Hopjoy Was Here f-3

by Colin Watson

  Periam sipped, assumed for some seconds the wine-man’s look of trying to work out a square root in his head, then nodded reassuringly at his wife. “I think you’ll find it not too bad. Maybe a shade young...” The waiter, who thought he had spotted the arrival of an expense account junta at the far side of his territory, hurriedly filled the three glasses and took himself off.

  Doreen pronounced the Beaune “nice but a bit acid”. Purbright glanced at Periam’s face. It betrayed no sign of his having found the remark unfortunate.

  The girl resumed her contemplation of the tablecloth. Her hand remained clasped in her husband’s. After a while she disengaged it and, unconsciously, it seemed, allowed it to fall into Periam’s lap. She smiled. “Fancy,” she said, half to herself, “you and old Brian having a set-to over poor little me.”

  “Well, not a set-to, exactly,” Periam said. He captured Doreen’s hand, which had been running affectionately up and down his thigh, and returned it to table level. “It was Bry who flew off the handle. I couldn’t get a word in edgeways.”

  The soup arrived. Both Periam and his bride hitched forward their chairs and looked pleased. Their honeymoon seemed to have given them an appetite.

  “You did a certain amount of housekeeping at Beatrice Avenue, didn’t you, Mrs Periam?”

  “I popped in occasionally during the week. Since Gordon lost his mother, you know.”

  “You cooked, and so forth?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Tell me: did you have anything to do with the neighbours? You don’t know of any who were especially inquisitive?”

  The girl shook her head without interrupting the spooning of her soup.

  “Did any friends of Mr Hopjoy ever visit the house?”

  “Not while I was there.” She turned to Periam. “I don’t think he ever brought anyone home, did he, Gordon?”

  “No, he was always a bit of a dark horse in that respect. Mind you...”—he carefully piloted an undissolved pellet of soup powder to the rim of his plate—“you have to remember the sort of job he does.”

  “Do you know what Mr Hopjoy was doing, Mrs Periam?”

  The plump shoulders rose slightly. “I suppose I do really. In a way...” Again her eyes consulted Periam’s. “I don’t want to get him into trouble or anything...”

  “I fancy that possibility no longer exists,” Purbright said quietly.

  Doreen looked mildly puzzled. “Because you think he’s skipped off, you mean? Oh, but he often does that. That’s why he told me just a little bit about his job; he didn’t want me to imagine The Worst, as they say.” There was a flash of tiny, very white teeth. The smile faded slowly; the girl seemed to sustain it deliberately in order to warm the image her words had created.

  “Did he tell you where he went, or anything about the people he met?”

  “Well, he didn’t actually mention places or names. He’d just say something about having to meet a contact, or what he called ‘one of our people’. Then at night—all night, quite often—he kept a watch on houses of people he’d been tipped off about...that’s what he said, wasn’t it, Gordon?”

  Periam murmured: “That’s right, darl.” He appeared to be more interested in the next course, which was just then arriving. Purbright glanced without elation at the slices of de-natured chicken, awash in suspiciously brown and copious gravy; then involuntarily drew back as the waiter performed manual pirouettes in the process of depositing upon his plate portions of dropsical potato and tinned peas.

  “Everything to your satisfaction, madam?” Bending low over Doreen’s shoulder, his face as stiff as a dead deacon’s, the waiter delivered the question into the top of her dress. Echo-sounding, thought Purbright idly.

  “I’m afraid,” the inspector said a little later, “that I’m going to have to deprive you of Mr Hopjoy’s car.”

  The honeymooners simultaneously stopped eating. “Oh, no!” Doreen’s fleshy little mouth tightened. “That’s not fair; Brian lent it to us specially.”

  “I’m terribly sorry, but there it is. We’ll not keep it longer than is absolutely necessary.”

  “But what’s the car to do with...with all this?”

  “Perhaps nothing, Mr Periam. It’s just that policemen have no choice in the matter of leaving stones unturned.”

  Doreen impatiently stabbed a piece of chicken. “You won’t find Brian in the boot, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  Purbright looked at her and sighed. “You know, Mrs Periam, I hate to be solemn at meal times, but I feel it’s only proper to tell you—as I told your husband this morning—that we are quite seriously concerned with the possibility that Mr Hopjoy’s disappearance will prove permanent.”

  The admonition produced no reaction beyond a quick little shake of the head. “He’ll turn up: don’t you worry.” If this girl had been consciously party to a crime, Purbright reflected, it was clearly of no use hoping that she would be harrowed into acknowledging it.

  When he arrived back at the police station, Purbright found his desk neatly stacked with Sergeant Love’s gleanings from 14 Beatrice Avenue. He sought Love out.

  “Righto, Sid; astound me.”

  Love looked doubtfully at the pile of papers. “I collected everything I could find. There’s nothing very exciting, though.”

  “Never mind. Let’s have a look.”

  The sergeant picked up the first few sheets. “Letters to Periam. Either he didn’t get many or he didn’t keep them. There’s nothing recent.”

