“Is there anyone else concerned, do you think?”
“I thought at first that the nephew was probably implicated.”
“The newspaper fellow?”
“Lintz, yes. But as time goes on he seems to slip further away as a possibility. For one thing, he was deliberately made part of Bradlaw’s alibi, and nothing we’ve been able to find out suggests collusion between him and the other three. Still, we can’t forget that he benefits materially from Gwill’s death more obviously than anyone else.
“There is one other person,” went on Purbright, “who I can’t help feeling fits into the business in some way or other. Mrs Carobleat.”
Chubb gave him an inquiring glance. “But she was miles away, surely?”
“So she says. I propose to have a word with the Shropshire people about that and perhaps take a trip over there myself. If you’re agreeable, of course, sir.”
The Chief Constable looked doubtful. “That’s a bit out of the way, isn’t it?”
“I shouldn’t like to rely on another force making the sort of inquiries I have in mind, or I shouldn’t hesitate to pass them on, sir. I’ve an idea that a close check on Mrs Carobleat’s movements might be rewarding. It’s almost certain that she was Gwill’s mistress, and...”
“Oh, come; are you sure of that?” broke in Chubb, frowning.
“That’s the consensus of opinion, I’m afraid, sir.”
“You don’t suggest the woman might have had a hand in the fellow’s murder?”
“I shall be in a better position to say when we know what she was doing at the operative time, sir. And before, of course. The fact that she was away at all may have significance.”
Chubb sighed. “These affairs are damnably unpleasant. All this questioning and poking into other people’s business. I don’t know how you bring yourself to do it, Purbright, I don’t, really. The only other murder in Flaxborough I can remember was quite different. It was the shooting of old Mrs Donovan by Hargreaves, the pet- shop man. He was the perfect gentleman, poor Hargreaves. Came along here straight away afterwards and stood waiting at the counter downstairs until someone had time to attend to him. Then he handed over the revolver—he’d put it in a clean paper bag, I remember—and put eightpence in the Boot and Shoe Fund box, then confessed as nicely as you like. He used to keep that shop a perfect picture.”
Purbright bore with this reminiscence and then told Chubb about his arrangements for investigating the matter of the advertisements in the
The Chief Constable listened. “My, but you’re being kept busy,” he said. “It’s amazing, isn’t it, how many odd little things go on under the surface of a place like this?”
“Yes, isn’t it, sir,” agreed Purbright. “Takes all sorts to make a world.” Not for the first time, he was visited with the suspicion that Chubb had donned the uniform of head of the Borough police force in a moment of municipal confusion when someone had overlooked the fact that he was really a candidate for the curatorship of the Fish Street Museum.
“When do you think we can expect an arrest, my boy?” asked Chubb. “Or would that,” he added in bloodless parody of jocularity, “be telling?”
Purbright clenched his teeth.
Mr P. F. F. Smith, manager of the Flaxborough branch of the Eastern Provinces and Bartonshire Consolidated Bank, rose and greeted his visitor with almost explosive affability. He had made sure, when the appointment was being fixed, that none of the bank’s much advertised services and favours would be invoked.
“Grand day,” beamed Mr Smith, motioning Purbright to The Customer’s chair.
“Well, it’s cold and rather foggy outside, actually,” Purbright corrected him.
“Yes, how miserable,” agreed Mr Smith. “Seasonable for the time of year, though.” He grinned over the gleaming nakedness of his desk top, on the very edge of which his aseptically manicured fingers beat a refined tattoo.
“We should be glad to have your help, sir...”
Mr Smith inclined his head and continued to register delight. “Anything we can do, we shall be only too pleased.”
“...in a somewhat delicate matter,” Purbright added, and the tiniest flake of frost settled upon Mr Smith’s manner.
“You will have heard of the death last Monday night of Mr Marcus Gwill?”
“Indeed, yes. A shocking affair. A gentleman and a most charming man.”
“You found him so, sir?”
“Oh, yes.” A slight pause. “Within the limits of our professional relationship, of course. What was, er, your impression, inspector?”
“If I had formed one, it would scarcely be relevant to my present inquiries, sir.”
“Quite so.” Mr Smith nodded and gave the first of the tiny, flicked glances at the clock above Purbright’s head that were to accompany his every second remark throughout the interview.
“But the general impression conveyed to me by others is that Mr Gwill was not outstandingly easy to get along with.”
“I can quite understand that, inspector, now that you mention it. He was reserved, you know, and perhaps just the least bit forbidding. Charm was not his strong suit.”
“What I have to ask you, Mr Smith, is not so much concerned with the gentleman’s character as with his
