by J F Straker
They stared at him incredulously. Then, as full realization of the Inspector’s words came to Wells, he went red in the face with fury.
‘You rotten perisher!’ he roared. ‘You think we’re the kind to shop a pal to save our own ruddy necks? You get out of here quick, before there’s another corpse around these parts. Go on, hop it! We all took our...Ouch!’
He stopped suddenly, as a savage kick from Forthright landed on his ankle.
‘Aren’t you rather overdoing it, Inspector?’ Forthright said, with an eye on Wickery. ‘I reckon you’d find yourself in hot water if we were to report this to your boss.’
The Inspector was unperturbed.
‘Don’t you worry about that, sir. We have a strong case against your friend Chitty; the only doubt in my mind was whether he killed White with the full knowledge and approval of the rest of you or whether you knew nothing of the murder until after it had happened. I wanted to be clear on that before going ahead.’ He stood up. ‘You chaps have landed yourselves in quite a mess, but if I feel any sympathy for you —well, that’s unofficial. I know what blackmail can do to a man. However, as a police officer I don’t let sympathy interfere with duty, and I warn you that I’m out to get White’s murderer, blackmail or no blackmail.’
Wickery took little part in the heated discussion that followed the Inspector’s unhurried departure, speaking only when appealed to, and then in the vaguest terms. The Inspector’s suggestion seemed to him the ideal way out, but Pop, he knew, would never countenance it. If he wanted to discuss it with Harry he would have to wait until they were alone.
He brooded miserably on their predicament, the angry arguments of the other two forming a fitting background to his thoughts. He hated Loften, and he was fast losing the little moral courage left to him, but he still refused to contemplate the sacrifice of an innocent man. And why should he, when this alternative offered? Even if Dave had not actually killed White he was guilty of intent, and obviously the police favoured him as the culprit. The rest of them would have to shoulder their share of guilt and punishment; but at least it would only be a minor share, the Inspector had as good as said so. Pop was the only obstacle; Harry, he guessed, had no scruples either way —all he wanted was to save his own neck. Who died to save it, Loften or Dave, didn’t matter a damn to Harry. But Pop, presumably on Molly’s account, would rather let the innocent Loften take the blame than the guilty Dave.
Damn him, thought Wickery, scowling across the room at Wells.
Wells did not see the scowl. Taking Wickery’s lack of protest as grudging acquiescence, he and Forthright were planning the details of the case that could best be made out against Loften. Wickery let them plan, his anger smouldering, his dislike of them increasing. It surprised him to remember that these two men had once been good friends of his. He wondered how he could ever voluntarily have borne their company, let alone have sought it.
But when Wells departed to try and cement their plan by obtaining Susan’s co-operation Wickery dissembled his anger and dislike in a final attempt to win Forthright over to his way of thinking. The other listened to him in silence, nodding or shaking his head occasionally in sympathy or disagreement; but when Wickery had finished he would not commit himself, although he made it plain in which direction his sympathies lay.
‘You’ll never get Pop to agree to it, you know that,’ he said. ‘Can’t say I blame him, either; Loften’s a damned sight better candidate for the rope than Dave. And without Pop’s support where are you?’
‘He might agree if you were to back me up. What else can he do if the Loften plan is definitely out? It’s either Dave or him, and Pop can’t be so fond of Dave that he’s willing to risk his own neck. Not that that would save Dave’s. We’ll all be for it unless we can get Pop to toe the line.’
The other frowned.
‘It beats me why you can’t see it the way we do,’ he said. ‘If Loften takes the can we get off scot-free, but there’s no guarantee what’ll happen if we shop Dave.’
‘You can cut that right out, Harry. I’m not having any.’
‘But why the hell not?’ Forthright’s anger was rising. He was not a man to suffer interference or opposition easily. ‘Suppose we do as the Inspector suggested, say Dave killed White without our knowledge, that we gave him an alibi because we were a lot of sympathetic fools? What about Susan? Is she going to agree to that? You know damned well she won’t. Susan’ll tell the truth —and then where are we?’
