The Progress of a Crime

by Julian Symons

  “I had a long conversation with the chairman this morning.” Grayling polished the arm of his chair with his fist in a reflective manner. “He feels—and I found it difficult to disagree with what he said—that it is important to keep this unhappy affair in perspective. In relation, I mean, to other things happening in our city. We are a family paper, as you know. We have a tradition of sober and responsible journalism that has lasted more than half a century, Hugh. More than half a century.”

  “Do you mean my piece was irresponsible, sir, let the side down?”

  Grayling’s teeth chattered like a stick over railings. “By no means, Hugh. Haven’t I said that it was excellent? It is just a question of the future treatment, that’s all. We don’t want to be sensational. Let us leave that for the nationals.”

  “You mean you don’t want me to follow it up?”

  Grayling moved his chair a half-turn so that it faced a picture of the chairman, his sharp teeth exposed in a rattish grin. “I would like you to follow it up, but with discretion. It is an unsavoury story. We shan’t want too much about it.”

  “But this is a case of murder. It’s not the kind of thing you can hush up.”

  “I am not suggesting any hushing up. We shall give an honest and full report of the story. It is a matter of local interest. But we shall treat it with discretion, Hugh, always with discretion.”

  He emerged full of useless anger. Clare was in the reporters’ room, typing with two fingers. “You don’t look as if the old man pinned a medal on your chest.”

  “He said it was a well-written piece, then made it clear he didn’t want any more like it. Seems that the chairman was a friend of Corby’s.”

  “Of Mrs. Corby, you mean.” A long narrow face, lined and seamed as the leather of a worn shoe, the narrow mouth set in a knowing grin, the whole topped with a great mass of curly grey hair, had appeared round the door. This was Roger Wills who, under the name of Farmer Roger, wrote the “Field and Farm” column that Corby had so much appreciated.

  “Mrs. Corby?” he said, astonished.

  “Ah. That old cock our chairman has been on the soft nest a good many times, if you’ll forgive the expression, my dear.” Farmer Roger’s dry old hand rested on Clare’s buttocks, and she wriggled indignantly away. “There’s none that’s after their oats, if I may change the metaphor or would it be more like a simile now, more than your old Presbyterian Methodist Wesleyan kind of bible thumper. It’s doing all that praying as gets their dander up. Though I’m a religious man myself,” he said with an enormous wink.

  “But Mrs. Corby.” It was difficult to connect that thin-nosed woman with feelings of desire, the act of love.

  “A bit long in the tooth, I grant you that, but so’s Weddle. Come on out, young Hugh, and I’ll buy you a coffee.”

  As they walked down the High Street towards the Kardomah that was used by all the Gazette staff, Hugh Bennett marvelled at the number of people Farmer Roger knew, and at the facility with which he found a different descriptive phrase for each of them after they had gone by. Roger Wills had not, in fact, ever farmed for a living. He had an independent income and farmed as a hobby, experimenting with new types of seed, new kinds of mushroom spawn, vegetables that had never been grown in England. In his “Farm and Field” articles, however, which were often written in dialect and referred to fragments of local history, Farmer Roger treated farming with the seriousness that he had never given to it in life. In the office he was a licensed eccentric, and Hugh Bennett had a great admiration for him and for his column. Now as they sat opposite each other and drank their coffees Farmer Roger talked with his characteristic zestfulness, and Hugh wondered how much of what he said was true.

  “My niece Angela lives just outside Far Wether, on the committee of the Women’s Institute, hears all the gossip. She told me old Weddle was in there plenty of afternoons. Of course she’s a Seventh Day Adventist Congregationalist sort of woman herself, you know—Mrs. C., I mean—and I dare say he was supposed to be calling on behalf of the Lord’s Day Observance Society to stop smooching in haystacks on Sundays. But Weddle’s an old ram, no doubt of that, got more girls in the family way than my prize bull.”

  “But Mrs. Corby must be fifty.” It seemed to him almost morally wrong that anybody over the age of thirty should experience sexual desire.

