‘Thou shalt not make any graven image or the likeness of anything? Is that your view, sir?’
‘Something of the sort. There’s a kind of witchcraft about graven images. Think of Pygmalion. And there is black magic in pictures.’
‘So our cave-dwelling ancestors seem to have believed, sir.’
‘Not that I’m a fanciful or a superstitious man, of course,’ said Routh hastily.
‘Of course not, sir, but none of us can altogether control our atavistic instincts.’
Routh regarded his sergeant with surprise.
‘Are you attending evening classes at the Sir George Etherege school, by any chance?’ he asked.
‘No, sir, but I do a lot of reading in any spare time I’ve got.’
‘I must see you have less of it. Can’t have you overtaxing that brain of yours.’
Bennett was early at the Buxtons’ house next morning. He wanted to catch Buxton before the van driver set off for work. He also thought that an early morning visit to the artist might disconcert that slightly disreputable young man.
From Buxton he got nothing but a mulish adherence to what he had told the police at former interviews. He had worked late, the roads were heavy with traffic and he was sure that Pythias would have left long before he himself reached home. Mrs Buxton confirmed all this so far as her knowledge of it went. She had not actually seen Pythias leave. They had had their little up-and-a-downer about the money in the briefcase, but she had given him his high tea, ‘with no ill-feelings on either side, if you understand me’, and she felt certain he must have left immediately he had had it. Bennett tackled Rattock once more, but the artist also had nothing to add to his previous story. He was what the sergeant called ‘dumb-insolent’ and contrived to be extremely irritating.
‘The three wise monkeys rolled into one,’ said Bennett, when he reported back to Routh later.
6
Labour in Vain
« ^ »
Routh allowed himself an hour and a half to drive to Springdale although, if there were no hold-ups, it was possible, without speeding, to do it in about an hour and ten minutes.
The roads were reasonably clear and he made good time. His appointment with the Superintendent was at ten-thirty, so he pulled up before he entered the town, got out of the car to stretch his legs and looked around him.
Springdale was a town of some considerable size. Its high street went steeply uphill and from where he stood Routh could make out a church spire and another church with a tower, while directly in front of him was a fine old bridge across the river. He had fished the river, although not the reach at which he was looking. It was a pleasant stream bordered by wide, flat meadows and the fishing was mostly barbel, chub and dace, although there were also plenty of pike to be taken with dead bait.
Routh was no believer in the theory that the pike is a sort of devil-fish which, when caught, should be despatched immediately. He followed the theory of that master of coarse fishing the Dorset man Owen Wentworth, always throwing the pike back when he had caught them, just as he did the other coarse fish which came to his rod and line. However, there was no fishing to be done that day. Routh strolled on to the bridge, spent a few pleasant minutes looking down at the flowing water and then returned to the car.
The police station was in the high street and a narrow turning on the left brought him into a fair-sized yard where other police cars were parked. At the front entrance to the building a constable recognised and saluted him, and a moment or two later he was in the Superintendent’s office greeting his old friend.
‘You were a bit mysterious over the phone,’ said Superintendent Bellairs. ‘What can we do for you?’
‘Find me a couple of Greeks, a man and a woman, who may be nursing another Greek who was taken ill in their house over Christmas.’
‘What’s their name?’
‘That’s the trouble. I don’t know.’ He gave the Superintendent a short but sufficient account of the disappearance of Pythias and the money, the return of the cheques in an envelope postmarked Springdale and the visit of the two strangers to Pythias’s room to collect his belongings.
‘Looks an open and shut case to me,’ said Bellairs. ‘The chap has absconded with the money and the Buxtons suspect that they won’t see him again. The Buxtons have invented these two foreigners to cover the fact that they have sold Pythias’s clothes and golf-clubs to cover the rent he probably owes them. That fits the facts as you’ve given them to me, I think.’
‘It doesn’t cover Mrs Buxton’s definite statement that they live here in Springdale and the fact that the cheques were sent to the bank from here. She knew nothing about the Springdale postmark on the envelope that went to the bank, so she didn’t get the name of the town from that. I think these two foreigners exist all right.’
‘All you need is the local directory, then.’
‘The directory may not be much help because, as I say, I can’t put a name to these people. I’ve come to you because I thought you were the likeliest person to put me in touch with any foreigners you’ve got on your patch. After all, if these people do exist, I must get in touch with them.’
‘I know of only one foreigner, but he’s an Armenian. He’s the librarian at the agricultural college here and a very nice chap indeed. I don’t suppose for a moment that he’ll be able to help you, but I’ll take you over there if you like.’ He rang through and was told that they would be expected.
The agricultural college was several miles outside the town and even when they reached its gates there was a drive of about a mile and a half before they reached the college building. Here a porter, who obviously had been told to expect them, conducted them up two flights of stairs to a large room furnished with tables and chairs and surrounded on three sides by bookshelves. There were racks for newspapers and periodicals and a railed-off space containing a desk, a chair and a library ladder for the custodian.
This was a slender little man in a neat grey suit and an unobtrusive tie. The noticeable thing about him was his beard. It was spade-shaped and immensely, luxuriantly thick. Mrs Buxton had mentioned the Russian cap and the astrakhan collar of one of her supposedly Greek visitors, but (thought Routh) she could never have missed the beard. Whoever (if he existed at all) her male mysterious caller could have been, it was certainly not this man. Routh explained his errand. The librarian was polite but puzzled.
‘Greeks?’ he said. ‘There are none among the students and I know of none in the town. Pythias? I have never heard of him except as the legendary friend of Damon.’
‘Well,’ said Bellairs, when they had returned to the car, ‘he is the best I can do for you. We’re very short of foreigners here. No blacks, no Pakis, one or two old-established Jewish families, and now and again the gypsies who camp on the riverside verges and have to be moved on. I think the directory is your only hope unless — yes, there is one more chap you might try. Pythias is a schoolmaster, you say, so any close friends of his would likely be more or less literate, I suppose. Let’s try the public library in the town. Paxton, the chief librarian, has a card-index memory for names. If these people use the public library he is bound to know of them, especially as they won’t have English surnames. You can look through the directory there, too, if he can’t help you.’
Again Routh drew a blank.
‘Well, I’m not going to try the post office,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to start up a lot of gossip, especially if these Greeks don’t exist. I haven’t nearly enough to go on to take any action at present, but I agree with you that Mrs Buxton and her husband can bear watching. I have to keep in mind that Buxton is a van driver and could get here very easily to post an envelope.’
‘I doubt whether he’s his own master to any great extent,’ said Bellairs. ‘Wouldn’t his employers keep him to a pretty strict timetable? You will have seen by the postmark when those cheques were sent to the bank. Can’t you check up with the furniture people?’