‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s the answer, Sally. Even with the negative as bait, he couldn’t be sure of killing his man unless he was there himself, to open the door as soon as Morningside got down to it. But he couldn’t see when Morningside was in position unless he used the periscope method. With the door only a little way open there’s no space between it and the lintel on the hinge side, and the box would get in his light on the other. But with your mirror I can see the card and most of the mat.’ He got slowly down. ‘Oh, of course he was there,’ he said. ‘We know that he removed the cutting — probably from Morningside’s hand. He had to; he wasn’t expecting Miss Quimper’s evidence — or Selina’s — and he had to make it clear that Morningside had gone straight into his office after coming up from the canteen. If we once began to doubt that, we should see that the canteen period might not be the crucial one.’ Johnny paused. ‘He was clever enough to leave by the glass hatch, though; there were marks on the frame and the wall. He wouldn’t want to risk disturbing the body and the negs, and he almost certainly realised that we’d expect to find marks on the hatch. Scrapes, I mean, not fingerprints; he obviously wore gloves.’
Sally said slowly, ‘And still almost no one has an alibi. Teddy could have come back by the coal-hole; on the new reckoning he’d have had plenty of time. Michael Knox could have come back during Laxton’s patrol and waited. So could Silcutt.’
Johnny said, ‘Darling, don’t you understand? We were meant to assume that the trap was rigged during the canteen period. That ought to mean that the murderer has an alibi for the canteen period.’
‘No,’ she said almost violently. ‘No, Johnny. Not—’
The telephone rang, sharp and nerve-racking in the darkness. Sally jumped. Johnny turned on the light at the door, strode over to the fireplace, and picked up the receiver.
‘Hullo,’ he said, and then, ‘Good evening, Toby.’
Sally moved over to him and, half-reluctantly, sat down on the arm of his chair and began to listen.
‘Any news your end?’ asked Toby.
Johnny told him the Longwall story, and his voice came to them in a distorted squeak of indignation. ‘The man must be half-witted!’
‘He’s stupid,’ said Johnny, ‘and so pleased with himself that it never struck him his plan might go wrong. I’ll let you have the prints on Monday, Toby. What you do about it is up to you, but if you don’t mind, I’d like to talk to Teddy before anyone else gets going on him. If I could only wash him out as far as the murders are concerned, it would simplify matters.’
‘He’s all yours to start with,’ said Toby a little wearily. ‘Anything else?’
Sally was just aware of the pause before Johnny said, ‘I don’t think so.’ Toby apparently wasn’t. He went straight on.
‘I’ve got something more about Michael Knox. You remember we heard he was in the Cat-in-Boots on Wednesday evening between six and half past, and perhaps later. Well, I found a man tonight who was with him there from about a quarter to seven till about ten past. So he would seem to be in the clear. The Cat is five minutes from Echo House by taxi — I tried it. He couldn’t have gone back and rigged the trap and returned to the Cat between six-thirty and six-forty-five, and he couldn’t have gone back and rigged the trap between seven-ten and seven-twenty. Five minutes would be enough for the actual rigging, no doubt, but not for getting in unobserved by the coal-hole and getting upstairs as well.’
‘No,’ said Johnny.
‘And I’ve got some idea why he wouldn’t say where he’d been. Not that that matters now.’
‘I’d be quite interested to hear it, all the same.’
‘Very well, but stop me if it bores you. The man I met tonight is on the Echo — Daily, not Sunday. His name is Wilson, and he was actually looking for Michael on Wednesday evening. He’d heard a buzz that afternoon that the IRA was planning a raid on a certain Army camp on Salisbury Plain, and that the police had got hold of it and would be there in force. As a matter of fact the buzz was partially true; you probably heard about the raid. The police evidently didn’t know about it in advance, but it wasn’t a very impressive affair anyway.’
‘I remember,’ said Johnny. ‘Half a dozen masked men; some binding and gagging and a little wild shooting, and only half a dozen rifles gone at the end of it. No arrests.’
