Patsy, meanwhile, had trotted calmly out of the front door of Number 20 (now, being daylight, with its defences down) and across to the front door of Number 10.
The Desiccated Receptionist was all of a flutter. ‘Oh, Miss Comfort!—you’re early.’
‘Am I?’ said Patsy. ‘That’s not like me. I’m usually late.’
‘Well, you aren’t due today until half past eleven.’
‘Oh, aren’t I?’ said Patsy. ‘Well, never mind. I’ll just have to sit in your lovely waiting-room—and wait.’
She was at leisure, therefore, to observe the antics of the patient who emerged from Dr. Fable’s consulting room, five minutes later; and could describe them in full when the police subsequently made their enquiries.
In the interim, however, she had been in to see Dr. Fable and assure that infatuate practitioner that her headaches were, alas! no better. He showed no marked distress at this information and agreed that she’d have to come back several times—several times—for more treatment. Meanwhile: ‘Have you got another box of the pills for me, like you promised? Oh, you are a sweetie!—lovely sample ones again so I shan’t have to pay for these either?’ He handed them over in their round, white cardboard box, faintly rattling, plastic covered and sealed. ‘It’ll have to be a prescription after this, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘That’s the last of the lot they sent me. Let me know next time how much good they’ve done you.’
‘I’ll make it an evening appointment and scrounge another drink off you,’ said Patsy, cheerfully withdrawing. ‘With you and your nice Miss Hodge,’ she added, just loud enough for nice Miss Hodge to hear.
What with putting down her gloves on Miss Hodge’s desk while she ruffled through her handbag for her diary, and rifling through the diary, once found, for a suitable date for the evening appointment—it was not surprising that when at last she departed in a near hysteria of jokes and farewells and thank-yous, Miss Comfort should have forgotten to take her box of pills with her. She was making such good time up the cul-de-sac that Miss Hodge could not catch up with her. She put the box on her shelf where it merged in very nicely with the clutter of professional samples common to any doctor’s surgery; and forgot all about them.
The police intercepted Patsy at the mouth of the cul-de-sac. She was highly entertained to learn of the theft of pearls from the house opposite the doctor’s: just like the telly, she said—weren’t they all thrilled, right here under the nose of their own dear little police station, in their own dear little cul-de-sac? Was she a suspect? Were they going to search her? She simply longed to be searched, only promise not to tickle! The police compromised by inviting her into their own dear little station where a somewhat butch young policewoman obliged as to the searching. Neither Miss Comfort’s charming person nor her handbag offered up anything of interest; except that, mixed up with the exotic clobber in the latter, there appeared a round white box of pills. The police broke the seals and glanced at the pills, even breaking one or two of them across: but they were just pills. Since they showed so little eagerness, Patsy apparently thought it not worth while to mention that while one pill box now appeared in her handbag, another had been left behind on Miss Hodge’s desk. Instead she trailed a pretty little red herring. ‘I suppose the thief must have been the funny little man with the medicine?’
What funny little man with what medicine?
‘Well, he came out of Dr. Fable’s room while I was waiting, but instead of leaving he sat down while Miss Hodge was busy with the next patient (a very preggers lady: a quickie, no sherry for her!) and pulled a bottle of pink medicine out of his pocket and started taking it. I mean poured it down his throat straight out of the bottle.’
Police interest perked up. The little man was still elsewhere in the station, having just emerged—unscathed—from a fairly thorough searching.
‘Yes, and then he jumped up and went over to one of the pictures and began looking at it, terribly intently—I mean sort of looking at the frame and feeling behind it in a funny sort of way. A frightful picture; personally I think Dr. Fable’s got it upside down, poor love! Perhaps the little man thought so too? Anyway, he took some more medicine and went away.’
The officers went away too, legging it down the cul-de-sac as fast as they could go. The picture was there all right and, upside-down or not, simply covered with glove-prints, the gloves having been liberally dribbled over with the pink medicine. Apart from these, however, it proved unrewarding.