Wickery was silent. He had forgotten Susan. Yes, Susan could wreck it, he realized that.
‘Maybe we’d better tell the whole truth and be done with it,’ he said slowly. ‘I can’t stand much more of this.’
‘Come off it!’ Forthright was alarmed. ‘We’re not beat yet. Here! Have a drink.’ Wickery shook his head.
‘I’m going home,’ he said. ‘I want to think this out.’
‘Well, thinking won’t hurt,’ the other conceded. ‘But no funny business with the police, mate, if you want to stay in one piece.’
11 Pieces of Paper
Dave Chitty’s arrest caused an even greater stir in the village than the murder of Andrew White had done. He was not particularly popular — there were many who considered him capable of having committed the crime for which (in public opinion) he had been arrested. But White had been an outsider and Chitty was one of themselves, and Chaim folk were clannish.
Doris Wickery did not belong to the village any more than her uncle had done. She liked Susan Chitty, but not Susan’s brother; and she knew or guessed more than the village of the events leading up to her uncle’s death. She could not share their sympathy, only their horror; and she had in addition her own private fear.
She saw her husband for only a few moments after Dave’s arrest, for as soon as she told him of it he hurried from the house. For the rest of the afternoon she waited, her fear growing with every hour that passed.
It was late when he eventually returned, looking tired and frightened; but he vouchsafed no information, and she was too fearful to ask. She fetched his supper from the oven and watched his pretence of eating.
Presently he pushed the half-empty plate away from him and stood up, searching the mantelshelf for his pipe.
‘The Inspector was round at Harry’s place this afternoon,’ he said. ‘He thinks we killed your uncle.’
The tears started from her eyes, although she was unaware that she was crying until she tasted the saltness on her tongue. Now it’s coming, she thought. Perhaps Dave had confessed, perhaps at any moment they will come for Bert. And suddenly she wished not to know the truth — not to have to think for him, advise him, as she would have to do once he had unburdened himself.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Oh, no!’
He misunderstood her protest. He thought it showed concern for himself and began to speak hurriedly, sparing her nothing — Mrs Gooch, White, Loften, their quarrels among themselves, the Inspector’s visit that afternoon. It was a relief to tell her, to know that he now had a confidante on whose counsel he could rely. He had bottled it up too long, he should have shared this burden with Doris, as he had shared others, from the beginning. Doris always knew what was best to be done.
‘I wanted to tell you before,’ he concluded, staring into the fire. ‘It was the others wouldn’t let me. But now it’s done and — well, what do we do next?’
Doris did not answer. It was the ‘we’ that seemed to her the final straw. He was making her a partner in his guilt, pushing his responsibilities on to her, asking her to decide something he should have decided long ago. She wanted to protest, to deny the partnership; but she could not.
Her silence mystified him. ‘You take it pretty coolly, I must say,’ he remarked, hurt that she should withhold her sympathy. ‘One would think —’
Then he saw the tears on her cheeks, the strained look on her white face, the way her hands gripped the sides of the high-backed chair. He moved towards her quickly, kneeling beside her and putting a
large, calloused hand on hers.
It was his touch that broke the last shred of her reserve. The hand was the hand of her husband — and of a murderer, perhaps. Screaming, she leaned forward, beating at him with her clenched fists. Through her tears she could see the horrified look on his face as he bent away from her, gazing at her mutely. Screams gave way to speech, and she started to revile him, using words she had never uttered before, calling him foul names — until the stinging slap of his hand on her cheek stopped her.
She leaned back in her chair exhausted, the hysteria passing as suddenly as it had begun. Bert stood looking down at her, his twitching hands hanging loosely by his sides. But before either of them could speak there was an imperative knock on the cottage door, and he hurried from the room.
It was the woman from next door.
‘I heard Doris screaming,’ she said, trying to peer round him into the hall. ‘I didn’t know you was home. Is she all right?’
‘Yes, thanks.’ It seemed inadequate, and he added, ‘She was a bit hysterical. It’s been a trying time.’