  Farmer Roger’s mouth opened in an O of laughter, the laugh revealing gums of palest pink, exquisite false small teeth. “Intolerant, that’s what you are. It’s all life, boy, don’t you realise that, the great surging force that makes trees bud and walruses bark and dogs roll over. And the life force is good, that’s what you young puritans don’t understand who want to grab all the cakes and ale for yourselves. Take Braggart, my prize bull, now…”

  When Farmer Roger was in the mood to comment on the affairs of life with this sort of racy wisdom, Hugh Bennett felt that he could listen for ever. And in fact they had another coffee, and he did listen for half an hour.

  7

  “Stabbed to death. And on Guy Fawkes night,” the Chief Constable said. He shook his large fair head dismally. “Some wild party, I suppose, Langton.”

  “No, sir,” Superintendent Langton said. “From our information there doesn’t seem any doubt that it was a group of boys from the city. They came out on motor-bikes and started throwing fireworks. Then they made this attack and went off. The whole thing didn’t take more than a very few minutes.”

  “Anybody get the numbers of the bikes?”

  “I haven’t found anyone yet. They parked on the green and a good many of the residents were over at the fireworks.”

  “Any idea why they should—ah—have it in for this chap Kirby?”

  “Corby, sir.”

  “Corby, then,” the Chief Constable said, as though he were conceding a point. “Why should they stab him, can you tell me that?”

  “Yes, I think so.” Superintendent Langton was a square, dependable sort of man, rather slow of speech. He was not a favourite with the Chief Constable, who liked men to be visibly alert and spry, and found himself irritated by Langton’s square dependableness. He had, in fact, little confidence in Langton, and now he tapped with a pencil on the desk and pulled at his long fair moustache while the superintendent was talking. “I was out at Far Wether last night, and talked to a good many of the locals. For that matter, I knew Corby well enough to pass the time of day. He was a self-important sort of a chap, liked to think of himself as the squire of the place, and it seems that a couple of weeks ago he threw out this same gang of roughs from a dance—”

  “How d’you know they were the same? Anyone identify them?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Langton stolidly. “They shouted references about the dance. There was also a shouted reference to one of them named King, ‘Get him, King,’ something like that.”

  The Chief Constable swooped upon a glass of water on the desk, extracted a pill from his waistcoat, popped it into his mouth and swallowed. Langton tried not to let himself be disconcerted.

  “Then it’s likely that one at least of his assailants has blood on his clothing. Corby was stabbed four times in the chest by a thin-bladed knife, possibly by more than one knife, which has not yet been found.”

  Langton stopped. The Chief Constable waited to see if this was merely a longer pause than usual, but it seemed that the superintendent had finished. He walked over to the window and looked out at the damp mist as though he were pondering a course of action, although he had already made up his mind what to do. “You talk about a gang. I didn’t know we had any gangs here.”

  “There are gangs of a sort in every big city, sir. I don’t think ours are any worse than most. Or as bad.”

  “You’ve no idea who these boys might be?”

  “No, sir. The stabbing took place only last night. I don’t doubt that we shall have laid hands on them in the next couple of days.”
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  “And what then?”

  “What’s that, sir?”

  The Chief Constable spoke impatiently, as though repeating a lesson to a very dull pupil. “When you’ve found them, it’s going to be very difficult to pin down this killer in a way to satisfy a jury. You say there may have been one knife or more than one, you talk about the assailant and then use the plural. It’s not going to be easy to bring this home to an individual or individuals.”

  “Not easy, sir. But we shall do it.”

  “I think this is a case for Scotland Yard.”

  Langton was a slow man, but he was not insensitive. He knew that he irritated the Chief Constable, but he had not expected this. “But, sir—”

  “Yes, Langton. Say your piece.”

  “This is a local crime. We know the people to look for, and how to find them. Anyone from London will have to learn from us.” He formulated it slowly, hesitantly, conscious that he was not doing justice to his own case.

