‘Who is it that he’s chasing?’ asked Sally. She tried so hard to keep the bewilderment out of her voice that it sounded flat and stupid.
‘Indeed, I don’t know,’ said Knox. ‘I didn’t see. Let’s walk on the way they went, shall we? I don’t suppose we shall catch them up, but it’s your way home, isn’t it?’
She was thankful he hadn’t asked her to come up to his flat. But to walk with him through the foggy darkness and the thick silence was almost as bad. She was sure he had lied to her. She hadn’t heard him approach — he walked almost soundlessly on what must be rubber soles — but she was sure he did know the man Johnny was chasing and had seen him.
‘A dirty night,’ he said blandly, as they turned into Sedley Street. ‘Mind, now; the pavements are slippery.’ He took her arm, felt her slight movement, and let her go. ‘All right. But for your information, I am not a murderer.’
She managed to say calmly, ‘I hope not.’
He laughed a little, and they walked quickly on up the street. They were fifty yards from the square when she heard a car coming round it from the right. At the same moment Johnny shouted. Then a figure shot out from the left-hand corner and showed black against the car’s lights as they swung into sight. There was a scream of brakes, and Michael Knox went forward like an arrow.
Then someone started swearing. It sounded like a taxi-driver. The language was hair-raising, but it was perfectly clear that no one was hurt. Sally, running after Knox, who had slowed down, heard someone attempt to answer, and get cursed again, more mildly this time.
‘Bloody young fool, runnin’ straight across me bows—’
Johnny was there, holding a tall young man by one arm.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘It was my young friend’s fault. I’ll tell him off. He’s not used to London traffic yet.’
‘You’re tellin’ me, sir. You keep an eye on ’im, for Gawd’s sake. ’E’s not safe aht.’ But Johnny’s manner was having its usual effect. ‘Take yer anywhere, sir?’
‘No, thanks. We’re only a few doors from home.’
‘Right you are, sir. I’ll be on my way, then.’
Knox took a step forward. Perhaps he had an idea of getting the young man away in the taxi. But before he could speak a policeman came running round the corner, his cape glistening with the fog.
‘What’s happened here?’ he asked. ‘Anyone hurt? Oh, it’s you, Mr Heldar.’
Johnny explained briefly, exonerating the driver, making very little of the incident. The policeman was satisfied. This was his beat, and he knew the Heldars well. The taxi moved on down Sedley Street, and he said goodnight to them and walked on round the square. He seemed to have taken Knox for the nucleus of the inevitable crowd which gathers round any sort of accident.
Johnny was silent for a moment, and Sally intervened. She was determined not to leave him alone with these men, and she knew he was trying to decide how best to get rid of her.
She turned to Knox. ‘I think you’d better come along with us,’ she said. ‘You and your cousin. Then we can talk things over.’
The boy started violently, but Johnny held him. Knox hesitated for a moment. Then he smiled and bowed.
‘We shall be delighted to accept your invitation,’ he said. ‘Come along, Terence. Don’t be a fool, boy. If you run away again, Heldar will go to the police. If we explain things to him nicely, there’s just a chance he won’t.’
The boy said nothing, but Sally saw his eyes gleaming in the light of a streetlamp as they walked on.
In the hall she could see him properly for the first time. Twenty years ago, she thought, Knox had probably looked just like this. Terence Dowd was nearly as tall as he was; not quite so thin, but not yet arrived at his full strength, and moving with an awkward grace which on the stage would have been extraordinarily impressive, for there was about it the suggestion of half-controlled violence seen in a wild animal. A caged animal, thought Sally. The narrow, high-boned face under the shining blue-black hair was very handsome and very young. Knox’s long, expressive mouth was there, sensitive and sulky, and the sapphire eyes were hot. The boy wore crumpled grey flannel trousers and a navy-blue fisherman’s jersey.
Sally took the guests upstairs while Johnny went to collect drinks. She had only just handed round the cigarette-box when he came in with the tray. Both the Irishmen took their whisky neat. Johnny looked at her, and without consulting her gave her whisky too, with a good deal of soda. Then he helped himself and sat down.
