by J F Straker
Forthright frowned, recalling the disgust on Bert Wickery’s face when he had spoken of this earlier. It was a dirty trick, he knew that, and he wouldn’t play it unless he had to. But he wasn’t going to let respect for a girl’s reputation stand between him and freedom, perhaps between him and life.
The main danger lay in those pieces of paper that Bert and Doris had picked up — no use trying to disclaim them, some expert was bound to prove that the handwriting was his. And in face of that damning evidence was it possible to persuade the police that Bert had confessed to a crime he had never committed?
Gloomily he came to the conclusion that it was not, that Bert had stymied him. And now they could not even take the way out suggested by the Inspector.
A police car stopped outside the garage. He could see Pitt and Wickery, and presently there were more cars and more policemen. And Doris. Then a car stopped outside his own cottage, and he watched anxiously as two men got out and went round to the front. I hope they don’t put the wind up Ma, he thought.
Suppose he and the others toed the line and confessed, would the police believe that there had been no intention to murder, that White’s death was an accident they could not account for? There was a clear case against Dave, and it could be made still clearer by stressing how from the beginning Dave had been all in favour of murder. Would that satisfy them, or would they want more?
The men came out of the cottage and went back to the garage, and presently some dozen or so policemen left the building and, spreading out as they went, moved in a long line into the forest. For a moment Forthright waited, trying to gauge the extent of the ground they were likely to cover; then he turned and disappeared.
He did not panic. Picking his way carefully, he went eastward, towards that part of the forest that lay north of the garage. It was thicker there; and the police would surely expect him to go west, anticipating a break for freedom.
Excitement grew in him, and a strong determination not to submit tamely to capture. Let them have a run for their money; and then, when it was dark, he would go down to Loften’s house and have it out with him. If Loften could be threatened or cajoled into a reasonable attitude all might yet be well; suitably cut, his evidence could be made to appear overwhelmingly in their favour. And if Loften refused...
They nearly got him then. Just in time he heard them coming, and knew that he had underestimated the Inspector. There were more police, men he had not seen from his vantage-point; and they were coming from the east.
Even then he did not panic. He turned sharply, doubling back on his tracks and then striking off to the north-west. The trees and shrubs were thick here, the undergrowth sparse; he had concealment without hindrance. Stepping lightly for a man of his build, he set a pace that the slow-moving police were unlikely to match.
Something white, speckled with what looked like blood, attracted his attention. It had been caught on the branches of a thorn-bush, and mechanically he picked it off, examining it as he went. The spots were not blood, but part of the material-design; and he was about to throw it away when something — a memory from the past, a tiny incident he had thought forgotten — clicked in his brain. He stopped suddenly, the men behind him dismissed from his mind as though they had ceased to exist. Once more he examined the small fragment of material, incredulous of the crazy idea that was forming in his brain. Then, exultant and purposeful, he went slowly forward, his sharp eyes following the trail that had unwittingly been blazed for him.
*
‘Why search the forest?’ asked Loften, as the last man disappeared from view. ‘Forthright wouldn’t know you wanted to see him, would he? He’s probably just gone for a walk.’
The Inspector said he had his reasons, and Loften had to accept that unsatisfactory reply; but as Pitt turned to speak to a colleague he went into the office, hoping for further information from the Wickerys. He had put his first question when he became aware that the Inspector had followed him and was regarding him in displeasure.
‘I must ask you to wait outside, Mr Loften,’ Pitt said curtly.
Loften shrugged his shoulders and left. Pitt turned to Doris.
‘I’m sending you home now, Mrs Wickery. There’s a car ready to take you.’
‘What about my husband?’ she asked, a quiver in her voice.
Pitt shook his head. ‘Not at present, ma’am. He’s needed here.’
‘Are you going to arrest him?’
But the Inspector was not to be drawn. ‘You’ll be kept informed of what happens, Mrs Wickery,’ he said patiently. ‘Now, if you’re ready...’
