Enter Certain Murderers, page 18
The dead man’s name was Ellis. It was in all the papers next morning, together with the fact that he had been found “by the police” in the back of a sports car which was parked in a London square. This reticence might have been expected to do something to pacify Sir Nicholas; but if Antony anticipated any relaxation of his uncle’s hostile attitude he was to be disappointed.
Sir Nicholas was growling to himself when Horton arrived and Antony went downstairs to join them in the study, but at least he had tidied the papers relating to the arson case so far as to heap them together on one corner of the desk . . . a rather shaky looking tower of Babel, which was obviously going to take the first excuse to fall down again.
Geoffrey Horton was a solicitor, and well known both to Sir Nicholas and his nephew. He was several years younger than Maitland, had red hair and a cheerful disposition, and the extent of his criminal practice, which he had been carefully cultivating for some time, had made it natural for his partner to pass the conduct of the case over to him. Mr. Armstrong had done so with relief; his own experience was extensive, but not in the courts. And he had a strong feeling that, if he had to depart from custom and defend a client accused of murder, Roger Farrell was the last man he would choose for the experiment. Geoffrey was more confident, but this morning there was something a little half-hearted about his smile; he was eyeing Sir Nicholas rather as a nervous recruit to a bomb-disposal unit might eye the first mechanism entrusted to him. And inevitably Antony was amused by the sight and his spirits lifted a little.
“As there has been no arrest,” Sir Nicholas was saying when he went into the study, “I cannot see why you wish to involve me in your discussions.” This was extremely unfair; he’d have had plenty to say later if he’d been excluded at this stage. But his nephew’s arrival seemed to distract him from his grievance. “Why hasn’t Farrell been arrested?” he asked sharply, without allowing any time to greet the visitor.
“I asked Sykes last night. He wouldn’t tell me.”
“Surely you’re not going to let a little thing like that discourage you.”
“You don’t like guesses, sir.” The tower of Babel tilted dangerously as Sir Nicholas brought his hand down heavily on the desk. “Making the connection between Farrell and the man who was suspected of opening Grainger’s safe ought to have removed their last doubt—”
“So much is obvious,” said his uncle, coldly.
“—so I can only suppose they’re becoming ambitious, and want to establish Roger’s connection with the bullion robberies too. Or, more likely, they hope he’ll lead them to his accomplices.” He picked up the pile of papers as he spoke, and dumped them out of harm’s way in a corner of the room. Sir Nicholas waited until he came back to stand between desk and window, before he said:
“You don’t believe that such a connection exists.” He sounded accusing.
“No, I don’t; though the police may be right about James Farrell. What I don’t like is the general assumption that, whatever he was up to, he’d have been more likely to confide in Roger than in anyone else.” His casual tone might have argued a lack of interest; now he looked down at Horton and gave him an encouraging grin. “I’m sorry, Geoffrey, that doesn’t make it any easier, does it?”
“At least it will stop me lamenting the fact that my client refuses to consider anything but a straight ‘not guilty’ plea. We can hardly plead justification with the whole countryside strewn with superfluous corpses,” said Horton sadly.
“But I don’t think he’s responsible for any of them,” Antony protested.
Sir Nicholas was looking at him oddly. “You sound very positive,” he said.
“Yes, sir, I am.”
“And that means—”
“It means we’ve got to prove it. And what I’m afraid of at the moment is that some more evidence will turn up . . . for the prosecution, you know.”
Sir Nicholas picked up a pencil, and began to sketch on the blotting-pad. “What do you mean?” he asked, not looking up.
“If you’ll bear with the assumption that the murderer saw Meg’s note—”
“I am already subscribing to the unlikely premise that Roger Farrell is innocent,” said Sir Nicholas tartly.
“Well then . . . I think the murderer felt this was too good chance to miss, to catch Grainger unawares, and I don’t suppose he cared that Roger might be suspected. But I don’t think there was a deliberate attempt at a frame-up.”
“Probably not.” There was a dryness in his tone that Antony didn’t like.
“It’s different now,” he said. “There could be no other reason for leaving Ellis’s body in the back of the Jensen than a deliberate attempt to implicate Roger. Either from malice, or to ensure his own safety, the person concerned has decided on a course of action. It could lead anywhere.”
It could lead to our being laughed out of court,” said his uncle sadly. He sat back to admire his sketch. “Such a convenient argument,” he added. “I wonder how many times it’s been tried.”
Antony ignored this deliberate attempt to depress his spirits still further. “Did you learn anything from Farrell’s interview with the police?” he asked his friend.
Geoffrey looked at him warily. “Don’t jump to conclusions,” he warned, “but this new evidence you’re talking about may already have turned up.”
“Don’t be cryptic, Geoffrey. Has it, or hasn’t it?”
“The police have taken a heavy calibre rifle from the cottage at Grunning’s Hole for testing. A .470 double rifle, to be exact. Farrell professes not to know whether it belonged to his father or not.”
“He would,” said Antony, rather more irritably than the point seemed to warrant.
