The Progress of a Crime

by Julian Symons

  “There were two of them?”

  The police surgeon was a professional pessimist. “Hard to be sure. Hard to be sure of anything. I’d have expected some sign of a struggle if there had been only one. But it could be that this boy, what’s his name—?”

  “Jones.”

  “Jones, yes, it could be that Jones was terrified and just let one of them knife him. May have been one, two, or half a dozen for all I know. But I imagine your boys may have something to say about that.”

  “Time of death?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Quite a while. Let’s see, Monday afternoon now, suppose we said between ten o’clock Friday night and ten o’clock Saturday morning.”

  “He was under interrogation until midnight on Friday,” Twicker said acidly.

  The police surgeon was unruffled. “There you are. Shows how difficult it is to be exact after a couple of days. Mind, I may be able to get a little closer after the P.M., but it will only be within six hours or so.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  “Glad to help. Any time.”

  Half an hour later they had been through the cottage. There were more beer bottles, together with bits of food, in the kitchen. The staircase was broken, and the upper rooms had not been used.

  “How does this seem to work out?” Twicker asked. “Jones didn’t run away as his father thought. That note he saw was one that called him to a meeting in this cottage, which was used by the boys. Once here he may have been questioned and given away that he’d sung to us. Or they may simply have known that he was the weakest link. Either way they killed him. It’s the sort of thing Garney might do, making sure they were all there, so that the others kept their mouths shut.”

  Langton agreed. “That’s about the strength of it. And if that’s right we shall find the dabs of the whole gang all over the place, which won’t help much in telling us which of them were in it.”

  There was a silence, broken by Norman. “The only way to find that out is to do what the C.C. said. Sweat it out of ’em.”

  18

  Fairfield and Hugh were drinking in the Grand. Fairfield poured water into his pink gin, and drank half of it quickly. “Does your journalist’s instinct tell you anything about what’s going to happen now, young Hugh?”

  “Reporters swarming down from London,” he hazarded.

  “That, yes. And the end of your pennies for linage. But this isn’t a story that’s going to send most editors into ecstasies, you know. A bit too sordid. That isn’t just what I meant.”

  “Bad for Twicker?”

  “Bad for Twicker. And Twicker’s got one strike against him already, one at least. That’s part of what I mean but not all of it. A thing like this happening generates a lot of pressure. The gods that be won’t take any chances. They’ll be out for blood.”

  He nodded to the barman and their glasses were refilled. Hugh protested feebly.

  “Don’t be absurd, my boy. The Banner picks up all these little tickets. Out for blood, I was saying. Heads will roll. They’re going to have a case against some of these lads, and make sure that the case sticks. They’ll turn on quite a lot of heat. Do you see what I mean?”

  “Not really, no.”

  “I’ll spell it out. From what I can gather they very likely won’t be able to make the murder charge stick for the five of them, so they’ll concentrate on some, and get the others to turn Queen’s Evidence.”

  “I see.”

  “This gin’s too pink,” Fairfield said suddenly. “There should be only the faintest tinge of bitters, plop plop, two drops. Do you know angostura has an eighty per cent alcoholic content? Don’t bother to answer, I’m talking to myself. But answer this. Do you suppose he’s guilty, that boy Gardner? Is he the sort of boy who would use a knife like that?”

  Did he think so or not? Remembering the figure breaking away from him and running towards Corby, he couldn’t be sure.

  “I don’t believe he did it,” Fairfield said. His jaw stuck out uncompromisingly, his face gazed into itself in the looking-glass. “Interesting chap, that father of his, good sound Labour type. And his sister, she’s full of character too. With a father like that and a sister like that, he might be stupid and reckless, but I don’t believe he’s a murderer.”

  Hugh passed his hand across his forehead. It was hot in the bar. “I hope he’s not. I like Jill. But what then?”

  “If we agree, you and I, that he’s innocent, I believe the Banner ought to put up the money to defend him. I think you and I ought to look around for anything that might be useful, that would help him, I mean.”