Doris departed, tearful and red of eye. It would be the first time she and Bert had been separated for a night, she thought unhappily, as she got into the waiting car. The fact that the separation was largely due to her insistence on Bert’s confession did not make it easier.
Pitt turned to the two men.
‘When the car returns I’m sending you into Tanbury. You will be taken to the police station and charged with conspiring to commit a felony. You have already made a statement admitting that, Mr Wickery, and you will be asked to sign it; whether you do so or not is up to you. If you want to see your solicitor first that can be arranged.’ He looked at Wells. ‘I presume you still wish to say nothing?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Well, we can’t make you talk. You’ll both be held in custody overnight and will come up before a magistrate in the morning.’
They went out into the yard to await the return of the car. But already news of the police activity had spread through the village, and on the opposite side of the road a small crowd had collected. A few passing cars had drawn up by the kerb, their occupants anxious to miss nothing of what might happen.
Pitt eyed them with distaste. ‘We’ll wait in the garage,’ he said, turning — and then stopped. From behind the back of the garage came Forthright, a policeman on either side of him. He was smiling, a grim smile that made Wickery wonder.
When he saw Pitt he stepped towards him eagerly, but the police held him back. A detective hurried forward.
‘So you got him, eh?’ commented the Inspector. ‘Nice work.’
‘Well — not exactly, sir,’ answered the men. ‘When we found him he was coming this way. Gave himself up, you might say. He says he wants to talk to you.’
‘The desire is mutual. Bring him into the garage.’
The big doors closed behind them, shutting out the waiting crowd. It was dark inside, and Loften switched on the lights. Then he went to stand near Wells and Wickery, anxious to hear but not anxious to be observed.
‘Well, Mr Forthright, I understand you have something to say to me,’ said Pitt. ‘We’d better go into the office.’
‘No,’ said Forthright. ‘What I have to say is best said right here with everyone present.’
‘Just as you like. But I must warn you —’
‘You’ve got the wrong idea, mate,’ the other interrupted him. ‘It’s an accusation I’m making, not a confession. I’m telling you who killed Andrew White.’
If the Inspector was surprised Wells was not. He had guessed Harry would fix it, that Harry hadn’t done a bunk just because he’d got the wind up. He glanced at Wickery and Loften; both looked angry and somewhat apprehensive. Bert knows what’s afoot, he thought, but not Loften. Loften had a bit of a shock coming, unless he was much mistaken.
‘And who might that be?’ asked the Inspector.
Forthright turned slowly, intentionally dramatic. It was his big moment, and he meant to make the most of it.
‘Him,’ he said, pointing. ‘Loften.’
Face white, fists clenched, Loften started forward. ‘You damned liar!’ he shouted. ‘What the hell...?’
Pitt stopped him. ‘If you don’t mind, sir, we’ll hear what he has to say. You’ll have your chance later.’
‘But I do mind, Inspector. The fellow’s lying, I tell you.’
Support came to him from an unexpected source. ‘Mr Loften
’s right, Inspector,’ said Wickery. ‘Forthright’s been cooking this up for days; he —’
‘Shut up, you!’ Forthright’s tone was vicious. ‘You’ve opened your big mouth once too often already. Open it again and I’ll ruddy well close it for good.’
The Inspector lost his temper.
‘That’ll do,’ he almost shouted. ‘Any more of this and I’ll clap the lot of you in gaol.’ He turned to Loften and Wickery. ‘I’m going to hear what this man has to say. Neither of you has to stay here and listen, but if you do you’ll damned well listen in silence. Is that understood?’
They nodded, eyeing each other suspiciously. Neither had expected to find the other in the same camp.
‘Now,’ Pitt said to Forthright.
