A Man Condemned

by Roderic Jeffries

  ‘What’s up . . .’

  ‘Move.’

  The sergeant ran across to the door of the gate-house and knocked. A panel in the door was opened and he spoke to the guard inside, who looked across at the superintendent, nodded and then closed the panel. The sergeant hurried back to Passmore’s car. ‘He’ll open the gates as soon as he’s been through to the house.’

  ‘Follow me in and when we reach the house three men inside with us and one to stay with the cars. The man with the cars is to give the alarm on the slightest hint of trouble: d’you understand, at the slightest hint.’

  The sergeant returned to the police car, and the elaborate wrought-iron gates swung smoothly open. They drove forward and as they passed through the gateway the floodlights were switched on, turning night into day.

  The two cars, surprising both rabbits and squirrels, travelled down the long, undulating drive between the majestic trees to reach the turning circle which enclosed a raised flower-bed. As they stopped, one of the tall wooden doors in the large porch opened and two guards, one with three stripes on his arm, came out to stand at the top of the marble steps.

  Passmore, Fusil and three of the men from the police car crossed the drive, their feet crunching on the loose gravel.

  ‘What’s up, then?’ asked the senior guard.

  Fusil answered him by demanding: ‘When did you last check all doors and windows?’

  ‘There’s been no alarm . . .’

  He led the way through the porch into the hall. It was immense and with only a few of the wall-lights on so that much of the space was in semi-darkness there was a disquieting impression of infinity. There were refectory tables, on which stood candelabra, matched and tooled leather chairs, richly patterned carpets, suits of armour, arms in patterns on the walls, carved oak court cupboards and chests with the patina of centuries and, incongruously, two stuffed bears. At the far end a huge staircase swirled its way up into the darkness.

  ‘Sergeant, you and one PC up to Jazeyeri’s bedroom . . .’ began Fusil.

  ‘We aren’t allowed up there,’ objected the senior guard, trying to exert some authority.

  Fusil said to the sergeant: ‘Explain that it’s an emergency and keep him away from windows. You . . .’ He turned to the senior guard. ‘Detail one of your blokes to go up with them.’

  ‘It’s all very well coming here . . .’

  ‘For God’s sake, man, wake yourself up and move.’

  The two policemen made for the staircase; one of the guards was hurriedly detailed to go with them.

  Three guards, one with an Alsatian on a leash, came through a doorway into the hall.

  ‘Check every window and outside door on the ground floor,’ said Fusil. ‘Make certain it’s locked and the alarm connected.’

  The senior guard finally decided to accept the orders without quibbling. He split the guards into different search teams and left with them.

  Passmore, Fusil and a PC remained in the hall. Soon the sounds of the other men died away and the great hall became silent except for muted rustles caused by draughts. It was easy to imagine the assassin, hidden in the shadows, waiting his moment to open fire . . .

  They heard the sounds of someone running and a guard entered the hall. ‘One of the windows at the back of the place is unbolted and the alarm’s been switched off,’ he said breathlessly.

  ‘Was it definitely locked at sunset?’ asked Fusil sharply.

  The guard hesitated. ‘Lots of windows are opened up during the day and maybe this one just didn’t get locked when it was shut.’

  Obviously, windows had been left unlocked in the past. Equally obviously, they now had to act on the assumption that this window had been deliberately left unlocked. Fusil turned to Passmore. ‘We need to call in the second car and then search the house from top to bottom.’

  Passmore nodded. He said to the PC. ‘Go out and radio through to the second car to drive up to the house.’

  The PC turned, to leave. At that moment there was a shot.

  *

  Earlier, Ertl had wondered whether to lock that window, but had finally decided not to. Should he have to leave in a hurry, a second saved could be vital.

  He’d been given the route to take. This led up one of the back stairs to the top floor and a maze of what had been the servants’ bedrooms: now, those to the north were all unoccupied. From that floor, a staircase led to the first floor and the main bedrooms. Jazeyeri’s bedroom could not be mistaken because on the outside of the door was carved the coat-of-arms of the family who had first owned Windleton Manor. Those on either side would be empty, others were occupied by ‘friends’ and a few male relatives who apparently were treated more like servants than relatives. No one knew what had happened to Mrs Jazeyeri: perhaps he had thankfully left her back in Iran.