  Their glasses were filled again. Was Fairfield drunk, to be talking so wildly? His great ruined face was sober and severe.

  “Aren’t you putting the cart before the horse a bit? We don’t even know that Gardner’s going to be held.”

  “Garney is going to catch it. And this boy’s his particular chum.”

  “Or that any of them will admit anything.”

  “That’s better,” Fairfield said, looking closely at his gin after adding water to it. “They’ll admit things. This is a case that’s going to generate an awful lot of pressure.”

  19

  On Monday evening, and on into Tuesday morning, they sweated it out of the boys. Half a dozen of them did the work in relays. The interrogation now had two objects, first to get more information about the death of Corby, and second to get the boys to say something about the murder of Rocky Jones. Twicker took no part in the early questioning, and it was half-past eight when Norman came in and said, “I’ve got Charkoff’s statement, and I think we’re through with Edwards. Shan’t get any more out of them.” The night was rawly cold, but Norman was sweating.

  Twicker went with the sergeant through a maze of corridors into a small room where Taffy Edwards, small and dark, sat shivering on a chair. There were two detectives in the room. Edwards’s teeth chattered, and his colour was bad.

  “Do you want a cup of tea?” Twicker asked.

  “Yes.” There were no marks on the boy’s face, but he kept his hand pressed to his side.

  Twicker nodded. One of the detectives got up and went out.

  “Here’s his statement, sir.” Twicker read it. Edwards told the tale they had already heard from Charkoff about what had happened at Far Wether. Garney had suggested the expedition, and they had stocked up with fireworks. He had thought it was a bit of a lark, that was all. Garney often carried a knife, and had one that evening. He had seen Gardner with a knife that night too, and he thought Charkoff had carried one. He admitted the conversation with Jean Willard in the Rotor, but said he had not actually seen the blows struck. When he said, “King and Les did it,” that was because they carried knives.

  He agreed that they often met in the cottage at Platt’s Flats, but persistently said that about the death of Rocky Jones he knew nothing at all.

  While Taffy Edwards sipped his tea and nibbled at a thick sandwich, doing both with the slow delicacy of an invalid who returns fearfully to normality, Twicker compared this statement with the new one made by Charkoff, in which he said positively that Taffy Edwards was carrying a knife, and denied that he had one himself. About the death of Rocky Jones, Charkoff also said that he knew nothing.

  Twicker said to Edwards, “This is all you know about the murders?”

  “Yes.” It was a whisper.

  “And you made this statement of your own free will.”

  A shudder like an electric shock went through Edwards’s body. “Yes.”

  “It’s not satisfactory,” Twicker said. “We know you had a knife that Thursday night. We’ve got statements that say so. And you know about Jones. You know who killed him, isn’t that so? You’d better carry on, Norman.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Oh no, please. I can’t stand any more. Please don’t make them go on.
” Edwards began to cry. “I don’t deserve this. Oh please, I don’t deserve it.”

  “You’ve taken part in one murder, perhaps two.” Twicker tore the paper on which the statement had been made, once and then again. “Now let’s have the truth.”

  “I don’t know what you want.” Edwards held out his hands imploringly.

  “When I say ‘stand up,’ sit down, and when I say ‘sit down,’ stand up,” Norman said. “Stand up.”

  Edwards slowly rose.

  “Why, you stinking little Welsh clot, don’t you understand plain English?” Norman punched Edwards in the stomach. He sat down.

  “I don’t like this either.” Twicker’s face was severe and impassive. “But we’re going to have the truth. You were carrying a knife on Guy Fawkes night, weren’t you?”

  “He’s too big a cissy,” one of the detectives said. “Wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

  “Yes, he would,” said the other. “He frightens babies in their prams. He’s a tough little Welshman, aren’t you, Taffy? Come on, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Say ‘sir’ when you speak to me. And stand up.”