  Three of the letters appeared to be from female relatives. They offered condolence on the death of Periam’s mother. ‘She was a beautiful soul,’ ran one, written in a wavery but florid hand, ‘and I know that no one can ever take her place. But, Gordon dear, you must not let your grief be a door closed against all other affection. Dear Mackie—and I’m sure you won’t mind me mentioning her at this time—has been so patient and loyal, and what could never be so long as your duty lay with your poor mother is now quite possible and right.’ The signature was ‘Auntie B’.

  A fourth letter was from a solicitor and enumerated final details of the administration of Mrs Periam’s will. The other two were formal acknowledgements of a transfer of deeds and a small quantity of stock.

  “This,” said Love, handing over a second, thicker sheaf, “is just shop stuff—you know, his tobacco business.”

  Purbright glanced quickly through the invoices, delivery notes and receipts, and put them aside. Love picked up his next selection. “Periam again. Certificates, documents and all that.”

  “You should have been an archivist, Sid.” The sergeant, suspecting an ironic indecency, grinned to show his broadness of mind.

  The third batch of papers was unproductive of anything more exciting than a faded copy of Mrs Periam’s marriage lines, her son’s birth certificate, and, crispest and most blackly inked of all, that of her death. There were several bank statements, showing Periam’s credit standing at around £2,500; a couple of insurance policies; National Health Insurance cards, one in the name of Joan Peters, the shop assistant; some rates receipts and a card of membership of the Flaxborough Chamber of Trade.

  Finally in the Periam collection came a miscellany topped by two years’ back numbers of Healthy Living and a number of pamphlets on muscle development ‘in the privacy of your own bedroom’. There were some scrolls commemorative of Gordon Halcyon Periam’s achievements as pupil and teacher in the Carlton Road Methodist Sunday School. A small album of photographs seemed a typical record of family life in back gardens and beach huts; Purbright noticed the consistent role of the young Periam to be that of a frowning, slightly agape custodian of his mother’s arm. An exceptional snapshot, marred by faulty development, showed him at the age of fifteen or sixteen, looking defensively at the camera in the company of a fat girl pouting at an ice cream cornet. Even in this picture, however, a segment efface in the top left corner indicated the fond and watchful presence of the late Mrs Periam.

/>   Love licked a finger. “Now for Hopjoy,” he announced. “I didn’t have such a job rooting these out. They were all stuffed into this writing case thing. I found it under his bed.”

  “By the way, what did you make of that big bedroom at the back; I can’t imagine who uses it.”

  Love shook his head. “Nobody does. It was the old lady’s.”

  Purbright looked up from his examination of the writing case. “But it’s cluttered up with all manner of things. Shoes, gewgaws, medicine bottles, hair nets. I noticed the bed was still made up, too. A bit odd, isn’t it?”

  “I saw a film once,” said Love, his face brightening, “where a bloke kept a room like that for years after his mother was supposed to have been buried. She was in the wardrobe, actually, all shrivelled, and he used to plonk her down in a chair at teatime and talk to her. It turned out that...”

  “Did you take a peek into the wardrobe, Sid?”

  Love looked a little ashamed of himself. “I did, as a matter of fact. Just in the course of things. There were some dresses in it. And a sort of basket thing.”

  “Basket thing?” Purbright frowned, suddenly interested.

  “That’s right.” The sergeant sketched in the air with his hands. “I should think it was one of those old contraptions dressmakers used to use.”

  “I’m quite sure you’re wrong, Sid. Never mind for now, though. Let’s see what Mr Hopjoy left us.”

  The Hopjoy bequest was not calculated to bring much joy to beneficiaries. It consisted, almost exclusively, of bills and accompanying letters that ranged in tone from elaborate politeness to vulgar exasperation.

  Purbright mentally awarded top marks to the essay contributed by the manager of the Neptune.

  My dear Mr Hopjoy (it began expansively),

  I need hardly tell you how delighted I was to renew the acquaintance, in the person of your charming wife, of a lady I had mistakenly supposed to have married into a family on the other side of the county. I cannot say what gave me that erroneous impression: the man is almost unknown to me, save by repute as a choleric and well-muscled individual. You will, I am sure, apologize to Mrs Hopjoy for whatever trace of bewilderment I may stupidly have shown on being introduced to her (or re-introduced, should I say?) May I take this opportunity also to congratulate you upon your new union. The former Mrs Hopjoy—if I might make so bold as to offer comment—seemed possessed of a disconcertingly changeable personality; there were times when I had difficulty in persuading myself that she was the same woman. Now that a more settled marital relationship seems happily in prospect, I may, no doubt, look forward to the satisfactory adjustment of the incidental matter of your account.

  Yours ever to serve,

  P. BARRACLOUGH

  ‘Adjustment’, it appeared, involved the sum of £268 14s.

  To an even larger debt a letter from Mr J. O’Conlon made regretful reference. In this case, social overtones were absent. Mr O’Conlon merely expressed the hope that his client would avoid trouble for all concerned (including, especially, himself) by sending along his cheque for £421 at any time convenient to him within the following forty-eight hours.

  “Bookmaking,” Purbright observed to Sergeant Love, “must be looking up. I wouldn’t have thought Joe O’Conlon had enough padding to let anyone have that much credit.”

