‘Which left you with the third possibility: murder.’
Gently tore off the sheet and crumpled it into the office waste basket.
‘It meant risking everything, but you were a man used to risks — and the reward for it was everything that you had hoped to gain. Oh, I realize that Butters was going to have his suspicions, and that his suspicions would be near certainties when he learnt of Anne’s condition. But you banked on the initial shock of the affair to shut his mouth, and afterwards — by then, he was halfway to being an accomplice.
‘You would have had him where you wanted him! He wouldn’t dare, then, to discountenance you. He would feel that he shared the guilt, or perhaps persuade himself that there was none. And Anne’s baby would be the clincher: it would ensure that the marriage went through — with a little delay, of course, a little subterfuge — just enough to sink Butters some further!
‘I don’t know at what stage you made up your mind, but the Palette Group was always waiting to provide you with scapegoats. Your wife went about with them, ate with them, perhaps slept with them — you had plenty of time to find out about that. So, naturally, you arranged to take advantage of the Palette Group. You would murder your wife on their doorstep, so to speak. You checked what her movements were when she attended one of their meetings, and you decided that the car park would best suit your plan.
‘Next you needed an alibi, or at least a story that would check — you were clever enough to risk not producing a perfect alibi. Thus instead of going to Nearstead you went off on a round of the pubs, keeping Anne concealed in your car in case the police heard tell of her later. Then, after dropping her at ten, you drove quickly back to town; you parked your car, I think, in Chapel Street, to avoid having it seen in the park.
‘You took your stand by the City Hall, probably at the St Saviour’s end, and when your wife came by you accosted her, telling her that you were just driving back to the flat. She accepted a lift and went with you. You led her past the bus stop and into the park. As you approached the terrace wall you contrived to drop behind her, and strangling her scream with your arm, you drove the knife into her back.
‘She died instantaneously and without much bleeding. You threw her down behind the dustbins, tossing her handbag after her. Then you walked back to your car by the footway at the end here, and drove home, probably arriving at the time given in your statement.
‘You made only one mistake — you thought that Butters hadn’t got any guts.
‘But, in spite of his bottle of brandy, he has just committed you to the hangman!’
The silence that marked the end of his accusation was made the more telling by the murmurs from without — the voice and footfall in the building, the drone of a car from Chapel Street below. Johnson kept frowning at the moving pencil, his childlike lips hung slightly open. He seemed unconscious of the scene about him, unconscious, even, of Gently’s presence.
Was he trying, with desperate concentration, to find a plausible way out of this trap?
‘Poor Shirley!’ — the words came huskily. ‘She was a bitch, but Christ… she was human.’
Gently sighed to himself and reached out for the jug of coffee. He was never at his best, making speeches of that sort. They required an indignation, a degree of faith in moral judgements: to himself, at all events, they never quite rang true. He poured a cup of coffee and tossed it off in three quick gulps. Stephens cast an eye at the cup, then he folded his arms and leaned them on the desk.
‘That’s the way it was done, of course…’
‘I’m glad to find you agreeing with me.’
‘Hell, but it wasn’t me!’
Gently preserved an unimpressed silence.
‘Look, cocker…’ Johnson was stumbling, making beating motions with his hand. ‘You’ve had your fun… all right — I don’t mind!.. But it won’t stand up… I never dreamed of killing Shirley!’
‘I think I should warn you, Mr Johnson.’
‘I know all about that — and I don’t care a damn! You can take it down if you want to, you can print it off on toilet paper. But I’m warning you, cocker, your imagination ’s running away with you… you’ve cooked up a case, and it won’t convince a flea!’
Gently grunted indifferently and felt for his pipe and pouch. He had issued Johnson a warning, and now the ball lay with him. Rather sooner than he had intended he had made this concession, though in view of the facts it probably mattered very little. He filled his pipe with scrupulous care, pressed it down and struck a match.
‘You’ve figured out the way of it — good! I was wondering about that. I couldn’t think how he’d got her there, unless… it doesn’t matter! But you’re tackling the wrong kiddie… I don’t care what you’ve found out…
‘I’ve had to listen to your version — now just you listen to mine!’
He could hardly find the words, so fast did he want to bring them out; the stenographer’s pencil sounded like a mouse as it nibbled at the paper. Johnson’s legs weren’t folded now. He was leaning forward towards the desk. His frowning brow was creased with ridges and his eyes were staring and protruded.
‘I’m glad that Butters had the sense to speak up… it was me who hadn’t got the guts! I knew you’d hold it over my head — I could see that coming from the start. But I’m glad, you understand? Because I’m fond of old man Butters! You can say what you like about his bottles of brandy — he’s a decent old stick, and I’m here to say so.
‘And I like his wife… I like his family… and Anne, she isn’t just the floozie you seem to think her!
‘She’s my wife, you understand? Not the way that Shirley was! But she’s my wife all the same, in spite of not having been to church. She loves me and I love her… it’s been like that ever since we met…
‘And I didn’t give a damn about the blasted business. I’d have thrown it all up for a chance to marry Anne…’
Stephens, who had begun to sneer, was now gazing at Johnson in perplexity; he also glanced in Gently’s direction, trying to glean a cue from his senior. This wasn’t at all what he had expected to hear from a man with a murder tied on him! Johnson was blurring an open and shut case, he was upsetting its nice, clean lines…
‘Something else… I didn’t have anything on Shirley. She was too darned clever to give me a chance! You’ll never understand, because you never met her alive… as for offering her a lift… it’s funny, don’t you see?
‘She was a sadist — she liked to see other people squirm. She got a kick out of sticking to me, though we couldn’t stand each other. But if you think for a minute… I’m not going to blame her!.. Only that’s the way she was, and you’ve got to accept the facts.
‘And I did try for a divorce, whether it would have mucked me up or not — it wouldn’t have done, either. Butters wouldn’t have let me down! Just ask my solicitor… I’ve talked it over with him. But I didn’t want a detective, I tried to do the job myself, and the long and the short of it was that I never caught her at anything…
‘Then that alibi — that’s rich! My God, I could have done better than that. But the whole idea is cockeyed — we always hit the pubs on a Monday. On Sundays we used to visit the cottage, and you don’t need me to tell you… so on Mondays we toured the pubs — having a rest, if you want it in words!
‘And the abortion, too — did you ever try to fix one? You’d be surprised just how easy it isn’t! You’ve only got to hint at abortion to a medico, and the next minute he’s slinging you out on your ear. Then, after a couple of clangers like that…
‘In any case, I was dead against the idea… when I’d talked Anne round a bit, I was going to have it out with Butters. You think you know Butters, but you don’t, and that’s a fact. When he’d realized how it was with Shirley… hell, there’s nobody who’s quite an angel!’
He was brought up at last by sheer lack of breath and sat for some moments panting, a blond lock fallen across his forehead. The stenographer dropped his pencil on the desk and, in massaging his fingers, produced an unusual cracking sound. Then he selected another pencil from a supply in his breast pocket.
‘I know how it looks to you and I don’t blame you for a moment… but you can’t know, you’re only guessing about things that really matter.
‘What do you know about me, for instance? You only met me seven hours ago! You look at my car, at this moustache… and then you tack a label on me.
‘It says: “Flying Officer Kite” — all right, so I deserve it! But do you know how people came to be Flying Officer Kites? They were scared into being them — scared silly by what they were doing! They were driven into behaving like clots by sheer terror. Because there aren’t any heroes in the whole state of nature… only cowards, who one day get shoved into the breach…
‘But underneath that, what do you know about me? You must be able to see how crazy it all is. By guessing
