by W H Oxley
Outside the hospital a newsvendor stood yelling ‘star-news-or-standard!’ next to a placard reading HITLER WANTS PEACE. Once Brightwell had brought the car to a halt, Hawker stepped out onto the pavement and drew in a lungful of fresh air. Even London air tastes fresh and sweet after a night in an Anderson Shelter. He fumbled in his pocket for some small change and bought a copy of each paper.
‘I’d better check to make sure nothing about the gun has leaked out,’ he muttered as Brightwell joined him. ‘I think we can trust old Goldstein to keep quiet but I’m not too sure about that grubby little assistant of his.’
‘Do you think they’ll let us see him, sir?’
‘If Nurse Williams’s unofficial report is anything to go by, I doubt it. With the family around the bedside on death-watch they’re hardly likely to let us question him.’
‘Do the family know yet, sir?’
‘You mean about Purvis’s little charade? I hope not, but now the fingerprints have been confirmed…’ He shrugged.
The ward sister recognised them immediately, and gave Brightwell a look of disapproval before addressing Hawker.
‘I’m afraid that you are too late, sir. He passed away twenty minutes ago.’
As they both removed their hats, Hawker asked, ‘Is his family still with him?’
‘Yes, sir, the mother is taking it very badly. Hopefully, the medal will be some compensation.’
‘What medal?’ asked Hawker sharply.
‘There was something in yesterday’s newspaper. Do you think it will be awarded posthumously?’
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to ask the newspapers,’ grunted Hawker. ‘They seem to be better informed than I am.’
‘It was young Mr Purvis’s employer who mentioned it.’
‘Mr Goldstein?’ Hawker frowned. ‘When was he here?’
‘Yesterday evening, such a considerate gentleman he was. He wanted to know whether young Mr Purvis was conscious, and he had a word with the older Mr Purvis who appeared to be very impressed and commented on Mr Goldstein’s kindness.’
‘I suppose that puts the lid on our chances of finding out where he got the gun,’ grumbled Brightwell, as they loitered in the corridor outside the casualty ward.
‘Not really. I just wanted to tick off a few points and confirm them with Purvis. He’d have told me what I wanted to know once he realised that I knew everything.’
‘And do you know everything, sir?’
‘A night in an Anderson Shelter does wonders for the imagination, Brightwell, and when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.
‘I suppose it was Sherlock Holmes who said that?’
‘Correct: A Study in Scarlet.’
‘So you have cracked it then, sir?’
‘I have…’ Hawker lit his pipe and sat back with a smug expression on his face.’
‘I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me…?’
‘Later, Brightwell, later…’
Brightwell sighed… ‘So what now, sir?’
‘Sooner or later the family will be coming through that door. I want to have a quick word with the father. He’s going to find out eventually, and it’s a dammed sight better that it comes from me rather than the newspapers. I just hope the war has livened up enough to keep the press off our backs. All this talk of peace is has made them hungry for something interesting to print.’
The sad little trio emerged from the casualty ward. The weeping grey-haired mother was supported on one side by the father, whose erect soldierly bearing bore testimony to twenty years service in a guards’ regiment, and on the other, by the sister, a pretty girl with long chestnut tresses and a body that was a collection of well shaped curves. Brightwell’s eyes lit up and he straightened his tie; Hawker glared at him.
Taking charge, Hawker steered the mother and sister to a couple of chairs before inviting the father to one side and explaining as gently as he could the result of his investigation. The old soldier took it well, asking how much time he had to break the news to his wife. Hawker promised to delay the official announcement until the evening.
‘It just goes to show what a real gent that Mr Goldstein is,’ said the father. ‘Did you tell him about this, inspector?’
‘Definitely not. We didn’t know for certain ourselves until this morning when the fingerprints were confirmed.’
‘Well then, I just hope he doesn’t regret his generosity. You see, he brought my son’s wages to the end of the month. He even said he’d be happy to carry on paying them until he was fit to return to work, not that it matters any more. It’s just as well Mr Goldstein took the keys.’
‘The keys?’ Hawker’s eyes lit up.
‘My son kept a set of keys to the cabinets.’
‘And Mr Goldstein asked for them?’
‘That’s right, inspector. He was a bit anxious about them.’
‘I appreciate that this must be very painful for you, sir, and I can assure that it is just a routine question, but did your son have any friends who were, shall we say, not exactly respectable?’
‘He didn’t have many friends.’ The old soldier sighed and shook is head. ‘You see, inspector, he’s always been a very quiet boy; he didn’t even have a girlfriend. He just used to sit up in his room with his books and Meccano set making all sorts of mechanical things.’
‘Thank you, sir. I won’t keep you any longer; though, if I may make a suggestion, if you happen to have friends or family living outside London who could put you up, it might be a good idea to take the family there until things quieten down. Because once this gets out you’ll have the gentlemen of the press camped out on your doorstep.’
‘Hmm…’ The father looked thoughtful. ‘Perhaps you’re right, inspector.’ He cast an anxious glance in the direction of his wife. ‘I don’t think the old girl could cope with something like that; she’s been through more than enough already. Her brother has a farm in Devon, and I was already thinking of evacuating the family down there for the duration of the war in case the Germans started bombing London.’
‘Then I would recommend that you do so, sir, and with a bit of luck the war will be over by Christmas.’
‘Do you think so, inspector.’
‘Let us hope so, sir...’
