Hopjoy Was Here

reappeared.

Purbright handed him a card. “I should like,” he said, “to verify the presence in your hotel of a gentleman who may be able to help me with a few inquiries.”

“One of the staff?”

“I think it more likely that he is among your guests, sir.”

The manager’s momentary expression of anxiety faded. At that time of year customers were much more readily expendable than employees. He turned to the girl. “The register, please, Dorabel.”

“There is one minor complication,” said Purbright. “I do not precisely know the man’s name”—Barraclough shrugged and seemed about to countermand his request for the register—“but never mind, I can give you the choice of two.”

The manager’s suspicion deepened that this tall, smart-aleck policeman was making faintly menacing jokes as a prelude to extorting an offer of free drink. He ran through quickly in his mind those most recent instances of malfeasance at the Neptune which might conceivably have come to the notice of authority.

“I hope,” he said, taking an opulently bound volume from the arms of Dorabel, “that these inquiries of yours won’t cause trouble of any kind. Mistakes aren’t too easy to put right once they’re made.” That part of his brain that had been sifting the possible reasons for the inspector’s arrival struck suddenly upon a lantern lecture given the previous Wednesday night in one of the private lounges to a Flaxborough Chamber of Trade party. A slide discovered among the bottles the next morning and brought to him by a distressed chambermaid had suggested a somewhat liberal exposition of the lecture’s theme, ‘Commercial Deviations in the Near East’.

“Perhaps you’d better come along to my office,” said Barraclough. He picked up the register and led Purbright through one of the black doors, a short way along a corridor and into a relatively austere cubicle that contained a filing cabinet, an untidy, old-fashioned desk and a stack of cartons of cigarettes. He reached towards a bellpush. “You’ll have a little refreshment, inspector?”

“That’s kind of you, sir, but I don’t really feel in need of any at the moment.”

To Barraclough such apparently eccentric asceticism was confirmative of even more serious matters being afoot than he had been able so far to imagine. He meekly invited Purbright to a chair and opened the register. “Those two names?” he prompted.

“One of them is Hopjoy.”

Barraclough looked up sharply. “What’s he been up to?”

“You know Mr Hopjoy, then?”

“He’s spent quite a bit of...time here. On and off, you know.” The information was delivered cautiously.

“A good spender? Other than of time.”

“We’ve always valued his custom, certainly. In this business one has to be accommodating on the odd occasion, of course. Mr Hopjoy has excellent credentials. Naturally, I cannot divulge them, but I dare say they’d surprise you.”

Purbright recognized the nervous loyalty of a creditor. “Do you happen to know,” he asked, “Mr Hopjoy’s occupation?”

For a moment, the manager hesitated. Then discretion won. “He’s an agent for some big manufacturing firm. An excellent position, I understand.”

“Is he staying here now, sir?”

Barraclough did not refer to the register. “Not at the moment, he isn’t. We haven’t seen him for a few days. I should explain that he is not in the way of being a regular resident. Just the odd night—when he happens to be covering this district, I suppose.”

“Mr Hopjoy’s car is outside now.”

Barraclough looked only faintly surprised. “Yes? Well, I’m not absolutely certain about this but I should say it’s on loan to a friend of his. I believe they do share it to some extent.” He paused, then asked, almost hopefully, Purbright thought: “It is the car that these inquiries of yours are about?”

The inspector shrugged. “Not primarily; though cars do tend to figure in all sorts of investigations these days—they’re becoming our second skins, aren’t they? No, it’s the driver I really want to see. I presume he’s a Mr Periam.”

“Mr Periam is staying here.”

“Do you know for how long?”

“Another week, I believe.”

“I should appreciate a word with him, sir. Perhaps if you can give me the number of his room...”

Frowning, Barraclough reached for the telephone on his desk. “I’d really rather you...Dorabel, has Mr Periam in number eleven gone out yet? All right, dear; hold the line a moment...” He put his hand over the mouthpiece. “He’s in his room. You can see him in here if you like—that would be best, wouldn’t it?” Hurriedly he spoke again into the phone. “Ask Mr Periam if he’d be good enough to come down; when he does, show him into my office.”

Barraclough sat back in his chair and flicked at his sleeve. “I’m sorry if I seem a bit formal over this, inspector, but I’m assuming your business is confidential and I shouldn’t like one of my guests to be embarrassed. He might be, you know, if you barged straight up to his room. And then there’s Mrs Periam to be considered, of course.”

Purbright stared at the plump, watchful little man, who now had given his smile a wistful cast to suit the part of tactful paternalism. “Mrs Periam?”

“Oh, yes; a rather dear little thing. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to spoil her honeymoon.”