haggard, looking bemused, sat hunched and sprawling on his chair; his brilliant eyes were drooped and hooded, his finely boned hands hanging down beside him. How much further to go for the breakdown? Another hour? Another two, or three? Surely, by now, the artist could grasp its inevitability, could sense the undeflectable intent of his antagonist. He had nothing at all to gain: was it merely pride that made him hold on?
‘Where are you spending your leave this summer…?’
Over the coffee, Walker roused himself for a chat. For ten peaceful minutes there was conversation in the office, with Mallows, ignored, sitting listening or not listening. This was the usual thing, an acknowledged sleight of interrogation; you gave your subject a whiff of the normal life outside his nightmare. They were ordinary people, that was the gambit, they were only doing a job, it was foolish to give them trouble…
‘Didn’t I see that you’d won a prize in last year’s angling competition?’
‘I had a roach of just on three… it won it, against the national average…’
Stephens was showing Hansom his watch, an expensive self-winder of which he was proud: ‘It was my passing-out present at Ryton… all the family clubbed together.’
For ten minutes — and then it was over, with everyone turning their eyes back to Mallows. How could he fail to have been impressed by such a performance? Now let him cooperate, and they could all go home to bed…!
‘Don’t you think it would help if you agreed to make a statement?’
Mallows shrugged his shoulders feebly, then shook his massive head.
‘Very well, where did you have lunch on the Monday of last week?’
‘At home. I lunched at home. Why don’t you ring up and ask the servants…?’
And so they were off again, on the second leg of the serial, with Mallows still game though obviously very tired. As a form of defence he began answering at random, apparently without caring what admissions he made. Perhaps he had noticed the inactivity of the stenographer. The latter was still engaged in drinking his coffee. After drawing a few responses which were tantamount to meaningless, Gently jolted the artist awake by introducing a fresh angle.
‘Do you recall our conversation on Saturday?’
‘On Saturday…? Yes, I recall a conversation…’
‘You made a number of suggestions to me relating to the crime.’
‘Yes… that’s right… I did make suggestions.’
‘Knowing them to be false and completely misleading!’
‘Hold on… my dear fellow! I was trying to help you.’
‘You drew a plausible character of the murderer of Mrs Johnson, knowing, I repeat, that it was false and misleading.’
‘No! You’ve got it wrong…’ Mallows straightened his sagging shoulders. ‘I gave you that in good faith, I wasn’t trying to mislead you. At that time, without knowing…’
‘Without knowing what?’
‘I don’t know… but I felt positive that Johnson hadn’t done it.’
‘You knew that he hadn’t done it!’
‘No, I didn’t know that…’
‘But you thought you would give me a will o’ the wisp to chase after?’
‘It was an intelligent appraisal-’
‘From personal observation?’
‘Yes, in a way… all appraisals stem from that.’
‘So?’
‘I don’t know what you mean!’
‘Who did you have in mind for that character?’
‘It was imagined… a purely synthetic creation…’
‘Designed to mislead me?’
‘No — in good faith!’
‘And since that time — Sunday morning, for instance?’
‘That — that confirmed what I had suggested…’
‘Confirmed it in what way?’
‘Isn’t that obvious?… A pronounced psychopath.’
‘An artistic psychopath?’
‘Yes — I suggested that all along.’
‘And you admired the way he’d treated the pictures!’
‘No! You can’t contend that seriously…’
This line being started, Gently kept on repeating it — to the irritation of Hansom, who couldn’t see it tending anywhere. It became almost as ubiquitous as the question about the letter, and appeared in a number of shapes and variations.
‘You are well acquainted with Allstanley?’
‘Yes… well acquainted…’
‘You see a lot of him, do you? Outside the group meetings?’
‘I wouldn’t say a lot… he visits the studio.’
‘How long have you been acquainted?’
‘Oh… nine or ten years.’
‘So you know him pretty well.’
‘Yes, yes, pretty well…’
‘Answer me yes or no! Is he the original of that character?’
‘No — certainly not!’
‘Where did you say you had lunch on Monday…?’
Then, after a rest, the blackmail angle was resumed, urged with a venom and apparent authority that shook Mallows again from his apathy. At times, as the questions battered him, he seemed almost convinced of their justness: he had lost the will to protest, the truth could be whatever Gently cared to make it.
‘Why should Johnson try to blackmail you?’
‘I don’t know… I can’t think…’
‘There could be only one reason!’
‘Yes… I see that, of course.’
‘You may not know it but he’d been following you — he had the necessary evidence.’
‘Yes, I think it probable…’
‘When did Mrs Johnson become your mistress?’
‘She came to the studio… I don’t know…!’
They had a second coffee break, the office clock now pointing to three. Hansom, who had got through his case of cheroots, had borrowed a packet of Players from Stephens. From the desk came a buzz for Gently — was he at liberty to talk to the press? The reporters were sweating on a break in time to catch the London editions.
‘Tell them they’d better go home to bed!’
For the first time, he was lighting his pipe. The taste of it was bitter, it had an early-morning harshness. Soon, now, a wintry light would begin to soften the black window panes, and down below in the street a laden milk lorry would clatter by. Then the solitary cyclist and a pedestrian, his boots echoing, the mysterious early risers who began to wake the city; a greeting shouted out, the yelping bark of a dog, and far away, over the river, a cock’s disembodied crow…
Mallows was offered a cup of coffee and he drank it in a sort of stupor; this time, there was very little effort at conversation. They were tired, and to be frank, discouraged; Gently’s pressure was getting them nowhere — Mallows had been beaten into mental numbness, but seemed as far from a confession as ever. And what was even more discouraging, two of them knew that Gently was bluffing. Most of his reckless accusations had no evidential basis. He was applying sheer, brute force, and not, it seemed, with too much intelligence: it was a policy of obstinacy, savouring a little of despair.
And he was intending to go on with it — you could read that in his face. Out of the perfect, masking blankness had grown a pertinacious expression. He was going on to the end, however far ahead it lay: he was locked in a struggle with Mallows which could only be finished by the collapse of one of them…