  “Know the people to look for—that’s just what you can’t tell me. You’ve just said you’ve no idea who they are.”

  “The case isn’t twenty-four hours old yet.”

  “Exactly. Now’s the time to make up our minds. There’s going to be a lot of fuss in the Press about this, it’s just the sort of case they enjoy. Give them a chance and they’ll be right after us.”

  “Won’t you give us a few days on it, sir?” Langton was conscious that he was losing the battle.

  “I don’t want you to think there’s anything personal about this,” the Chief Constable said, though they both knew that there was. “It’s simply that it seems to me the sort of case which is bread and butter to Scotland Yard, whereas we’re not really equipped to handle it. And if we’re going to call them in, there’s no use in hanging about. Quick’s the word and sharp’s the action, that’s my motto.” He stretched out his hand towards the telephone.

  8

  Within half an hour of the Chief Constable’s telephone call to New Scotland Yard, Detective-Superintendent Frederick Twicker had been assigned to the Guy Fawkes case. By lunch-time he had settled up or passed on the papers on his desk, had collected a change of clothing from his home in Hounslow, and was in the train with Detective-Sergeant Norman. They ate lunch on the train, and over their bottles of beer Norman tried to induce Twicker to talk.

  “They certainly got on the blower to us quickly enough. Surprising in a job of this sort. Generally the local boys like to keep it buttoned up tight.”

  Twicker chewed and masticated his roll, but did not reply.

  “I reckon we’re going to have to watch our steps a bit, tread a bit warily with the local boys.”

  “I always watch my step.”

  Twicker’s tone was not encouraging, but Norman ignored that. “Yes, but you know what I mean. The local chap—what’s his name, Langton—can be a lot of help or he can be a damned nuisance.”

  Twicker had been looking at the roast beef on his plate. Now he stared at the fleshily handsome sergeant, who stirred a little at the intensity of feeling in the dark eyes sunk deep in their sockets. “If he makes himself a nuisance, we shall have to deal with him.”

  Norman gave up, and after lunch settled down to his newspaper with occasional glances at Twicker, who for the most part stared out of the window.

  Few people at the Yard cared very much about Twicker, and some were a little afraid of him. He had been involved in a case some years ago of which Norman had only a vague recollection, something about a confession that came unstuck. Norman was too young to know the details, but he had heard that Twicker’s handling of this case had for a long time stopped him from getting a promotion. He had never, in Norman’s knowledge, been touched by the comradely feeling that pervades the C.I.D., as it always pervades any organisation which is enclosed within another and yet retains its separate identity, as does the C.I.D. within Scotland Yard. Twicker would buy his round at the bar, but he was never—that was the simplest way to put it—he was never one of the boys. Yet, though he must be around fifty, he was still pretty much of a knockout to look at, with that mass of wavy iron-grey hair above sunken eyes, thin pointed nose, and hard mouth. When’s Twicker going to retire? Norman wondered as he settled back comfortably into his seat and looked at the superintendent’s fine profile through half-closed eyes. What, he thought with a mental grin at his own cleverness, what makes Twicker tick?

  9

  Twicker did not care much for the Chief Constable. His manner was effusively friendly, and Twicker distrusted effusiveness. He had a large, floppy fair moustache, which seemed to Twicker an affectation. And his manner towards Superintendent Langton had a shade of condescension which Twicker resented on Langton’s behalf. He was accordingly well disposed towards the stolid-looking local man.

  “We’ve got a bit further since I rang this morning,” the Chief Constable said, stroking his moustache. “There are three gangs in the city that Langton thinks may have been responsible, and Langton thinks he’s narrowed it down further than that.”

  Langton took up the story. “‘Gangs’ is not quite the right word for these boys. There’s not much night life here, but there are a few cafés where groups of boys hang out, playing records, drinking coffee, bringing in their girls after dances. Generally there’s no harm in them, but in a group of a dozen boys you might find one or two who carried knives or did some petty pilfering or had been to an approved school. You know the sort of thing.” Twicker nodded. “My idea is that one of these groups was responsible, that they went out to Far Wether meaning to rough Corby up a bit and it turned into something else.”