‘I’ll start, if I may, Knox,’ he said. ‘I tried to call on you twice between tea and supper. The door of the house was unlocked. I got no answer when I rang at your door upstairs, but I noticed on both occasions that two of your windows were lighted.’
‘Dolt,’ said Knox amiably to his cousin. The boy’s mouth twisted just as Sally had seen Knox’s do.
‘I got there for the third time,’ continued Johnny, ‘just after eight. Still no answer, and still the lighted windows. I don’t suppose I’d have waited, even then, but on my way down I met a woman who I think must be one of your Belgian neighbours. She opened her door and peeped out, and I asked her if she knew when you would be in. She said she didn’t, but she looked so worried that I began to wonder. I went downstairs, and I’m afraid I cheated her. I opened the front door and shut it again — loudly. After that I heard her door close.
‘I thought something was going on — something, please observe, which might concern me, indirectly at least, as representing the National Press Archives. So I waited in the hall. I waited till about twenty past nine, and then I heard your door open and shut. I looked up the staircase well and saw your cousin coming down. I thought it was you at first.’
‘Dolt again,’ said Knox.
‘I wanted cigarettes,’ said the boy sulkily, speaking almost for the first time. His accent was slight — a little more marked than Knox’s when Knox wasn’t being deliberately Irish, and quite fascinating.
Johnny went on. ‘When he reached the hall, I saw he wasn’t you, and I accosted him. I asked him if he wasn’t Terence Dowd. It was a guess, of course, but it seemed to me a fairly safe one. And he immediately confirmed it by taking to his heels.’
This time Knox merely sighed.
‘I’m not as young as he is,’ said Johnny, ‘and I shouldn’t have caught him without the taxi. He led me up Sedley Street and round the square — I know the ground a little better than he does, so I managed to keep my place. Then he ran in front of the taxi, and I caught up, and the rest you know. But I don’t quite understand how you and my wife got there.’
‘I walked round to pick you up,’ said Sally. ‘I was just crossing Crawley Street to Mr Knox’s front door when you came out.’
‘I see.’ Sally knew that he did see, and that she hadn’t heard the last of it. But he let it go for the moment and turned back to Knox. ‘If you like to deny my right to ask questions, I can’t really press the point. But what you said yourself a little while ago is perfectly true. If you run out on me again, I must go to the police.’
‘That’s obvious to me,’ said Knox. ‘Terence will see it tomorrow or the next day. All right. Go ahead.’
‘On Wednesday evening,’ said Johnny, ‘you were in the Cat-in-Boots, talking to a man called Wilson, of the Daily Echo. He asked you if you’d heard a buzz about an IRA raid arranged for that night. You said you hadn’t. Was that true?’
‘Yes.’
‘But I think you believed the buzz when he told you about it. Had Dowd let something slip?’
‘He hadn’t said in so many words that he was going on a raid. But he’d been behaving like a stage conspirator for the last fortnight or so. Reticences and mysteries. Unexplained telephone calls and visits to pubs. I was fairly certain he wasn’t in with the IRA, and it transpired later on that I was right. His crowd is just playing at soldiers. But I knew he was in with something fairly Republican, and my news instinct is highly developed. So when Wilson mentioned the buzz, I put two and two
together.’
The boy’s face was stormy. But Knox paid no attention to him.
‘And what did you do after that?’ asked Johnny.
‘I took a taxi to a couple of pubs where I thought Terence might be. I was pretty sure that even if he hadn’t started for the camp, I wouldn’t find him at home; he knew I disapproved of his activities, and he’d have made a point of being out of the way before I got back, in case I asked him where he was going. But I didn’t find him, so I went on to the flat, just on the chance. He wasn’t there, and I asked the Lemaires, down below, if they’d seen or heard him go out. Marthe said yes, she’d heard him go downstairs a little after five. I didn’t suppose he’d started for Wiltshire at five; the raid would be fixed for the small hours, so I knew I had time. I got out my car — I keep it just round the corner — and went off. As you may have heard, Wilson’s buzz said that the police had got wind of the proceedings and would be there in considerable force, and I was quite sure Terence and his friends were not sufficiently experienced to avoid arrest if they did turn up.
