he filed away her agreement form and cheque without noticing that to the latter she had quite forgotten to add a signature.

  From St Ann’s Place, Miss Teatime drove directly to the station. She parked the Renault neatly in the forecourt and went into the booking hall.

  On the wall was a table of departures. Miss Teatime donned her spectacles and took out a pencil and her little memorandum book.

  It was the four minutes past eight train, she recalled, on which Commander Trelawney had always left for home. She moved her pencil point down the time-table. Here it was. All stations to Chalmsbury, then Horley Bank, Stang and Brocklestone-on-Sea.

  She made a list of all the stops on the route, closed the notebook and put it away.

  It was nearly half-past ten.

  Buying a platform ticket, she passed through the barrier and glanced up at the signals beside the footbridge. She was just in time to see one of the arms lurch to the “clear” position. A train from Brocklestone—Trelawney’s usual train, she supposed—was due.

  Miss Teatime hurried to the bookstall counter.

  “I should like a map of this area, if you happen to have one. From Flaxborough to the coast is what I want, actually.”

  An ordnance survey section? Oh, yes, that would do admirably. There was no need to wrap it.

  The rumble of the approaching train stirred a nearby knot of people into movement.

  Miss Teatime took the map, told an astounded assistant to keep the change from a pound note, and hurried from the platform just as the train’s leading coach went by. Choosing a route unlikely to be taken by the commander on the way to his bank, she was out of sight of the station entrance before the first passenger off the Brocklestone train emerged.

  Today’s meeting was to be half an hour later than the usual eleven o’clock. Miss Teatime debated whether she should risk taking a quick whisky or two first...(I felt so foolish, Jack, having to sit down on the stairs while this man brought me a glass of something to pull me round—I do believe it was spirits’)...No, better not, perhaps.

  When she reached the Garden of Remembrance, she walked past the gate and turned instead up the path flanked with yew and cypresses that led to the porch of St Laurence’s. She entered the church and sat down near the back. In the cool, grey solitude, she unfolded the map and supported it on the back of the chair in front of her.

  She studied it for nearly half an hour.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The clock in the tower of St Laurence’s Church struck falteringly. It was half
past eleven. Miss Teatime looked away from the drinking fountain, at which she had been watching a little girl methodically scrub out her doll’s clothes, and gazed towards the garden entrance. There was no sign of Trelawney.

  She felt a twinge of anxiety. Up to now, he had shown himself an almost aggressively punctual person. Behaviour out of character was one of the very few things that made Miss Teatime nervous. It tended to upset calculations, and earning a living was difficult enough these days without one’s having to re-cast the horoscope, as it were.