George moved. I glanced at him warningly. Let him tell it his own way! Abbott was staring straight forward now, his face blank, his voice blunt with a hushed wonder.
‘I opened the car door. Not locked. No point. Threw my gun cases on the back seat. You do … you carry on, you know, like things are normal. You’d think there’d be some sense of … but I couldn’t know.’ His voice sank. It was a growl of outrage now, in his throat. ‘Only … the inside light came on. He was … in the passenger’s seat, a man with his face against the fascia, against the clock. You know … ’
‘About the clock, yes.’
‘And there … there was a bullet hole in the back of his neck.’
‘You’d recognize a bullet hole?’
‘I’ve seen so many thousands … ’
‘In a person?’
He choked. ‘God … no. But I knew. And blood … blood splashed all over the instruments. I … I tried to lift him. Tried. I don’t know why. He was dead. How could he be alive? So much blood! He was soaked. I couldn’t … kind of twisted … you can’t — and he was heavy. I lifted … ’ A hiss from between his teeth. ‘Tried to see his face. But it … I couldn’t recognize any face. And the blood all on me, my hands. I think I must have cried out. I don’t remember. It was as though somebody had struck me. Nothing … nothing worked. My legs … I got out and stood … and … and … ’
‘Is there a phone inside the building?’
‘Yes.’
‘So you called the police.’
‘No,’ he whispered. ‘No. I walked home.’
The car rocked as George stirred. ‘You walked away?’
Silence. Abbott clasped his knees and shook his head, and waited. George spoke gently, exploring.
‘You left a man’s body in your open car, with your cases of guns on the back seat, when you’d been firing the damned things all night!’ George’s eyes were on mine. I raised my eyebrows, so he went on. ‘And did you tell the police this?’ He paused, but there was no reaction. ‘All right. It’s obvious they found him without your help. When did they find him?’
This time Abbott found the pause too agonizing. ‘I phoned them from home.’
‘When?’
‘The next morning. Very early. I was … in a state of collapse when I got home. Blood all over me. I don’t know what Bella thought. I could barely speak. Shivering. My jaw wouldn’t keep still. I was … very ill,’ he explained with passive dignity, not reaching for sympathy. ‘Would you believe … my wife, Bella, she actually thought — well, thinks, I suppose — that I shot him.’
‘Do you find that so surprising?’ I asked.
‘Does any person really know another? I don’t understand anything any more. Don’t know where I stand in life. Confused. That’s why I phoned you. I feel as though my brain’s hanging by a thread. And Bella … I can’t fathom her. My wife — I catch her staring at me — and I don’t … ’ He drew in his lower lip, shaking his head to dispel the image.
‘But the police haven’t made a move?’ I asked. ‘They’ll have questioned you — yes. Impounded your car and your two guns. But, nothing more than that?’
His little laugh was more a cough. ‘Not so far. You see, they don’t know who he is. I gather, from what they said, that he was carrying absolutely nothing personal, only a bunch of keys and his watch. Nothing.’ Then he whispered: ‘Do you mind if I smoke in your car?’
As his eyes were on me I said he should go ahead and while he went through the ritual I held a short and silent discussion with George. Me, we decided.
‘You must realize,’ I said, ‘that it’s obvious you recognized him. There must have been something important enough for you to have walked away from it. And you must have hinted who he was, otherwise there could be no reason for your wife to suspect you of having killed him. You do see the logic of this?’ He simply stared, the cigarette drifting smoke from between his fingers. ‘You knew him, and you had a motive for killing him, and inevitably the police will discover all this. Mr Abbott, if you want help … ’
He moved his head in a small gesture of authority, silencing me. ‘I told you he was beyond recognition.’ His voice was stronger. ‘But — from the set of his shoulders, the shape of his head — you know what I mean, from those … and impressions, I suppose, I thought I knew who it was. And that’d explain, possibly, that he’d been waiting for me in the car — to talk, argue, shout his profanities.’