‘One takes more notice of a scream these days,’ she said. ‘Murder — it makes one think, doesn’t it? You sure Doris is all right? Nothing I can do for her?’
‘Nothing, thank you.’
She went away reluctantly.
Doris had stopped crying, but she had not moved from her chair. ‘That was the Drake woman,’ he said. ‘She heard you screaming. Thought I was beating you up, I expect.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Her voice was weak but controlled. ‘I just couldn’t help it.’
‘I guess you didn’t mean all those things you said,’ he answered, relieved at the apology. ‘It must have been the shock.’
She shook her head. She could not tell him that there had been no mental shock, that she had already guessed much of what he had told her. It had been a physical reaction, a sudden, uncontrollable aversion to his touch. She wondered why she had not felt it before — he was no different today from what he had been yesterday. But then yesterday she was only guessing; today she knew.
When he tried to put an arm round her she got up quickly and stood by the fireplace. His eyes followed her, hurt and puzzled.
‘What do you think we should do?’ he asked.
She winced at the ‘we.’ ‘Tell the police,’ she answered harshly.
‘You mean — as the Inspector suggested?’
‘Of course not. I mean the truth — about Mrs Gooch, and Uncle Andrew, and anything else there is to tell them,’ she said, watching him carefully. ‘Trying to put the blame on Dave or Mr Loften is just shirking the issue — and it probably wouldn’t work; the police must know a great deal more than the little the Inspector told you. You just tell the truth and leave them to fix the blame. If you don’t — well, what sort of a future will there be for us, Bert? What you’ve done would always be between us.’ Her voice lost its harshness, became vibrant with emotion. Her purpose was no longer to hurt him, but to make him see it her way. ‘I know I couldn’t stand it, and I don’t think you could either. In time we’d come to hate each other.’
‘But I can’t do that, Doris!’ Only a little while before he had contemplated taking that very step, but it disturbed him that she should suggest it. ‘There’s the others to consider.’
‘Why? They’re guilty, aren’t they?’ she said scornfully, hurt that he should rate his friends’ welfare more important than herself. ‘One of you killed Uncle Andrew, and if you’re not prepared to help the police then you’re all as bad as the murderer. Dave’s in prison already, and that’s where the rest of you belong.’
‘You mean you want us to hang?’ She started to cry, but he persisted. ‘Is that it, Doris? Is that what you want?’
‘No,’ she wailed. ‘Of course it isn’t. But I’d rather you were dead than go on living as we are. I can’t stand it, Bert, I just can’t.’ And when he did not answer she added, hysteria returning, ‘What’s more, I won’t. I’ll give you until tomorrow, Bert, and if you haven’t been to the police by then I’ll go myself. Maybe I’ll kill myself afterwards, but I’ll go. I swear I will.’
She ran out of the room and up the stairs. He made no attempt to follow her. Hours later, when he went to bed, she was lying on her back staring at the ceiling. She did not look at him, but moved away as he climbed into the big double bed.
Long into the night they lay awake. Sometimes when he shifted his position Doris tensed her body in an agony of apprehension, shrinking still farther away from him. But he made no attempt to touch her.
As dawn was breaking he went downstairs to make tea. He brought it up to the bedroom, and they both drank avidly. Doris’s eyes were sore with crying and lack of sleep, and her head ached abominably. If only I could sleep, she thought, and never wake up. Her mind trying to grapple with the problem that confronted her, she stared unseeing at her husband’s back as he sat on the edge of the bed in his dressing-gown, gazing out of the windows at the world coming to life in the faint morning light. She felt some pity for him, but mainly anger that he should so wantonly have wrecked their marriage. Where there was only one person in your life, she reflected sadly, everything was lost if he failed you.
The sun was dispersing the morning mist and chasing the shadows out of the corners of the room as Wickery began to dress. Doris watched him covertly. His movements were sluggish, he looked tired and much older. I’ve failed him too, I suppose, she thought. He expected help from me and I’ve let him down. But I can’t help him — not the way he wants, I can’t.
