Close Quarters by Michael Gilbert Read Free Book Online Page A

a rough plan of campaign Pollock felt that the first thing to do was to obtain the fingerprints of every resident in the Close and send them to London with the Dean’s anonymous letter for expert scrutiny. This was plain police routine, and yet somehow he shrank from it. What was straightforward in Wapping became a little complicated within the classical purlieus of Melchester. A second step was the elimination of those with sound alibis for Sunday and Monday night. Pollock rose to his feet with a sigh and collected his notes.
    Some minutes later he was knocking at the front door of the South Canonry East.
    A thin parlour-maid opened the door, accepted Pollock with a practised glance, and showed him into a frigid morning-room. Here he was left kicking his heels for just long enough to imply that, after all, he had called without making an appointment, and then the same maid ushered him into the holy of holies, the canonical library.
    Canon Beech-Thompson, once he understood that he was speaking to the Dean’s nephew, thawed considerably. He was a robust-looking man of about sixty, with a mop of white hair and a skin of that smooth and satiny pinkness which comes from a complete lack of worry and many hours of healthful sleep.
    Pollock opened with a few general inquiries as to the health of the canon and his wife (which, as he was doubtless gratified to learn, was in both cases excellent) and passed on to their recently concluded holiday (extraordinary weather for the time of year). At the first faint and tentative approach, however, to the real business of his visit, an unmistakable frigidity crept into the atmosphere, and when Pollock admitted that besides being the Dean’s nephew he had also the questionable taste to be a member of the Criminal Investigation Department, he was aware almost physically of the drop in temperature. Feeling quite uncomfortably like the hero of a Bateman drawing, he ploughed on with his questions.
    Reluctantly, as a man who is losing his last few teeth, the canon permitted a bare minimum of information to be extracted from him. Yes, he and his wife had been at Bournemouth for the last three weeks. Yes, the whole time. They had stayed at the Esplanade Hotel – everyone knew the Esplanade Hotel. On the night of Sunday, September 26th, he had been in bed, of course. Where else did Pollock expect him to be? He always retired to bed at ten o’clock precisely. Pollock’s nerve failed him at the mere thought of asking whether his wife could corroborate this part of the canon’s alibi, and he passed on hastily.
    On Monday evening they had attended a concert of classical music in the hotel. He failed to see entirely what concern of the police his movements (or those of his dear wife) might be. Yes, he knew that certain frivolous and disgusting letters had been received in the Close, but since he had had nothing to do with them he was at a loss to see why he was being questioned. Pollock admitted that his visit was a mere matter of routine and took a hurried farewell. He was beginning to perceive that detection in the Close might have its own difficulties.
    He made his way towards the modest house of Vicar Choral Halliday.
    The door was opened by a wizened, determined-looking woman. To Pollock’s cheerful good afternoon she replied dubiously – and a little inconsequentially – that she would see if Mr. Halliday was in.
    â€˜Tell him that a Mr. Pollock would like a word with him.’
    The name clearly meant little to her, for she shook her head angrily and pattered off down the passage.
    A few minutes later she reappeared.
    â€˜What name, please?’ she barked.
    Pollock repeated the information.
    â€˜He won’t insure his life,’ retorted the old lady with great determination. ‘It’s insured twice already.’
    â€˜And very rightly,’ said Pollock approvingly. ‘You can’t be too careful these days.’
    â€˜Sun Alliance,