‘Waited in your car,’ George grumbled. ‘But you mentioned car-keys. All he had on him. So why, if he wanted to speak to you, shouldn’t he drive up and park and wait in his car?’
But George was getting too far ahead. I cut in before Abbott could become involved in that.
‘And who did you think it was?’
‘A man called Charles Colmore. He married my ex-wife. We were divorced six years ago. I’ve always hated him.’ Realizing the uncompromising tone of that statement, he went on quickly. ‘You must realize, I’m not a very good hater. Not aggressive. My colleagues tell me I’d have gone further in my career with a bit more push. But they mean aggression. I prefer people to like me. It makes life easier, more pleasant. It’s a weakness, I know. Call it cowardice … But people don’t even understand themselves. I hated Colmore and that’s it. He’s the only man who’s ever made me seriously consider violence. My hatred was a reaction to his, I suppose. But — I did not kill him.’
‘But you could have done?’
‘In self-defence, possibly.’
‘It’s very difficult to prove a negative, you know.’
‘I wouldn’t expect too much.’ Which had probably been his philosophy in life, not expecting too much, so as not to face the disappointment of failure. It would explain his lack of confidence.
‘What had you in mind?’
‘I want you to find proof that I did not leave that clubhouse between eight and ten.’
‘It could be impossible. And the incident was so close. You’d only need to have walked outside and the twenty yards to your car.’
He pounced on that eagerly, obviously having given it some thought. ‘But he couldn’t possibly have failed to see me coming. And he was shot from behind … ’
Pitiful, it was. These gullible souls leave themselves wide-open. I put it to him gently.
‘But if he was waiting to speak to you — if you saw him there, from that window — and if you had your gun you could have gone out to him. Could have slid into the back seat, as though to talk. You hated him so much that it’d be painful to sit beside him. And if you’d had your gun hidden inside your belt, and … ’
‘Of course I could,’ he cried, surprising me. ‘But as I did not, then I’m asking you to prove the truth, that I did not leave that building between eight and ten.’
‘You’re asking the impossible. You were alone.’
‘Not all the time.’ His eyes left mine. ‘I had a visitor.’
‘Then why didn’t you say?’
‘I was trying to manage without. I was ashamed — of my reaction to him. It shocked me. A young man. No covering to his face, quite open and arrogant about it. Slim, six feet or so, with a long face and a shock of blond hair and big ears under it. I was reloading the Walther magazine, turning away from the targets, and all of a sudden there he was, in the opening of the glass partition. Standing there with his feet apart and waving one of those stupid imitation plastic guns. You can tell, from the way the hand moves. He said something ridiculous about seeing me shooting. But he was almost incoherent. The stance was exactly what you see in a Western — he’d have been around twenty.’
‘What did he want?’
‘Well … obviously. What they all want now. Something to boost them, to lift them one rung above their contemporaries. A weapon. He wanted my guns! As though I’d have let him have them! Even if he’d been holding a shotgun, never!’
‘And what did you do?’
‘I shot the tip off his left ear-lobe.’
There was si
lence. It was becoming warm inside the car. George broke it at last.
‘Some shot.’
‘With a target pistol at ten yards? No. But I was ashamed.’
‘Ashamed or not, it sent him packing.’
‘That I’d fallen to his level — using the gun to establish my superiority. Did I need anything against a stupid youngster who was clearly terrified of what he was trying to do?’
‘And you think this will help?’ I asked.
‘It was at two minutes past nine.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘There’s a clock on the wall. It was right behind his head. In fact, if I’d chosen his other ear, the bullet would have gone on and shattered it.’
‘What’s so wonderful about nine o’clock?’ George demanded.
‘If you could find him … ’
‘It’d only be a couple of minutes in the middle of two hours.’
‘All the same … ’
‘And if we found him,’ said George heavily, ‘and he was good enough to confirm it to the police, then where’d you be? That’s criminal assault and you wouldn’t get away with it by pleading self-defence. You’d lose your weapons licence and about two years of your life.’
