Read Online Murder Adrift by George Bellairs - Free Book Online Page B

shall we?’
    â€˜I don’t know Dawson and Lever – do you, sir?’
    â€˜No. But it’s my guess that when they see the table plan and find we’re at their elbows, they’ll be round us like bees at a honeypot.’
    The dinner should have been preceded by the mayor’s receiving the guests as they arrived in the hall. Mr. Pollitt had fully recovered from his attack of
mal-de-mer
except that he still had an aftermath of liverish torpor and wasslow in performing his reception duties. The arriving guests exceeded Mr. Pollitt’s ability to deal with them and part one of the affair ended in a scramble.
    After the scrimmage for places had died down and the Bishop of Portwich – who had in his day been an Oxford oarsman and regarded himself now as a sort of patron saint of yachting – had completely silenced the shouting and randy laughter of those who were already half-drunk by uttering over them two Latin words of grace, the scallops were served.
    â€˜Why didn’t they make it oysters and be done with it?’ said Dawson to Hopkinson, tucking-in with zest.
    John James Dawson was a smallish, stocky man, who looked like an army sergeant-major in mufti. He had started with Todds as a boy of 15 and risen from the bottling shed to be their senior traveller. Now he was 55. Forty years in the wood, professionally speaking, except for five years in the army in the last war which ended in his reaching the rank he resembled. It didn’t take him long to reach familiar terms with Hoppy, whose heart sank at the thought of putting him through a diplomatic police interrogation in the circumstances. He looked at Dawson’s florid complexion, bloodshot eyes and large red nose, then at the bottle of hock half of which had already gone the way of the scallops, and wondered where it was all going to end. He need not have worried. ‘J.J.’ never lost his lucidity however much he consumed. He was immunised by the fumes and consumption which went with his job.
    Dawson, who sat at Hopkinson’s right hand, introduced himself straight away.
    â€˜Dawson’s the name. Locally known as “J.J.”. I’m the rep. for Todds’, the vintners. You one of the sailing lot?’
    In his cordiality, he blew a blast of hock and scallopsacross Hopkinson’s face. The young detective had to confess why he was there and Dawson assumed a look of appropriate melancholy, said it was a sad and alarming business and, finding a waitress removing his used plate, chucked her under the chin, called her Sandra, and said that finding her at his elbow had made his day.
    Fortunately for Hopkinson, his left-hand companion was a clergyman who had apparently found one of his flock on his other side and discussed matters of ecclesiastical finance with him through most of the proceedings, to the neglect of Hoppy, who was very thankful for it. The clergyman was so engrossed in his subject that he ate Hoppy’s bread-roll as well as his own.
    Now and then Littlejohn caught Hopkinson’s eye and nodded genially. He was sitting next to a thin, nervy, hatchet-faced man who looked more like an undertaker than a wine salesman, and who was drinking from a bottle of Vichy water. Hoppy wondered if he had somehow got the guest-lists mixed up and landed Littlejohn with the local mortician instead.
    â€˜Is that your boss sitting with Lever?’ said Dawson in a testy voice, as though, as senior ‘rep.’ he himself ought to be there with the boss detective.
    Dawson, in keeping with his daily occupation, had plenty of patter about one thing and another and he and Hopkinson might have been lifelong friends by the time they reached the
omelette surprise.
Hoppy wondered if it would terminate in Dawson soliciting an order for wine. One thing was particularly noticeable : Dawson never mentioned the murder and showed no inclination to discuss it.
    Thus they reached the end of the meal without Hoppy