by J F Straker
Wickery had taken no part in the discussion, but had listened, at first with indifference and then with disgust, as his companions had so skilfully and callously laid the foundations of their plot to involve Loften. It was a plot based on lies, but lies so twisted and perverted that they could be made to appear as truths; and if they persisted in it, perhaps embroidered it further, it might well succeed. They could establish their innocence to a charge of which they were guilty, and at the same time rid themselves of a man whose continued existence constituted a threat to their lives and liberty.
It was so perfect that it fascinated Wickery. Disaster had followed so closely on disaster that he had begun to believe there was no way out; and it was only when he realized that it involved the conviction and death of a man who, if not innocent of all crime, was certainly innocent of the crime they sought to pin on him, that he rebelled. Much as he hated Loften, and sweet as life seemed to him, he could not stomach that.
‘You can’t do it,’ he said earnestly. ‘You just can’t do it, Harry. We know Loften didn’t kill White. He may be the biggest blackguard on earth, but he’s not a murderer. You can’t plan to get a man hanged for a murder you committed yourself. It’s...it’s...’
Words failed him as he looked to the others for support. There was none. Chitty was scowling at him, openly hostile. Wells turned away; he knew Bert was right, but his own scruples were less exacting. Self-preservation, that was the main thing. Kill or be killed, the law of the jungle. It was Loften or themselves.
Forthright’s feelings were much the same as Wells’; but he was more honest, he was not afraid to air them.
‘Don’t be a damned fool, Bert Loften’s not worth it. He’d have handed us over without a pang — delighted in it, in fact — if he hadn’t hoped to profit by not doing so. You know that.’
‘But it’s not the same thing, Harry. We’re guilty, he’s not. Surely you can see the difference?’
Forthright brushed the objection impatiently aside.
‘You won’t see the difference so clearly when you’re in the dock,’ he said scornfully. ‘Anyway, it’s only an idea at present; maybe it won’t work and maybe it will. And there’s always the possibility,’ he added cunningly, ‘that we won’t have to use it. Let Loften know what’s coming to him if he doesn’t play ball and I reckon he’ll see it the way we want him to.’
Wickery knew he was being sidetracked, that the sop Harry had thrown him was no more than that. Hating himself, he accepted it.
‘That’d be different,’ he said haltingly, stifling his conscience.
Chitty was still pondering the problem of his sister.
‘If Susan’s going to tell the truth she’ll tell ‘em about Mrs Gooch. We can’t put that on to Loften.’
‘Maybe we could get her to leave it out,’ said Wells.
‘Loften wouldn’t leave it out. He’d plug it for all it was worth.’
‘He was in Tanbury that evening, same as us,’ Forthright said slowly. ‘We all left the pub together, remember? Who’s to say it wasn’t Loften who killed Mrs Gooch, and not us? There’s no proof he didn’t.’
He felt elated, amazed at his inventive genius, warmed by the open admiration expressed by Wells and Chitty. Even the incredulous and horrified look that Wickery gave him was somehow stimulating.
‘Loften left Tanbury at ten o’clock,’ said Wickery, glad of a chance to upset the other’s reckoning. ‘And Mrs Gooch wasn’t on the road until half-past. He’d have been home before then.’
‘He didn’t go home,’ Chitty said. ‘At least, I don’t think he did. I think he was out with Susan.’
‘All the better,’ said Forthright. ‘She’s not likely to remember what time he picked her up — not after all this while. Which means he’s got no way of proving he didn’t kill Mrs Gooch. And look here, Dave — you’ve got to talk to Susan. Make her see what a nasty piece of work Loften really is. If it comes to a showdown we want her on our side, not his.’
Wells shook his head. ‘Susan wouldn’t take sides, she’d just tell the truth. And you forget one thing, Harry. We left Tanbury after Loften that night. If you try to make out it was him killed Mrs Gooch then we ought to have seen the body and reported it, didn’t we?’
Forthright was annoyed. This was the first serious objection he had encountered since he had embarked on his flight of fancy, and he could see no way round it.
