Charity Ends At Home

“What did she look like?”

“Billiard table legs, poor soul. But a vivacious manner. Spectacles of a somewhat bizarre, transatlantic cast. Light, fluffy hair. Loud voice. Thirty-five or so.”

“I think I know who it was.”

“A vodka and lime sort of woman. A virgin, for a ducat.” Mr Hive stretched elegantly against the side of the booth and flicked the glass with his yellow washleather gloves. He smiled gently into space, as if recalling some charming childhood fiction.

“No need to be offensive.”

“Offensive?” Mr Hive’s bewilderment was genuine.

“Never mind. Go on. Did you hear what they were talking about?”

“Some of it, certainly. I succeeded in finding a seat in the next alcove thing to theirs—it is that kind of teashop, you know—and I was able to take notes of parts of the conversation until nearly sixteen hundred hours, when they left, separately. Calais was very difficult to hear. Dieppe was not. I received what you might call the drift. Shall I summarize it for you?”

“I simply want to know what arrangement they made. I take it that an arrangement was made.”

“Yes, indeed,” declared Mr Hive, peering again at his envelope and turning it the other way up. “Briefly, it is this. Dieppe is to travel tonight to Nottingham...”

“What is Nottingham the code for?”

“Nothing. Nottingham is just Nottingham.”

“So long as we know.”

“She is going there tonight by train. She will book a single room at the Trent Towers Hotel, but in Calais’ name, not her own. She will not leave again until tomorrow morning when she will book out, do some shopping and catch the eleven o’clock train back to Flaxborough. At Flaxborough station, Dieppe will be met by Calais, to whom she will give the things she has bought, together with her hotel receipt.”

There was a pause.

“You have done rather well, Mr, ah, Hastings.”

“All part of the job, Mr Dover.” Mr Hive beamed through the glass at an anxious-looking young woman who had been standing outside the booth for the past five minutes. He raised his gloves and pursed his lips in a way that intimated his imminent abandonment of the telephone. Instead of looking grateful, however, she gave a scowl of disgust (at his chest, he thought) and hastened away, muttering.

Mr Hive, feeling more conscious than ever of having mysteriously and innocently become the object of public odium, delivered the rest of his report.

“Good man,” said Dover. “That message she left, though...”

“For Folkestone, presumably,” said Mr Hive.

“Oh, for Folkestone without doubt. But will you repeat it—I want to get it absolutely right.”

“It was: ‘All fixed for tonight. Wait at cottage.’ ”

“ ‘Wait at cottage.’ ”

“Yes.”

“And you know where the cottage is? You remember my directions?”

“Clearly,” said Mr Hive.

Chapter Four

“There’s a Miss Cadbury would like a word with you. She’s the secretary of the...”—Sergeant Love glanced down dubiously at the card in his hand—“of the Kindly Kennel Klan.”

“She’s not wearing a white hood, is she?”

“No,” said Love. “I don’t think it’s anything to do with religion.”

Miss Cadbury, agitatedly fumbling at the amber beads around her neck, was already through the doorway.

“It’s our flag day, Inspector. And some perfectly dreadful things have been happening.”

Purbright soothed her into a chair. He motioned Love to close the door.

Miss Cadbury was a big, gaunt woman, with a downy chin. The restlessness of her hands emphasized their largeness. She had knees to match. She wore a mauve woollen costume and a peaked felt hat that looked designed to deflect falling masonry.

“Now, then, Miss Cadbury; what are these dreadful things that have happened?”

For fully half a minute, she stared at him, tight-lipped. Purbright hoped that this was just for dramatic effect and did not presage some personal accusation.

“The committee,” she said at last, “is extremely upset. What people are saying I daren’t imagine. I only hope that those responsible...”

Purbright waited, looking suitably grave. He saw that the woman’s big, strong fingers were straying around the clasp of her handbag. The bag was a massive hide affair; its clasp looked as if it would require a set of spanners.