The Black Tower

by P. D. James

  “Of course. So in effect will you from the moment the bullet enters my body, unless you count a life sentence as living. Even if you try to fake finger prints on the trigger, they’ll know that I was murdered. I’m not the type to kill myself or to drive my car into remote woods and quarries to put a bullet in my brain. And the forensic evidence will give the lab a field day.”

  “If they find your body. How long before they even begin looking? Three weeks?”

  “They’ll be looking hard. If you can think of a suitable spot to dump me and the car, so can they. Don’t assume that the police can’t read an ordnance survey. And how do you propose to get back here? By picking up a train at Bournemouth or Winchester? By hitch-hiking, hiring a bicycle, walking through the night? You can hardly travel on to London by train, and pretend that you joined the train at Wareham. It’s a small station and you’re known there. Going or returning, you’ll be remembered.”

  Julius said consideringly:

  “You’re right, of course. Then it means the cliffs. They must fish you out of the sea.”

  “With a bullet in my head? Or are you expecting me to walk over the cliff edge to suit your convenience? You could try physical force, of course, but then you’ll have to come dangerously close, close enough for a fight. We’re fairly evenly matched. I take it you don’t intend to be dragged over with me? Once they find my body and that bullet, then you’re finished. The trail begins here remember. I was last seen alive when the Toynton Grange bus left, and there’s no one here but we two.”

  It was then that, simultaneously, they heard the distant slam of the front door. The sound, sharp as a gunshot, was followed by the thud of footsteps, heavy and firm, crossing the front hall.

  III

  Julius said quickly:

  “Call out, and I kill you both. Stand to the left of the door.”

  The footsteps were crossing the central hall now unnaturally loud in the eerie silence. Both men held their breath. Philby stood in the doorway.

  He saw the gun immediately. His eyes widened and then blinked rapidly. He looked from one man to the other. When he spoke he sounded hoarse, apologetic. He spoke directly to Dalgliesh like a child explaining a misdemeanour:

  “Wilfred sent me back early. Dot thought she’d left the gas on.”

  His eyes turned again to Julius. This time the terror was unmistakable. He said “Oh, no!” Almost instantaneously, Julius fired. The crack of the revolver, although expected, was still shattering, still unbelievable. Philby’s body stiffened, rocked, then fell backward like an axed tree with a crash which shook the room. The bullet had gone in precisely between the eyes. Dalgliesh knew that this was where Julius had intended it to go; that he had used this necessary killing to demonstrate that he knew how to use his gun. This had been target practice. He said calmly, his gun now turned on Dalgliesh again:

  “Go over to him.”

  Dalgliesh bent by the dead man. The eyes still seemed to hold their last look of wild surprise. The wound was a neat grumous slit in the low heavy forehead, so unremarkable that it could have been used for a forensic ballistics demonstration of the effect of discharge at six feet. There were no powder marks, as yet little blood, only the soiling of the skin by the spin of the bullet. It was a precise, almost decorative stigma giving no clue to the destructive tumult within.

  Julius said:

  “That settles the score for my smashed marble. Is there an exit wound?”

  Gently Dalgliesh turned the heavy head.

  “No. You must have hit a bone.”

  “That’s what I intended. Two bullets left. But this is a bonus, Commander. You were wrong about my being the last person to see you alive. I shall drive away to establish my alibi and, in the eyes of the police, the last person to see you alive will have been Philby, a criminal with a propensity to violence. Two bodies in the sea with bullet wounds. A pistol, licensed, I may say, stolen from my bedside drawer. Let the police concoct a theory to explain that. It shouldn’t be difficult. Is there any blood?”

  “Not yet. There will be. But not much.”

  “I’ll remember that. It will be easy enough to wipe it from this linoleum. Get that plastic hood from Carwardine’s bust of Wilfred and tie it over his head. Use his own tie. And hurry. I shall be just six paces behind you. And if I get impatient I might feel it worthwhile doing my own work.”

  Hooded with white plastic, his wound a third eye, Philby was transformed into an inert guy, its bulging body grotesquely stuffed into a dapper undersized suit, its tie askew under the clownish features. Julius said:

  “Now get one of the lighter wheelchairs.”