‘All right,’ he admitted grudgingly. ‘If it comes to it we did see her. We can say we were scared; we’d no right to be out in a customer’s car, and if we’d reported the accident White would have come to hear of it. We might have lost our jobs. And seeing she was dead and there was nothing we could do for her, well, we just scarpered.’
It was, he told himself complacently, a masterly second-best.
‘There’s something else you’ve forgotten,’ Wickery said. ‘What about the woman who was with White in the car?’
The dismay on their faces brought balm to his wounded conscience. Let Harry talk himself out of that one, he thought grimly.
But Harry did not even try. ‘I’d clean forgotten her,’ he admitted. ‘Blast the woman!’
Wells and Chitty were silent; they knew what was coming next. As Forthright turned to him Wells braced himself.
‘Did you speak to Molly, Pop?’
‘Yes. She didn’t know a thing about it, like I said.’
‘You mean she denies being out with White that evening?’
‘Be your age, Harry,’ said Wells. The admiration evoked in his narrow mind by Forthright’s inventive genius was forgot-ten now that he was battling for his young. ‘How could I ask her what she was doing the night Mrs Gooch was killed? She’d think I was daft, expecting her to remember a thing like that. And she’d want to know why.’
‘You could have asked her why she didn’t stay in that evening to hear if Dave had got his new job,’ said Wickery. ‘She’d remember that.’
The little man looked at him with pitying scorn. ‘You think it’d sound natural to ask a question like that fifteen months after it happened? Don’t be daft, Bert.’
‘He can’t help it,’ Dave said sourly.
‘Those two have got Molly on the brain.’ Wickery ignored this. ‘What did you say to her, then?’
‘I just asked when was the first time she went in White’s car. She couldn’t remember for certain, but it was after she and Dave had that bust-up, she said. And that was ages after Mrs Gooch was killed.’
‘It gets us nowhere,’ Forthright said impatiently. ‘If Molly was with White that night she’s not going to admit it now. Why should she?’
Wells exploded into a string of oaths.
‘For God’s sake use your loaf, Harry,’ he said. ‘Molly’s only a kid; if she’d seen us knock down that old woman and then scarper, d’you think I wouldn’t have known it the next day? Molly couldn’t shut up a thing like that inside her without either Sarah or me knowing something was troubling her.’ He spat in disgust. ‘Dave’s right — you and Bert have got Molly on the brain, seems like.’
Support came to him from an unexpected quarter.
‘Maybe you’re right,’ Wickery agreed.
‘Chaps in our position just naturally get suspicious of everyone. But I remember now meeting Molly a few days after the accident. We even talked about Mrs Gooch — Molly did, anyway. Talked quite naturally, too. I don’t think she was putting on an act.’
Wells looked at him gratefully. Even Chitty gave a grudging nod of approval.
‘Who the hell was it, then?’ asked Forthright.
Wickery shrugged. ‘Somebody we’ve never even heard of, I imagine. White wasn’t in the habit of bringing his lady friends to the garage.’
‘She can’t be all that important, anyway,’ said Wells. ‘If she’s been to the police already they’d have hauled us in by now. And if she hasn’t — well, I reckon she never will.’
‘That’s true,’ Forthright agreed. ‘Only why did the Inspector want t
hat report from Willie Trape?’
‘They could have got on to it some other way,’ Wells suggested. ‘It didn’t have to be the woman, did it? Someone who saw us on the road, perhaps, or who recognized you and Dave in the Boar’s Head.’
The spanner in Forthright’s hand fell with a crash.
‘Gripes, Pop, you’ve got it! That’s it! That’s who he was!’
They looked at him in astonishment. ‘What on earth are you babbling about?’ asked Wickery.
‘Why, that fat man who called in here yesterday morning with the Inspector — the one that kept nosing around until Dave told him to clear off. I knew I’d seen him some place before. And that’s where it was — the Boar’s Head. He was the chap behind the bar!’
