I grappled for him, got my arms round his legs, but terror was giving him a strength I couldn’t control. Far from being able to support him, I was swung off my feet. And for one appalling second, before I let go, he suffered the weight of both of us in the compressing noose. I sprang up, jumping high, with some stupid idea of seeing the short length of taut rope above his head and perhaps snapping it, but though my fingers caught it the rope was too thin and shiny, and my grip burned down until my hands rested on his head. For one moment my face touched his, his insane eyes bulged into mine, and I felt the silent scream from his gaping throat.
I fell down again to the floor. The drum, I thought, dear God the drum. I fumbled for it, and found it, and erected it under his feet.
“Stand!” I shouted. “For Christ’s sake stand.”
But though I caught his flying legs again and forced them down onto the surface he was too far gone to understand. I had to release them to find my penknife, get up there somehow and slash him loose. But as soon as I opened my arms the drum went flying again.
He was weaker. The tearing fingers were slowing with despair. I tried standing on the drum myself, but there was sufficient panic strength still in his body to throw me over onto my back, cursing. I scrambled up.
“I’ll be back,” I shouted. “I’ll be back.” For some reason it seemed important for him to know that, to understand that when I turned to run it was not because I could not watch him die. For me to know, too.
I ran for the car, jumped in, started it with clutch and gear in, and threw it across the yard, the door swinging open. I slewed into the shed. He was nearly finished. I edged the bonnet beneath him and pressed the car forward, bumping his legs and body up and over the wind-screen, until he was sprawling, still wriggling, on the roof. Then I plunged out and clambered up, and as he slid once more to the extent of the rope, I managed to slash it through, just before the weight of his body, from that height, would probably have broken his neck.
He fell to the floor. What I had to do then was nauseating. He had already torn bleeding strips from his neck, but the whole of the rope was impressed into his flesh. I inserted the penknife, deep in, pressing down, then sliced upwards. Blood covered my hands, but the noose peeled away. I rolled him onto his back.
For a moment I thought I was too late. There was no movement. Sightless eyes stared up at me. I was about to fall on him to try artificial respiration when his chest shuddered and he drew in one terrible breath. Then another.
“I’ll be back,” I said again. “Do you hear me?”
Then I ran across the yard. The door that Bycroft had sealed so carefully collapsed as I ran through it, and I pounced on the phone. “Ambulance,” I said, and when I got through told them to make it fast, real fast.
I ran back to the shed. Randall’s mouth was rasping as he drew in breaths, his heels hammering on the floor. I turned round and ran back again, and dialled the same number. Police this time. Bycroft was out, but they’d radio him.
“The yard,” I said. “Randall’s tried to hang himself. Tell him to get here fast.”
Then I went back. There wasn’t much I could do apart from covering him. I found I was talking to him, though whether it penetrated his private hell I don’t know. Some rubbish about it being all right. What was the use of saying that? How could it possibly be all right? But it was only a matter of his knowing there was somebody there.
They came. First the ambulance. I had backed out the Saab and left them a clear run. They were giving him oxygen when the Cortina ran into the yard, and Bycroft came splashing over. He’d been taking Tony home. The lad followed slowly. I was glad to see Tony.
Bycroft stood and looked and said nothing to me. There was blood on my hands. I went out into the rain and held them out and lifted my face to let it stream over me.
Then they got Randall into the ambulance, and went out of the yard so fast that they nearly pinned Sprague’s car to the fence as he arrived.
I was gingerly slipping back into my raincoat, aware that it, too, bore stains of Randall’s blood.
“That’s it, then,” Bycroft said with quiet satisfaction. “Wraps it up.”
“What’s it?” I demanded angrily. “You come down here and a man’s tried to take his own life, and all you can say is that’s it. Can you look into his mind? Can you tell me why he tried to take his own life?”
“Well, it’s obvious. We were closing in, and he knew it ... ”
“Oh don’t be a damn fool!” I said. “People don’t kill themselves for that. There has to be much more, some despair, some sort of desperation. The trouble with you, Frank, is that you’re big-headed. You think if he knew you were after him, that would have driven him to ... this.”
