Maxwell’s Flame by M. J. Trow

side door?’
    Warren turned one of his stormiest glances in his Number Two’s direction. ‘His conscience, John,’ he said softly.
    ‘Sir?’
    Warren got up and stretched his legs. ‘Unorthodox policing bothers you, doesn’t it, Inspector?’ he asked.
    McBride glanced at the WPC. He didn’t like being put on the spot. And he thought he knew his guv’nor. Warren’s latest ploy was indeed bothering him. ‘Can you get me the staff list, Sheila?’ he asked. ‘It’s on my desk.’
    ‘Very good, sir.’ She smiled and left the room.
    McBride knew he didn’t have long. And he rounded on Warren. The Chief Inspector was ready for him. ‘Call it man’s intuition,’ he said. ‘It was the way Bennet kept sneaking furtive looks up Sheila’s skirt. Did you notice that?’
    ‘No,’ McBride frowned. ‘But that’s …’
    ‘… not unusual, no. Ninety per cent of red-blooded males would cop a crafty look. But not constantly. Not in the way he did. There’s something … unhealthy about it.’
    ‘So …?’
    ‘So I invented the sighting. For all I know, the whole episode, from finding the body to making the phone call, may have taken seconds. We’ll have to check with Gregory Trant. But it rattled him, didn’t it? He was edgy, wouldn’t you say?’
    ‘Well, yes …’ McBride conceded. ‘But?’
    ‘He went to the bathroom,’ Warren said.
    ‘To get a flannel, yes.’
    ‘To get a flannel?’ Warren raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that what Lydia Farr said?’
    ‘Er … no. There was no mention of a flannel because she was hysterical. Fainting. She just didn’t remember.’
    ‘And, conveniently, Gregory Trant had already buggered off. The other possibility is that there was no mention of a flannel because there was no flannel.’
    ‘Then why go to the bathroom?’
    Warren sipped the coffee Sheila had made for him. ‘Warrants,’ the Chief Inspector said. ‘We need warrants, John.’
    ‘Why?’ McBride was nettled. There was no heading ‘Intuition’ in any police manual he’d ever read. It belonged to crime fiction, not crime fact.
    ‘Because we need to find a few things.’ Warren handed his empty cup to the returning WPC. ‘Like Ms Farr’s used underwear, which was probably in the linen basket in her bathroom.’ He paused in the doorway. ‘And like some bloodstained clothing. I’d settle for that; wouldn’t you, John?’
    There was a lull midday shortly after lunch. The group had been subjected to a mid-morning lecture on ‘GNVQ in Practice’ during which Maxwell had fallen asleep and had slumped sideways against a pillar. He’d eaten too much at lunch – the quiche, which the Head of Games at Leighford High told him real men didn’t eat, was particularly entrancing – and he lay now on his narrow bed in Room 101, facing God knew-what terrors. He may have been dozing off again, when there was a sharp rap at the door.
    A tall kid stood there, in faded stonewash jeans and a skimpy top that showed her navel. ‘Are you alone, Max?’ She popped her head around the door.
    ‘I’m not sure what that question is supposed to imply, Mrs Greenhow, but yes. How would you like me?’
    ‘Back, Max,’ she said solemnly. ‘I’d like you back.’
    He looked at the girl in front of him, the earnestness on her pretty, dimpled face, the eyes grey and bright behind the glasses. ‘I’ve never been away,’ he said.
    ‘Haven’t you?’ Sally asked him, perching on his bed and plumping up the pillow behind her. ‘A woman’s been murdered, Max. I want your brain.’
    ‘Vincent Price,’ Maxwell clicked his fingers, ‘or was it Peter Lorre? It’s either
Revenge of the Blood Beast
or
Secret Seven Discover Satanic Abuse
. I’ll remember in a minute.’ Both take-offs were lost on Sally Greenhow. The only lorries she knew had eight wheels and turned into side streets.
    ‘I’m serious, Max,’ she said. ‘Sometimes you just make me want to scream.’
    ‘All right,’ he chuckled, collapsing into the