‘Well, I don’t know what cock-and-bull story Wickery has told you, Inspector; maybe there’s some truth in it, but not much, I’ll be bound.’ Forthright spoke slowly, savouring his triumph to the full, delighting in the helplessness of his enemies. ‘The fact of the matter is, the four of us chaps had got in bad with Mr White. He’d been doing the dirty on us for months, and one evening, after we’d had a few drinks, we got talking about how we might get back some of the money that we’d been done out of. We never meant any harm to White, only to make him give us the money he owed us. But Chitty’s sister heard us talking, and her and Loften being the way they are’ — here there was a violent outburst from Loften, instantly suppressed by Pitt — ‘it was only natural she should tell him about it. And that gave Loften the idea, I suppose. He could kill White and let us take the can back.’
‘How?’ asked Pitt.
‘Easy. He had a key to the garage, didn’t he?’ Here Forthright realized he was on tricky ground, and he went on hastily, ‘He told us himself he was there that night. That was when he started his blackmailing lark, saying he’d keep his mouth shut about us if we made it worth his while. Ask Susan Chitty — she’ll tell you he was there. He spun her some yarn about going up to the garage to try and stop us, and then got her to give him an alibi so as you fellows wouldn’t suspect him of the murder.’
‘Why should we suspect him?’ asked Pitt. ‘What motive do you suggest he had for killing White?’
‘He had a motive all right. White had been playing around with his missus.’
It was too much for Loften.
‘You damned scoundrel!’ he shouted. ‘I’ll not stand any more of this. You and your so-called friends murdered White. If you think you can put it on to me —’
He made to rush at his tormentor, but two policemen caught and held him. Pitt walked over to the struggling group.
‘I warned you, Mr Loften,’ he said sternly; and to the constables he added, ‘Take him into the office and keep him quiet.’
Wells watched Loften’s removal with satisfaction. He was full of admiration for Forthright’s performance. Loften could deny Harry’s accusations until he was blue in the face, but he couldn’t prove any of them to be false. Not even that last crack about his wife — for White was dead, and Mrs Loften had cleared out. Even if the police found her, and she denied it, they were unlikely to have much confidence in her denial after that note she had left for her husband.
I suppose he’ll cut loose and spill the beans, thought Wells. Well, he can’t do us much harm now, not after Bert’s little effort. It’ll damage him more than it will us — if the police believe him.
Wickery was angry; angry with Forthright for denying the truth and angry with the Inspector for listening to him. But he did not wish to suffer Loften’s fate, he wanted to know what other lies Harry had managed to concoct. So he said nothing.
‘Anything else?’ Pitt asked Forthright.
‘Yes, the cash-box. Loften went back to Dave’s place after he left here — Susan’ll tell you that. I expect he forced the lock, kept the money, and buried the box where you found it. I knew Dave wouldn’t have put it there — it had to be someone else; and none of us was round that way.’
‘Very plausible,’ said Pitt, not taking his eyes off the other. ‘But you say he had a key. I understood he gave it to you?’
‘He gave us the wrong key, I told you that before,’ lied Forthright. ‘Maybe he meant to or maybe it was a mistake, but that’s what happened.’
‘He gave you the right key,’ Wickery burst out, unable to restrain himself longer. ‘You put it in the garage door Tuesday night so as one of us could get in. That’s just another of your damned lies.’
This time Forthright remained calm. He even smiled.
‘Lies, eh? I’ll show you whether I’m lying.’ He turned to Pitt. ‘Get Loften out of there, Inspector, and I’ll give you all the proof you want that he’s a murderer.’
The Inspector nodded, went to the office door, and opened it. ‘Bring him out,’ he said sharply.
Wickery felt dazed. The Inspector couldn’t possibly have been taken in by Forthright’s bluff —not after he had heard Wickery’s own confession and had seen the slip of paper that had led to Dave’s killing White. Why didn’t he stop this nonsense and arrest the three of them as he had arrested Dave?
Between two constables Loften stood glaring at Forthright and the Inspector. ‘Haven’t you arrested him yet?’ he said. ‘If it’s evidence you want, ask me. I can give you evidence enough to hang the four of them twice over.’
‘A pity you didn’t do so earlier, then,’ said Pitt, his voice cool. ‘Where’s this proof of yours, Mr Forthright?’