I felt sick. Suicide! I just couldn’t stand it. But I hadn’t had any choice. There it had been, under my nose, and I couldn’t have done anything else but stand it.
But I’d been close to Randall in those few hectic minutes. I’d felt what he was feeling, and I thought I understood what had been in his mind — what was left of his mind. It helped, oh definitely it did, to understand. Now it wasn’t pity choking me, but something so very much deeper, a sympathy surging up into such a fury that I could have hit Bycroft right in his smug face.
“But he did it, George. What better motive could he have had? He knew Norman Lyle had given Cleave a false alibi for Annabelle. And he knew that Cleave had probably also killed Dulcie.”
“Oh no, no. You’re all wrong.”
“He was hanging round the yard here, waiting his chance. Perhaps he knew Cleave had a gun, and at last, on Friday, he found it. Maybe he only intended to force Cleave into admitting it, perhaps to say where he’d taken her ... ”
“The key, Frank! Why did it get down Cleave’s gullet? Tell me that.”
There wasn’t much light in that shed, just the inspection lamp lying on the bench. Long shadows crawled up the walls. Sprague moved restlessly, and the rain drummed on the roof.
“He’ll tell me,” Bycroft said.
There wasn’t enough light to see how confident he appeared, but his voice didn’t sound too strong.
“And the gun in the box?”
“He’ll tell me,” he repeated.
“But not tonight, Frank. And it’ll be somebody else’s case in the morning.”
“Maybe I shan’t wait until tomorrow.”
His voice sounded strange. I moved, so that light fell on him more strongly. He was uncertain, but trying to hide it by standing with his shoulders braced, his head thrown back.
“What’ve you got?” I demanded.
“There were twenty-four hours to do it in,” he told me.
“Do what?”
“Make another key,” he said, and he burst into the sort of jumbled explanation that people produce when they’ve been retaining something, bursting to produce it.
Suddenly we were sergeant and constable again, and he was reporting eagerly to his superior.
“Two keys,” he babbled, “and neither of them available. I’m not going to dispute that. We’ve eliminated all chance of a third key having been made from either of the others, but there’s this ... ”
He withdrew the duplicate pouch from his right-hand jacket pocket, and put it down on the bench. I was aware that Sprague was breathing into my left ear, and Tony was hovering on the edge of the group. Bycroft had slit the stitching, so that it opened out into a flat sheet of leather, with a brownish felt surface. And in that surface was two imprints of the small key, one for each side, the details clear and sharp.
“The key had never been touched since it was first put in here,” he said.
“So you’re believing Tony?”
“Of course.”
“You hear that, Tony? Somebody believes you.” There was movement, but he said nothing. “Pouch never been used, so the key lay quietly,” I said. “It’s made some very nice impressions. So what?” I was chattering on, to make time. I hadn’t thought of this one. A little of my authority see
med to have evaporated, and Bycroft sensed it.
“So there it is,” he said briskly, “stuck under that table, and just waiting for somebody to use it. Don’t you see, George, it’d be possible to take impressions from that, use them to make a mould, use the mould to make a blank ... and they’d got a whole twenty-four hours to do it in.”
“HQ aren’t going to like it,” I said morosely. “They’re not going to be pleased that you slit the stitching.”
“Never mind that,” he said impatiently.
“But I do mind it, Frank. Because how could anybody use this thing unless they slit it open? And that means they sewed it up again. It ain’t easy, Frank, that sort of stitching.”
“We can prove ... ”
“I know. Under a microscope. What’d we ever do without the lab? They’d tell you it hasn’t been re-sewn.”
“You don’t know that.”
“You’re being stubborn. How would he do it, this super craftsman? Wax? Putty? There’d be traces. Can you see any?”
“The lab — ”
“Oh, to hell with that — you and your labs.”