‘A last resort,’ he murmured.
‘To be produced,’ I asked, ‘only if the police make a charge?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Like it?’
‘Very well, then.’ He bristled. ‘Exactly it. I’m frightened. Anything could happen at any time. I want something to fall back on.’
‘This youth?’
‘If it has to be.’
I couldn’t understand him. This young layabout wasn’t going to cover more than five minutes out of two hours and it all sounded very unreal to me. I wasn’t listening too attentively as George did the wind-up and sent him home, after we’d got this chap Colmore’s address.
We drove back to the Mid-M Motel on the link road, where we’d already booked in, and tossed for it. I won and chose what I thought would be the easy part, roaming the pubs for a blond youth with one ear-lobe missing. George went off to Bentley Hall to interview Abbott’s ex-wife and discover whether she had now become a widow.
I was assuming that Abbott was simply seizing on the interlude with the youth in a spirit of desperation. At that time I had no knowledge that the time of death was also nine o’clock. You’ll appreciate that, when I did know, it became a burning necessity to see Abbott again as soon as possible.
The Porsche was unharmed in the dark alleyway. I’d lied to Miller; I had been driving. He must have known I was lying if he’d been observing my progress that evening. Perhaps Miller needed watching, I thought. Deep, he must have been.
Abbott had given us a rather vague address: ‘The split-level bungalow on the rise to the south of town, about three miles out.’ He’d seemed determined that we should not go there and meet his wife. But he’d given us two phone numbers — home and office. I wondered what he’d had to say to us that was not for his wife’s ears.
Three miles out of town, and there was still no rise, only a steady one. I couldn’t help imagining Abbott dragging himself up there that Tuesday night. I drove on. It must have been near midnight. Possibly Abbott had retired to bed. If so, I’d knock him up, if only to tell him we were abandoning the case unless he came out with a little more truth.
It was deceptive. From the road the bungalow looked like any other, the split turning out to be on the far side, the rise being at the back. I made a certain amount of noise running up his long, curved drive. The Porsche has a healthy exhaust. I wanted him to know I was there.
But the front of the bungalow was dark and silent. I climbed out and looked round. He had a fair-sized piece of land, but it was flat and bare, with no shrubs or trees to break the line. The building itself was wide, with two up-and-over garages at the far reach of the drive’s curve and level with what must have been the bedroom windows. Still no sound … but yes. I listened. A piano from the rear, clearly. Abbott had not retired. I pushed his bell-button, stepped back and listened. The piano continued.
A light sprang in the hall. I realized how wide that hall was, the glass panelling each side of the door being a good eight feet across. A carriage lantern came on at the side of it.
‘Yes?’ said Abbott uneasily. ‘Oh, it’s you.’ No welcome at all.
‘I’ve got to speak to you.’ Seeing his hesitation: ‘Tonight.’
‘Then I suppose you’d better come in.’
The hall continued the same width all the way through to the rear of the house, though with a downward flight of full-width stairs halfway along. At the foot of them we were in a wide, spacious living-room. There was no doorway. The piano music had by then identified itself as a Chopin study, though I wasn’t sure which one, and not the radio as I’d thought. The playing was precise and to a high standard technically, but it had no feeling. It was being treated as a five-finger exercise.
The only two lights were a wall light above an easy-chair, which I guessed Abbott had just vacated, and a standard lamp beside the upright Bechstein at which a slim, dark woman was still playing with concentration. There was no sign that Abbott had been occupied in any other way than sitting … and waiting.
‘This is my wife, Bella,’ said Abbott softly.
She was critically aware of my presence, because she stopped playing at once, turned her head and sat with her hands in her lap and her face turned to me. It was a placid though a weak face, her mouth having a tendency to droop petulantly. Her eyes were large, startled, fearful, her face a perfect oval. When she pursed her lips, the movement sent lines running down each side as her chin puckered.
She rose to her feet. I saw she was two or three inches shorter than her husband. She smiled. Her eyes were empty. She waited.
