Lejeune smiled.
'A policeman's life is not such a romantically exciting one as you think, Mr Osborne. You've got the amateur's view of crime. Most of it is dull routine. We're not always chasing down criminals, and following up mysterious clues. It can be quite a dull business, really.'
Mr Osborne looked unconvinced.
'You know best,' he said. 'Good-bye, Mr Lejeune, and I'm sorry indeed that I haven't been able to help you. If there was anything – any time -'
'I'll let you know,' Lejeune promised him.
'That day at the fete, it seemed such a chance,' Osborne murmured sadly.
'I know. A pity the medical evidence is so definite, but one can't get over that sort of thing, can one?'
'Well -' Mr Osborne let the word linger, but Lejeune did not notice it. He strode away briskly. Mr Osborne stood by the gate looking after him.
'Medical evidence,' he said. 'Doctors indeed! If he knew half what I know about doctors – innocents, that's what they are! Doctors indeed!'
Chapter 11
I
First Hermia. Now Corrigan.
All right, then, I was making a fool of myself! I was accepting balderdash as solid truth. I had been hypnotized by that phony woman Thyrza Grey into accepting a farrago of nonsense. I was a credulous, superstitious ass.
I decided to forget the whole damned business. What was it to do with me anyway?
Through the mist of disillusionment, I heard the echoes of Mrs Dane Calthrop's urgent tones.
'You've got to do something!'
All very well – to say things like that.
'You need someone to help you…'
I had needed Hermia. I had needed Corrigan. But neither of them would play. There was no one else. Unless -
I sat – considering the idea.
On an impulse I went to the telephone and rang Mrs Oliver.
'Hallo. Mark Easterbrook here.'
'Yes?'
'Can you tell me the name of that girl who was staying in the house for the fete?'
'I expect so. Let me see… yes, of course, Ginger. That was her name.'
'I know that. But her other name.'
'What other name?'
'I doubt if she was christened Ginger. And she must have a surname.'
'Well, of course. But I've no idea what it is. One never seems to hear any surnames nowadays. It's the first time I'd ever met her.' There was a slight pause and then Mrs Oliver said, 'You'll have to ring up Rhoda and ask her.'
I didn't like that idea. Somehow I felt shy about it.
'Oh, I can't do that,' I said.
'It's perfectly simple,' said Mrs Oliver encouragingly. 'Just say you've lost her address and can't remember her name and you'd promised to send her one of your books, or the name of a shop that sells cheap caviare, or to return a handkerchief which she lent you when your nose bled one day, or the address of a rich friend who wants a picture restored. Any of those do? I can think of lots more if you'd like.'
'One of those will do beautifully,' I assured her. I rang off, dialed 100 and presently was speaking to Rhoda.
'Ginger?' said Rhoda. 'Oh, she lives in a mews. Calgary Place. Forty-five. Wait a minute. I'll give you her telephone number.' She went away and returned a minute later. 'It's Capricorn 35987. Got it?'
'Yes, thanks. But I haven't got her name. I never heard it.'
'Her name? Oh, her surname, you mean. Corrigan. Katherine Corrigan. What did you say?'
'Nothing. Thanks, Rhoda.'
It seemed to me an odd coincidence. Corrigan. Two Corrigans. Perhaps it was an omen.
I dialed Capricorn 35987.
II
Ginger sat opposite me at a table in the White Cockatoo where we had met for a drink. She looked refreshingly the same as she had looked at Much Deeping – a tousled mop of red hair, an engagingly freckled face and alert green eyes. She was wearing her London artistic livery of skintight pants, a Sloppy Joe jersey and black woollen stockings – but otherwise she was the same Ginger. I liked her very much.
'I've had to do a lot of work to track you down,' I said. 'Your surname and your address and your telephone number – all unknown. I've got a problem.'
'That's what my daily always says. It usually means that I have to buy her a new saucepan scourer or a carpet brush, or something dull.'
'You won't have to buy anything,' I assured her.
Then I told her. It didn't take quite so long as the story I had told to Hermia, because she was already familiar with the Pale Horse and its occupants. I averted my eyes from her as I finished the tale. I didn't want to see her reaction. I didn't want to see indulgent amusement, or stark incredulity. The whole thing sounded more idiotic than ever. No one (except Mrs Dane Calthrop) could possibly feel about it as I felt. I drew patterns on the plastic tabletop with a stray fork.
Ginger's voice came briskly.
'That's all, is it?'
'That's all,' I admitted.
'What are you going to do about it?'
'You think – I should do something about it?'
'Well, of course! Someone's got to do something! You can't have an organization going about bumping people off and not do anything.'
'But what can I do?'
I could have fallen on her neck and hugged her.
She was sipping Pernod and frowning. Warmth spread over me. I was no longer alone.
Presently she said musingly:
'You'll have to find out what it all means.'
'I agree. But how?'
'There seem to be one or two leads. Perhaps I can help.'
'Would you? But there's your job.'
'Plenty could be done out of office hours.' She frowned again as she thought.
'That girl,' she said at last. 'The one at supper after the Old Vic. Poppy or something. She knows about it – she must – to say what she did.'
'Yes, but she got frightened, and sheered off when I tried to ask her questions. She was scared. She
