by J F Straker
‘Yes — if you and Dave give me your word that you’ll leave White alone. Not otherwise.’
They made their promises, Forthright good-humouredly, Chitty with an ugly scowl on his face. Much as he disliked the proviso, it was the fact that Wickery had made it that irked him most.
‘How do we get into the garage?’ asked Wells. ‘We’ve got to fix that.’
‘We’ve got to fix a lot of things,’ said Forthright. ‘I’m aiming to get hold of a key. It’s the safest — What’s that?’
As the others stared at him he stood up, switched off the radio, and listened. Then he walked to the door and opened it, peering into the dimly lit hall. There was no one there.
‘I could have sworn I heard someone out here,’ he said nervously. He went through the hall to the front door, which was unlocked. The cool air bathed his face, but the night was dark and he could see no one. A few cottage lights twinkled distantly in the village, but there was no beam from a torch, no lights of a car. For a moment he stood listening; then he closed the door and went back to the warm sitting-room.
‘Who was it?’ Wells asked anxiously.
‘No one.’ He sat down and picked up the cards. ‘Did any of you chaps hear it?’ ‘Hear what?’
‘A noise. As though someone was in the hall. And I thought I heard the front door close.’
‘D’you mean to say it wasn’t locked?’ asked Chitty. ‘That’s ruddy careless, I must say! Anyone could have walked in and listened to what we were saying.’
‘It never is locked,’ Forthright answered curtly.
Wickery tried to laugh. ‘Forget it you’re giving me the jitters. You must have imagined it, Harry — none of us heard it, anyway. And who —’
He started nervously at the sound of tapping on the ceiling.
‘Ma,’ said Forthright. He went quickly from the room, and the others sat silent, listening to his hurrying feet on the stairs and the low murmur of voices above them that followed. Wickery picked up the pack and began to build a house of cards. Wells watched him, surprised that his hands should be steady enough for such a task. ‘How d’you think Harry expects to get hold of a key?’ he asked.
‘Ask White for it, I shouldn’t wonder,’ Chitty said sarcastically.
Wickery’s victory on the fate that was to be White’s had given him an unusual sense of elation, of importance. He was no longer merely the originator of the plan, he was shaping its execution. Even the formidable Forthright had submitted to his wishes. ‘Not getting the wind up, are you, Dave?’ he asked casually, placing another card on the growing pile.
Such a suggestion from the man he most despised was too much for Chitty’s self-control.
‘You mind your own ruddy business,’ he shouted. He brought his fist down on the table with a crash, and with a little sigh the house of cards collapsed.
Wickery cupped his hands and slid the cards together.
‘If I’d had my way, Dave, you wouldn’t be here,’ he said. ‘A chap who can’t control his temper is a dead loss on a job like this.’
Harry Forthright came clattering down the stairs. He went over to the radio and knelt in front of it, twiddling the knobs. Wells swore under his breath.
‘We forgot to switch it on again,’ he said.
Forthright stood up as the sound of music gradually swelled in volume. ‘Yes. It doesn’t matter tonight, but it would next Tuesday. A mistake like that could have busted us.’
‘What did Ma say?’
‘Not much. Why had we switched off the radio, and for us not to talk so loud. She thinks we’re arguing about the cards.’
‘If you ask me I think this alibi idea of yours is ruddy well daft,’ said Chitty, still bristling with anger and spoiling for a quarrel. ‘Fancy pinning your faith on an old woman like Ma!’
‘You think of something better, then,’ growled Forthright.
Wells hastened to his defence. He had his own doubts about the proposed alibi, but now was not the time in which to air them. If matters were to go forward smoothly it was up to him to keep the peace. Dave was already at odds with Bert. It wouldn’t do to have Harry upset also.
‘I suppose it’s all right using Ma the way we aim to,’ Wickery said doubtfully. ‘It doesn’t seem fair, somehow, getting her to tell a lot of lies.’
‘That’s okay, mate.’ Forthright sounded confident. ‘They won’t be lies to Ma. She’s made up her mind that we can’t play cards without arguing, and nobody’s going to make her believe otherwise. That’s because she thinks cards are wicked, you see.’
