Miss Reckitt would have had much in the way of realizable assets.”
“I feel sorry for them,” said Love, firmly. It sounded as though he had just made up his mind about something slightly embarrassing.
Purbright gave a slow, thoughtful nod. “So do I. Very sorry. Not because they were robbed. Or murdered, even. It’s the insult that must have really hurt.”
Chapter Nine
Mrs Staunch met the inspector with an expression of repressed excitement and annoyance. Without a word, she admitted him to her office and went straight to the window.
“Now, then—what do you think of that?”
She pointed to the small gap between the sill and the bottom of the frame. Purbright saw marks on the woodwork that suggested the insertion of a screwdriver or chisel. They were fresh marks.
He raised his brows. “Last night?”
“And to think it was just yesterday afternoon that you rang up and I told you about that other time. I don’t know what to think, really!”
“It is odd, isn’t it?” Purbright agreed. He peered at the marks, then examined the rest of the window. The catch was old and loose; it would have slipped off with very little persuasion.
“Anything missing?”
“They’ve been in there again.” Mrs Staunch indicated the filing cabinet.
Purbright took out his handkerchief and eased forward the top drawer. Its contents did seem less tidy than when he had glanced at them on his previous visit.
The significance of the handkerchief was not lost on Mrs Staunch. “I’m afraid I can’t say that I haven’t touched anything, inspector. I didn’t notice the window straight away.”
“No, I shouldn’t have expected you to. It would be as well, though, if we observe the Agatha Christie rules from now on. I’ll get someone over.” He reached for the telephone. “May I?”
In less than ten minutes there arrived Detective Constable Harper, bearing a leather case and a camera the size of a hurdy-gurdy.
The outing was clearly a treat for him. He loped around the little room like an exploring Gibbon and happily spooned great quantities of grey powder on all accessible surfaces, including several that took account of the possibility of the intruder’s having been eight feet tall.
“He won’t hurt anything, you know,” Purbright said to Mrs Staunch in a murmured aside. She did not appear convinced.
“No—those are very private,” she called. Harper had been in the act of lifting some of the folders out of the filing cabinet. He looked inquiringly at Purbright.
“Just the covers, Mr Harper...no, on second thoughts, you’d better leave them alone altogether. If he wore gloves, you’ll be wasting your time, and if he didn’t, there’ll be better prints on what you’ve got already.”
Mrs Staunch gave him a small smile of gratitude. From that point, Harper’s inspiration rapidly evaporated and soon he was dismantling his props and packing lenses and bottles and plates and brushes back in their compartments of the leather case.
“It’s quite a business, isn’t it?” observed Mrs Staunch, rather nervily. The worst part of the ordeal, although she did not say so, had been Harper’s habit of continuously whistling one tune—the March of the Toreadors— through closed teeth while he worked.
Almost immediately after his departure, a buzzer sounded. Mrs Staunch glanced up at an indicator on the wall. One of its pair of electric bulbs flickered for several seconds.
“I’m afraid a client has just come in,” she explained. “Would you mind if I left you now, inspector?”
“Not in the least,” Purbright assured her. “I shall be busy myself for a little while.” He patted the cabinet in explanation. Mrs Staunch hesitated, frowning. Then she shrugged and opened the door. “You will remember what I said, won’t you? About confidences? I mean, they’re the whole essence...” She left the sentence unfinished, but there was a plea in her eyes.
“Of course, Mrs Staunch. I really do understand.”
The door closed.
Purbright soon found that what the proprietress would have called her “ladies’ section” was less crowded than the reference numbers—three hundred and upwards—suggested. The system was doubtless based on the same psychological principle as that employed by newspapers to make the volume of box advertising seem bigger than it really was.
The number of recent registrations—and only in these was he interested—was about a dozen. He removed them from the file and read them through carefully.
Nearly all told the same story, though it had to be reached through a terminology of cheerful cliche which had been obviously adopted at Mrs Staunch’s dictation. It was an ordinary, if saddening, tale of women whose lack of youth, money and social graces threatened a lonely and comfortless future. Purbright suspected that most of the applicants could have ill afforded the twenty guinea fee. Three, he noticed, were old age pensioners; two others, the widows of farm labourers. A sixth, who hopefully offered “careful housekeeping and good cooking in home of Suitable gentleman”, was a school canteen helper. Under “Means (for office use only)”, one woman had written: “Maintenance money, four pounds per week“.
Not exactly a rich field, Purbright reflected, for criminal exploitation.
There were two forms, however, whose promises were distinctly above average.
The first of these had been filled in by a woman called Rose Prentice, age 58, divorcee. Her occupation was
