"Of course, of course. F.R.C.P. A very well-known name! Oh dear, I seem to have fallen down badly. I was so very sure. And to trouble you for nothing."
"You mustn't take it like that," said Lejeune quickly. "Your information is still very valuable. It is clear that the man you saw must bear a very close resemblance to Mr Venables - and since Mr Venables is a man of distinctly unusual appearance, that is extremely valuable knowledge to have. There cannot be many persons answering to that description."
"True, true." Mr Osborne cheered up a little. "A man of the criminal classes resembling Mr Venables in appearance. There certainly cannot be many such. In the files at Scotland Yard -"
He looked hopefully at the inspector.
"It may not be quite so simple as that," said Lejeune slowly. "The man may not have a record. And in any case, as you said just now, there is as yet no reason to assume that this particular man had anything to do with the attack on Father Gorman."
Mr Osborne looked depressed again.
"You must forgive me. Wishful thinking. I am afraid, on my part... I should so like to have been able to give evidence at a murder trial... and they would not have been able to shake me, I assure you of that. Oh no, I should have stuck to my guns!"
Lejeune was silent, considering his host thoughtfully. Mr Osborne responded to the silent scrutiny.
"Yes?"
"Mr Osborne, why would you have stuck to your guns, as you put it?"
Mr Osborne looked astonished.
"Because I am so certain - oh - oh yes, I see what you mean. The man was not the man. So I have no business to feel certain. And yet I do."
Lejeune leaned forward. "You may have wondered why I have come to see you today. Having received medical evidence that the man seen by you could not have been Mr Venables, why am I here?"
"Quite. Quite. Well, then, Inspector Lejeune, why did you come?"
"I came," said Lejeune, "because the very positiveness of your identification impressed me. I wanted to know on what grounds your certainty was based. It was a foggy night, remember. I have been to your shop. I have stood where you stood in your doorway and looked across the street. On a foggy night it seemed to me that a figure at that distance would be very insubstantial, that it would be almost impossible to distinguish features clearly."
"Up to a point, of course, you are quite right. Fog was setting in. But it came, if you understand me, in patches. It cleared for a short space every now and then. It did so at the moment that I saw Father Gorman walking fast along the opposite pavement. That is why I saw him and the man who followed shortly after him so clearly. Moreover, just when the second man was abreast of me, he flicked on a lighter to relight his cigarette. His profile at that moment was very clear - the nose, the chin, the pronounced Adam's apple. That's a striking-looking man, I thought. I've never seen him about before. If he'd ever been into my shop I'd have remembered him, I thought. So, you see -"
Mr Osborne broke off.
"Yes, I see," said Lejeune thoughtfully.
"A brother," suggested Mr Osborne hopefully. "A twin brother, perhaps? Now that would be a solution."
"The identical twin solution?" Lejeune smiled and shook his head. "So very convenient in fiction. But in real life," he shook his head, "it doesn't happen, you know. It really doesn't happen."
"No... no, I suppose not. But possibly an ordinary brother. A close family resemblance -" Mr Osborne looked wistful.
"As far as we can ascertain," Lejeune spoke carefully, "Mr Venables has not got a brother."
"As far as you can ascertain?" Mr Osborne repeated the words.
"Though of British nationality, he was born abroad, his parents only brought him to England when he was eleven years old."
"You don't know very much about him really, then? About his family, I mean?"
"No," said Lejeune, thoughtfully. "It isn't easy to find out very much about Mr Venables - without, that is to say, going and asking him, and we've no grounds for doing that."
He spoke deliberately. There were ways of finding out things without going and asking, but he had no intention of telling Mr Osborne so.
"So if it wasn't for the medical evidence," he said getting to his feet, "you'd be sure about the identification?"