‘But she can’t hear us. Not with the radio on.’
‘She thinks she can —and that’s good enough for Ma. It’s only when the radio stops that she really listens for us. She’s getting a bit fanciful, Doctor Foley says. He says she sort of lives in two different worlds at once: the real world, same as us, and another that’s full of people we can’t see and voices we can’t hear. She gets the two mixed sometimes.’
‘It must be them other voices she’s confusing with ours,’ Wells suggested. ‘That’s what I think. Anyway, if the police ask her whether we were here Tuesday she’ll swear solid she could hear us. They won’t get any change out of Ma.’
‘We’ve only got your word for that,’ said Chitty.
Forthright ignored him. ‘Don’t you get Ma on your conscience,’ he said to Wickery. ‘She’ll be okay. All that worries Ma is our playing cards. She takes a poor view of that.’
‘We can pack it up after next Tuesday.’
‘No. We’ll have to carry on for a week or two, or it’ll look suspicious.’
Chitty laughed.
‘Suspicious, eh? That’s rich. Are you kidding yourselves that White won’t know it’s us as robbed him? Not even after we refuse to pay him his money on Friday? You must be crackers!’
‘He may know, but he can’t prove it,’ said Wells.
‘He can put the police on to us. They’ll do the proving, don’t you worry.’
‘Listen,’ said Wickery. ‘Try and get this into your thick head. White can’t tell the police he suspects us without giving them a reason. And what would that be? That he’s been blackmailing us? Not on your life! He can’t even tell them about Mrs Gooch; they’d nab him as well as us. We’re sitting pretty, I tell you — unless you go and make a fool of yourself.’
What’s happened to Bert, wondered Wells. Perky as hell, and full of confidence. Looks like this business is doing him a bit of good. ‘There’s one thing White could do,’ he said. ‘He could write an anonymous letter to the police telling them it was us run over Mrs Gooch.’
‘They wouldn’t take much notice of that, Pop. It isn’t evidence. If they couldn’t pin it on us a year ago they’re not likely to be able to do so now. The only new bit of evidence they could find would be at the Boar’s Head — and that’s something White doesn’t know about.’
‘Bert’s right,’ said Forthright. ‘It sounds okay to me.’
‘It didn’t yesterday,’ said Chitty. ‘You agreed with me it would be safer to kill the swine. And so it would. There’d be no need then for all this palaver about what he may or may not do. He can’t do a damned thing when he’s dead.’
‘That may be so, but —’
‘And what’s more,’ Chitty continued, ignoring the interruption, ‘you fellows haven’t got the guts of a louse. Money — that’s all you think about. Get back the money and you’re satisfied. Well, it doesn’t satisfy me. White’s given us all these months of hell; now I want to give him hell. If we’re not going to kill the swine at least let’s give him a damned good hiding, something to remember us by.’
There was a glint of approval in Forthright’s eye, and even Wells did not dissent. Alarmed, Wickery said hastily, ‘Cut that out, Dave. You promised —’
‘All right, all right. A chap can say what he thinks, can’t he? No harm in that. It makes my blood boil to think of White getting away with it, us just taking what’s ours by rights and him not a penny t
he worse. I want to hurt him good and hard.’
‘So do I, if it comes to that. But I know White. It’s going to drive him crazy, knowing it was us took the money and him not able to do a thing about it. It’ll hurt him a damned sight more than a hiding would.’
‘You’re scared,’ Chitty taunted him.
‘That’ll do,’ said Wells. ‘There’s been enough of this bickering. You’d do better to keep a civil tongue in your head, Dave, and try to help instead of hindering.’ He turned to Forthright. ‘You know, Harry, it seems to me that even if White holds his tongue the police are still going to be suspicious of us. Are you sure that alibi’s going to be okay?’
‘The ruddy thing’s so full of holes it’ll damned well sink itself,’ growled Chitty.
‘Such as what?’ Forthright demanded. The alibi had been his brain-child, and he felt bound to defend it.
‘Well, your Ma might come downstairs and find us out.’