‘That’s right. Well, Wilson wasn’t sure how likely the buzz was to be true, and Mike was a rather obvious person to ask. He’s a Fleet Street man, with a magnificent nose for news, and at the moment he doesn’t represent any rival concern. He’s an Irishman and knows a lot of other Irishmen. And there was one particular point. He’s got a young Irish cousin called Terence Dowd. I’d heard of him as the author of that so-called realist novel Fair City. I never know,’ said Toby parenthetically, ‘whether the Irish at home are really like that or not. But I didn’t know until tonight that the boy was a relation of Mike’s. He’s not in Fleet Street. But some weeks ago Mike made an unsuccessful attempt to get him on to the Reflector — I believe that was the occasion of Mike’s row with his editor — and Dowd was about the place for a couple of days. Wilson met him in some pub with Mike and was mildly interested in him because he dropped mysterious and sinister hints about being in the IRA.
‘But Mike said he’d heard no buzz about a raid. When Wilson mentioned Dowd and his alleged political connections, Mike looked down his nose and said the child had a vivid imagination. In any case, he — the child — had gone back to Ireland. But five minutes later, to Wilson’s surprise, Mike murmured something about a date, and slipped away. Wilson’s a suspicious type — we’re apt to get like that in Fleet Street — and he at once wondered if, after all, Mike was representing someone or doing freelance work. If so, he might have decided to go down to the camp himself and try for the story. Wilson mulled it over, and then went back to Echo House to see if they’d heard any more about the buzz. They hadn’t, and he was sent off on something more certain, if less exciting. In fact, I was there when he went off, though he didn’t mention then that he’d been with Mike. I was gossiping with someone on the Echo just before I met you at eight.’ Toby drew breath.
‘I think it’s quite possible,’ he said, ‘that Mike went down to Wiltshire. It’s conceivable that he got involved in the raid for the sake of the story — he’s entirely reckless. In that case he might be extremely reluctant to tell the police what he’d been doing. No doubt he’d be prepared to admit it in the last resort, but it would be quite understandable if he tried to get away with it. Wilson alone gives him an alibi, of course, but if Wilson gave any account of their conversation the police might well guess where Mike had gone after it. Or they might make trouble for Dowd. He’s presumably safe for the moment, but he may want to come back to England one day.’
‘Yes,’ said Johnny. ‘You haven’t seen any report of the raid which might be Knox’s?’
‘No. I know his work well, and I’m quite sure there hasn’t been one. But Mike has high standards — professionally speaking — and the raid was a bit of a wash-out. If he didn’t feel he could do himself justice he mightn’t have written anything, or he mightn’t have turned it in. Or he might have destroyed it after Morningside’s death, feeling that it wasn’t quite the sort of alibi he would wish to have. If it was written for a Sunday paper, that is. If it was for a daily, it would have had to be turned in before he heard about the murder.’
‘Yes. Well, that’s very interesting, Toby. It gives one food for thought. I shall see you on Monday morning. May I have Teddy about eleven?’
‘Certainly. I’ll see he’s in then. Goodnight, Johnny.’
‘Goodnight,’ said Johnny, and put down the receiver.
‘Wilson doesn’t give Michael an alibi, of course,’ said Sally. ‘Not according to the revised version. Toby would know that if — if—’
‘Yes, he would,’ said Johnny shortly. ‘But he’d have to assume we didn’t.’
Sally changed the subject. ‘Supposing Michael’s
guilty, why didn’t he give us his alibi for the canteen period?’
‘Well, even so it might be a little tricky, because of the IRA aspect. He’d have gone to the Cat-in-Boots, where presumably he was likely to find someone who knew him, in order to establish an alibi, but not a slightly compromising one. But I don’t think that’s really a good enough reason for concealing it — from us, at any rate. I wonder if he didn’t see possibilities in the IRA aspect and turn it to his advantage. Perhaps he deliberately left Wilson with the impression that he was going down to Wiltshire. Later, he becomes mysterious about his movements, and leaves it to someone else to find Wilson. If it’s only a question of the canteen period, Wilson clears him, whatever interpretation the police may put on his reticence. If he’s pressed about the post-canteen period — the Cuts period — he can very reluctantly produce a rather discreditable account of the raid, which will make it fairly clear that he hadn’t time to go back to Echo House first, and everyone will say that he really wouldn’t have told such a damaging story if it hadn’t been true.’