‘This is one of the gentlemen I spoke about, Bella. David Mallin.’
She did not offer her hand. ‘What nonsense has my husband been telling you, Mr Mallin?’ Her light tone cost her a lot.
I could feel him, at my elbow, tingling with tension, wondering if I was going to drop him right in it. ‘Far too little, I’m afraid.’ There was nothing compromising in that, I thought.
I turned. He was grinning, his teeth uneven and his eyes wary.
‘I’ve told Bella exactly what I’ve told you, Mallin.’
Had he? His skin was dry. He moistened his lips. The warning was there, in his mute gesture. She must have been aware of it, because she turned away, her fear shaded. They were both exhausted, I realised. Then she turned back with determination.
‘It’s quite ridiculous,’ she said. ‘I told him that nobody could ever prove he was there for two hours. Now … don’t you agree?’ Then, not waiting for an answer, she plunged on, her agitation barely controlled. ‘It’s a hopeless situation … terrifying. They could come here at any time and take him away. Then where’d we be? Tell me that.’
I tested the mood gently. ‘They could hardly connect your husband with the death of a stranger.’
She stared at me. Her face was still and I knew she was fighting for control. The conflict held her, but panic was welling up inside. Her teeth barely parted. ‘In Victor’s car!’
So there was one thing he hadn’t told her.
‘That aspect of it’s hardly incriminating,’ I told her. It was becoming agony to watch her struggle.
Then she won, lifted her shoulders in an apologetic gesture, and though she spoke with high-pitched protest there was only a relief of stress in her voice. ‘But they’ve taken his car away!’
‘They do. It’s usual.’
‘How can I possibly manage?’
‘I told you, Bella, I’ll hire one,’ Abbott put in. ‘Thompson will hire me a car, for a day or two.’
‘You might never get yours back!’ she wailed. ‘If they keep it — take you too … ’
‘Mrs Abbott, there’s really no suggestion of such a thing.’
‘And what can you do?�
� she demanded. ‘Did he explain to you exactly what we wanted? Did he?’
‘I explained, my dear.’
‘That he was in there for two hours — alone — and had not one visitor? I’ve got to know … ’
‘Now Bella! You’re very tired.’
‘As though I could sleep. You’re being foolish, Victor.’
‘Please, at least go and lie down, dear.’
She looked from one to the other of us, then decisively shook her head. ‘No. I want to hear what he’s got to say.’
Then desperately she seized Abbott’s arm and clung to it and from that moment, whenever he spoke, she looked at his lips and watched his words, mouthing them with him as though she shared them, as though she chose them.
Abbott was embarrassed. There were two things he hadn’t told her: that he thought he had known the dead man and that he had had a visitor — the lout with the plastic pistol. It was going to be very difficult.
‘I came to tell you,’ I said, ‘that my partner and I have split up.’ He’d know what I meant by that. ‘And that I’ve had a difficult interview with the inspector in charge of the case.’
She gasped. Abbott reached over and clasped her hand.
‘But it was an interview I needed,’ I went on. ‘I wanted to find out, if I could, whether they’d established the time of death.’
‘And had they?’ His voice was flat, grey as a storm-cloud.
‘Did they say anything to you about it?’
‘Nothing. They told me nothing.’
‘They didn’t mention nine o’clock? One minute to nine, to be precise.’
‘Can they be as accurate as that?’
‘As accurate as you. Two minutes past nine, you said.’
‘Victor?’ she whispered.
‘We were trying to tie things down,’ I explained. ‘Two minutes past the hour was mentioned.’
He was lost. I could not go on without revealing what he’d told George and me. I waited. He sighed. Some of the tension disappeared and he blinked.
‘I wanted to spare you this, Bella.’ It was an apology.
Her frown was a deep vertical rift in her brows. ‘Nothing more, Victor. I couldn’t stand … ’
One Deathless Hour (David Mallin Detective series Book 16) Page 2