The Body in the Library. Агата Кристи
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rest assured that I’m taking every possibility into account. Every possibility.’ He went on: ‘You’ve looked through the list of persons reported missing, I suppose?’
Slack nodded. He produced a typed sheet.
‘Got ’em here. Mrs Saunders, reported missing a week ago, dark-haired, blue-eyed, thirty-six. ’Tisn’t her—and, anyway, everyone knows except her husband that she’s gone off with a fellow from Leeds—commercial. Mrs Barnard—she’s sixty-five. Pamela Reeves, sixteen, missing from her home last night, had attended Girl Guide rally, dark-brown hair in pigtail, five feet five—’
Melchett said irritably:
‘Don’t go on reading idiotic details, Slack. This wasn’t a schoolgirl. In my opinion—’
He broke off as the telephone rang. ‘Hallo—yes—yes, Much Benham Police Headquarters—what? Just a minute—’
He listened, and wrote rapidly. Then he spoke again, a new tone in his voice:
‘Ruby Keene, eighteen, occupation professional dancer, five feet four inches, slender, platinum-blonde hair, blue eyes, retroussé nose, believed to be wearing white diamanté evening-dress, silver sandal shoes. Is that right? What? Yes, not a doubt of it, I should say. I’ll send Slack over at once.’
He rang off and looked at his subordinate with rising excitement. ‘We’ve got it, I think. That was the Glenshire Police.’ (Glenshire was the adjoining county). ‘Girl reported missing from the Majestic Hotel, Danemouth.’
‘Danemouth,’ said Inspector Slack. ‘That’s more like it.’
Danemouth was a large and fashionable watering-place on the coast not far away.
‘It’s only a matter of eighteen miles or so from here,’ said the Chief Constable. ‘The girl was a dance hostess or something at the Majestic. Didn’t come on to do her turn last night and the management were very fed up about it. When she was still missing this morning one of the other girls got the wind up about her, or someone else did. It sounds a bit obscure. You’d better go over to Danemouth at once, Slack. Report there to Superintendent Harper, and co-operate with him.’
Activity was always to Inspector Slack’s taste. To rush off in a car, to silence rudely those people who were anxious to tell him things, to cut short conversations on the plea of urgent necessity. All this was the breath of life to Slack.
In an incredibly short time, therefore, he had arrived at Danemouth, reported at police headquarters, had a brief interview with a distracted and apprehensive hotel manager, and, leaving the latter with the doubtful comfort of—‘got to make sure it is the girl, first, before we start raising the wind’—was driving back to Much Benham in company with Ruby Keene’s nearest relative.
He had put through a short call to Much Benham before leaving Danemouth, so the Chief Constable was prepared for his arrival, though not perhaps for the brief introduction of: ‘This is Josie, sir.’
Colonel Melchett stared at his subordinate coldly. His feeling was that Slack had taken leave of his senses.
The young woman who had just got out of the car came to the rescue.
‘That’s what I’m known as professionally,’ she explained with a momentary flash of large, handsome white teeth. ‘Raymond and Josie, my partner and I call ourselves, and, of course, all the hotel know me as Josie. Josephine Turner’s my real name.’
Colonel Melchett adjusted himself to the situation and invited Miss Turner to sit down, meanwhile casting a swift, professional glance over her.
She was a good-looking young woman of perhaps nearer thirty than twenty, her looks depending more on skilful grooming than actual features. She looked competent and good-tempered, with plenty of common sense. She was not the type that would ever be described as glamorous, but she had nevertheless plenty of attraction. She was discreetly made-up and wore a dark tailor-made suit. Though she looked anxious and upset she was not, the Colonel decided, particularly grief-stricken.
As she sat down she said: ‘It seems too awful to be true. Do you really think it’s Ruby?’
‘That, I’m afraid, is what we’ve got to ask you to tell us. I’m afraid it may be rather unpleasant for you.’
Miss Turner said apprehensively:
‘Does she—does she—look very terrible?’
‘Well—I’m afraid it may be rather a shock to you.’ He handed her his cigarette-case and she accepted one gratefully.
‘Do—do you want me to look at her right away?’
‘It would be best, I think, Miss Turner. You see, it’s not much good asking you questions until we’re sure. Best get it over, don’t you think?’
‘All right.’
They drove down to the mortuary.
When Josie came out after a brief visit, she looked rather sick.
‘It’s Ruby all right,’ she said shakily. ‘Poor kid! Goodness, I do feel queer. There isn’t’—she looked round wistfully—‘any gin?’
Gin was not available, but brandy was, and after gulping a little down Miss Turner regained her composure. She said frankly:
‘It gives you a turn, doesn’t it, seeing anything like that? Poor little Rube! What swine men are, aren’t they?’
‘You believe it was a man?’
Josie looked slightly taken aback.
‘Wasn’t it? Well, I mean—I naturally thought—’
‘Any special man you were thinking of?’
She shook her head vigorously.
‘No—not me. I haven’t the least idea. Naturally Ruby wouldn’t have let on to me if—’
‘If what?’
Josie hesitated.
‘Well—if she’d been—going about with anyone.’
Melchett shot her a keen glance. He said no more until they were back at his office. Then he began:
‘Now, Miss Turner, I want all the information you can give me.’
‘Yes, of course. Where shall I begin?’
‘I’d like the girl’s full name and address, her relationship to you and all you know about her.’
Josephine Turner nodded. Melchett was confirmed in his opinion that she felt no particular grief. She was shocked and distressed but no more. She spoke readily enough.
‘Her name was Ruby Keene—her professional name, that is. Her real name was Rosy Legge. Her mother was my mother’s cousin. I’ve known her all my life, but not particularly well, if you know what I mean. I’ve got a lot of cousins—some in business, some on the stage. Ruby was more or less training for a dancer. She had some good engagements last year in panto and that sort of thing. Not really classy, but good provincial companies. Since then she’s been engaged as one of the dancing partners at the Palais de Danse in Brixwell—South London. It’s a nice respectable place and they look after the girls well, but there isn’t much money in it.’ She paused.
Colonel Melchett nodded.
‘Now this is where I come in. I’ve been dance and bridge hostess at the Majestic in Danemouth for three years. It’s a good job, well paid and pleasant to do. You look after people when they arrive—size them up, of course—some like to be left alone and others are lonely and want to get into the swing of things. You try to get the right people together for bridge and all that, and get the young people dancing with each other. It needs a bit of tact and experience.’
Again Melchett nodded. He thought that this girl would be good at her job; she had a pleasant, friendly way with her