  Edwards stood up. Norman slapped him on the face. “I didn’t say anything, did I, stupid? You’ll never learn. You had a knife with you that night, yes?”

  “No.”

  “You were there when Rocky Jones was done.”

  “No. No.”

  “Stand up,” said the other detective.

  “Stand up. And I mean sit down,” said Norman.

  Edwards began to weep, helplessly, uncontrollably. Twicker turned away.

  Just after half-past nine Norman came to him, smiling. Edwards had made another statement, in which he admitted carrying a knife on Thursday night, and said that he had heard Garney and Gardner threaten Rocky Jones after they were all released.

  “He’s back in his cell now, feeling ever so happy,” Norman said.

  “He’s all right?”

  It was a question he should not have asked, but Norman did not show it. “Made of indiarubber. I’ll see how the others are going. I think Bogan may be just about ready to sing.”

  When Norman had gone, Twicker sat, with a pen in his hand, looking at the wall. This was the way it happened, he knew that well enough, and it was foolish to wish that there were some other way. In his early manhood Twicker had felt himself a missionary working consciously for right and justice. Was it possible that they could be served by such instruments as Norman? In recent years he had come slowly and painfully to the belief that it was. He picked up the telephone when the bell rang.

  “This is the lab.”

  “Yes.” The laboratory had had the clothing worn by all the boys for examination, together with other jackets and trousers taken from their homes.

  “Report on the clothes will be coming up officially, but I thought you’d like to have the gist of it now. Bogan, Charkoff, Edwards, nothing to report. No bloodstains. Bogan’s jacket is singed, presumably with fireworks. Now, Garney and Gardner. Garney first. He was wearing one of those leather zip jackets and the front of it’s spotted with blood. Not just two or three spots, quite a lot. There are a couple of smears of blood on his trousers, quite big ones. All these are recent. We’ve tested them, and they’re Group O. Corby was Group O. It’s not Garney’s own blood, he’s Group A. There’s a slight tear in the left trouser leg, near the knee. If you can find a convenient nail somewhere around it might be useful.”

  “I’ll make a note of it.”

  “Now, Gardner. Wearing same sort of jacket, black instead of red. Bloodstains on it, quite significant ones, high up on the left-hand side of the jacket. Group O again. But, this is not so good, Gardner is Group O himself. It’s the commonest group, you know.”

  “Yes, I do know.”

  “Sorry and all that.”

  “What about Jones?”

  “Jones? Oh yes, he’s Group O, too. No stains on trousers. Just one point about the trousers, though. Very nice smart gaberdine trousers, nicely pressed, newly cleaned by the look of it. There’s an odd sort of dust in the turn-up, looks like coal dust mixed with something or other. Don’t suppose it’s important, but I’ll let you have a detailed analysis.”

  Garney and Gardner, Twicker thought as he put down the telephone, it’s always Garney and Gardner. He lifted the telephone again, put it down, and walked to the door. He had already been scathingly rebuked for releasing all the boys on Friday night. But on an occasion in the past Twicker had been too sure too early, and had suffered for it. He had released the boys out of a determination not to make the same mistake again. Undoubtedly it was now his duty to see Garney and Gardner in person. If they could not give a satisfactory answer about the bloodstains, well, they would have to go on sweating it out.

  They went on sweating it out.

  20

  The A.C. put down the report on the table. “Twicker seems to have put up a black.”

  “He certainly has,” said his deputy, the commander. “And not for the first time.”

  The A.C. frowned. He respected Twicker, without exactly liking him. The commander, who did not share these feelings, drove the point home. “You have six boys who are obviously in this thing up to their necks. What do you let ’em go for?”

  “Because you’re not certain which ones were directly involved.” The A.C. was conscious that it sounded feeble.

  “They were all involved, it’s plain as the nose on my face.” The nose was plain enough. “I don’t know what he thought he was doing.”

  “You want to take him off it?”

