Chapter Eight
In some things, such as Miss Fisher's preference for a lie-in of a morning, Chief Inspector Robinson's judgement was infallible.
Thus it proved in this case. When he and Sergeant Collins arrived at City South Police Station, they found his office already occupied and the two occupying parties enjoying a nice cup of tea.
"Hello, Jack!" cried the one sitting in his chair. "You've been ages. Didn't you realise we'd found something and wanted to talk?"
"You mean, didn't I realise that your blatant fraud, operated in full sight of two representatives of Victoria's finest, might have led to new evidence, and did I elect to drive at a safe speed in order to find out what it was?" he complained. "Of course I did. I just hope you've found something legitimate to do with the coat you stole, so that I stand the slightest chance of making a case stand up on the basis of your discoveries."
"The coat?" she was momentarily nonplussed. "Oh yes, sorry. It's over there," she waved vaguely in the direction of his office coat-stand. He covered his eyes and groaned inwardly. "I'm sure you can find a worthy recipient, Jack, dear," she said kindly. "It was freely donated, after all."
She leaned forward. "Anyway, that's not what's interesting. It's this. All Tombs' favourite clothes are missing from his wardrobe."
At that, she had their attention. "Go on," said Jack in measured tones.
"It was Dot who put me on to it," she smiled at her business partner, who blushed a little and smiled up in her turn at Sergeant Collins, whose chest swelled visibly with pride that once again, His Dottie had done something important. Phryne went on. "She realised that the only thing remarkable about the clothes in Tombs' room was that there weren't many there. Then we looked at some pictures in Dawlish's room, and discovered at least three suits that were missing."
She clasped her hands on the desk and looked Jack directly in the eye. "What was the deceased wearing when he was found?"
Jack shrugged. "Remember, I only got there once Mac had started work. Collins?"
Hugh Collins started to reach for his notebook, then gazed across the office sightlessly, preferring to remember.
"Dark grey slacks. Pale blue shirt, workman style."
"Coat?"
Collins paused. "Black, cotton, loose fitting."
Dot looked up at him. "Doesn't sound very fashionable?"
He shook his head. "Oh no. Definitely not. Not at all."
Phryne met Dot's look. "Doesn't sound like the Tombs we saw in those pictures, then," Dot remarked.
"And no suitcase or anything lying around. Slumming it, do you think?" Phryne responded.
"Could be," Jack responded. "More than ever, I want to get this picture out and circulated, Collins."
"Yes sir," the sergeant saluted smartly, and took the photo with him.
As he left, Phryne's eye was irresistibly drawn to the handsome policeman left behind. He raised an eyebrow.
"Is it too much to ask that I be allowed possession of my office, Miss Fisher?"
She grinned, and rose with conscious grace. "Not at all, Inspector. I believe we can now leave you in peace, and look forward to hearing the outcome of the next stage of your investigation."
Her calm presumption should have made him irritated. Instead, he struggle to contain a laugh.
"I shall allow anticipation to build to the greatest extent possible," he taunted.
She narrowed her eyes.
"Yes, but will you be home for dinner?"
"Probably," he confirmed idly. "I think the bloke on the pie cart knocks off at about four."
She shook her head disapprovingly. "Rank amateurism. I'm happy to know that Mr Butler might be able to rustle up something that comes close to the culinary delights of a meat pie."
"Might?"
"Will."
"Oh, all right then."
It was as well that Mrs Collins was by that stage in the outer office, having the equivalent conversation with the duty Sergeant. Otherwise, she might have observed some police procedure that had, for very good reason, never been approved by the Chief Commissioner.
