“That is confirmed,” Greaves intruded. “Mrs. Wise is sure of the time of his call. We all accept that.”
“We agree on something! Fine. So he claims he’s so worried about her safety that he dashes out of that phone box and leaves his present behind. Have you ever heard…of course he didn’t! It was already tied round the throat of Miss Philomena Wise, that’s why.”
I had difficulty in dragging my eyes from Filey’s face, but I had to keep a wary eye on Art. He’d already heard all this from me, so he’d had time to examine it in his mind and admit to himself it had a certain validity. And Art was falling apart. Ahead of Filey in his exposition, he was also ahead in his reactions to it. Terror gripped Art. His eyes met mine in appeal, and with something of an accusation. I shook my head. It seemed to make him worse.
I had missed a few words, but it didn’t seem to matter. Greaves was saying, “…but we know all this, Mr. Filey. What we don’t know is why he went to the house if he’d killed her. Why he wouldn’t simply disappear, taking his scarf with him. Can you explain that?”
“What you’re doing,” Filey told him with condescension, “is letting the scarf confuse you. What is this scarf, anyway? A magic scarf? Something the genie kept in his bottle to polish the inside of the glass? It was in two places at once, according to what this genius here told you. But in fact it was in only one. Round her neck. But he couldn’t just run away and leave it, because he was caught in his own little trap. And,” he said heavily, “he couldn’t take it away with him.”
“May we hear your theory?” asked Greaves politely.
Filey flicked the peak of his cap with his thumb, then he turned to face Art, walked towards him, and stood one pace away, holding out his right hand. “Let’s have it, laddie.”
Art stared at him, mesmerised. “What?”
“Your blade, your knife, wherever you’ve got it hidden.”
Wild triumph lit Art’s dulled eyes. Innocence of this charge he could assert with confidence. “Don’t be stupid, I never carry one.”
“Never?”
“Y’ think I’m crazy!” Art cried.
Filey smiled. Then he turned back to face Greaves, calmly presenting his unprotected back. “There! He never carries a knife. Don’t you see?”
“It’s cold. Can we get on with it?”
Slowly and gently, so as not to catch Filey’s eye, I began to edge sideways along the wall.
In marked contrast to his previous attitude, the sign of a born orator, Filey modulated his voice to a spurious solemnity. “He went to meet her. He’d assume she couldn’t wait to see his smiling face again. He did meet her, at that patch of woodland, and he offered her his present. She unwrapped it while she told him she’d found somebody more appealing. Maybe she draped the scarf round her neck.”
He half turned and threw his voice into the wind at Art. “And what then? It’d need only a cross-armed grab at the ends of the scarf, and a yank, and a double knot…”
With contempt he turned his back to Art again. Art’s legs were failing him. Only his grip on the wall kept him upright.
“And there’s your answer, Mr. Greaves.”
Greaves looked puzzled. “Where?”
A hint of impatience sharpened Filey’s voice. “The reason he did all the rest, running back to the phone to make that call, then to the house. You see, he couldn’t untie the scarf, and he doesn’t carry a knife.” Without glancing round this time, he raised his voice to a shout. “Care to disprove that, Torrance?”
The offer of his back was for Art to prove that he carried one. Art clung to the wall.
“So he had to make up that stupid story,” Filey explained to Greaves. “For God’s sake, it all fits!”
Greaves didn’t seem convinced. He was moodily tapping the pipe against his heel, and spoke down to it. “I’m not satisfied.”
Filey lifted his chin. “All right, then, if you don’t want to do it, I will. We’ll argue about it later.” He whirled to face Art. “Arthur Torrance, I’m arresting you for…” The words pressed against the wind.
“No!” Art croaked, forcing himself firmer into the wall. “You can’t…”
Then he had turned and was hoisting himself up, the spray framing him as he slipped and fumbled frantically. I’d already started moving. I dived for his legs and caught them, but he was kicking and screaming hysterically. My left shoulder went painfully into the wall, and he toppled down on me, like a peeled clam from a wet wall. I hung on, then I felt him being hauled to his feet, and I pulled myself up his body until I reached an arm. Lucy had her fingers clasped on his other one. I spoke quickly into Art’s ear. “Be quiet, you young fool. Say nothing.”