  Ertl had been descending the stairs when the floodlights were switched on. Reacting instinctively, he returned upstairs, went into one of the empty, box-like bedrooms and waited as he tried to judge what had happened. An alarm? But he hadn’t triggered it and it would need a heavy coincidence for someone else to be trying to break in on the same night; and, in any case, no sirens had sounded. A practice run to check all the equipment was working? Wouldn’t the guard have warned him? Yet the guard might not have known in time . . .

  He thought he heard a car, but the sounds were not repeated and he decided he’d been mistaken. More time passed.

  He returned to the staircase and made his way down to the first floor. Halfway along a very wide corridor, hung with matching gilt-framed mirrors and with paintings, furnished with marble-topped tables and chairs and carpeted from wall to wall, was a heavy oak door with two large panels, on the upper one of which was carved an elaboate coat-of-arms. He went down the corridor to the next door and stepped into the room, closed the door behind him. The curtains were not drawn and enough light was coming in for him to check that the bed was empty.

  He crossed to the large French window and looked out. The bedroom, which overlooked the large formal garden, faced south. The floodlights were set away from the house, pointing outwards, so that although the grounds were sharply illuminated, the house itself was in shadow. He stepped out on to the balcony.

  It was a long, narrow balcony and it was edged by a wrought-iron balustrade in a very light, flowing style: because it was in the shadow, because the wrought-ironwork was so feathery and because beyond was the harsh glare of the floodlighting, there was the illusion that the balcony floated in space. Dramatically, Ertl’s lifelong fear of heights overwhelmed him: sweat broke out on his body, his limbs shook and his mind panicked as all the fears of childhood came true and terror froze all thinking action.

  He shut his eyes as he fought to regain self-control. He moved and felt the wall of the house press against his side and contact with the bricks brought a partial return of sanity. He opened his eyes.

  A policeman came out on to the balcony of the next bedroom. He was wearing a flak-jacket and on his hip was a revolver. He looked across, saw Ertl and, thinking him one of the guards because of his uniform, said: ‘You got up here in double-quick time, mate.’

  Ertl nodded.

  ‘Come up the back way, did you?’

  A quick reply would have prevented any suspicion. But he was not free of his personal terror and therefore could not think either quickly or clearly; in any case, his accent would have been immediately noticeable. He nodded again.

  The PC, intrigued by Ertl’s silence, for the first time studied his face sufficiently closely to notice his strained expression. Something about the face caught his attention and he realized that there was a resemblance—even if faint—to the artist’s impression of the German which they had all been shown before leaving the station. He half turned and called: ‘Would you come out here, sir?’

  Ertl swung round, to race back into the bedroom, and his gaze was caught by the limitless void. He swayed, shut his eyes and felt the terror engulf him. There were the sounds
of movement and, forcing back the terror with a courage which only a fellow-sufferer could properly have appreciated, he opened his eyes again. He saw the PC, about to climb from one balcony to the other. Desperately, he drew the automatic from his shoulder-holster and tried to take aim; that abyss lay in wait for him and his hand shook so much that he fired involuntarily and the bullet missed the PC to ricochet off the bricks with a shrill scream.

  The PC tugged his revolver out of its holster, crouched and aimed with his right hand as he supported the wrist with his left. He fired.

  The bullet hit Ertl high up on the shoulder and threw him backwards against the balustrade. Another man would probably have been able to keep his balance, but with hell waiting for him he ‘knew’ that he could not. He fell backwards over the top of the balcony, screaming because this was the final nightmare come true.

  The PC stared down at the body which lay crumpled on the gravel path, gulped heavily and then was sick.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Fusil parked his car in Aaron Road. He opened the gate of number thirty-five and walked up to the front door, noticing as he did so that the roses had been pruned.