  The commander said grudgingly, “He’d better stay on. I’ve given him a shellacking.”

  “Which I’m sure he richly deserves.” The A.C. liked a quiet life. “The question is, what do we recommend to the D.P.P.? You see the way Twicker’s thinking?”

  The commander used a toothpick expertly. “It’s all damned thin.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t call it thin, exactly. We have, as you may say, considerable fire-power, but not sufficient to cover the entire front. We must choose our points for concentration.” The A.C. had, as he admitted, a weakness (but really he thought it a strength) for metaphor. “Now what I suggest is—”

  His suggestion came in its time to the Director of Public Prosecutions and was discussed by two of the staff, one serious-minded and the other inclined to be flippant.

  “Garney and Gardner were two pretty men. One said ‘Let’s do him’ and the other said ‘When?’” said flippant. “Garney and Gardner suggested and approved. Flopsy, Mopsy and Cottontail are good little delinquents and shan’t have bread and water for supper. Agreed?”

  “I’m rather worried about the whole thing,” said serious. “It’s true that we need those three as witnesses, and there really isn’t a case to be put up against them, but somehow I don’t like it.”

  Flippant sighed. It would be necessary, he saw, to chew over the case for the next half-hour, to dot all the i’s and cross all the t’s and to deplore various aspects of Scotland Yard’s handling and presentation of this and other cases. Fortunately he had three-quarters of an hour to spare before lunch. “I entirely agree,” he said. “But of course we’ve got to realise—”

  At the end of these conferences the obvious conclusion was stamped and sealed. At the Magistrate’s Court no evidence was offered on a murder charge against Ernest John Bogan, Vladimir Charkoff, and Hywel David Edwards. John Allan Garney and Leslie Charles Gardner were committed for trial at the next assizes, on the charge that they had been jointly concerned in the murders of James Renton Corby and Frank Jones.

  21

  Fairfield was never at his best, was never, indeed, happy at all, in Crawley’s presence. It was not that Crawley lacked understanding or perception. On the contrary, he gave the impression of having already thought of, co
nsidered and rejected the idea that was being put forward, but of being nevertheless prepared to hear your final plea for it. Nor was it exactly that Crawley seemed machine-like but rather that, with his impassivity and his frozen smile, he had an air of being the god who operated the machine. And that he was, as it were, the personal representative of this god, Fairfield was well aware.

  “Have you mentioned this idea to the boy’s father?” Crawley said now.

  “Not yet. There’s a young chap named Bennett—”

  “The reporter on the Gazette?”

  “That’s right. He’s rather friendly with the boy’s sister. Elder sister, twenty-two or -three, teacher in a primary school, a bit solemn but pretty. He’s approached her about it. I think she’ll play. Of course they were hoping that the case would be thrown out in the Magistrate’s Court, but now the boy’s been committed.” Fairfield coughed. He had come back to London on the previous night and done a lot of drinking, and his throat was parched.

  There was a glass of water on the table and, as Fairfield coughed again, Crawley lifted the glass, took a single sip, and replaced it. “There are no other children? Two or three years old, something like that?”

  “No. Mrs. Gardner died of cancer five years ago.”

  “Pity.” Crawley was referring, Fairfield knew, to the lack of small and appealing children. “And the father?”

  “A real dodo, Left Wing, local councillor, ambitious for his children, thinks we’re the agents of the devil.” A grin spread over Fairfield’s battered face, but it received no acknowledgment. “No money. He might turn us down flat but I don’t think so, not if his daughter gets to work on him.”

  “Yes. What’s Bennett like?”

  “Bennett? Nice boy, young but bright. He’s been a lot of help. I like him.”

  Crawley had made one or two notes on the pad in front of him, using a very hard pencil which wrote with scratchy neatness. He was silent for a few seconds, and then Fairfield felt the cold touch of his smile. “Thanks very much, Frank. I’ll let you know something during the day. Be around, will you, unless there’s something urgent.”