‘In the forest, Inspector. I’ll show you. But I want Loften to come with us. And those two doubting Thomases over there. Let them see for themselves.’
Wells wondered why he should thus be linked with Bert Wickery. He had never been a doubting Thomas — Harry had always had his full support in his scheme to incriminate Loften. But as he went through the yard and into the forest, with Wickery beside him and policemen behind and in front, doubt began to assail his conscience. He had never really believed that the plot could prove completely successful, that Loften would ultimately hang for their crime. He did not believe it now. And yet with Harry so confident and the Inspector apparently hood-winked...
Was it possible, he wondered, watching Forthright striding ahead with the Inspector at his side, that Harry had become so obsessed by his scheming that he had actually come to believe it was the truth?
He glanced back at Loften. Loften was lagging behind; the police had hold of his arms and were almost dragging him along. He looked terrified, afraid of the unknown towards which Forthright was leading them. Wells thought he could understand his fear. To be accused of a crime of which he was innocent, to hear a damning, almost irrefutable case cunningly built up against him —and then this gruesome approach through the forest to — to what?
Wells shuddered. For the first time since the fight in the cottage he spoke to Wickery.
‘I’m scared, Bert,’ he admitted. ‘Scared stiff. What’s Harry up to?’
Wickery glanced at him contemptuously.
‘You ought to know,’ he said. ‘You helped him, didn’t you?’
Forthright had stopped, was pointing out something on the ground to the Inspector. The two men knelt and, with the assistance of a constable, began to remove a layer of dead leaves and bracken. Wells and Wickery, impelled by a dreadful curiosity and unrestrained by the police, stole forward to crane their heads over the kneeling men.
The soil under the leaves was loose, had obviously been recently disturbed. Already the men had removed a small pile of it, were digging deeper with their hands around something partly uncovered, something that —
Wells stiffened, clutching at Wickery for support.
‘No!’ he said, his voice hoarse. ‘Oh, no, not that!’
It was a human foot. A small, slim foot, the toenails still adorned with traces of scarlet varnish. A woman’s foot.
Wickery said nothing. His stomach heaved. Teeth clenched, he tried hard not to be sick as he watched the gradual uncovering of the body — a body clothed in white, a white th
at was spotted with scarlet dots.
Inspector Pitt stood up, beckoned with an imperative finger. Behind him Wickery heard oaths, a scuffle. He turned to see three policemen pushing forward a grey-faced, struggling figure.
And then Loften screamed — a single, piercing scream. And after that — nothing.
‘He’s fainted,’ said a voice. ‘Passed out cold.’
The Inspector looked away and down at the now almost uncovered body. She lay on her side, her red hair dulled with the soil that filled it, her face hidden. Then he bent down and gently lifted the inert head, turning it so that the lifeless eyes stared up at them accusingly.
‘Who is it?’ he asked quietly. ‘His wife?’
‘Yes,’ said Forthright, his voice no longer exultant. ‘His wife.’
13 The Pieces Are Fitted Together
‘Well, you were right, Mr Forthright,’ said Inspector Pitt. ‘I don’t know how you stumbled on it, but you were dead right. Loften has confessed to both murders — no fight in him at all.’
Once more the four of them sat, together with the Inspector, in the front room of Forthright’s cottage. For the last time too as far as I’m concerned, Wickery said to himself; I’ll never enter this damned room again if I can help it. Nor am I likely to be invited, he thought, glancing at and then away from the stern face of Harry Forthright. There’s been too much bad blood between us this past week for us ever to be on friendly terms again.
He looked at the others. Both Wells and Chitty showed the strain they had undergone. I suppose I do too, he thought; but it’s funny, you’d think we’d all be busting with delight instead of looking like a lot of wet Sundays. Perhaps that’s because it’s too soon; we haven’t yet had time to appreciate how lucky we are. It all happened so quickly; yesterday we thought ourselves murderers, and now we’re free. Or nearly free.