“There are—or were—two people living in this house. Both fellows in their late thirties. Not related. The actual householder is called Gordon Periam. He keeps a tobacconist’s shop in the town. The house he inherited from his mother. She was a widow and they lived here together until her death just over a year ago.
“The name of the other chap is Brian Hopjoy. He’s supposed to be a commercial traveller based here in Flaxborough with a line in pharmaceutical sundries, or something like that. Is there such a thing?”
“I believe so,” Warlock said.
“Aye, well it doesn’t matter much; I gather the travelling job is just a cover for something else. Anyway, Hopjoy turned up a few months before the old woman died and she took him in as a lodger.”
Warlock fleetingly reviewed the solid, carefully tended furniture. “Paying guest, surely,” he amended.
“Quite. It seems to have been a pretty amicable arrangement because after Mrs Periam’s death Hopjoy stayed on. I don’t know how they managed for meals and cleaning up; there’s no sign of a regular housekeeper, although the woman next door says a girl came round occasionally. She thinks she was a friend. We’ll sort that out in time.”
Purbright saw that Warlock had had enough of sitting. Refusing a cigarette, he began to rock slowly on the very edge of his chair and to make short chopping gestures with his hands. The inspector looked away. “I wonder if you can see an ashtray anywhere...”
Gratefully Warlock leapt to his feet and began a spring-heeled, neck-craning tour of the late Mrs Periam’s ornaments.
Purbright flicked his ash into the fireplace and resumed his story.
“I wasn’t at the station when that letter arrived on Tuesday. The sergeant was rather sceptical—naturally enough, on the face of it—and he just sent one of the uniformed men round to ring the bell and give the place the once over. There was no one in, and they left it at that.
“Yesterday morning the letter was reported to me. I took it straight to the Chief Constable—have you met old Chubb, by the way?” Warlock, peering at a row of silver trophies on the sideboard, shook his head. “Oh, you must,” said Purbright. “He thinks that crimes in this town are committed only in his policemen’s imagination. This time he’s worried, though.”
“It doesn’t look as if he need be on Periam’s account,” Warlock said. He had finished reading the inscriptions on the cups. “Athletic type.”
“So was Samson.” Purbright looked at his watch. “No, the position is this, Mr Warlock. Both these characters are missing. There may be a perfectly innocent explanation—despite the anonymous letter—but we don’t think so. One of the pair happens to be in a rather special category. Only the Chief and I know about that and I’m afraid we’ll have to keep it to ourselves for the moment, but I can assure you that it makes an important difference. At least— I’m supposed to think so.”
“You don’t sound too certain.”
Purbright smiled. “That’s just my parochialism; we like to think our crimes are home grown.”
“Even murders?”
“Murders especially.”
“And in this case...”
“In this case, Mr Warlock, I must beg you not to try and relieve me of confidences, however much I deplore having them thrust upon me. The fact of murder has yet to be established. That is why you are here.”
“Leave it to me, squire. Any pointers?” Again Warlock was the eager handyman.
“There are one or two things we’ve noticed. I’ll show them to you now.”
As the two men were about to leave the room, Sergeant Love’s shining face appeared in the doorway. “They’ve started, sir. There was a spade in the garage.” He glanced over at the garden door and added approvingly: “This rain’s just come at the right time to soften things up a bit for them.”
“It’s as well, then,” Purbright said to Warlock, “that I had that drain emptied. A heavy shower would have flushed it.” He stepped into the narrow, carpeted passage and walked to the foot of the stairs near the front door.
“Drain?”
“Yes. It’s all nicely bottled for you. The stuff from the bathroom, you know.”
“Bathwater, do you mean?”
Purbright winced. “Good Lord, no. I mean Mr Periam—or Mr Hopjoy. In solution.”
Chapter Two
Warlock surveyed the bathroom with the tense incredulity of a curator viewing empty picture frames after a burglary.
“I’m sorry if we’ve been a bit impetuous,” said Purbright, just behind him. “The Chief Constable was anxious to have the prize exhibit kept somewhere safe. It’s over at our place; you can see it whenever you like.”
“Yes, but prints...”
“Oh, don’t worry, we collected what there were of those before the plumber was set loose. In any case, he was told to touch nothing but the pipes.”
Warlock looked far from reassured but he stepped forward into the centre of the floor to make room for the inspector to stand beside him.
Purbright pointed to the wall opposite the dusty, water-stained rectangle from which the bath had been taken. It bore a number of tiny splashes, dark brown against the green distemper which ran from the white half-