  He motioned Dalgliesh once again towards the workroom and followed, always a careful six feet behind. Three folded chairs were standing against the wall. Dalgliesh prized one open and wheeled it in beside the body. There would be finger prints to find here. But what did they prove? This might even be the chair in which he had wheeled Grace Willison.

  “Now get him into it.”

  As Dalgliesh hesitated he said, allowing his voice a trace of controlled impatience:

  “I don’t want to have to manage two bodies alone. But I can if I need to. There’s a hoist in the bathroom. If you can’t lift him unaided, then get it. But I thought they taught policemen useful little knacks like this.”

  Dalgliesh managed without the hoist. But it wasn’t easy. The wheel brakes slid on the linoleum and it took more than two minutes before the heavy, unresponsive body slumped back against the canvas. Dalgliesh had succeeded in gaining some time but at a cost; he had lost strength. He knew that he would stay alive just as long as his mind with its store of dreadfully appropriate experience, and his physical strength could be used by Julius. It would be inconvenient for Julius to have to carry two bodies to the cliff edge, but it could be done. Toynton Grange had facilities for moving inert bodies. At present Dalgliesh was less of an encumbrance alive than dead, but the margin was dangerously narrow; there was no sense in reducing it further. The optimum moment for action would come, and it would come for both of them. Both of them were waiting for it, Dalgliesh to attack, Julius to shoot. Both knew the cost of a mistake in recognizing that moment. Two bullets left and he had to ensure that neither of them ended in his body. And as long as Julius kept his distance and held the gun he was inviolable. Somehow Dalgliesh had to draw him close enough for physical contact. Somehow he had to divert that concentration if only for a fraction of a second.

  Julius said:

  “And now we’ll take a walk together to Toynton Cottage.”

  He still kept his careful distance behind as Dalgliesh wheeled the chair with its grotesque burden down the ramp of the front door and across the headland. The sky was a grey suffocating blanket pressing down on them. The close air was harsh and metallic on the tongue and smelt as strong as rotting seaweed. In the half-light the pebbles on the path glittered like semi-precious stones. Half way across the headland Dalgliesh heard a high querulous wail and, looking back, saw that Jeoffrey was following them, tail erect. The cat padded behind Julius for another fifty yards and then, as unpredictably as he had appeared, turned tail and made off for home. Julius, his unblinking eyes on Dalgliesh’s back, seemed to notice neither his arrival nor his departure. They walked on in silence. Philby’s head had fallen back, his neck collared by the canvas of the chair. His cyclops wound, gummed to the plastic, stared into Dalgliesh’s face in what seemed mute reproach. The path was dry. Looking down Dalgliesh saw that the wheels made only an imperceptible thread on the patches of dry turf and the dusty, gritty path. And behind him he could hear Julius’s shoes scuffing the marks into oblivion. There would be no useful evidence left here.

  And now they stood on the stone patio. It seemed to shake under their feet with the thunder of the waves as if earth and sea anticipated the coming storm. But the tide was ebbing. No curtain of spray rose between them and the cliff edge. Dalgliesh knew that it was the moment of great danger. He made himself laugh aloud, and
wondered whether the sound rang as false to Julius’s ears as it did to his own.

  “Why so amused?”

  “It’s easy to see that your killing is normally done at a distance, a commercial transaction merely. You propose to hurl us into the sea at your own back door, a broad enough hint for even the stupidest detective constable. And they won’t be putting stupid officers on this crime. Your cleaning woman is expected this morning isn’t she? And this is one part of the coast with a beach, even at high tide. I thought you wanted to delay discovery of the bodies.”

  “She won’t come out here. She never does.”

  “How do you know what she does when you aren’t here? She may shake the dusters over the cliff. It may even be her habit to paddle. But have it your own way. I’m merely pointing out that your only hope of success—and I don’t rate it high—is to delay discovery of our bodies. No one will start looking for Philby until the pilgrimage returns in three days’ time. If you get rid of my car it will be even longer before they start looking for me. That gives you opportunity to dispose of this consignment of heroin before the hunt is up, assuming you still intend to let Lerner bring it in. But don’t let me interfere.”

