Chapter Eight

Jack placed the receiver back in its cradle with a sigh of relief. Goodness only knew what Miss Fisher would do with Mitton's story, now that she was a party to it; but at least he was free to get on with the day job; which didn't waste time in tapping on his door, in the form of Sergeant Collins.

"Sir?"

"Come in, Collins. Any joy?"

Hugh strode decisively into the centre of the office, and equally decisively said, "No, sir. Sorry, sir."

He opened his notebook, the very image of the hard-working policeman. "I've established that Lew is one Lewis Allbright, and that he and Lacey have been staying at the hostel off and on for about three years now. I have a photograph that has them both in it," he broke off to display the evidence, "but Allbright hasn't been seen since the day before yesterday."

"They couldn't even suggest any places that he goes to? Habitually?"

Hugh shook his head. "No, sir. It's a busy place, and the volunteers try not to be too intrusive about the residents' personal lives, unless they choose to ask for help."

Jack sighed, and tried hard to bury the wish for a decorous lady detective to perch on the corner of his desk and tell him what to do next. Leaning both elbows on his desk, and steepling his hands to his temples, he was transfixed by images of Phryne in all her chameleon personae; glittering in ball dress, businesslike in black, scruffy in ill-fitting shorts, grubby shirt, wig and cap …

"Thank you, Collins, I have a call to make."

Correctly divining that the call wasn't one about which notes would be taken, Hugh made himself scarce even as Jack was lifting the receiver.

"Mr Butler? Is Miss Fisher available? I'll wait."

He settled back in his chair, and was rewarded only a few minutes later by a rather gruff voice on the other end of the line.

"Jack?"

"Phryne, are you all right? You sound upset."

"Of course I'm upset, you ridiculous man," she muttered. "I'm attempting to discuss with Mary Cooper how to get Mitton to agree to marry Aunt Prudence, when the idiot seems to think going to jail for trying to give his wife a proper funeral rules him out of the running. Hang on."

There was a clunk as she put down the receiver, and the unedifying evidence of a runny nose being enthusiastically blown.

"Right, what is it?"

He decided to forgive the peremptory nature of the demand. "I was hoping you could advise me on something, after your spell with the mendicants. If you were perennially short of cash, and wanted something to eat, is there anywhere you could go? A soup kitchen or some such?"

"Two or three soup kitchens," she replied briefly, "but they're all nosey, and want you to sign up to Christian belief in exchange for avoiding starvation, which is regarded by most as a bit unsporting."

"Anywhere else?"

"Oh, certainly. The pie shop in Little Lon. In the front door, you get pretty pies that cost a pretty penny. Round the back, you get the spoiled stock for a lot less."

"But they're experts," he objected. "Surely there can't be that much spoiled stock."

"There's been rather a lot of spoiled stock since I found out about them, Jack," she remarked bluntly.

Of course there was. He should have guessed. Moving swiftly on from his wife's incorrigible urge to look after the underdog, he asked for narrowed-down co-ordinates.

"Jack, you're not going to start arresting people for begging, are you?" she asked anxiously. "I wouldn't have told you if I thought you would."

"Wouldn't dream of it," he assured her quietly. "I'm just looking for a murder suspect, and I think he's probably hungry."

There was a short silence on the other end of the line. "Hungry people do desperate things, Jack. It doesn't mean they're criminals."

"It doesn't," he agreed. "But this particular one seems to have shelled out quite a lot of money to give his friend a potential murder weapon, and then ran away. At the very least, I want to have a chat."

With this she had to be grudgingly content, and he rang off on the assurance that he wouldn't do anything she wouldn't like.

(He also offered to do something she liked very much when he got home, which made it more difficult to put down the telephone, but they were both grinning broadly again when they did. Still having fun, after all).