"Oh yes," said Mr Osborne following suit. "It's quite a hobby of mine, you know, memorizing faces." He chuckled. "Many a customer I've surprised that way. 'How's the asthma?' I'd say to someone, and she'd look quite surprised. 'You came in last March,' I'd say, 'with a prescription. One of Dr Hargreaves's.' And wouldn't she look surprised! Did me a lot of good in business. It pleases people to be remembered, though I wasn't as good with names as with faces. I started making a hobby of the thing quite young. If Royalty can do it, I used to say to myself, you can do it, Zachariah Osborne! After a while it becomes automatic. You hardly have to make an effort."
Lejeune sighed.
"I'd like to have a witness like you in the box," he said. "Identification is always a tricky business. Most people can't tell you anything at all. They'll say things like: 'Oh, tallish, I think. Fair haired - well, not very fair, sort of middling. Ordinary sort of face. Eyes blue - or grey - or perhaps brown. Grey mackintosh - or it may have been dark blue.'"
Mr Osborne laughed.
"Not much good to you, that sort of thing."
"Frankly, a witness like you would be a godsend!"
Mr Osborne looked pleased.
"It's a gift," he said modestly. "But mind you, I've cultivated my gift. You know the game they play at children's parties - a lot of objects brought in on a tray and a few minutes given to memorize them. I can score a hundred percent every time. Quite surprises people. How wonderful, they say. It's not wonderful. It's a knack. Comes with practice." He chuckled. "I'm not a bad conjurer either. I do a bit to amuse the kiddies at Christmas time. Excuse me, Mr Lejeune, what have you got in your breast pocket?"
He leaned forward and extracted a small ashtray.
"Tut, tut, sir, and you in the police force!"
He laughed heartily and Lejeune laughed with him. Then Mr Osborne sighed.
"It's a nice little place I've got here, sir. The neighbours seem pleasant and friendly. It's the life I've been looking forward to for years, but I'll admit to you, Mr Lejeune, that I miss the interest of my own business. Always someone coming in and out. Types, you know, lots of types to study. I've looked forward to having my little bit of garden, and I've got quite a lot of interests. Butterflies, as I told you, and a bit of bird watching now and again. I didn't realise that I'd miss what I might call the human element so much.
"I'd looked forward to going abroad in a small way. Well, I've taken one weekend trip to France. Quite nice, I must say - but I felt, very strongly, that England's really good enough for me. I didn't care for the foreign cooking, for one thing. They haven't the least idea, as far as I can see, how to do eggs and bacon."
He sighed again.
"Just shows you what human nature is. Looked forward no end to retiring, I did. And now, do you know I've actually played with the idea of buying a small share in a pharmaceutical business here in Bournemouth - just enough to give me an interest, no need to be tied to the shop all the time. But I'd feel in the middle of things again. It will be the same with you, I expect. You'll make plans ahead, but when the time comes, you'll miss the excitement of your present life."
Lejeune smiled.
"A policeman's life is not such a romantically exciting one as you think, Mr Osborne. You've got the amateur's view of crime. Most of it is dull routine. We're not always chasing down criminals, and following up mysterious clues. It can be quite a dull business, really."
Mr Osborne looked unconvinced.
"You know best," he said. "Good-bye, Mr Lejeune, and I'm sorry indeed that I haven't been able to help you. If there was anything - any time -"
"I'll let you know," Lejeune promised him.
"That day at the fкte, it seemed such a chance," Osborne murmured sadly.
"I know. A pity the medical evidence is so definite, but one can't get over that sort of thing, can one?"
"Well -" Mr Osborne let the word linger, but Lejeune did not notice it. He strode away briskly. Mr Osborne stood by the gate looking after him.
"Medical evidence," he said. "Doctors indeed! If he knew half what I know about doctors - innocents, that's what they are! Doctors indeed!"
Chapter 11
First Hermia. Now Corrigan.
All right, then, I was making a fool of myself! I was accepting balderdash as solid truth. I had been hypnotized by that phony woman Thyrza Grey into accepting a farrago of nonsense. I was a credulous, superstitious ass.
I decided to forget the whole damned business. What was it to do with me anyway?
Through the mist of disillusionment, I heard the echoes of Mrs Dane Calthrop's urgent tones.
"You've got to do something!"
All very well - to say things like that.