“And anyway, I expect it could be done photographically.”
“Oh fine. He’s not only capable of making moulds, casting the metal, filing the wards, but now he’s making moulds by some photographic process unknown to anybody ... You’re reaching, Frank. It’s impossible.”
“Something’s got to be possible,” he cried. “You can’t eliminate everything. The other pouch — ”
“No, Frank. Cleave used that every day. The inside’ll be smooth and polished, and with no impression.”
Slowly and almost sheepishly he took the other pouch from his pocket. It hadn’t been slit. He squeezed it, and one glance inside was enough. Its surface was black and shiny.
“You know what Sherlock said,” I paraphrased philosophically. “When you’ve eliminated all the improbables, that which is left, however impossible, you’re stuck with.”
“But it wasn’t impossible. It was done.”
“There you are, then.”
“Where am I?”
“With no possible case against Randall.”
“Oh no. Don’t come that one. It was just as possible for him as for anybody else. I’ve got my case. Motive. Means. Opportunity. And when I question him — ”
“But you won’t be doing that. Somebody else will. He’s unfit ... ”
“He tried to take his own life. He knew it was coming to an end.”
“No, Frank,” I said quietly. “Not because of that. A person tries to take his own life for something deeper than that.”
I felt the stirrings of realization. If she’d been there, I’d have kissed her. Anne had told me, had dangled it in front of my nose, and still I hadn’t understood. But now I knew, without any doubt, why Randall had come down there. My heart was bounding with the understanding of it. Because I knew.
“He couldn’t live with himself any longer.”
“What nonsense is that?”
“The reason he couldn’t have killed Cleave. If he had, you wouldn’t have had an attempted suicide, you’d have had a proud man, calmly turning himself in. But he didn’t do that.”
“Talk, talk,” said Bycroft disgustedly.
“You haven’t thought it through. Imagine how it’d be for him. He was on the fringe of this car business. The fringe, Frank.”
“A partner.”
I turned, sought him out in the shadows. “Tony, is that right? On the fringe?”
He nodded sullenly. “I suppose. He never knew much about it.”
“Nothing much more than the name Norman Lyle?”
“I don’t reckon he would.”
“And that the stuff got picked up on Saturdays?”
Tony laughed hoarsely. “He’d drift down here on Mondays, to see what there was.”
“There,” said Bycroft. “You see. Not just a poor, ignorant bloke in the background.”
“All right, Frank. It’s not the point. We’ll admit that.”
“We’ll admit it! You’re not his lawyer, George.”
“I’m all he’s got,” I shouted. “Now listen. He knew the stuff got pinched on Saturdays, and probably that Cleave went to Wolverhampton on Fridays to fix it up, having obtained another log book from a nearly-new crash job. Right?”
“Right,” agreed Bycroft, and Sprague said something about hanging round there getting cold.
“So when Aanabelle Lester was killed, Randall would be suspicious about that alibi. But he didn’t know. As he said, it could still be valid, even if Cleave did know Norman. Randall just couldn’t be sure.”
“Yes, yes,” said Bycroft, waving his arm. “But when his own child went missing — ”
“Yes, then what? Randall would be suspicious. And if he’d known there was a job fixed for that Saturday, he’d have been sure. Because then he’d have known Cleave was at Wolverhampton on the Friday Dulcie vanished, and he’d know about the road diversion which would bring him out opposite the bus stop. He’d have known, Frank, from the fact that Cleave would’ve been coming back from Wolverhampton.”
“There you are then. More motive.”
“But he didn’t know. Else why was he hanging round the yard? Frank, he was uncertain. Can’t you imagine the agony he was in! He couldn’t face Cleave, not without certainty. And the only thing that’d prove it was if a fresh car had come in. He was coming down here to check it.”
Bycroft looked round at Sprague, who shrugged, tilting his jaw.
