Chapter Five
The minutiae of a Chief Inspector's role swamped Jack the following morning, and it was past eleven a.m. before he managed to get to the morgue. By then, Hugh Collins had already managed to visit Prahran and scoop up one Obadiah Dawlish.
If a single word could be used to sum up a person in all possible aspects, Mr Dawlish's word would be 'moist'.
It described his eyes. It described his clammy hand as he feebly greeted the Inspector. It described his garments – pale linen, but undeniably the worse for a few days' wear in poor weather.
It described perfectly his response when shown the face of the deceased. He flourished a flaccid handkerchief, and dabbed his eyes.
"It is, without question, my dear friend and companion of many years, Seth Tombs."
"You are quite sure?"
"But yes – here," Dawlish fumbled in his wallet, "here is a picture of us. Do you see, on the temple? He has this birthmark. That, at least, is still plainly visible." He gestured with shaking hand at the corpse. "Stabbed, you say? Oh, but that's quite dreadful."
Jack looked at the photograph. It was … grainy, but there were certainly two men looking at each other, and laughing. It was a happy moment. The man who wasn't Dawlish, clearly the younger of the two had his head turned to the right, flaunting a birthmark on his left temple. His golden hair was swept back from his brow with a careless hand, and he appeared the very image of youth and beauty.
Jack also looked at the rest of the photograph, and concluded that the men were good friends, who trusted one another. The rest, he could leave for another day and another prosecutor; he'd always found it easier to prioritise other forms of lawbreaking.
Dawlish took the photo back quickly, and gazed at it sorrowfully before carefully tucking it into his wallet.
"I'm afraid I have to ask," Jack said apologetically, "whether Mr Tombs had any enemies that you knew of?"
Dawlish shook his head. "Gracious, no. A dear man. So gentle. Thoughtful." The recollection overcame him and he buried his face in his handkerchief again, before surfacing to remark, "It seems impossible that he should be … dead. We were laughing together only yesterday."
"Yesterday?" asked Jack. "Was that the last time you saw him?"
"Indeed. We dined together, and then he went out - to meet someone."
"Did he say who?"
"I … oh dear, I don't believe he did," fretted Dawlish. "Do you think that whoever it was is the killer?"
"I would certainly like to find out where he went and when. He didn't keep a diary, I suppose?"
"Why yes – it would be in his pocket."
Jack pursed his lips and shook his head. "No. The only thing in his pockets was his wallet, with the calling cards and a little cash."
"But how odd! His latchkey, surely?"
"Not even that."
"Then I must go home immediately and get the locks changed!" exclaimed Dawlish. "Please excuse me, Chief Inspector."
"Of course. I'm afraid we won't be able to release the body straight away, but we will let you know as soon as possible."
Dawlish looked momentarily confused. "Oh yes. Yes, of course. A funeral. Yes, I must make arrangements. The cost will be considerable, of course, but no expense can be too great for a memorial of my dear friend. And perhaps the insurance …" he drifted off into pensive silence, then bustled out of the room.
Jack looked after him, head tipped quizzically to one side. "What did you make of that, Collins?" he asked idly.
"He seemed very upset, sir," answered the sergeant. "But I suppose the shock ..."
"I almost felt he was more worried about the locks than the murder. He certainly couldn't get away quickly enough."
As they were leaving the building, a shiny red car screeched to a halt and the driver greeted them with a cheery wave.
"Hello, Jack – hello, Hugh dear. Am I too late?"
"Too late for what, Miss Fisher?" asked the Inspector cautiously.
"Why, the identification! Is it Tombs?" she said.
"Now, Miss Fisher, you know I can't discuss …"
"Oh, don't be ridiculous. It is him, isn't it?" she said. "So, are we going to the house now?"
Jack began to demur, and then paused, and smiled slightly. "No, I'd say … Collins, how long do you think a locksmith takes?"
"I suppose if you can get hold of one, an hour or so?" offered Hugh.
"Then let's go to the house … in an hour or so," suggested Jack. "In the meantime, Miss Fisher, do you have any plans for lunch?"
"Jack, what are you up to?" she said suspiciously.
"Why, nothing," he replied courteously. She narrowed her eyes. "Well – almost nothing," he admitted. "Let me explain over lunch. Collins, take the car back to the station."
The sergeant saluted and the two sleuths climbed into the Hispano.
"Where to?" asked Phryne as she let in the clutch.
"Have we time to go home?" he asked hopefully. An opportunity to see little Elizabeth Jane in the middle of the working day was not to be sneezed at, after all.
"If I drive fast enough, we do," she grinned. "Hold on to your hat, darling. I heard Mr B muttering about coral trout this morning."
Jack rolled his eyes and removed his hat altogether.
"Poached? With butter? Step on it, Mrs Robinson,"
She did.
