Last Seen Wearing

CHAPTER EIGHT

Gypsy Rose Lee, the strip-tease artist, has arrived in Hollywood with twelve empty trunks.

(Harry P. Wade, American Columnist)

DOUBTLESS IN ITS heyday a fine example of neo-Georgian elegance, the sturdily and attractively built house was now fallen on seedier times, the stuccoed front dirty and chipped. Stuck to one of the stout pillars which flanked the peeling front door was an outdated poster announcing the arrival of Maharaj Ji, and on the other, in black figures, the number 42.

The door was opened by a blowzy, middle-aged woman, a cigarette drooping from her lips and a headscarf half hiding the hair-curlers — like a caricature of the screen charlady. She seemed to eye them shrewdly, but it may have been nothing more than the effect of avoiding the smoke from her cigarette.

'Police. It's Mrs. er?'

'Gibbs. What can I do for yer?'

'Can we come in?'

She hesitated, then moved aside. The door was closed and the two men stood awkwardly in the entrance hall, where they saw neither seats nor chairs of any description, only a grandfather clock showing the correct time (10.30), an overloaded coat-rack, and an umbrella stand incongruously housing a set of ancient golf clubs. It became clear that they were not to be invited into the cosiness of any inner sanctum.

'About three weeks ago, you had a call I think from one of my colleagues — Inspector Ainley.' She considered the statement guardedly, nodded, and said nothing, 'You may have read in the papers that after he left here he was killed in a road accident.'

Mrs. Gibbs hadn't, and the lady's latent humanity stirred to the extent of a mumbled phrase of commiseration if not to the removal of the cigarette from her lips, and Morse knew that he would have to chance his arm a bit.

'He wrote, of course, a full report of his visit here and, er, I think you will have a good idea why we've called again today.'

'Nothing to do with me, is it?'

Morse seized his opportunity. 'Oh, no, Mrs. Gibbs. Nothing at all. That was quite clear from the report. But naturally we need your help, if you'll be kind enough. .'

' 'E's not 'ere. 'E's at work — if yer can call it work. Not that 'e'll be 'ere much longer, anyway. Caused me quite enough trouble 'e 'as.'

'Can we see his room?'

She hesitated. 'Yer got the authority?'

It was Morse's turn to hesitate, before suddenly producing an official-looking document from his breast pocket.

Mrs. Gibbs fiddled in her apron pocket for her spectacles. 'That other policeman—'e told me all about the legal position. Said as 'ow I shouldn't let anyone in 'ere as 'adn't got the proper authority.'

Trust Ainley, thought Morse. 'He was quite right of course.' Morse directed the now bespectacled lady's attention to an impressive-looking signature and beneath it, in printed capitals, CHIEF CONSTABLE (OXON). It was enough, and Morse quickly repocketed the cyclostyled letter about the retirement pensions of police officers at and above the rank of Chief Inspector.

They made their way up three flights of dusty stairs, where Mrs. Gibbs produced a key from her multi-purpose apron pocket and opened a dingy, brown-painted door.

'I'll be downstairs when yer've finished.'

Morse contented himself with a mild 'phew' as the door closed, and the two men looked around them. 'So this was where Ainley came.' They stood in a bed-sitting room, containing a single (unmade) bed, the sheets dirty and creased, a threadbare settee, an armchair of more recent manufacture, a huge, ugly wardrobe, a black-and-white TV set and a small underpopulated bookcase. They passed through a door in the far wall, and found themselves in a small, squalid kitchen, with a greasy-looking gas cooker, a Formica-topped table and two kitchen stools.

'Hardly an opulent occupant?' suggested Morse. Lewis sniffed and sniffed again. 'Smell something?'

'Pot, I reckon, sir.'

'Really?' Morse beamed at his sergeant with delight, and Lewis felt pleased with himself.

'Think it's important, sir?'

'Doubt it,' said Morse. 'But let's have a closer look round. You stay here and sniff around — I'll take the other room.'

Morse walked straight to the bookcase. A copy of the Goon Show Scripts appeared to be the high-water mark of any civilized taste in the occupant's reading habits. For the rest there was little more than a stack of Dracula comics and half a dozen supremely pornographic magazines, imported from Denmark. The latter Morse decided to investigate forthwith, and seated in the armchair he was contentedly sampling their contents when Lewis called from the kitchen.

'I've found something, sir.'

'Shan't be a minute.' He thought guiltily of sticking one of the magazines in his pocket, but for once his police training got the better of him. And with the air of an Abraham prepared to sacrifice an Isaac upon the altar, he replaced the magazines in the bookcase and went through to his over-zealous sergeant.

'What about that, sir?' Morse nodded unenthusiastically at the unmistakable paraphernalia of the pot-smoker's paradise. 'Shall we pack this little lot up, sir?'

Morse thought for a while.'No, we'll leave it, I think.' Lewis's eagerness wilted, but he knew better than to argue. 'All we need to find out now is who he is, Lewis.'

'I've got that, too, sir.' He handed the inspector an unopened letter from Granada TV Rental Service addressed to Mr. J. Maguire.

Morse's eyes lit up. 'Well, well. We might have known it. One of the boyfriends, if I remember rightly. Well done, Lewis! You've done a good job.'

'You find anything, sir?'

'Me? Oh, no. Nothing, really.'

Mrs. Gibbs, who was waiting for them as they reached the bottom of the stairs, expressed the hope that the visit was now satisfactorily terminated, and Morse said he hoped so, too.

'As I told yer, 'e won't be 'ere much longer, the trouble 'e's caused me.'

Sensing that she was becoming fractionally more communicative Morse kept the exchanges going. He had to, anyway.

'Great pity, you know, that Inspector Ainley was killed. You'd have finished with this business by now. It must be a bit of a nuisance. .'

'Yes. He said as 'ow 'e 'oped he needn't come bothering me again.'

'Was, er, Mr. Maguire here when he called?'