He turned to face me, but without recognition. It was too late to reason with him. He mouthed something, but it came out all burbling with sea water. His eyes were wild, hunting for a way out.
Filey stood in front of him as we held him. There was no way Art could avoid the lashing of his tongue.
“Arthur Torrance, I am charging you with the murder of Philomena Wise. You do not have to say anything, but anything you do say will be taken down and may be used in evidence. Have you anything to say?”
And Filey’s eyes were as wild as Art’s.
I could see no sign of notebooks. Nothing was being taken down. Greaves had moved forward a few feet, but seemed unimpressed.
Art said nothing. He felt stiff and tense in my hands. He spat sea water at Filey. I think.
“There now,” said Filey with satisfaction. Then, in his relaxation after the effort, he took it one move too far. “We’ll put you away for life. Maybe in Gartree. You’ll like that, Torrance. All your old friends’ll be there. Such as Carl Packer.”
It was the wrong thing to say to Art at that time. For a moment I thought we were going to lose him. In blind fury he nearly had us off our feet in his effort to get at Filey, who was smiling thinly and waiting for it. But we held on, until I felt a shudder run through Art, and something seemed to slip from him.
“All right!” he shouted, then he managed to go on more quietly. “Then you can take this down. If you can write. Are y’ listenin’, Filey? Put me away for Phillie, an’ I don’t care what else you do. I might just as well go down for the other. Two for the price of one. I killed your copper, Filey. Not Packer. Me. Get it? I’m admitting to the shooting of poor old Ted Adamson. Now charge me for that.”
There was a whole tangle of emotions involved in this outpouring. Say this for Art, he was a quick thinker. Part of it was the pleasure of throwing it in Filey’s face. Anything to get back at him in some way—and indeed it would raise problems for Filey. And lurking in there were the trap jaws represented by Packer. Art was also not forgetting that he would probably get both sentences to run concurrently. Two for the price of one, as he’d said. All this I could see. But what really surprised me was his reference to poor old Ted Adamson. Art had carried it with him, his horror and revulsion for what he’d done.
Filey’s reaction was even more unexpected. “What’s the matter with you, you young fool?” he demanded, waving his arms in Art’s face. “You cretinous oaf—what d’you think you’re doing?”
Greaves put in, “He’s admitting to killing your constable, Mr. Filey. That’s your case. Your patch. So, for that one, you can make the charge. This one too,” he added thoughtfully.
Filey dismissed this with an angry gesture. “I’ve got Packer put away for that. D’you think I want him out?”
“It’s an admission. Act on it.”
Filey stared at Art with exaggerated admiration. “Didn’t I tell you he’s cute. The young bugger’s trying it on. One of his tricks. Blurring the issue. Don’t let him distract you, Greaves. Charge him for Philomena Wise.”
“You’ve already done that.”
“I withdraw that charge. It’s your case.”
“You withdraw? But, Mr. Filey—think. Such a splendid theory shouldn’t go to waste. D’you want me to prepare a case for the DPP, even
when I’ve got no faith in it?” Greaves was calm. The more he said, the more moderate and ponderous his voice became.
“I’ll help you with it, for Chrissake!” Then Filey abuptly controlled himself. His voice moderated. “Let’s get him inside, then we can argue about it.”
Filey had his back to Greaves and was facing us, so that it was perhaps only I who could detect the satisfaction on Filey’s face. I would’ve said he’d been defeated in his intentions, but apparently not. I was beginning to realise that this scene was as false as the one he’d played with me in Dorothy Mann’s office. He’d been after something, and it appeared he’d got it. It was just that I couldn’t imagine what it might be.
Greaves scratched the side of his nose with his pipe stem. “I’d have said yours has precedence, you know. After all, yours was the death of a police officer. After you, Mr. Filey.”
