“Many times,” said Dr Steven. “And although it has never been a curse, it’s never been a big bird-puller.”
“Well, my name’s Molloy,” said John. “Scoop Molloy of the Brentford Mercury. I came as soon as I could.”
“Excuse me?”
“Tip-off,” said John. “From an inside source at the Cottage Hospital.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Would you kindly leave?”
“Be pleased to, as soon as you give me a quote. We don’t get a story as big as this very often.”
Dr Malone began to close the door. John stuck his foot in the gap. “‘VAMPIKE CLAIMS FIRST VICTIM’,” he said in a very loud voice. “‘ALL BLOOD DRAINED’.”
“You’d better come in,” said Dr Malone.
“Ah, come in, Jim,” said Professor Slocombe, looking up from his desk. “And how are you feeling this morning?”
“Still a bit shaky, sir, as it happens. My head aches something wicked.”
“That might perhaps have something to do with the half a bottle of brandy you consumed.”
“No, it will be the concussion.”
“Breakfast?”
“Oh yes please.”
Professor Slocombe rang his small brass bell.
“Would you care for some breakfast?” asked Dr Malone.
“No thanks,” said John. “Deadlines to keep, you know how it is.”
“Indeed I do,” the doctor smiled.
John Omally didn’t like that smile. In fact he didn’t like anything about Dr Steven Malone. With his pale gaunt features he looked every bit the vampire. Such a brazen approach, although calculated to gain entry, had not perhaps been the wisest of moves. If he was now inside the lair of a genuine undead, was he all that likely to get out again?
“Did you come alone?” asked the doctor.
“Ah, no,” said John. “Three of my colleagues are waiting outside in the car.”
“Well, I’m sure we can clear this up between the two of us.”
“I’m sure we can.” Omally sat down in a chair with his back to the wall and placed his notebook on the dining table. “Between you and me,” he said, “I think this whole thing probably has a simple explanation.”
“It certainly does.”
“But who cares about that, eh? Give the readers what they want, blood and guts. This one should run and run.”
Dr Steven’s pale gaunt features turned a whiter shade. “Listen,” he said. “There is no story here. Jack Bryant died from a haemorrhage whilst evacuating his bowels.”
“I heard he was naked,” said John. “And the words NUMBER ONE were written in his blood on the wall.”
“He was not naked and there were no words on the wall.”
“So you were there, then? You can swear to that?”
“I was there. I arranged for the removal of the body. He was sitting on the toilet with his trousers down.”
“Trousers down you say?” John made a note. “Just the trousers?”
“Just the trousers.”
“And no holes in the neck?”
“No.”
“What about holes anywhere else?”
“What?”
“Just trying to keep one step ahead of the Sunday Sport.”
“Newspaper, Jim?” asked the Professor, across the breakfast table.
“No thanks, I never read them.”
“You’re probably wise.”
“Probably. Oh, see if there’s anything in there about Mr Compton-Cummings.”
“A book review? I think that most unlikely.”
“No, about his death.”
“His what?”
“His willy,” said John. “No holes in his willy?”
“Absolutely not!”
“Well, it looks as if I have no story here at all. What a shame.”
“You have my sympathy.”
“No, I mean, what a shame I’ll have to write it up anyway.”
“What?”
“My bonus depends on it. If I don’t hand in a story today, I won’t get my bonus. And if I don’t get my bonus, I won’t have enough to buy my dear little white-haired old mother her stairlift.”
“And how much is this bonus of yours worth?”
“How does fifty quid sound?”
“You sound shocked,” said Jim. “But then I suppose you are.”
“Compton-Cummings dead and you didn’t think to mention it?”
“It somehow slipped my mind. I’d had a rough evening.”
“Compton-Cummings dead,” said the Professor. “Compton-Cummings dead.”
“Just one more thing before I go,” said John Omally, turning at the open front door. “There was another chap died yesterday, a Mr Compton-Cummings. His body must have been brought into the Cottage Hospital. Did you examine it?”
“There was no other body in the morgue.”
“But anyone who dies locally would be brought to the Cottage Hospital, surely.”
“They would. But I know nothing about any Compton-Cummings.”
“Perhaps there’s a story there,” said John.
“Forget it,” said Dr Steven Malone, closing the front door upon him.
John set off across the oak-lined street, whistling. Inside his waistcoat pocket he now had ten nice crisp five-pound notes. The day had hardly begun and already he was ahead.
Dr Steven Malone bolted the front door and shook his pale head. Compton-Cummings? Who was Compton-Cummings? The name sounded strangely familiar. Ah yes, of course, it was the name of the author of that book on his dining table.
Dr Steven Malone returned to examine the book. He was more than a little peeved to find it wasn’t there.
“Hi-de-ho,” said John Omally, breezing in through the Professor’s French windows.
“Hi-de-nothing!” said the old man, rising from his desk. “Why did you not tell me about the death of Compton-Cummings?”
“It somehow slipped my mind,” said John. “I’d had a rough evening.”
The Professor glared at John and then at Jim. Jim winced.
“But I’ll tell you what,” said Omally. “There’s something very strange going on around here. The body of Mr Compton-Cummings never made it to the morgue at the Cottage Hospital.”
Professor Slocombe raised an eyebrow. “And how do you know that?”
“I’ve just been speaking to a Dr Steven Malone.”
“The geneticist, lives in Kether House?”
“Geneticist he may be, bloody liar also.”