‘She never comes downstairs. She can’t, not without help. She just bangs on the floor with that stick of hers.’
‘There you are, then,’ exclaimed Chitty triumphantly. ‘She bangs, and you don’t answer. What then?’
Forthright scowled. It was a flaw, and he knew it. But Wickery came to his aid.
‘You can’t expect miracles,’ he said. ‘You can’t prove something that isn’t true. We’ve got a sporting chance that Ma will swear we were here all Tuesday evening, and that’s about as near to the perfect alibi as we can hope to get. If Harry goes up to see Ma just before we leave there’s nothing much can go wrong, is there?’
‘You never know,’ said Chitty. His bad temper seemed suddenly to have left him. ‘Why shouldn’t some of us stay here? No need for us all to go.’
‘And who’s to stay?’
‘We could draw lots for it.’
‘It wouldn’t work,’ said Forthright. ‘The fellows who stayed here would have a pull over the others. If things went wrong they’d be sitting pretty —they couldn’t have done the job themselves, but they’d know who could. I’m not suggesting any of us would split, but — well, if the heat’s on you never know which way a chap will jump. Let’s leave it the way it is.’
‘Why not do it before ten o’clock, while White’s still at the club?’ suggested Wells.
‘No go. Too many people about, for one thing. And it’s not late enough to rule out the chance of someone calling here while we’re away.’
The chimes of Big Ben boomed out from the radio. Forthright got up and switched it off, leaving the note sus-pended in air for a brief moment before it finally collapsed. They had become so used to talking above the noise that its abrupt cessation intensified the silence.
‘Twelve o’clock,’ Forthright said unnecessarily, checking his watch. ‘Three-quarters of an hour to go before we pack up. Come on, let’s have another game of solo. We’ve done enough talking for one night. Okay, Dave?’
‘Okay.’
As Wells and Wickery walked home together after parting from Chitty at the bridge, Wells said, ‘Do you think it’ll work out?’
‘I don’t see why not. So long as Dave keeps his head, there’s nothing much can go wrong.’
‘Dave’s more wind than purpose. Harry’s the chap you want to worry about. He doesn’t say much, does Harry, but I know how he feels. I don’t envy White if Harry gets the chance to do him a bit of no good.’
‘We’d all like to take a swing at the blighter,’ said Wickery. ‘But if either of those two lets us down I’ll — oh, hell! Let’s drop it.’
*
Because their decision had not been taken suddenly, but had matured during several weeks of careful and often heated discussion, the increased tension among the men at White’s garage was not as noticeable as it might otherwise have been. But the tension was there. Doris Wickery, for one, noticed it. The sullen, hangdog look had gone from the men’s faces; it had been replaced by a nervous expectancy. The animosity that had flickered constantly between them and White for the past year was still there; but now it seemed more vital, as though it had received a rejuvenating shot in the arm. Where before it had smouldered it now blazed. Yet there was no open rebellion in word or act, nor did the men cluster in groups as they had been wont to do in the past.
Doris noticed the change, and wondered. ‘What’s happening at the garage?’ she asked her husband one evening. ‘You all seem — well, different.’
‘How d’you mean, different?’
‘I don’t quite know. It’s difficult to explain, but — well, it’s as though you were waiting for something to happen. You seem on edge, somehow. Not just you, darling — all of you. That trouble you had with Uncle Andrew — it isn’t over, is it?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Wickery said nervously, dismayed by his wife’s intuition. ‘There’s nothing different as I know of. You’re imagining things.’
‘Perhaps,’ she agreed sadly. ‘Wishful thinking, I suppose. But I’m worried, Bert. I can’t go on working here much longer. You realize that, don’t you?’
‘I’ll talk to White,’ he promised. ‘It’ll be all right.’
White himself seemed to have caught some of the tension. He was even more abrupt than usual in his orders, more scathing in his criticism. Had they not known that his days of tyranny were nearly over the men might have been goaded into open rebellion. Perhaps White was surprised that they were not.
