suggestion if I remember rightly. It seemed the most likely possibility—But there are plenty of others. This may be a list of dope smugglers or drug addicts or secret agents—it may be anything in fact. There’s only one thing sure, it was important enough for murder to be committed in order to get hold of it.’
I asked curiously: ‘Do you always take such an interest in the police side of your work?’
He shook his head.
‘Can’t say I do. My interest is in criminal character. Background, upbringing, and particularly glandular health—all that!’
‘Then why the interest in this list of names?’
‘Blessed if I know,’ said Corrigan slowly. ‘Seeing my own name on the list, perhaps. Up the Corrigans! One Corrigan to the rescue of another Corrigan.’
‘Rescue? Then you definitely see this as a list of victims—not a list of malefactors. But surely it could be either?’
‘You’re entirely right. And it’s certainly odd that I should be so positive. Perhaps it’s just a feeling. Or perhaps it’s something to do with Father Gorman. I didn’t come across him very often, but he was a fine man, respected by everyone and loved by his own flock. He was the good tough militant kind. I can’t get it out of my head that he considered this list a matter of life or death …’
‘Aren’t the police getting anywhere?’
‘Oh yes, but it’s a long business. Checking here, checking there. Checking the antecedents of the woman who called him out that night.’
‘Who was she?’
‘No mystery about her, apparently. Widow. We had an idea that her husband might have been connected with horse-racing, but that doesn’t seem to be so. She worked for a small commercial firm that does consumer research. Nothing wrong there. They are a reputable firm in a small way. They don’t know much about her. She came from the north of England—Lancashire. The only odd thing about her is that she had so few personal possessions.’
I shrugged my shoulders.
‘I expect that’s true for a lot more people than we ever imagine. It’s a lonely world.’
‘Yes, as you say.’
‘Anyway, you decided to take a hand?’
‘Just nosing around. Hesketh-Dubois is an uncommon name. I thought if I could find out a little about the lady—’ He left the sentence unfinished. ‘But from what you tell me, there doesn’t seem to be any possible lead there.’
‘Neither a dope addict nor a dope smuggler,’ I assured him. ‘Certainly not a secret agent. Has led far too blameless a life to have been blackmailed. I can’t imagine what kind of a list she could possibly be on. Her jewellery she keeps at the bank so she wouldn’t be a hopeful prospect for robbery.’
‘Any other Hesketh-Duboises that you know about? Sons?’
‘No children. She’s got a nephew and a niece, I think, but not of that name. Her husband was an only child.’
Corrigan told me sourly that I’d been a lot of help. He looked at his watch, remarked cheerfully that he was due to cut somebody up, and we parted.
I went home thoughtful, found it impossible to concentrate on my work, and finally, on an impulse, rang up David Ardingly.
‘David? Mark here. That girl I met with you the other evening. Poppy. What’s her other name?’
‘Going to pinch my girl, is that it?’
David sounded highly amused.
‘You’ve got so many of them,’ I retorted. ‘You could surely spare one.’
‘You’ve got a heavyweight of your own, old boy. I thought you were going steady with her.’
‘Going steady.’ A repulsive term. And yet, I thought, struck suddenly with its aptitude, how well it described my relationship with Hermia. And why should it make me feel depressed? I had always felt in the back of my mind that some day Hermia and I would marry … I liked her better than anyone I knew. We had so much in common …
For no conceivable reason, I felt a terrible desire to yawn … Our future stretched out before me. Hermia and I going to plays of significance—that mattered. Discussions of art—of music. No doubt about it, Hermia was the perfect companion.
But not much fun, said some derisive imp, popping up from my subconscious. I was shocked.
‘Gone to sleep?’ asked David.
‘Of course not. To tell the truth, I found your friend Poppy very refreshing.’
‘Good word. She is—taken in small doses. Her actual name is Pamela Stirling, and she works in one of those arty flower places in Mayfair. You know, three dead twigs, a tulip with its petals pinned back and a speckled laurel leaf. Price three guineas.’
He gave me the address.
‘Take her out and enjoy yourself,’ he said in a kindly avuncular fashion. ‘You’ll find it a great relaxation. That girl knows nothing—she’s absolutely empty headed. She’ll believe anything you tell her. She’s virtuous by the way, so don’t indulge in any false hopes.’
He rang off.
I invaded the portals of Flower Studies Ltd. with some trepidation. An overpowering smell of gardenia nearly knocked me backwards. A number of girls, dressed in pale green sheaths and all looking exactly like Poppy, confused me. Finally, I identified her. She was writing down an address with some difficulty, pausing doubtfully over the spelling of Fortescue Crescent. As soon as she was at liberty, after having further difficulties connected with producing the right change for a five-pound note, I claimed her attention.
‘We met the other night—with David Ardingly,’ I reminded her.
‘Oh yes!’ agreed Poppy warmly, her eyes passing vaguely over my head.
‘I wanted to ask you something.’ I felt sudden qualms. ‘Perhaps I’d better buy some flowers?’
Like an automaton who has had the right button pressed, Poppy said:
‘We’ve some lovely roses, fresh in today.’
‘These yellow ones, perhaps?’ There were roses everywhere. ‘How much are they?’
‘Vewy vewy cheap,’ said Poppy in a honeyed persuasive voice. ‘Only five shillings each.’
I swallowed and said I would have six of them.
‘And some of these vewy special leaves with them?’
I looked dubiously at the special leaves which appeared to be in an advanced state of decay. Instead I chose some bright green asparagus fern, which choice obviously lowered me in Poppy’s estimation.
‘There was something I wanted to ask you,’ I reiterated as Poppy was rather clumsily draping the asparagus fern
