have against him is in solution, so to speak: it needs one admission from him round which to crystallize.”
For several moments, nobody said anything.
Then Mr Hive cleared his throat. “Suppose...”
The others looked at him. His mouth shut again. He shook his head, frowned regretfully.
A little later, a fresh thought animated Hive’s face. He sat straighter in his chair. “You know, the last time I was talking to that fellow, he practically threatened me. No, damn it, he
Miss Teatime looked anxious. Purbright asked: “What kind of threat did he make?”
“Well, perhaps not a threat in so many words. But his attitude was extremely unpleasant. Guilty conscience, obviously. I wonder if I were to upset him a bit more...”
“Now,
Hive waved away Miss Teatime’s caution. He reached for the telephone that stood in the middle of the tea things.
“Just a minute.” Half rising, Purbright laid a hand on his arm. “Is there an extension?”
“That is the extension,” said Miss Teatime. “The switchboard is in the next room but one as you go away from the staircase. There will be no one there at the moment.”
Purbright spoke to Hive. “Give me a few seconds, though I don’t expect he’ll give anything away over the phone. Try and make an appointment. That will give us time to arrange things.” He hurried to the door.
In the other office, he lifted the receiver of the little one-line switchboard and heard Hive’s call ringing out. It was answered by a woman. Purbright recognized the voice of Doreen Booker.
“May I speak to Mr Booker, please?”
“Who is that?”
“Hastings is my name.”
“I’m afraid Mr Booker isn’t back yet.”
“Are you expecting him shortly?”
“Well, not really. He’ll be busy at the school until about seven.”
“He’s there now, is he?”
“That’s right. But I could get him to...”
“I’m in a bit of a hurry, actually, Mrs Booker. If you could just give me the school number...”
Purbright replaced the receiver and waited until he judged the second call to have been put through. On listening again, he heard only the breathing of Mr Hive and a succession of small, distant noises suggestive of a telephone left off its rest. Nothing else happened for quite a long time. Then he heard hasty footsteps, the closing of a door, the rumble of the picked-up phone.
“Booker here...” The voice was guarded, but laden with annoyance.
“Don’t ring off. This is extremely important.”
A pause.
“Who is that?”
“Hastings—but don’t ring off. I’ve something urgent to tell you.”
There was another interval. Purbright could hear faint shouts. They sounded like those of boys. A car engine was being started somewhere. The echoing slam of a distant door.
“Are you listening?”
No reply.
“Dover—I said, are you listening?”
“All right. What is it?” Booker sounded very close to the telephone mouthpiece; he spoke in a kind of curt, lipless murmur.
“Don’t you know?” Purbright recognized that Hive was trying to put the right degree of casual menace into his tone, but all too obviously he was no expert.
“The money? It’s there. I sent a boy.”
“I don’t mean the money. I’m talking about Folkestone.”
“I...don’t think I follow you.”
“Folkestone—I know who he is.”
“Well.”
“He’s a man called Palgrove. His wife...”
“Now look here, Hive; I’m not concerned with this business any more. It’s all forgiven and forgotten. You’ll have the rest of your money just as soon as I pick up your account. Or tell me what it is now, if you like, and I’ll put a cheque in the post tonight.”
Purbright waited. Hive seemed to be undecided what to say.