  Turning to the next sheet, Purbright raised his brows in mild astonishment. “George Tozer, gentlemen’s hairdresser,” he read out. “To goods, £11 15s. 4d. A remittance will oblige or I’m sorry no more of same can be supplied.”

  Love puffed out his schoolboy-pink cheeks. “A proper lad, that Hopjoy. And on tick, too...”

  “You feel that makes his excesses the more reprehensible?”

  “I wouldn’t know about that, but I reckon they don’t call old Tozer the poor man’s friend for nothing.”

  “You’re sure you’re not confusing the merchant with his merchandise?” Purbright put the barber’s reckoning aside and picked up a letter from the Happy Motoring Finance Company. “Ah, the car...I was wondering when we’d come to that.”

  “In the matter of your outstanding instalments, which now amount to £242 16s.,” the letter ran, “I am directed to refer to your personal letter to Sir Harry Palmer, in which you say that the nature of certain confidential work undertaken by you for H.M. Government requires you to foster a false appearance of impecuniosity. I regret that the Chairman must decline your invitation to seek confirmation of your position from the Minister of State, as this would be outside the scope of our Company practice. Accordingly, I must inform you that unless your instalment payments are brought up to date within fourteen days we shall be obliged to take appropriate action.”

  Purbright regarded the letter in silence for a while. Then he looked quickly through the rest of the contents of the writing case. Beneath the bills lay an unsuggestive miscellany of theatre programmes, hotel and resort brochures, a London restaurant guide, a couple of wine and food lists, maps, a jeweller’s catalogue and the maintenance booklet for the Armstrong. Then came a wad of blank, thin paper sheets of the kind Purbright had seen in the hands of Ross, and finally a cheap writing pad from which the top sheet or two had been torn.

  Purbright flicked through the pages of the pad. They enclosed nothing. He leaned back, staring out of the window and gently tapping the pad against the edge of the desk.

  “I don’t know,” he said slowly, “how Mr Hopjoy rated as a counter-espionage agent, but if he applied to his job only half the talent he showed for fornication and insolvency I’d say Russia’s had it.”

  Love glanced at the inspector a little dubiously.

  “Oh, don’t worry, Sid. The fellow obviously made no secret of what he was up to. He even traded on it. I don’t see why we should behave like old ladies pretending they can’t smell the drains. Which reminds me...wasn’t Warlock coming in today some time?”

  “About four,” Love said. “He sounded jolly bouncy over the phone.”

  “He’s probably run across some little titbit like a fingernail or a kidney. Incidentally, I don’t see anything among this lot that gives colour to Hopjoy’s pose as a commercial traveller.”

  “That’s all there was at the house. Perhaps he had an office somewhere,”

  Purbright shook his head. “None of the chemists in the town remembers his calling. No, I think he just couldn’t be bothered to keep up that part of it; who was to care, anyway?”

  The sergeant watched in silence as Purbright closed and fastened the writing case and pushed it and Periam’s belongings to the back of the desk. Then, “It’s funny, you know,” he said hesitantly, “but what with one thing and another—all that money trouble and everything—you might almost say that getting done must have come to that bloke as a happy release.” He swallowed. “If you see what I mean.”

  There was no flippancy in Purbright’s voice when he replied: “I do see what you mean, Sid. I do indeed.”

  Chapter Ten

  Sergeant Warlock blossomed into Purbright’s office like the Man from the Prudential. He carried a briefcase and a squat, black wooden box with a handle.

  “Now then, squire.” The luggage was placed in precise symmetry on the desk top. Warlock’s hands, thus released, flew into joyful union and vigorously rubbed each other. “How’s tricks?”

  Purbright conceded that tricks were merely so-so.

  His visitor, after taking two turns round the room, in order, Purbright supposed, to dissipate some of the momentum of his arrival, poised himself by the briefcase and flicked it open. He looked zestfully at the inspector. “Nicest little job I’ve had in years. Absolutely fascinating...” His glance went down to the papers he was drawing from the case. “I hardly know where to begin.”

  “By sitting down, perhaps?” suggested Purbright unhopefully. Warlock chuckled and seemed to grow two inches taller there and then. He spread pages of typescript on the desk and rapidly reviewed the underlined sub-headings.

  “Ah, well; we
might as well start with the bath, eh? You were quite right about that. It was melted paraffin wax that had been brushed over the chipped parts and the metal plug seating. There were still traces of it, although I’d say the whole caboodle had been sluiced out afterwards with water from the hot tap. And the chain was still thickly waxed. Your lad saw that, didn’t he? Now then, what else...Oh, yes; spots of corrosion on both taps. Splashes, probably. Slight discolouration of vitreous enamel consistent with submersion in fairly highly concentrated sulphuric acid. Acid traces on bathroom floor...”

  Warlock’s finger moved slowly down the page. “Wax on bath corresponded with solid deposit in basin in dining-room sideboard...” He looked up. “Queer slip, that: leaving the thing about. Never mind, that’s not my pigeon.” He read on. “No distinguishable fingerprints on basin, damn it—still, it would have been asking a bit much.”