Miserably her mind turned from her husband to the murder itself. How they must have hated Uncle, she thought. Yet they had not planned to kill him — or so Bert had said. If only she could believe that! There was Susan, of course — she could ask Susan. But then Susan had overheard only a small part of what was said. And that was a week before the murder — they could easily have changed their plans after that. And if they had changed them to include murder, would Bert have admitted it to her? Yet how could four such men, no matter what the provocation, come to plan so terrible a revenge? Harry Forthright, perhaps — there was something elemental about him. But the others...
She remembered it was Dave who, according to Bert, had committed the actual murder. In imagination she saw him climb the stairs to the flat, a spanner gripped firmly in his hand. She saw him bend over the sleeping figure of her uncle, the weapon poised to strike...the swift, decisive blow...
Doris shuddered. Dave was an ugly customer, a bully. But would he really...
‘Why are you so sure it was Dave?’ she asked, breaking the long silence. Curiosity had temporarily replaced horror.
Wickery explained eagerly, grateful for the interest in her voice. But when he had done she did not seem impressed.
‘Was he drunk?’
‘Not drunk. He’d had one or two, but he seemed sober enough to me. Why? Don’t you think he did it?’
‘I suppose so,’ she said doubtfully. And then, after an interval, voicing the final stage in her train of thought, ‘What did you do with yours?’
‘My what?’
‘Your piece of paper. The one you said had NO written on it.’
‘I tore it up. Why?’
She did not answer. Presently he said bitterly, ‘You wanted to see it, I suppose, to make quite sure I didn’t kill your uncle.’
Doris flushed. That had certainly been one reason for her question. But there was another.
‘I was thinking you might just have crumpled it up and thrown it on the ground — it wouldn’t have any significance to anyone but the four of you. And if the others did the same — well, if we could find their pieces of paper we’d know who killed Uncle Andrew.’
He stared at her, eyes wide.
‘By God, Doris, that’s an idea! And I know where each of us stood; more or less, anyway. They’d probably take some finding, but it’s worth trying.’
His enthusiasm damped hers.
It’s four days now. They may h
ave blown away, or perhaps the others tore them up too.’
‘Yes, of course. But I could ask them — not Dave, of course, but Pop and Harry. If we concentrate —’
‘Don’t be a fool, Bert.’ Doris’s voice was sharp. ‘You don’t imagine they’d tell you the truth, do you?’
Half-way into his jacket, he turned in surprise.
‘Why not? If we can prove that Dave killed White there won’t be any more argument, we can do as the Inspector suggested.’
‘And suppose it wasn’t Dave? Suppose it was Mr Forthright? He’d take good care you didn’t set eyes on his piece of paper. No, Bert, you leave this to me.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘You? What about me?’
‘You must show me where you each stood, of course, but I’d better do the searching. It may take a long time, and they’d miss you at the garage.’
‘It’s Sunday,’ he reminded her, his voice hard. ‘The garage will be closed. We’ll both look.’
Doris hesitated. To indulge in a little detective work on her own was one thing, to do it in company with her husband was another. She knew that he had misunderstood her interest, assuming it to spring from a desire to help him. Well, there was that too. But her chief purpose was to get at the truth; and if the truth involved Bert more deeply than he had given her to suppose he would certainly do his best to hide it from her.
‘All right,’ she said reluctantly. ‘And while we’re at it we’ll see if we can find the pieces you tore up. You might need them later.’
Wickery was not deceived. His freshly shaven face reddened, but he made no comment.
There was no one about when they reached the garage. Behind it, except on the tracks, the undergrowth was heavy from the rain. Although this made their search the more difficult it reduced the likelihood of the pieces of paper having been scattered by the wind.
Hurt and angered by Doris’s suspicion of him, Wickery insisted that they look first in the spot where he had waited that Tuesday night; and because he knew exactly where to look it did not take them long. Many of the pieces were missing, but they found enough; and as she looked at the creased and dirty jigsaw of paper in the palm of her hand Doris felt slightly ashamed.