Charity Ends At Home

“Good gracious,” said the chief constable, feeling that to sound surprised was better than to confess the absolute bafflement he really felt.

“So I think I shall try and chase Mr Hive up and see what he can tell us. Don’t you agree, sir?”

Mr Chubb looked at the ceiling. “On balance, I ah...yes. Oh, yes.”

Chapter Twelve

“Am I, by happy fortune, spealing to Dover?” Mr Hive inquired sweetly into the telephone at the back of a dowdy little newsagent’s shop in Station Road.

He heard a snort of exasperation, followed by a click and the deadening of the line.

Amiably, he inserted more money and dialled again. After a fairly long interval came a curt, impatient “Hello.”

“Dover?” cooed Mr Hive. “Hastings here.”

“I thought you were going back to London.”

“The gentleman here at the shop says that you have not yet collected my account. I know it’s rather...”

“I said, I thought you were going back to London.” The voice was suppressed but urgent, angry.

“Ah, but events have conspired—very pleasantly conspired, I may say—to delay my passage. That is what I...”

“I am not interested in your private odysseys. I employed you to do a specific job and that job is now finished. I did not employ you to pester and embarrass me. Is that clear?”

Hive’s euphoria was proof against rebuke even as sharp as this. He listened as though to a transmission of birthday greetings, then nodded delightedly.

“Mais oui, mon capitaine—you are absolutely right. I say—isn’t it rather nice to be talking without all those trade terms? No wonder most detectives are bad conversationists...”

“Are you leaving today?”

“I was just going to say that this good fellow at the shop...”

“I said ARE YOU LEAVING TODAY? Are...you...returning...to London...today?”

“I rather doubt it, actually. Events have conspired...”

“When are you going?”

Hive sighed, “All too soon, I fear.”

“Tomorrow?”

“...and tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,” dreamily crooned Mr Hive.

“Now, look—I want a straight answer. And I don’t advise you to waste any more of my time.”

“No. Quite. Now how can I best reply to your esteemed inquiry? Perhaps I should say that I have acquired commitments. Non-professional, let it be understood, amigo mio. And in no sense undesirable. But, as I say, this good fellow at the shop tells me that my account (plain wrapped, ca va sans dire) is uncollected, therefore undischarged. I do not complain. Rather do I respectfully petition. You catch, perhaps, my drift?”

“You want your money at once. On the nail. Like a cats’ meat man or something.”

“Cats’ meat...no, I’m afraid that allusion defeats me. Sauce for ganders, I would have thought, was the commodity in...”

“Twelve pounds. On account. I can leave twelve pounds for you at the shop at about quarter past four. Not before.”

“That would be a most welcome accommodation. It really would.” Hive eased himself from the wall against which he had been leaning and with his free hand adjusted the hang of his jacket.

“In return, I want a definite undertaking from you.”

“Yours ever to serve, mon general!”

“I shall leave you that money on condition that you get out of Flaxborough tomorrow. The rest I’ll post on to you. But you are to be away from the town tomorrow. Is that clearly understood?”

Hive hesitated.

“I said, is that understood?”

“I understand what you want, yes. But I really cannot see why...”

“Do you want this money, or don’t you?”

“Oh, certainly I do.”

“Very well, then. You will be on your way back to London in the morning?”

“That is my inal...inalienable intention.”

On his way out of the shop, Hive paused to speak to a vast, pear-shaped man wedged between the counter and a tier of shelves filled with packets of cigarettes and tins of tobacco.

“A gentleman will be calling later today to leave a letter for me. My name is Mr Hastings. Oh, and you might remind him to be sure and take that envelope I gave you yesterday.”