Only Loften seemed unaffected. Since his wife left him he had been gloomy and ill-tempered, and her subsequent return had apparently done nothing to cheer him up. ‘If she’s such a regular bitch I wonder he doesn’t finish with her for good and all,’ Forthright commented one day to Wells. ‘I wouldn’t let any woman muck my life up. And he doesn’t seem stuck on her, either. He can’t say more than a few words to her without cussing.’
‘He’s changed a lot since he first come here,’ said Wells. ‘I wonder how our little picnic next Tuesday will affect him?’
His cottage being so near to the garage, Forthright always went home to lunch. A woman from the village came in during the morning to prepare it and to keep an eye on his mother; but she left at midday, and Forthright liked to assure himself that the old lady lacked for nothing. Forty-two and still unmarried, he was closer to his mother than are most men.
On the following Wednesday he went home as usual to eat his lunch and read his paper. But he found difficulty in concentrating on the news, and his mind kept returning to Andrew White. Despite what he had said the previous evening about murder, he would have no compunction in killing the man. The world, thought Forthright, would be better off without White. It became, therefore, a question of safety. Like Wickery, he had no desire to put his head in a noose. If their alibi was strong enough, if there was no risk, it seemed to him that White’s death was eminently desirable. There would then be no complications, no need to try to anticipate the man’s reactions. But if the police did not accept their alibi, if something went wrong...
He had become so immersed in his thoughts that he did not hear the front door open or the soft footsteps in the hall.
A light tap on the sitting-room door made him leap from his chair, his heart pounding.
‘I’m sorry if I startled you,’ said Susan Chitty, staring at him, a troubled look in her grey eyes. ‘I’ve brought some eggs for your mother from Mr Iverson. He called in with them yesterday evening, and I said I’d bring them up.’
He thanked her, angry with himself at having let his nerves betray him. We’ll have to keep a tight hold on ourselves, he thought, if we’re to get through this next week without letting anyone know that something’s afoot. He was still more worried when he learned from Wickery that Doris had already queried their behaviour. ‘If Doris puts two and two together after next Tuesday I suppose it’s not so bad,’ he said. ‘You can see she keeps her mouth shut. But with anyone else it’d be a different story.’
It was Chitty’s behaviour that they feared most. He was as quarrel
some and as unpredictable as before, but the anticipation of his coming freedom had loosened his tongue. When he drank he no longer drank alone. If he were, in some unguarded moment, to hint at what they were planning...
But Chitty was no fool. What was to come meant too much to him to throw it away. He watched his tongue carefully and drank more sparingly. He was tempted to seek out Molly Wells, to make it up with her, to hint that in a little while he would be a man with money and a decent job away from Chaim, that they could get married as soon as she pleased. But he knew that Molly loved him, that she would be unable to resist spreading the good news among her friends. Better to say nothing, better to wait. It would not be long now.
But this bridling of his tongue, the need to keep a check on his normally ebullient nature, made him all the more nervy and irritable in the safety of his own home. He did not bother what Susan might say or think. Although he would have been surprised had anyone suggested that he was not fond of his sister, he did not really consider her as a being with thoughts and an entity of her own.
She had always been dependent on him, had always given way to his wishes. Her friendship with George Loften was about the only independent action she had ever taken; and that it had persisted was due to Dave’s absence from home of an evening. Had she had more companionship from her brother she would not have needed Loften. But she had no other friends; and Loften, with his smooth tongue, his courtesies, his ability to draw her out of her shell, and his flattering interest in all she did and said and was, had become closer to her than her brother had ever been.
Although Dave Chitty’s mind was now centred mainly on the freedom he was about to enjoy, the new and fuller life that awaited him, he gave some thought also to the deed that was to bring about this desired change. Despite his belligerent attitude towards the others and his expressed desire to kill White, he was not quite certain that, should the lot fall to him, he would be able to commit murder. Like many highly strung people, he had a vein of cowardice in him — cowardice that was more mental than physical. At times — usually after White had been particularly sarcastic or unpleasant — he debated with himself the means he would adopt. Should he beat White’s brains in with a spanner, or should he strangle him with his hands? It would depend on his mood of the moment, he thought. But even if he did neither, at least he’d give him a damned good hiding.