*
The kitchen was warm and cosy. The modern cooker was one of the few concessions to easier housekeeping that Dave had made before the drop in income had limited the spending of money to the bare necessities. Susan lavished great care on it; it looked as bright and sparkling now as when it was installed two years before. That was why she never liked Dave to have anything to do with the cooking. He was clumsy in the house and not over-clean; food spilt on the shining enamel would stay there until she herself removed it, and he was careless with the pots and pans.
They lived in the kitchen. It saved fuel in the winter and wear and tear on the already threadbare armchairs in the front room. But Susan was happiest when she had the kitchen to herself, with the curtains drawn and the world shut out; she had been alone so much that now her dreams were almost more real to her than reality. With her brother she felt nervous and uneasy; there was no strong bond of affection between them, and he never put himself out to be pleasant. Even George Loften’s proffered friendship had come too late to make any real impression. She liked the occasional stimulus which his society provided, but she still preferred her own.
As she busied herself with the washing-up that Friday evening she kept hoping Dave would go out, even though she knew it meant a visit to the pub. Since the previous afternoon he had ignored her, making no reference either to Loften or to the scene in the garage. Was that because he was angry, or because he was ashamed of his behaviour? The former, no doubt; he had never exhibited shame before, he had always been the confident, domineering male, his youth and strength his only assets.
But Dave made no move. He sat at the table drinking his tea, casting occasional sidelong glances at her when he thought she was not looking. Harry had said to talk to her about Loften, but the prospect of soliciting her help embarrassed him. It was alien to his nature and to the relationship that existed between them.
But it had to be done. He took the plunge boldly.
‘Just what is there between you and this fellow Loften?’ he asked.
He had meant to speak lightly, but his embarrassment took charge of his voice. It was gruff, abrupt. Susan was on her guard at once.
‘Nothing. I told you before, he’s just a friend.’
‘Can’t understand what you see in him,’ he grumbled. It was a bad start, but having made it he must go on. ‘The fellow’s an absolute rotten’
Anger rose in her. She had no high opinion of George Loften. He was amusing, he ‘took her out of herself,’ as she put it; but deep inside her she knew that sooner or later he would expect more than friendship. He was putting on an act, gaining her sympathy, selling his personality to her; all part of a plan, no doubt, and not a particularly moral plan at that. But for her brother, a murderer and a thief, to dismiss him so contemptuously...
‘So you say. I prefer my own opinion.’ Despite her anger a lifetime of being on the defensive, of taking his word as law, forbade a more offensive retort.
Desperate, he tried another tack. Much as he hated doing so, he must humble himself, appeal to her sympathy.
‘I’m not trying to interfere, Sue, but you ought to know the man he is. You see one side of him, we see another. You think he’s being decent over this business of White, that he’s said nothing to the police because he’s got a kind heart. Kind heart my foot!’ Bitterness crept into his voice, and self-pity. ‘All he’s thinking of is number one. He’s on the make, that’s all. It isn’t you or us he’s thinking of — it’s himself.’
‘How is he on the make?’
‘Why, blackmail, of course. Pay up or hang — that’s his attitude. He’s just another White, that’s what he is.’
Susan was frightened. Not for her brother, but because she feared that what he had said might be true. She had guessed that Loften could be merciless, that he was certainly mean. Yet he had been her friend, and with Dave in this awful trouble she was going to need a friend more than ever before. If Loften failed her...
She shut her eyes tight to force back the tears. ‘Why should he do that?’ she asked faintly. ‘He knows you haven’t any money.’
‘He thinks we have. He thinks we’ve got White’s — the money that was stolen.’
‘Oh!’ She had forgotten the robbery — it had paled into insignificance beside the murder. ‘Well, you have, haven’t you?’
‘No. At least, one of us has.’ He embarked on a rambling, unintelligible attempt at explanation which left her completely bewildered. ‘And unless Loften gets it he’s going to the police, blast him!’
The girl said nothing. Mechanically she dried her hands and began to wipe the dishes. It did not occur to Dave to help her; he had never done so in the past, and now he was seeking words with which to beg the help they needed.