“There was another rifle there, and the local police took that when they searched the place on Thursday, but it wasn’t the right size. The thing is, it’s no use our saying this one is a plant, if it turns out to be the one that shot Grainger. They know damn’ well it wasn’t there before, but they think—of course—that Farrell took it down with him on Friday night.”
“Of course,” echoed Antony. Sir Nicholas broke his pencil point and muttered something, but made no more open comment.
“They didn’t say that in so many words,” Geoffrey said, “but it’s fairly obvious—”
“And not particularly helpful,” said Sir Nicholas, abandoning his search for another pencil and clasping his hands on the desk in front of him.
“Not at all helpful,” agreed Geoffrey amiably. He seemed to feel happier now the discussion was under way. Perhaps you’ll like this better. Ellis was shot at close range with a .38 automatic. They haven’t found the gun.”
“It seems we have still something to be thankful for. When did this happen?”
“Most likely between midnight and six o’clock on Saturday morning, and probably not more than an hour before he was bundled into the back of the Jensen.”
“Well, that’s vague enough,” said Antony, ungratefully. “There’s one other thing. He’d been knocked about before he was shot. Probably some hours before.”
“Now, why?”
“Search me. There was a good deal of bruising on his arms, and a particularly heavy one on his jaw.” He hesitated, and then added in an expressionless voice: “You’d notice, I dare say—”
“That Farrell’s hand was grazed.” In his turn, Antony spoke evenly. “Yes, I noticed that.” And he added, with a sudden spurt of anger: “What d-difference does it m-make? You don’t b-believe him anyway, do you?”
“I’m trying to keep an open mind,” said Geoffrey, with dignity.
“Yes, I’m sorry.” And I’m not playing fair, he thought, but I don’t know Roger lied to me.
“He says he grazed his knuckles on the car door, where the lock sticks out,” said Horton. His tone did not quite conceal a sense of grievance at being offered this unlikely story.
Sir Nicholas had been watching his nephew’s face. “It could be true,” he remarked; and drew his own conclusions when he saw the look half relieved, half guilty—with which Antony received this surprising comment. Then he turned back to Horton again. Where did Ellis die?” he asked.
“They think at Grunning’s Hole. Nobody heard the shot, but that doesn’t help Farrell either; the cottage is well away from the village.”
“I suppose it’s unlikely that our gunman rushed down there and shot him,” said Antony. “Well, one thing’s certain, it’s no use asking anyone for an alibi. Our man has the resources of a big organisation at his command; I don’t suppose he even shot Grainger himself,” he added in an aggrieved tone.
“A master criminal,” said Sir Nicholas, thoughtfully. “I might have known, my dear boy,” he added, with an air of cordiality that was utterly misleading, “that I could rely on you sooner or later to broaden my education in this way.”
Antony grinned. But, “the situation isn’t of my making,” he protested.
“You think not? Well, I’ll concede your ‘gang’,” said his uncle, with an air of distaste, “because our burglar was certainly one of them and I can’t think of any other reason for his taking an interest in us. But what if you follow the trail and it leads you back to Farrell?”
“It won’t.” He moved a little to stand at the corner of the desk. “Sykes got the diaries from Jenny. Did I tell you that, sir?”
“You did.” He sounded indifferent, but Geoffrey’s tone betrayed a greater interest.
“Did you learn anything from them?” he asked.
“I don’t know. How can I know? A certain amount of background information about James Farrell’s acquaintance, and it ought to mean something . . . if we’re right, it’s cost enough.” He turned his head, and for a moment his eyes met his uncle’s. “He’s still alive . . . the third policeman, I mean. But they don’t feel he’s out of danger.”
“I know,” said Sir Nicholas. “I ’phoned the hospital too.” He paused, and then added deliberately: “Why mention the diaries, if you’re so vague about their meaning?”
“There’s one thing I wondered about.” Antony had pulled a rather ragged envelope from his pocket and was scowling at it. “If the diamonds really denote blackmail payments, the first one was made in September 1958.” He glanced up, and saw his uncle’s expression, and a rather dogged note crept into his voice. “Farrell might have given himself away to Grainger by talking with any of the three men we’re interested in . . . all right, sir, I’m interested in,” he added irritably. “But what prompted the conversation? That’s what I’d like to know.”
“If they were laying plans—” said Geoffrey.
“I know, but that’s some more of the guesswork you both dislike so much . . . that James Farrell was involved with the gang,” Antony pointed out. “If he wasn’t . . . well, that’s guessing too, but at least it might lead somewhere.”
“Well . . . where?”
“I don’t know. I’ve got nothing to go on but a couple of dates, things that might tie-in together, you know. And a man who’s coming to see me at noon to-day.”
“Who?” snapped Geoffrey. He found this vagueness unnerving.
“A man named Cooper . . . a retired accountant from Nova Scotia.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” said Horton, losing patience. “Say what you mean.”
“But I don’t know what I mean,” Antony pointed out, with a misleadingly lucid air.
Sir Nicholas, in desperation, picked up the blunted pencil and went back to his drawing. He knew the signs, and if Antony hadn’t some idea in his head . . . and most likely something foolish . . .