‘Excellent,’ said Sally. ‘But where has he got his story?’
‘He’s used to going and getting stories. Some soldier at the camp, perhaps. Or possibly Terence Dowd hasn’t gone back to Ireland after all. Anyhow, Knox would have known, as everyone else seems to have done, that Morningside nearly always worked late on Wednesdays and had supper in the canteen. He’d have known that they start serving supper at a quarter to seven. He could have been back at Echo House at a quarter past and waited somewhere. If Morningside hadn’t gone into Cuts, he could have found some way of getting him out of Peex for a few minutes.’
‘Yes,’ said Sally. ‘It’s good enough.’
‘He hated Morningside,’ said Johnny. ‘Morningside stood for everything he dislikes most — middle-class morality, narrowness, stupidity, intolerance. Morningside stood between him and Selina — or so he seems to have thought. Morningside broke up young Dowd’s love-affair, and to some extent his career. Knox may even have taken this job in order to avenge Dowd’s wrongs. After all, he lost his last job for the boy’s sake.’
‘Morningside thought he had been writing the letters,’ said Sally. ‘At least, that seemed to be his final decision.’
‘So it did. Of all our suspects, Sally, Knox has the best brain, and he’s not hampered by normal scruples. And he’s got an alibi for the canteen period, though he won’t admit it. I’ve no right to say it, but I think he’s going to be our man.’
Chapter Eleven
Sunday morning was damp and depressing. A yellow fog hung over St Cross Square in shreds and patches. The leafless trees in the square garden dripped steadily on to the drab winter grass and the wet tarmac, and the sound of traffic, thin today in any case and never very noticeable here, was blotted out in an all-absorbent silence.
They hadn’t had much time to read the news yesterday, and Johnny went out to buy Sunday papers of the type they didn’t usually take. Miss Quimper’s death had given the Press a fresh fillip. The Sunday Echo was having the time of its life. But no one seemed to realise that Miss Quimper had fallen from a sixth-floor window, and not from the narrow path above the bombed site — no one except, almost certainly, the police.
Just before eleven o’clock Sally and Johnny went across the square to St Cross Church — an elegant little Regency survival which had somehow been saved from the improvements of the Victorian age. This morning it was almost dark. The fog-veils dimmed the lights and hung in front of the stained glass and the curved grey walls with their memorial tablets. Several members of the choir seemed to have lost their voices, and the Vicar, who was a noted preacher, had a bad cold. But Sally had to admit that even if he had been at his best her attention would probably have wandered. She couldn’t help thinking about the Archives: about Morningside and Miss Quimper, who were dead; about Toby and Selina and Teddy and Michael Knox, whom Johnny believed to be a murderer. She was glad when the service was over and they came out into the thick, damp air and crossed the square to their house. Peter was up at the nursery window, waving to them, and they waved back.
It was Nanny’s Sunday afternoon off, and though she said she didn’t want it in this weather, they took the children off her hands after lunch, and played primitive games in the drawing room till tea-time.
After tea Johnny looked something up in the Telephone Directory, and then said casually to Sally, ‘I’m going to look in on Michael Knox.’
Before she could answer Peter asked inevitably, ‘Who’s Michael Knox?’
‘He’s an Irish friend of mine,’ said Johnny.
‘Where does he live?’
‘In Crawley Street. Just round the corner.’
‘Can I come too, Daddy?’
‘No,’ said Johnny simply. It was never any good being diplomatic with Peter.
‘Will you be back in time to tell me an Albert story?’
‘I won’t promise, but I expect so. I shouldn’t think I shall be more than three-quarters of an hour.’
‘All right. If you’ll try very hard, Daddy—’
‘I’ll do my best. Goodbye.’
If Sally had had an opportunity of arguing she would probably have done it. But she told herself it was silly to worry. Michael Knox was a powerful man, but he was unlikely to be a match for Johnny’s strength and Johnny’s Commando tricks.
