“You haven’t brought a coat, sir. You said you didn’t need one.”
“But it’s raining.”
Malley looked out of the window. It was, indeed, raining—heavily. He collected the two depositions from the table and slid them into a folder file. The page of typewritten grey notepaper was still there. He quickly glanced through it once more.
“Queer sort of letter, sir. When did you get it?”
“Eh?”
Malley resorted to booming pidgin. “This LETTER. Queer. When—did—you—GET—it?”
The old man gave the cupboard door a final shake. “Why don’t you help me find my coat? It’s raining.”
Malley picked up the letter and put it in his pocket.
“Come along, sir. I’ll take you back in the car.”
Chapter Two
Mr Harcourt Chubb, Chief Constable of Flaxborough, made it a rule never to open his mail until at least three hours after it had been delivered. It was not that he was a lazy or an inefficient man. Nor was he a coward. But experience had taught him that problems which were altogether raw and unpalatable at eight o’clock could acquire a manageable blandness by eleven. Some, indeed, seemed actually to evaporate through their envelopes if left undisturbed for a while. Thus, he might ring the station round about noon and say: Now then, what’s all this about a Peeping Tom in Partney Gardens?—and somebody would get busy and eventually telephone back: There’s a Partney Drive and a Partney Avenue but no Partney Gardens, sir. Trouble disposed of. It happened time and time again.
It was with hope of his luck holding in this respect that Mr Chubb telephoned Detective Inspector Purbright while he held before him a typewritten communication on grey notepaper. The time was a quarter to twelve.
“Ah, Mr Purbright...nice to see the rain’s eased off. Now then, what’s all this about some woman expecting to be poisoned or drowned or something?”
There was a short silence.
“I’m afraid I’m not quite with you, sir.”
“Oh, aren’t you?” Mr Chubb sounded surprised. “Well, I’ve had this letter, you see. I thought you might know something about it.”
“No, sir.”
“You don’t?”
“No.”
“I see. Yes. Well, it might just be a bit of silliness, you know.”
Mr Chubb waited, hoping the inspector would tell him there and then to throw the thing away, but all he got was a patient “Yes, sir?”
The chief constable frowned. He put the letter down and shifted the receiver to his other ear. “Perhaps I’d better read it to you. It’s not signed, you know, and I can’t think off-hand of anyone who normally addresses me as Dear Friend. Never mind, though, it goes on:
Purbright listened dutifully. Mr Chubb’s reading style was that of a university professor transcribing the notes of a rival savant: he gave the impression of peering at an almost illegible scrawl and doing his best to render it into English prose.
When he had finished, Mr Chubb waited again for the inspector’s comment.
“I gather you don’t take this letter seriously,” Purbright said.
“Why do you think that?”
“Ah, you
“Everything must be judged on its merits, Mr Purbright. I mean, here is a letter—unsigned—addressed to me by somebody or other who thinks they’re going to be murdered. Or says they do...” He paused, sensible of having strayed into dubious grammatical by-paths. “Anyway, I suppose you’ll want to see it for yourself?”
“That, if I may say so, is up to you, sir. The mode of address does sound rather personal.”
“I don’t think you need worry on that score, Inspector. The letter’s here if you want to send a man round for it.”
And with that, Mr Chubb rang off. He felt, not for the first time, that his detective inspector might show more ready appreciation of his responsibilities.
Half an hour later, Constable Pooke arrived by bicycle at the Chief’s home.
He went to the side door by way of a gate bearing a white enamelled plate with the words ‘No Hawkers’. Pooke knew he was not a hawker and the thought that he could pass where a whole profession, however humble and even noxious, was barred, made the now sunny noon-tide all the more pleasing. He glanced approvingly at the hollyhocks and clematis that screened the front of the square, redbrick villa, and admired the authentic striped effect that meticulous mowing had imparted to the small lawn. There was another lawn at the back, bordered by rose beds and a number of rigidly disciplined fruit trees. Between two of these, Pooke glimpsed the tall, silver- haired figure of Mr Chubb. He was walking slowly in traversing movements over the grass and held before him what appeared to be a mine detector. As Pooke approached, he saw that the instrument was actually a long wooden stave with a shovel angled to its end. The chief constable, a breeder of Yorkshire terriers on a scale that even his fellow fanciers considered to verge on the immoral, was engaged on his daily Operation Cleansweep.
As Pooke waited respectfully for Mr Chubb to complete the last three traverses, he wondered where so many