‘It isn’t only that,’ he said. ‘It looks as though the police are on to us about Mrs Gooch.’ He told her of Willie Trape’s report, of the red-faced man from the Boar’s Head, of the unknown woman in White’s car. ‘That’s given them a motive, see? You know we didn’t plan to kill White, and none of us has any idea how it happened; but it did happen, and with this motive against us the police’ll never believe we didn’t mean it. And if Loften tells them what you told him — well, that’ll be the end. We’ll all hang. Not just the one who did it, but all of us.’
This unintentionally dramatic finish to his appeal was wasted on her. It evoked no sympathy because somehow it was too big, too brutal. They didn’t hang people one knew, people among whom one lived and worked; that horror was reserved for strangers, people one had never heard of before, people who seemed more fictional than real. But because he obviously expected her to say something she said vaguely, ‘I’m sorry.’ And then, realizing how ludicrously inadequate that sounded, ‘I wish I could help, Dave. You can’t expect me to approve of what you’ve done, but I’d help you if I could.’
That gave him the opening he needed. ‘You can,’ he said shortly.
‘Me?’ She was genuinely surprised. Her offer had been mechanical, the sort of thing one said to a person in trouble. That he might take her up on it had never occurred to her. ‘How on earth can I do anything to help?’
Watching her anxiously, he told her. And if he did not tell it well, he had the essential facts.
Susan listened — at first in bewilderment, then in disbelief, and finally in horror. She could not credit that four quite ordinary men — men she had known for most of her life, and one of them her brother — could devise and intend to carry out such a devilish plan. And they even expected her to take part in it, to help them hand George Loften over to the hangman in order to save their own miserable skins.
‘No!’ she cried. ‘Oh, no! I won’t do it.’ He jumped up and caught her arm.
‘You must,’ he said fiercely. ‘You don’t have to tell any lies, only the truth — that Loften wasn’t with you Tuesday evening like you said, that he was at the garage. If you want to you can even say why he was there — only leave out Mrs Gooch, we don’t want any questions about her. And why the hell should you shield Loften instead of us? Does he mean more to you than your own brother, damn it?’
He let her go, and she sat down on the chair he had vacated. She was not crying, she was too stunned for tears. She looked at him across
the table, and realized yet once more how little they had in common. That he could even think that she might agree to such a diabolical proposal!
‘No,’ she said again. ‘I won’t do it, Dave. I don’t care what you say about George, at least he isn’t a murderer. And I won’t help you to prove that he is, to — to hang him.’
He was about to protest, to shout at her, to try to exert his influence over her. Then he remembered Forthright’s sop to Wickery.
‘You’ve got it wrong,’ he said. ‘We wouldn’t go as far as that.’ Her eyes narrowed, but they did not leave his face. ‘All we want is to frighten him so that he won’t give us away to the police; and if he thinks you’re on our side, that he can’t depend on you to back him up — well, he’ll think twice about it, anyway.’
She did not believe him. It was too crude, too obvious. ‘I’ll not do it,’ she said again.
Had they been closer, had she had for him the normal affection of a sister for her brother, he might yet have persuaded her. But because he did not understand her, did not even know how to persuade her, he gave up. He resorted to his normal method of argument on the few occasions in the past when she had defied him. He lost his temper.
‘A nice sister you are, and no mistake. You’d rather help that swine Loften than you would your own brother,’ he stormed, pacing angrily up and down the small kitchen.
She followed him with her eyes. ‘No,’ she said quietly, ‘it isn’t that at all. I don’t want to help either of you, I don’t want to be mixed up in it. I wish to God I’d never gone near Mr Forthright’s cottage last week.’ Her voice rose. ‘Why can’t you leave me alone? I didn’t ask to be let into your secrets, did I? Why should I be pestered and questioned and frightened the way you’re all going on at me? Leave me alone, damn you!’
He was startled. Susan had disagreed with him before, but never had she raised her voice to him, never sworn at him. He was so surprised that he sat down on the other chair and lit a cigarette, his anger momentarily forgotten. He felt he ought to say something — but what? He did not know.
Susan got up, walked wearily to the draining-board, and resumed the drying-up. Her outburst had taken most of the vitality out of her, and she felt tired and empty.