“But Norman was dead,” I reminded them. “Now, if Randall had known that, he wouldn’t have needed to come looking. That would have been proof. But he didn’t know Norman had crashed the Rover on the way here. Randall is a coward, that’s his trouble. He was frightened to approach Cleave, but driving him was his missing child, who might — just might — be still alive. And he needed just that one stimulus to force him to it. He needed to know that Cleave had been to Wolverhampton.”
“Then he found out,” said Bycroft placidly. “You’re digging his grave, George.”
“He couldn’t have known.”
“Of course — ”
“Tony,” I said. “Come here into the light.”
His face was hollowed in the low-flung light. “I dunno ... ”
“But you do, Tony. Think.”
“I told you all I know.”
“Have you understood what I’ve been saying?”
He nodded.
“Yes, you would. And this is Mr Randall we’re talking about. Tony, I’m asking you a favour.”
“Don’t come to me ... ”
“Oh no, it’s no good looking to you for help. They just took him off to hospital, Tony. Haven’t you got one touch of feeling for anybody?”
“What d’you know about it?” he said angrily.
“You’ve only got to tell the inspector one thing. Did Mr Randall know the dates of the car-thefts before they happened?”
“How’d I know that?”
“Use your intelligence. You said yourself he came down on Mondays. There wasn’t a pinch every Saturday, so ... ” I waited. “Did Randall come down every Monday, Tony?”
“Well ... yes ... I suppose you could say that.”
“Thank you. So we come to the weekend Dulcie went missing. Could he have known of Norman’s death?”
“I don’t see ... ”
“You don’t see!” I sneered.
“I was going to say,” he shouted, “I didn’t see how he could.”
“Would Cleave have told him?”
“Dennis never told nobody anything.”
“And Mike wouldn’t have known.”
“Now look here,” Bycroft interrupted, “you’re leading — ”
“It ain’t a bloody court,” I snarled at him. “It’s a leakin’ shed and it’s cold, and I want to go home. Listen to what he says, for Christ’s sake.” I turned back to Tony. “So maybe you told him, Tony. You were the only one who knew Norman
was dead.”
He shook his head. “I didn’t tell him.”
I turned back to Bycroft. “So you see, Randall came down here every day, to see if something had come in. Because then he’d have known. But the poor sod got nowhere, and his conscience tortured him, and in the end it was too late, because somebody else killed Cleave, and all he could do was wait. And then we found the child, Frank, and he knew at last it was Cleave, and he hadn’t done anything about it. Are you surprised he tried to kill himself? It wasn’t for having killed Cleave — it was for having failed to. Damn it, Frank, the self-condemnation drove him to it.”
I was exhausted, despising myself for not having understood. Poor Anne, dear Anne, who’d not been able to face me. She’d blamed herself for having sacrificed me.
“So go think again, Frank,” I said. “I’m tired and I’m disgusted. And I don’t care if you never catch your murderer. He deserves a medal. I only wish he’d done it sooner.”
Then I walked out into the rain, plodding through the mud with weariness dragging at my feet.
“Wait!” shouted Bycroft. “George, wait.”
I went on walking. I heard him say, “fetch him back, Bill,” and Sprague came splashing up behind me. He circled me and turned, stood with his head back, his hands on his hips, that knowing smile of his just visible in the dim light. I stopped.
“George,” called Frank from the shed. “Do you know who’s done it?”
“I know.”
“Then come back here, you big fool.”
Sprague chewed. “You heard what the man said.”
I hit him hard, catching the jaw as it moved towards me. The best bit of the day, that was.
Then I turned and went back. Nobody was going to let up on Randall, because it needed imagination and feeling, and Bycroft had intellect, and you can’t have everything.
But there was no heart in it, turning back to what now seemed to me to be a betrayal.
13
“ASSAULTING an officer,” said Bycroft with dreary satisfaction.
“In the course of his duty? What was he going to do — arrest me?”
“Don’t imagine we couldn’t for withholding information.”
I tried laughing that off, but it fell flat. “You know as much as I do. It’s how you interpret the facts that counts.”
A Spoonful of Luger Page 12