  Julius’s hand on the gun did not waver. As if considering a proposition for a picnic site, he said:

  “You’re right, of course. You ought to go into deep water and further along the coast. The best place is the black tower. The sea will be still washing the cliffs there. We’ve got to get him to the tower.”

  “How? He must weigh over twelve stone. I can’t push him unaided up the cliff edge. You’ll hardly be much help if you walk behind with a gun in my back. And what about wheel marks?”

  “The rain will finish those. And we shan’t go up the headland. We’ll drive along the coast road and approach the tower over the cliff as we did when we rescued Anstey. Once the couple of you are in the boot of the car I’ll watch for Mrs. Reynolds through my glasses. She cycles in from Toynton village, and she’s always exactly on time. We ought to plan to meet her just outside the boundary gate. I’ll stop and let her know that I shan’t be back for dinner. That pleasant minute of ordinary conversation should impress the coroner if they ever get your bodies to an inquest. And eventually, the tedious business over, I’ll drive off to Dorchester for an early luncheon.”

  “With the wheelchair and the plastic hood in the boot?”

  “With the chair and the hood locked in the boot. I shall establish an alibi for the whole of today and return to Toynton Grange this evening. And I shan’t forget to wash the plastic hood before replacing it, dust the chair to remove your prints and examine the floor for bloodstains. And, of course, retrieve the cartridge case. Were you hoping I would overlook that? Don’t worry, Commander. I do realize that, by then, I’ll be planning without your valuable assistance, but thanks to you, I shall have a day or two to work out the details. One of two sophistications attract me. I’m wondering if I could make use of the smashed marble. Couldn’t that be worked in to provide the motive for Philby’s murderous attack on you?”

  “I should keep it simple.”

  “Perhaps you’re right. My first two murders were models of simplicity and none the worse for it. Now get him into the boot of the Mercedes. It’s parked at the back. But first through into the scullery. You’ll find two sheets in the washing machine. Take the one from the top. I don’t want fibres and shoe dust in the car.”

  “Won’t Mrs. Reynolds notice that one is missing?”

  “She washes and irons tomorrow. A woman of strict routine. By this evening I shall have replaced it. Don’t waste time.”

  Julius’s mind must be registering every second, thought Dalgliesh, yet his voice betrayed no anxiety. Not once did he glance at his watch, or even at the clock on the kitchen wall. He kept his eyes and the muzzle of the Luger on his victim. Somehow that concentration had to be broken. And the time was running out.

  The Mercedes was parked outside the stone garage. Under Julius’s direction Dalgliesh raised the unlocked lid of the boot and spread the creased sheet over the floor. It was an easy matter to tumble Philby’s body from the wheelchair. Dalgliesh folded the chair and placed it on top of the body. Julius said:

  “Now get in beside him.”

  Could this be the best opportunity, the last opportunity even, to act; here outside Julius’s own cottage with the murdered man in his car and the evidence plain? But plain to whom? Dalgliesh knew that if he sprang on Julius now he would gain nothing but a second’s release from frustration and anger before the bullet hit him. Two bodies instead of one would be driven to the black tower and tumbled into deep water. In his mind’s eye he could see Julius poised in solitary triumph on the edge of the cliff, the gun curving through the air like a falling bird to cleave the tumbling waves, beneath which two bodies were being torn and tugged by the ebbing tide. The plan would go ahead. A little more tedious, taking longer since there would be two bodies to wheel unaided across the headland. But who was there to prevent it? Certainly not Mrs. Reynolds even now cycling along the road from Toynton village. And if she suspected, if she even mentioned casually when she dismounted to greet Julius on the road that she had heard what sounded like a shot? Then there were still two bullets left in the gun. And he was no longer sure that Julius was sane.

  But there was at least something he could do at this moment, something he had planned to do. But it wasn’t going to be easy. He had hoped that, for a couple of seconds at least, the raised lid of the boot would have partly screened him from Julius’s view. But Julius was standing immediately behind the car; Dalgliesh was in full view. But there was one advantage. The grey eyes never flickered, dared not flicker from his face. If he were quick and cunning, if he were lucky, he might bring it off. He placed his hands as if casually on his hips. He could feel the slight weight of his thin leather wallet in his back trouser pocket lying curved against his buttock. Julius said with dangerous quietness:

  “I said get in on top of him. I’m not risking driving with you any closer.”