  “Murder,” Twicker said without emphasis.

  “Right. Now, one of these boys was called King—that is, more than one person on the scene heard a shout of ‘Get him, King.’ There’s a lad named Jack Garney who runs around with a group of boys. They come from Peter Street and they’re called the Peter Street lot, and they call Garney ‘King.’ We’ve picked up some of them this afternoon, and I’m proposing to ask them a few questions.”

  “I’ll come with you.” To the Chief Constable Twicker said, “That’s what it is to know the ground and to know your local hoodlums. Superintendent Langton seems to have everything well under control.”

  Well, Norman thought, who’d have thought Twicker had it in him to pay a compliment? Langton’s face showed nothing.

  “Thought we’d go to the fountain-head,” the Chief Constable said. “I don’t doubt some of these young scoundrels did it, but proving it may be another matter.”

  “The boys all work in the same place, Page’s Canning Factory,” Langton said as they walked down the corridor afterwards. “And of course if they were in it together they’ll have cooked up a story. This boy Garney is supposed to be pretty smart.”

  “They’re never smart. They’re hoodlums, that’s all.” Langton, who regarded his work impersonally, as a job like any other, was surprised by the bitterness in Twicker’s voice.

  They talked to the boys in small rooms with whitewashed walls, furnished with hard chairs and chipped tables. Norman, with a police constable to take notes, took one boy, a local sergeant with another note-taker took another. Langton and Twicker talked to Garney.

  And in spite of what Twicker had said, Garney was smart. Langton knew it after asking him no more than a couple of questions. Dark, thick, handsome, with hair brushed slickly upwards, he had a self-assured elegance which was genuine, as the seedy brightness of his Edwardian clothes was false. He answered briskly. He had packed up work at half-past five last night, and had gone straight home. His mum had given him tea. He had hung about the house until a quarter to eight and had gone to a dance hall named the Rotor with his girl, Susie Haig. They had got to the Rotor just before eight o’clock and stayed there until ten-thirty. He had seen Susie home.

  Corby had been killed between half-past six and a quarter to
seven. Langton looked down at the papers in front of him.

  “Do you know why I’m asking these questions?”

  Garney said coolly, “Because of this bloke who got done last night out at Far Wether. You think I had something to do with it. Well, you’re wrong.”

  “Did you go to a dance out at Far Wether a fortnight ago?”

  “Yes.”

  “And there you had some trouble with Mr. Corby.”

  Garney’s broad shoulders shrugged in his tight green suit. “If that’s who it was.”

  “He threw you out.”

  “We left. We don’t go where we’re not wanted.”

  “You’re the leader of a gang called the Peter Street lot.”

  “It’s not a gang. Just some of the boys.”

  “But you’re their leader.”

  “If they say so.”

  “I’m asking you.” Garney shrugged again. “They call you King.”

  “Sort of a joke. Doesn’t mean anything.”

  “One of them was heard to call out ‘Get him, King,’ last night.”

  The boy’s self-assurance remained undisturbed. “Whoever heard that heard wrong.”

  “You still say you weren’t out there last night?”

  “I told you where I was, home till a quarter to eight.” Garney smiled. “My mum will tell you the same. Then I took Susie to the Rotor. You talk to Susie.”

  “You think you’ve fixed up an alibi, don’t you?”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “When your girl’s been in here a few hours she’ll talk.” The palms of Langton’s hands were flat on the table. “We know you were there last night, Garney. The sooner you admit it, the easier it’s going to be for you.”

  “I went to the dance, I told you that already.”

  Twicker could have closed his eyes. He had heard a hundred, perhaps a thousand, interrogations like this, but carried out with infinitely greater skill, not in this bull-at-a-gate manner. Langton had his limitations, obviously. Twicker raised his grey eyebrows, and Langton nodded.