  Vera O’Connell opened the door. She stared at him, saying nothing, hating him a little, in a tired, worn-out way.

  ‘I wanted you to hear as soon as possible,’ he said. ‘We’ve at last identified the man who stole the bottle of whisky from the pub and planted it in your husband’s car to make it seem he had stolen it.’

  ‘You mean . . . You know for sure it weren’t Reg?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Oh, my God!’ she murmured.

  ‘Mrs O’Connell, it doesn’t make the tragedy any the less, I know, but now you don’t have to worry that there may not be a police pension to help out.’

  She might not have heard him. ‘And his mates? Do they understand he didn’t pinch anything?’

  ‘I’ve made certain that everyone in the division knows the truth.’

  She smiled. It was a smile of sudden happiness, and also of terrible sadness. She tried to thank him, but tears choked her words. Then, like a child, she blindly came to his arms to be comforted.

  *

  By daylight, the great hall at Windleton Manor was less imposing but more attractive. The two stuffed bears might have been smiling.

  The staff stood along the south wall; along the east wall, some seated and some standing, were the family and guests who included several young and attractive women, each of whom was careful to appear happy and gay whenever Jazeyeri looked in her direction; along the west wall were those guards who were not on duty; in the centre, on one of the Kirman carpets, Jazeyeri and his interpreter faced Menton, Passmore, Fusil and PC Carmichael.

  Jazeyeri was a short man, in his middle fifties, plump but not yet fat, whose rounded features possessed the polished arrogance of great wealth. His voice was high-pitched, especially when he became either emotional or excited.

  ‘His excellency says that he wishes to give you the honour of personally thanking you,’ said the interpreter, a tall, scholarly man whose manner towards his employer was obsequious.

  Jazeyeri spoke again.

  ‘His excellency says that but for you brave and clever men, he would have been murdered. It is a blessing for all the world that it did not happen.’

  Jazeyeri motioned with his right hand and a servant hurried forward, carrying a large, clover-patterned silver salver on which were four black leather cases embossed with initials in gold. He spoke.

  ‘His excellency says that he is awarding you these medals which he has had specially designed. They are very beautiful and very valuable because they are of gold. You will treasure them for all your lives.’

  There was applause.

  Jazeyeri opened one of the black leather cases and took from it a large medal attached to a red ribbon. He nodded at Menton, who stepped forward. Fusil suddenly thought, with something approaching panic, that each of them was to be kissed on both cheeks, Continental fashion, but to his relief after the ribbon was put round Menton’s neck Jazeyeri contented himself with shaking hands.

  *

  Menton, Passmore and Fusil, followed by the PC, left the house and crossed the drive to their cars parked around the circular flower-bed.

  The PC carried on; Menton came to a stop by his car. ‘Rather a remarkable gesture, don’t you think?’ He opened the driving-door. ‘Let me have the final report as soon as possible, Fusil.’

  ‘Yes, sir. D’you want a full description of this remarkable ceremony to be included?’

  Menton climbed into the car and slammed the door shut.

  Passmore and Fusil carried on to the superintendent’s car. As Passmore settled behind the wheel, he said: ‘There are times, Bob, when I feel you positively enjoy upsetting your superiors.’

  Fusil opened the leather presentation case. The medal was two inches in diameter and on the obverse side was an heroically styled bust of Parviz Jazeyeri. ‘Someone back at the station said that a fund’s been started for Mrs O’Connell?’

  Passmore started the engine. ‘That’s right. I’ve spoken to HQ and they’ve agreed to letting it be country-wide rather than just division-wide.’

  ‘If this medal really is gold, it should be worth a bob or two at today’s prices. It can go into the fund.’

  ‘I had the same idea.’ He drove off, along the straight but undulating drive.

  ‘Goddam it,’ said Fusil, with sudden anger, ‘the thing that sticks in my craw is that if there were any real justice in the world Jazeyeri would have been murdered years ago. Yet we’re given medals for saving his life.’

  Passmore answered in tones of irony. ‘Surely this isn’t the first time you’ve realized that there’s more than a touch of hypocrisy to our work?’

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