"You need someone to help you..."
I had needed Hermia. I had needed Corrigan. But neither of them would play. There was no one else. Unless -
I sat - considering the idea.
On an impulse I went to the telephone and rang Mrs Oliver.
"Hallo. Mark Easterbrook here."
"Yes?"
"Can you tell me the name of that girl who was staying in the house for the fкte?"
"I expect so. Let me see... yes, of course, Ginger. That was her name."
"I know that. But her other name."
"What other name?"
"I doubt if she was christened Ginger. And she must have a surname."
"Well, of course. But I've no idea what it is. One never seems to hear any surnames nowadays. It's the first time I'd ever met her." There was a slight pause and then Mrs Oliver said, "You'll have to ring up Rhoda and ask her."
I didn't like that idea. Somehow I felt shy about it.
"Oh, I can't do that," I said.
"It's perfectly simple," said Mrs Oliver encouragingly. "Just say you've lost her address and can't remember her name and you'd promised to send her one of your books, or the name of a shop that sells cheap caviare, or to return a handkerchief which she lent you when your nose bled one day, or the address of a rich friend who wants a picture restored. Any of those do? I can think of lots more if you'd like."
"One of those will do beautifully," I assured her. I rang off, dialed 100 and presently was speaking to Rhoda.
"Ginger?" said Rhoda. "Oh, she lives in a mews. Calgary Place. Forty-five. Wait a minute. I'll give you her telephone number." She went away and returned a minute later. "It's Capricorn 35987. Got it?"
"Yes, thanks. But I haven't got her name. I never heard it."
"Her name? Oh, her surname, you mean. Corrigan. Katherine Corrigan. What did you say?"
"Nothing. Thanks, Rhoda."
It seemed to me an odd coincidence. Corrigan. Two Corrigans. Perhaps it was an omen.
I dialed Capricorn 35987.
II
Ginger sat opposite me at a table in the White Cockatoo where we had met for a drink. She looked refreshingly the same as she had looked at Much Deeping - a tousled mop of red hair, an engagingly freckled face and alert green eyes. She was wearing her London artistic livery of skintight pants, a Sloppy Joe jersey and black woollen stockings - but otherwise she was the same Ginger. I liked her very much.
"I've had to do a lot of work to track you down," I said. "Your surname and your address and your telephone number - all unknown. I've got a problem."
"That's what my daily always says. It usually means that I have to buy her a new saucepan scourer or a carpet brush, or something dull."
"You won't have to buy anything," I assured her.
Then I told her. It didn't take quite so long as the story I had told to Hermia, because she was already familiar with the Pale Horse and its occupants. I averted my eyes from her as I finished the tale. I didn't want to see her reaction. I didn't want to see indulgent amusement, or stark incredulity. The whole thing sounded more idiotic than ever. No one (except Mrs Dane Calthrop) could possibly feel about it as I felt. I drew patterns on the plastic tabletop with a stray fork.
Ginger's voice came briskly.
"That's all, is it?"
"That's all," I admitted.
"What are you going to do about it?"
"You think - I should do something about it?"
"Well, of course! Someone's got to do something! You can't have an organization going about bumping people off and not do anything."
"But what can I do?"
I could have fallen on her neck and hugged her.
She was sipping Pernod and frowning. Warmth spread over me. I was no longer alone.
Presently she said musingly:
"You'll have to find out what it all means."
"I agree. But how?"
"There seem to be one or two leads. Perhaps I can help."
"Would you? But there's your job."
"Plenty could be done out of office hours." She frowned again as she thought.
"That girl," she said at last. "The one at supper after the Old Vic. Poppy or something. She knows about it - she must - to say what she did."
"Yes, but she got frightened, and sheered off when I tried to ask her questions. She was scared. She definitely wouldn't talk."
"That's where I can help," said Ginger confidently. "She'd tell me things she wouldn't tell you. Can you arrange for us to meet? Your friend and her and you and me? A show, or dinner or something?" Then she looked doubtful. "Or is that too expensive?"