Johnny walked into the drawing room again a quarter of an hour later. Peter looked up and said, ‘Hullo, Daddy. Have you seen Michael Knox?’
‘No,’ said Johnny. ‘He was out.’
‘Good,’ said Peter brightly. ‘Now we can have the Albert story, can’t we?’
In due course Nanny collected first the twins and then Peter. She said she might as well be putting them to bed as sitting knitting, and Sally was grateful. It was after peace had descended on the drawing room that Johnny said, ‘Funny thing. No one answered Knox’s bell, but two of his windows were lighted.’
‘Perhaps he’s careless about lights,’ said Sally.
‘Perhaps he is. The simple explanation is usually the right one.’
‘Johnny, are you going back?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Johnny. ‘I must see him.’ He looked at her. ‘Don’t be silly, darling. There’s nothing to worry about. I think I’d better go now.’
‘Can’t I come with you?’
‘No,’ said Johnny simply.
But again he was back in a quarter of an hour.
‘Still out, apparently,’ he said. ‘I shall have to try again after supper. I don’t want to ring up first; I’d rather he wasn’t expecting me.’
He went out again at eight, and this time he didn’t come back. The French carriage clock on the drawing room mantelpiece struck the half-hour, and then nine o’clock. By that time Sally was really anxious. Crawley Street was less than five minutes’ walk from St Cross Square.
It would be idiotic to go to the police as soon as this. She wanted to go straight round to Crawley Street and ring Michael Knox’s bell, but if this delay meant that Johnny had at last persuaded him to talk, an interruption might spoil everything.
But at a quarter past nine she couldn’t wait any longer. She put on her old tweed coat and tied a scarf over her head. She didn’t want a muddle, so she scribbled a note to Johnny on the telephone pad in the drawing room, folded it, and propped it up against the carriage clock. Then she checked Michael Knox’s address in the Telephone Directory, and ran downstairs, half believing she would find Johnny on the doorstep.
But only the fog came in. It was cold and raw, but still patchy, and she could see the misty streetlamps, the shining pavements, the dark shapes of the trees in the garden. She turned to the right and hurried.
The first turning was Sedley Street. Halfway down it she turned left into Crawley Street. She wasn’t necessarily going to interrupt; she would walk past the house and see what she could. She wanted Fifteen, but in the dark the numbers were difficult to read, and it was only after she had passed half
a dozen houses that she realised she was on the even side. She turned to cross the street and was halfway over when she saw the right number silhouetted on a fanlight against a lighted hall.
Knox had said the top flat. She looked up and saw chinks of light round two of the three windows. As she looked, they vanished.
Her immediate reaction was relief. The interview was over, and Knox was seeing Johnny downstairs. Then she was suddenly afraid again. In that case, would he bother to turn off the light? Unless he was going out himself — She stepped back. She must be near enough to recognise whoever was going to be silhouetted against the light in the hall, and not near enough to be recognised.
Perhaps thirty seconds passed. Then the front door swung open and Michael Knox shot out and down the steps. The light from the hall shone on his blue-black hair.
Johnny came after him. He swung to the left, with a hand on the railing, and Johnny swung too. They ran hard along the damp pavement, their footsteps sounding flat and dull in the thick air. They passed Sally without noticing her, and then Knox turned and cut across to the mouth of Sedley Street, and Johnny followed. As soon as they were round the corner the sound of their feet died.
It was extraordinarily eerie, and almost unreal, partly, perhaps, because of its quietness. Neither of the men had spoken, far less cried out. It might have been a scene from a silent film. Sally, a little dazed, was turning the way they had gone when a voice with a brogue like clotted cream said, ‘Good evening, Mrs Heldar. You look like a girl out of Hans Andersen with the fog-crystals in your hair. And what’s your husband after?’
For a moment she was rigid with fear. Then she put up her hands automatically to pull her scarf forward, and said, ‘He went to see you.’
‘I’m sorry I wasn’t in, then. I’m just back now.’
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