The Flaxborough Crab

Henry delivered this final information with the pride of some embryo Northcliffe packed umbilically with newspaper jargon.

“I think,” Purbright said, “that you’d better come along and see me, Mr Popplewell.”

“Will do,” chimed Henry.

Purbright replaced the receiver. He looked pained. He was very much afraid that Henry’s “Will do” was but a foretaste of even heartier abbreviations to come. He waited, nerves tingling, for the door to open and admit Mr Popplewell and his “Long time no see!”

At last there was a knock and Henry’s head appeared.

“Chow!”

The inspector winced.

Henry came in. Purbright pointed invitingly to a chair. Instead of sitting, Henry twirled the chair round behind him and leaned against its back in the manner of a sportsman resting on his shooting stick. He gazed jauntily round the shabby little office.

“And how’s tricks?” he asked.

It’s coming, thought Purbright, it MUST be coming.

Henry stared with open curiosity towards the papers on the inspector’s desk. He scratched under his left armpit, yawned, glanced out of the window, then fished a cigarette from the breast pocket of his jacket and lit it, frowning. He expelled smoke as if trying to blow out a candle from ten feet. This seemed to do him a lot of good. He smiled.

“Well, well—long time no see!”

Purbright swallowed and visibly relaxed.

“Mr Popplewell, you mentioned on the telephone someone or something called the Flaxborough Crab.”

“Right.”

“Who calls him that?”

“Everybody. Either that, or the Flaxborough Strangler.”

The inspector raised his brows.

“I don’t recall any reports of stranglings, Mr Popplewell.”

“Ah, you’ve not heard from that woman in Windsor Close, then? Half a tick...” Henry consulted the back of an empty cigarette packet. “Mrs Cowper, husband on the buses. No joy?”

“She’s not complained to us.”

“That figures,” said Henry cheerfully. Purbright had no idea what he meant.

“Or Mavis what’s-her-name, the waitress at the Roebuck?”

“Another strangling?”

“Do me a favour! No—knicker-snatching, that one.”

Purbright tried to resist the growing sense of confusion that was imparted by the substance and, more particularly, the manner of Henry’s conversation. He lit himself a cigarette, examined it carefully, and began:

“I gather that what you are...”

“Look,” Henry interrupted, “can you give me the dope on this peeping angle?”

“Peeping?”

“Natch. All over the place. Women daren’t go to bed.”

“Somebody looks through their windows?”

“That’s the drill. No one’s slept for a fortnight down Edward Crescent or Abdication Avenue. Hey, but you know all this! You have to know. Come on—impart!”

Henry had unpropped himself and was now pacing restlessly up and down, immediately in front of Purbright’s desk.

“I’m very much afraid that there is nothing that I can impart. It is you who seem to have all the information. There have been two assaults recently. The sergeant downstairs will give you the details of those. But as far as the other things are concerned, it seems that you have a—what should I say?—a scoop. Congratulations.”

Henry stopped pacing and eyed Purbright speculatively. Then he nodded.

“Fair enough. Sergeant downstairs? Will do.”

He made for the door.

“Oh, by the way, Mr Popplewell...”

Henry turned.

“This soubriquet you say everybody is using. The Flaxborough Crab. I don’t quite get the significance.”

For answer, Henry took three or four lurching steps sideways, as if the floor had suddenly become the deck of a ship in heavy seas.