‘I had a hell of a journey. It was drizzling when I left London, but farther west it had been raining heavily, and somewhere in the wilds of Hampshire I ran into deep water. I got out of it on the starter, and of course my engine was flooded. She’s an old car, and she hasn’t got baffle-plates. It took me nearly two hours to dry her out.
‘I got to the neighbourhood of the camp about one o’clock. By that time it was pouring again, and I spent a good half-hour looking for the place. When I’d found it, I parked the car in among some bushes and started going round the wire. I couldn’t find the car Terence and Co were presumably using, but after a little I found a place where the wire had been cut. I was on my way in when I heard a couple of shots and some shouting. Then people started running towards me. I slipped out again and waited. Half a dozen conspirators in masks and mackintoshes came out, and Terence was the last of them. So I grabbed him and ran him back to my car. He’d got a nice new rifle, but I made him leave it behind; I don’t like incontrovertible evidence. His colleagues scattered and got away, and we drove home by ourselves. He’s been lying low ever since, because his mask came off during a short battle in the guardroom. Also he was seen hanging about the camp last Sunday, when they did a reconnaissance. So I thought we’d better play for safety, at any rate until the Archives affair is cleared up. I’d have sent him home, but the Irish boats and planes were bound to be watched. And he’s never hidden his light under a bushel. Dozens of people know his politics.’
Sally nodded. No one who had once seen Terence Dowd could fail to know him again, and he wouldn’t be hard to describe.
‘Who told you about Terence?’ asked Knox suddenly. ‘Camberley?’
‘No,’ said Johnny. ‘Does he know?’
‘Some of it. But I didn’t really think he was responsible. He might have thought it his duty to tell you, but he’d probably have told me he was going to. He has a strong British sense of fair play. So I don’t suppose he told the police about Terence either.’
‘I shouldn’t think so.’
‘All right. I’ll restrain my natural curiosity. But Lindesay called on us, as perhaps you don’t know. Late yesterday afternoon. Terence went down the fire-escape to the Lemaires — he always does if someone calls while I’m in — and I entertained the Inspector. It was safe enough; there are no outward and visible signs of Terence’s occupation. I’m rather particular about that. By the way, did you hear the full story as given to the police?’
‘I believe so,’ said Johnny. ‘Now, what I am interested in is the names of the pubs where you looked for Dowd on Wednesday evening.’
‘“Oh Sammy, Sammy, vy worn’t there a alleybi? If your governor don’t prove a alleybi, he’ll be what the Italians call reg’larly flummoxed.” The first pub was the Territorial Arms, in Apostle Street, off the Strand, and the second was the Three Sisters in Woolpack Street. Both perfectly respectable houses. And, of course, you’ll want to see the Lemaires. I’ve already told you they’re hopeless liars, but by all means talk to them. Come back with us now, if you like — that is, if you’ve finished with us.’
‘I don’t think I’ve anything more to ask you. I will come with you, if I may.’
Knox stood up, smiling. ‘Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs Heldar,’ he said. ‘I hope we shall meet again when you don’t suspect me of murder.’
Before Sally could find a suitable reply, Terence Dowd said in his sullen, silken voice, ‘It’s very good of you to receive a hunted man.’
‘He’s been reading Sean O’Casey,’ said Knox a little wearily. ‘Goodnight, Mrs Heldar.’
Twenty minutes later Johnny reappeared.
‘Daniel out of the lions’ den,’ he said. ‘Don’t look so ridiculously relieved.’
‘Sorry.’
Johnny sat down beside her and kissed her. Then he said, ‘The Lemaires swear that Knox looked in on them about ten to eight on Wednesday evening. They add that he was looking for Dowd, and Madame says she saw his car go past the house five minutes later — though I’m afraid that’s a flight of her imagination. I went to see them as a matter of form; they’re obviously unreliable, and Knox has had every opportunity of briefing them. But even if they’re telling the truth, he could at a pinch have killed Morningside and got to them by seven-fifty. It would have meant a taxi, of course. But the pubs are the important places, and they’re closed now.’
