All these hazards were negotiated with smooth synchronization by the Bentley, presided over by Ross. He remained calm, indulgent, interested.
Just short of a large, pale blue sign mounted on posts, Ross drew the car to a halt. At his request Pumphrey wound down the window on his side and Ross leaned across him, calling to the squat, sceptical looking man who lounged against one of the sign’s supports.
“I say, I wonder if you could tell me in which part of the town I can find the police headquarters.”
The man silently regarded the casual balance of the traveller’s forward-thrust shoulder, its suiting of hand-blended Newbiggin wool and linen dyed to the colour of Chartres Cathedral, the musicianly hands that sprang so surprisingly from wrists as powerful as a road driller’s. He shifted his glance to Ross’s face; a patient face, not very handsome, the face of a questioner and connoisseur, a trader—in the last resort—of pain.
When the man’s slow scrutiny reached Ross’s eyes he saw they were lifted to absorb the message of the tall, clean lettering above them. FLAXBOROUGH WELCOMES CAREFUL DRIVERS.
The man politely awaited the descent of Ross’s gaze before he carefully cleared his throat and spoke.
“Piss off,” he said.
The Chief Constable of Flaxborough, Mr Harcourt Chubb, received his London visitors with a degree of affability that he calculated would fall just short of making them feel entitled to put him to any trouble. He introduced Purbright, who found Ross’s handshake a shade prolonged and somewhat exploratory, and Pumphrey’s over-firm, like that of a man for ever determined to make his first friend.
All but Mr Chubb sat down. He stepped back and relaxed his tall, lean body against the mantelpiece, with one arm extended along it.
Ross glanced at him, then at Purbright.
“I assume, inspector, that Mr Chubb has explained the nature of our interest in this little affair of yours at...Flaxborough.” The small hesitation was eloquent of the orientation difficulties of the much travelled. Perhaps the day before it had been Istambul or Adelaide that needed to be slotted into some similar interview.
Purbright inclined his head. “I do understand that one of these missing people, a man called Hopjoy, happens to be...”
“...One of our fellows, yes.” Ross completed the identification with brisk despatch, then looked intently at Purbright. “Of course, you see how we might be placed?”
“Not precisely, sir.”
Pumphrey’s cheek twitched with disapproval of the provincial policeman’s obtuseness. “It simply means that, security-wise...” He stopped and turned his eyes, like those of an El Greco Christ, upon Ross.
Ross smiled patiently. “Thimble Bay. Let’s start from there, shall we? I don’t have to tell you about the Thimble Bay Establishment. Couldn’t, anyway—not above Sensitivity Three, and you wouldn’t be much wiser if I did. But you’ll understand the place is very much our pigeon. Hence Hopjoy. Among others, naturally.”
“That much I had gathered,” Purbright said. “Of course, Thimble Bay is not usually considered to be in this locality, sir.”
“Really?” Ross sounded surprised. He glanced across at the Chief Constable, as a misled traveller might appeal direct to the king of the country whose inhabitants have proved wayward. “How far, Mr Chubb, would you say Thimble Bay is from here?”
The Chief Constable diffidently waved one of his fine flexible, hands. “I really can’t tell you. Mr Purbright will know.”
“Twenty-seven miles, sir.”
A little puff of disparagement issued from Pumphrey’s black, up-tilted nostrils. “Well, that may seem a long way to you, inspector, but, good heavens, globe-wise...”
“My colleague,” Ross broke in, “doesn’t mean to sound like an astronomer. We do appreciate that you have quite enough on your plate without worrying about what goes on a couple of counties away. It’s just that we have to take rather long views in our job.” He gave a sudden placatory grin and drew a cigarette case from an inner pocket. “Tell me, do you find time to play cricket, inspector?”
“No, sir,” replied Purbright, no less pleasantly.
For a fraction of a second the pressure of Ross’s thumb on the catch of the cigarette case was arrested. Then he completed the movement and offered a cigarette first to Mr Chubb, who pursed his lips in refusal, and then to Purbright. Pumphrey seemed not to qualify.
“The reason I ask,” Ross went on, “is this. Picture Thimble Bay as the wicket. Security is simply a matter of placing fielders. You know, slips, cover-point, silly mid-off, square check...”
“I don’t play lacrosse either, sir,” murmured Purbright.
“Square check,” repeated Ross. “Wrong game. Yes, you’re perfectly right. Full marks.” He leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs. “But you’ve caught on, haven’t you, to what I mean about fielding. Hopjoy—we’ll call him that—was our Flaxborough long-stop, so to speak.”
Purbright digested the metaphor, with which Ross was looking very satisfied. “His job, then, was to intercept such information as happened to leak in this direction.” He turned to the Chief Constable. “I had no idea we were on a spying route; had you, sir?”
“Certainly not,” said Mr Chubb. “This isn’t...”—he sought a sufficiently preposterous location—“Algiers or...or Dublin.”
Ross carefully tapped the ash from his cigarette. “You know Dublin, Mr Chubb?” he inquired of the ashtray.
“I can’t say that I do. Why?”
“The name seemed to occur to you.”
“Oh, that. Well. Roger Casement and everything...association of ideas, I suppose.” To his bewilderment Mr Chubb found himself thinking defensively. He closed his mouth firmly and glanced up at the office clock.
Pumphrey seemed about to slip in a supplementary question but Ross, suddenly benign, reached over and took from his lap the briefcase he had been nursing. “This,” he explained to Purbright, “is pretty sensitive stuff. You’ll appreciate that I can’t let you right into the picture, but these reports from Hopjoy do suggest that he might have been on to something.”
He took from his pocket a number of coins and selected what appeared to be an ordinary florin. “Special knurling,” he observed, indicating the coin’s rim. Then he slipped it into a slot in the otherwise featureless lock of the case and turned it carefully. Purbright guessed that the fine-toothed rim was engaging a tiny gear within the lock. After a second or two there was a click and the flap of the case hung open.
Ross drew out a slim sheaf of papers and began glancing through them without disturbing their order. Purbright caught sight of a couple of maps and a number of smaller sheets that appeared to be accounts. The rest of the papers bore closely-spaced typing, neatly indented and with underlined sub-headings. “Most meticulous chap,” Ross murmured.