Filey turned to him, annoyed by this persistence. “I don’t want him. Didn’t you hear me? I’ve got Carl Packer.”
“But if we leave him free, he’ll be on to the Sunday papers, seeing who’ll make the biggest bid. Can you just imagine it! I KILLED A COPPER AND GOT AWAY WITH IT. They pay well, you know.”
“But he won’t be free to do that, will he!” said Filey heavily. “Not if you arrest him for killing Philomena Wise.”
“Oh, I can’t do that.” Greaves shook his head shaggily. “You see, it’s not finished. I’ve only got a small team, and we haven’t completed our enquiries. Somebody might just have seen him leave the scarf in the phone booth. What a lot of fools we’d look…” He left it hanging there, and tried drawing on his cold pipe. His face was very serious, having worked its way there during his speech.
Filey was breathing deeply through his nose. “Then you don’t intend to detain him?”
“There’s nowhere he can run to.”
For a few moments Filey stared blindly into Greaves’s bland face, then he stalked quickly past him, past the police cars, and out into the street.
Art gabbled, “Me! What about me?”
“Nothing about you, son. We’ll get round to you later, but don’t try to go anywhere. Otherwise I’ll play safe and put you in custody. Do I make myself clear?” Then he nodded to the two constables and ambled away towards his car.
Lucy and I released Art’s arms. He still seemed dazed. Then slowly his legs gave way and he went down on his knees and put his hands over his face. I could see his shoulders shaking.
Lucy said softly, “Look after him, Paul.” She meant keep an eye on him.
I nodded. Her eyes flashed at me, then she walked away after her boss. I watched her go. There was a spring to her step, and knowing I was watching she put a swing to her bottom. I bent and put a hand beneath Art’s arm.
“It’s past opening time. Let’s see if we can get a drink.”
He struggled shakily to his feet, wiping the back of his free hand across his lips. “Where?” he croaked.
“The hotel. Where we had lunch. Come on. We’re making an exhibition of ourselves here.”
I hadn’t before noticed, but now I saw that the seemingly deserted village had spawned a multitude of heads, which stuck up above the two side walls and the roadside one. Theatre in the square, so to speak. There were faces, too, at the upper windows of the hotel.
“Let’s go, Art.”
“Yeah. Sure.” He shook my hand off, and together we walked out, and the populace, robbed of an exciting suicide, drifted away before us.
Art wasn’t saying anything. From time to time he juddered, though it could have been from cold. I paused at the entrance to the hotel’s car-park, which was a narrow opening beside the building and came to an abrupt halt at the rear, where it faced a vertical wall of rock. Backed in and parked there, at the far end, was Dorothy’s Fiat two-seater.
We walked into the lobby. What had been deserted when we first visited now buzzed with excited chatter, which stopped as we entered. They rustled aside, feet shuffling. We were the heroes of the hour. The manager was present, managing not quite to bow.
“Is the bar open?” I asked.
“Certainly, sir. To your right, through there.”
The bar was not only open, it was bouncing with custom. Strained nerves were being soothed, and hearty voices were engaged in a replay, like football fans reorganising fact. At our entrance the voices gradually faded, and there was a listening silence. Now they had access to the truth. I didn’t need to raise my voice.
“A brandy for my friend, and a dry ginger ale for me.” I reckoned I was going to need all my wits in full running order.
We took our drinks to a corner table. When it became clear that nothing exciting was going to happen, the attention drifted away from us. I drank. Art downed half his brandy, and choked.
“What’s this stuff?” he asked, obviously never having encountered it before.
“Brandy. Medicinal.”
“Yeah? I bet.” But his voice was stronger, and already the colour was flowing to his cheeks and the end of his nose.
“All right if I leave you for a minute?” I asked.
“It’s just off the lobby. I noticed.”
“Not that. Somebody I want a word with. Okay?”
“Sure. Take your time.” His wits had recovered sufficiently to enable him to realise he was in an ideal situation for free drinks. He flicked me a grin. “I’m fine now.”