  Dalgliesh’s right thumb and forefinger twisted at the pocket button. Thank God the button hole was reasonably loose. He said:

  “Then you’d better drive fast unless you want to have a corpse dead of suffocation to explain.”

  “A night or two in the sea and your lungs will be too waterlogged for that kind of diagnosis.”

  The button was undone now. He insinuated his right forefinger and thumb gently into the top of the pocket and grasped the wallet. Everything now depended on its sliding out easily, on his being able to drop it unseen behind the wheel of the car. He said:

  “They won’t, you know. The PM will show perfectly clearly that I was dead before I hit the water.”

  “And so you will be, with a bullet in your body. Given that, I doubt whether they’ll look for signs of suffocation. But thank you for the warning. I’ll drive fast. Now get in.”

  Dalgliesh shrugged his shoulders and bent with sudden energy to get into the boot as if momentarily relinquishing hope. He rested his left hand on the bumper. Here, at least, there would be a palm mark which would be difficult to explain. But then he remembered. He had rested his palm on the bumper when loading the shepherd’s crook, the sacks and the besom into the boot. It was only a small discouragement but it depressed him. He let his right hand dangle and the leather slipped from his finger and thumb to fall under the right wheel. No dangerously quiet word of command followed. Julius neither spoke nor moved, and he was still alive. With luck he would stay alive now until they reached the black tower. He smiled at the irony that his heart should now rejoice at a gift which a short month ago he had so grudgingly welcomed.

  The boot lid slammed down. He was cramped in total blackness, total silence. He felt a second of claustrophobic panic, the irresistible urge to stretch his curled body and batter his clenched hands against the metal. The car did not move. Julius would be free now to check his timing. Philby’s body lay heavily against him. He could smell the d
ead man as if he still breathed, an amalgam of grease, mothballs and sweat, the air of the boot was hot with his presence. He felt a moment of guilt that Philby was dead; he alive. Could he have saved him by calling out a warning? It could only have resulted, he knew, in both their deaths. Philby would have come on; must have come on. And even if he had turned and run, Julius would have followed and disposed of him. But now the feel of the cold moist flesh pressing against him, the hairs on the limp wrist sharp as bristles, pricked him like a reproach. The car rocked gently and began to move.

  He had no means of knowing if Julius had seen the wallet and removed it; he thought it unlikely. But would Mrs. Reynolds find it? It was lying in her path. She would almost certainly dismount from her bicycle outside the garage. If she did find it, then he guessed she would have no rest until it was returned. He thought of his own Mrs. Mack, a Metropolitan police constable’s widow who cleaned and occasionally cooked for him; of her almost obsessive honesty, her meticulous concern for her employer’s belongings, the perpetual explanatory notes about missing laundry, the increased cost of shopping, a mislaid cuff link. No, Mrs. Reynolds wouldn’t rest with the wallet in her possession. He had cashed a cheque on his last visit to Dorchester; the three ten pound notes, the bundle of credit cards, his police warrant, all would particularly worry her. She would probably waste some time going to Hope Cottage. Not finding him there, what then? His guess was that she would ring the local police, terrified that he might discover his loss before she had reported it. And the police? If he were lucky they would see the incongruity of a wallet dropped so conveniently in her path. Suspicious or not, they would be courteous enough to get in touch with him at once. They might find it worthwhile ringing Toynton Grange since the cottage was not on the telephone. They would discover that the telephone was inexplicably out of order. It was at least an even chance that they would think it worthwhile sending a patrol car, and if one were reasonably close it could come quickly. Logically, one action must follow another. And he had one piece of luck. Mrs. Reynolds, he remembered, was the village constable’s widow. At least she wouldn’t be afraid of using the telephone, would know whom to ring. His life depended on her seeing the wallet. A few square inches of brown leather on the paved courtyard. And the light was darkening under the storm-laden sky.