After a moment Sally asked, ‘Do you think Terence is his cousin?’
‘I wondered that too,’ said Johnny. ‘The resemblance is extraordinary. Knox must be in his early forties, and the boy in his early twenties. I wouldn’t be surprised. It would explain why Knox took the Archives job, and why he hasn’t been seen about so much in Fleet Street lately. He’d want more time with the boy.’
‘He covered up for him to the last possible moment.’ Sally repeated her conversation with Knox. ‘And when he thought Terence had been run over, he ran like a hare.’
Johnny nodded. ‘And it would make his motive ten or twenty times stronger. I think I said last night, Sally, that if he were pressed about the Cuts period, he would produce a rather discreditable account of the raid, which would make it fairly clear that he hadn’t had time to go back to Echo House before he started. And that is precisely what he’s done.’
Chapter Twelve
Johnny was late for lunch on Monday. Sally, whom he had warned, fed Nanny and the children and had them upstairs again by the time he came in. He looked a little discouraged, and she let him eat before she asked any questions. When they had finished, he lit cigarettes for them both and put his elbows on the table.
‘I talked to Teddy,’ he said. ‘When I confronted him with the Longwall story, he got frightened — really frightened — and admitted the whole thing. He also admitted that Morningside had discovered part of the truth and threatened to report him. But he swore — several times over — that after he’d left Longwall on Wednesday evening, he went straight to the Alcazar, and didn’t leave it again until about nine-thirty. He saw the last part of Mothers’ Day — his original story, you remember, was that it had sent him to sleep — some advertisements, and the whole of Injun Trail. He swore, again, that on Friday evening, when he’d left his photographic buddy, he went to Holborn and tried to see a girlfriend of his who lives somewhere near Gamage’s. But she was out — the whole household was out — so he went home, arriving there about half past seven. From that time on his aunt and uncle give him an alibi, which of course is no use to him or anyone else.’ Johnny sighed.
‘I’m inclined to believe him,’ he said. ‘I think that in some ways he’s a good kid. But he lied when he first told his story, and look at his record!’
‘I know,’ said Sally.
They contemplated Teddy’s record for a minute or two in gloomy silence. Then Johnny said, ‘On the other hand, there’s Knox. I’ve been to his pubs. The proprietor of the Territorial Arms says he came in on Wednesday
evening sometime between a quarter past seven and half past; the barmaid of the Three Sisters says he came in on Wednesday evening between half past seven and twenty-five to eight. Both witnesses remember him, because he asked if they had seen Dowd, whom they know, and because he was so like Dowd. The barmaid remembers the time of his visit almost exactly because Dowd had in fact been in the Three Sisters with a friend between half past six and seven, and she looked at the clock so that she could tell Knox how long ago he had left. She says she had never seen Knox before — though I gathered she would have no objection to seeing him again — and the proprietor of the Territorial Arms says he sees him only very occasionally. That’s probably true; both the pubs are a bit off his usual beat. And neither of the witnesses appears to be a compatriot of his. So I don’t think they’re lying for him.’
‘So there is “a alleybi”.’
‘It would seem so. If he was in the Three Sisters between half past seven and twenty-five to eight, that clears him completely according to the revised version. If he was in the Territorial Arms before that and after he left the Cat-in-Boots at ten past seven, that clinches it. He can’t have got to the Territorial Arms much before twenty past, and he must have gone straight on from there to the Three Sisters; it’s another ten minutes’ drive.’
Johnny stubbed out his cigarette and pushed back his chair. ‘I’m going back to the Archives,’ he said. ‘I rather want to see Camberley, and Toby thought he might be in this afternoon.’
‘Why Camberley?’
‘Well, I’d rather like to try Teddy on him. If Teddy’s telling the truth, Camberley won’t get any more out of him than I have, but he’s the best judge of men I’ve ever met, and I’d like his opinion.’
‘I see. Are you — are you going to talk to him about Toby, too?’
‘Darling, I’ve got to. Now that we think the murderer deliberately created an alibi for the canteen period — and now that Knox seems to be out of it — I’ve got to consider Toby.’
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