He hadn’t yet realised that his position was still unresolved. Greaves, whatever Filey’s attitude might be, would not be able to ignore Art’s admission of having killed Ted Adamson. For now, he might be prepared to leave Art hanging, but eventually, when he had more time, he would have Art in, and have a few very serious words with him. Art’s movements were not going to be as free as Greaves had suggested. Sure, he was fine now. Let him believe it would continue.
And I was beginning to see some direction to Filey’s efforts. He knew exactly what he was doing. The pressure he’d been applying need not have been aimed at Art.
So I left him. Dot—I was becoming used to the name—not being in the bar, was most likely to be in the lounge. I hunted it out, half a glass of medicinal Canada Dry in my fist, and there she was, on a red plush corner seat with a coffee tray on the table before her. She was alone. I went across and, without permission, altered that.
“Heh there!” I said. “How are things with you?”
The chair I drew forward was no more comfortable than the Hepplewhite at the Wise’s.
Fifteen
I had spoken cheerfully, though in fact she didn’t appear to be at the peak of her form. Her face was pinched with strain—or weeping.
“Paul,” she said shortly, merely acknowledging my presence. “I’m glad you found me.” But she didn’t sound pleased.
“I spotted your car. Are you staying here now?”
“Temporarily. I couldn’t stand it any more at the house.”
“But you were a friend of their daughter.”
“Hardly that.” She shook her head, but with too much emphasis.
She was not relaxing. I tried to think of an amusing remark to lighten the gloom, but nothing came.
“I wanted to see you,” she went on. “There’s something I have to tell you.”
“I had an idea there might be.”
Her eyes seemed startled for a moment. “How could you know…”
“Things that’ve been said, attitudes, allusions.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” she demanded, more acid in her voice than I deserved, I thought.
“You must have seen. And maybe heard, I’d have thought. What went on outside,” I prompted. “In the car-park. If you didn’t see, you’re about the only one around here.”
“I saw and I heard. But it wasn’t that.”
“Filey took it too far. He’s too anxious to make his arrests.”
She moved her shoulders slightly. “Yes, I saw it from my window upstairs. I had it open, so I heard snatches. As the wind caught it, you know. File
y’s a fool. He always did push too hard. But, Paul, do listen please. That isn’t important.”
I had never seen her face so grave, even worried. There were lines on her forehead that were new to me, and she certainly hadn’t taken much trouble with her hair.
“Not important! You must’ve missed most of it. Art was definitely telling the truth about the scarf, and that means—”
“Paul,” she said firmly. “Please stop jabbering and listen. I want to tell you something else.”
“Oh? Say on.”
She flinched at the hint of flippancy, but it involved no more than a corner of her lips. She wasn’t in the mood.
“Paul, I wanted to tell you that I’m getting away from all this as soon as I can. Away from here. Away—anywhere.”
And that was it. Nothing to add, nothing to be taken away. I thought about it, sipping my drink.
There was now no valid intention, in the minds of either of us, to travel together to America. But was she simply running away? If so, from what? What I could see in her face could well be a suppressed fear.
I looked up, to find her eyes on me. “Will they let you leave?”
She shrugged, grimacing. “I’m not about to ask for permission. Nobody needs me here. Paul—I’ve got to get away.”
I looked at her from beneath lowered eyelids. “Away from what?”
“Not from you, Paul.” She allowed herself a small moue of amusement. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“I don’t. I’ve never been good at frightening women.”
She bit her lower lip, a comment suppressed. I gave it a few moments, but she seemed to have said all she intended.
“Then it’s as well I caught you,” I went on. “You see, there’s something I’m sure you can tell me.”
“If I can help you, you know I will.” This was on a give-and-take level, and she was clearly relieved I’d changed the subject.
“It’s just that you and Philomena had become friends, sort of, and if she’d confided in anybody I’m sure it would’ve been you.”
“Not necessarily.” A shutter was lowering. “I’ve already told you all I know.”
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