*
Meg had spent a restless night, so it was no penance to get up early. She went down to the corner and came back with a number of papers, each of a rather more sensational character than the ones that would later be delivered to her door. By the time the kettle had boiled she was pretty sure there was no news in any of them of Roger’s arrest. Sir Nicholas and Jenny had both promised faithfully to let her know, and she believed them but she wanted to be sure.
She wondered for a moment whether there was some new evidence; perhaps the police had changed their minds after all. But she didn’t really believe that, she had no facility at all for self-deception. She didn’t really understand what was happening, so much seemed to have grown out of Martin Grainger’s death, as if that one act had been the catalyst that set all the other events in motion. But that had nothing to do with Roger; she wasn’t even sure any more that he had shot Grainger, though once it had seemed so obvious. She had gone over it so many times, how he had looked when he spoke of his mother’s death, and then that Tuesday evening when he had told her that the blackmailer was dead too.
But it was too late to worry about that now; she blamed herself for having helped him, and if he hadn’t killed Grainger after all it would be a relief to her conscience as well as to her heart. Antony would have been appalled if he had realised the clarity with which she viewed the situation; as a public figure for many years there was nothing he could have told her about the results of adverse publicity, and she had no illusions as to how her story was going to sound in court. She thought she would be telling it as a witness, not as one of the accused; but it is to be doubted whether she would have found even this latter prospect more daunting than the one she foresaw.
She made tea, and drank two cups slowly; and thought it would be sensible to have some toast as well, only she couldn’t face it. From habit she rinsed the cup, and tidied the kitchen before she left it. As she went back into the bedroom she recognised suddenly the emotion that was gripping her, and smiled a little wryly at her own expense. Stage fright! Well, at least, she knew how to deal with that. You ignored it, and after a while it went away.
Because she was so early she made her preparations slowly, and it was nearly half past ten when she arrived at Leinster Court. The doorman obviously knew her from her previous visit, she thought suddenly there wasn’t much he’d miss; she smiled and said “Good morning” brightly, and went past him to the lift with a confident air.
There was a longish pause after she rang the bell of the Farrells’ flat. (She had never met Mrs. Farrell, but—like Antony—she had a clear picture in her mind, and thought of this as the place she had lived, rather than as Roger’s home). And then the door opened and Roger stood on the threshold blinking at her; and suddenly the stage fright vanished, to be replaced by a sort of bubbling self-confidence that was quite unlike anything she had ever experienced before.
Roger, meanwhile, was eyeing her doubtfully. It might have been no more than dissatisfaction with his own appearance: he was tousled and unshaven, and though he had put on a dressing-gown his feet were still bare. Meg’s chin went up. “I want to talk to you,” she said.
He gave one look at the door across the landing, and backed rather hurriedly into his own hall. “Come in, then,” he invited. Meg stalked past him into the sitting-room.
“The place is a pig sty,” she announced.
Roger looked round a little wildly. “It’s quite clean,” he protested, ignoring the note of tragedy she had managed to infuse even into the hackneyed phrase.
“And a fine chore ‘twill have been to the lass who had the cleaning of it,” she told him severely, and marched acros the room to fling open the window. “You could at least have emptied the ashtrays,” she went on, and as she turned her militant eye came to rest on her companion. As for you, Roger Farrell—” she said.
“I overslept.”
“Then you’d better go and get dressed, while I make you some breakfast.”
“But, Meg, you shouldn’t be here.”
It was as if the words broke a spell. He saw her flush, and watched—with a quite painful awareness—the crumbling of the pathetic wall of make-believe she had built about herself. But her head remained high, and her eyes never dropped from his own. “I came,” she said, “to find out if that’s true.”
“My dear—”
“Don’t cozen me, Roger,” she flashed at him, and the unlikeliness of the word momentarily distracted his attention from what she was saying. “If you don’t want me, that’s all right. But you’ve got to tell me so.”
“It’s just . . . you’ve got to understand, Meg . . . it isn’t fair to you.”
“What isn’t fair?”
“You’re involved in this mess. I know that. I’m sorry. But you needn’t come in any deeper.”
“Don’t be a fool, Roger. It’s too late to try to protect me.”
They sounded like a knell.
“You were lying to me then? When you said you loved me . . . that was a lie? Say it, Roger, say it!”
“Things are different now,” he told her desperately.
He shook his head at her. “It’s too late,” he repeated. But now the words meant something different. To Meg—but admittedly her thoughts inclined to extravagance—
“Things? Or you?”
“I don’t know . . . I don’t know, Meg.” He took a step towards her, and against her will she put her hands into his. “My father loved my mother . . . and broke her heart in the end.”
“I’m really very tough, Roger.”
“Are you, indeed?” He laughed, and pulled her towards him. “There was a song,” he said, “before your time, Meg, you wouldn’t remember—” He broke off, and stood looking down at her for a moment, and then said in a changed voice: “That’s another thing, you’re not the first love of my life, you know.”
“If you think I’m a fool—” said Meg, and began to struggle futilely against the strength of his grip on her wrists.
“You are, my dear, if you think I’m about to edify you with the story of my life. Stop fighting me, Meg, and listen. Did you know I’d been married?”
“You never told me.”
