the distance from here to the water — there’s a stream over there behind the bushes. Take a few pictures of the whole area and search the bank of the stream. I may have missed something.”
“Don’t worry about it, Gregory,” said Wilson. His equipment, slung over his shoulder in a flat bag, kept slapping him on the hip as he walked, making him limp slightly. “And don’t forget to send the car to pick us up,” he added casually.
“Of course.”
Gregory walked back toward the road, completely forgetting about Sorensen. Turning around for a moment, he saw the doctor following him. The ropes blocking off the scene of the accident had already been taken down, and two men in a wrecker were pulling the Bentley out of the ditch alongside the road. His car was standing next to the bridge, turned in the direction of London. Without a word, Gregory slid into the front seat next to Calls. The doctor, noting that the car’s motor was already turning over, speeded up his pace. A moment later they drove past the policeman from the highway patrol and headed back toward Pickering.
The police station was located in a two-story building on the market square. With a constable to show him the way, Gregory went upstairs and passed through a long corridor lined with doors. Through the window at one end he could see the roofs of the one-story houses on the other side of the square.
The district commander rose to greet him. He was a long-headed, red-haired man, with a reddish mark from his hatband about halfway down his forehead. His cap lay on the desk beside him.
Smiling nervously, not showing any signs of friendliness or good humor, the commander rubbed his hands together.
“Well, let’s get to work,” Gregory sighed, settling into a chair. “Do you know how Williams is? Can I speak to him?”
The commander shook his head.
“It’s out of the question. He has a skull fracture. I phoned the hospital at Hackey just a minute or two ago. They say he’s still unconscious, and according to the doctors it’ll be a long time before he comes to — if he ever does.”
“I see. Tell me, you know your own men, is Williams a good policeman? How long has he been on the force? In fact, tell me everything you know about him.”
Gregory spoke somewhat distractedly. In his mind he was back at the mortuary, still looking at the prints in the snow.
“Williams? What can I tell you? He’s been with me for four years. Before that he was up north. He served in the army, was wounded, got a medal. He got married after he came here and has two children. Nothing special to distinguish him. He likes to go fishing. He’s even-tempered, reasonably intelligent. No major offenses on his record.”
“What about minor ones?”
“Well… maybe he was a little too… easygoing. But in a good-hearted way, you know what I mean. He had a tendency to interpret the regulations independently. Of course in a town like this everyone knows everybody else… but it never involved anything important. He didn’t write enough tickets… that kind of thing. He was quiet, maybe even too quiet, I would say… uh, I mean he is,” the commander corrected himself with a wince.
“Did he believe in ghosts?” Gregory asked very seriously. The commander looked at him.
“In ghosts?” he repeated involuntarily. He seemed confused. “In ghosts? No… I don’t think so. I don’t know, really. Are you suggesting that he…” He didn’t finish. Both men were silent for a moment.
“Have you any idea what he was running away from?” Gregory asked quietly, leaning forward and looking the commander straight in the eye. The commander didn’t answer. He lowered his head slightly, then raised it.
“I haven’t the slightest idea, but…”
“But?”
The commander studied Gregory’s face. At last, as if alienated by it, he shrugged his shoulders.
“All right. In that case we’ll stick to the facts. Do you have Williams’s pistol?”
“I do.”
“And?”
“He was holding it in his hand,” the commander said in a quiet voice.
“Go on. Did he fire it?”
“No. The safety was still on. But… there was a cartridge in the chamber.”
“Loaded? What of it? Don’t tell me your men go on patrol with their guns unloaded?”
“Why not? This is a quiet town. There’s always time to load…”
“How do you think Williams managed to get from the place where the car hit him to where the ambulance crew picked him up?”
A surprised expression came over the commander’s face.
“He wasn’t able to go anywhere after the accident, Lieutenant. Smithers, the man who hit Williams, says he moved him…”
“I see. Well, that certainly simplifies things. Let’s say that… well, it simplifies things,” said Gregory. “Do you have Smithers here?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like to question him, if that’s all right with you.”
“Of course.”
The commander opened the door and said a few words to someone, then walked over to the window. A minute or so later a slim, good-looking young man in tight-fitting flannel trousers and a bulky-knit sweater walked in. He had narrow hips and the face of a B-movie leading man; pausing in the doorway he glanced nervously at Gregory, who was leaning back in his chair and watching him with a searching look. After a moment Gregory spoke.
“I’m down from the Yard to handle the investigation here. You may be able to help me clear up a few things.”
Smithers nodded his head slowly.
“I… actually, I’ve already told the whole story… I’m innocent — believe me, it wasn’t my fault.”
“If you’re innocent, you have nothing to worry about. Now then, the charge against you is causing an accident and endangering human life. The law does not require you to provide any information that could form the basis of a criminal indictment against you. Are you willing to answer my questions?”
“Yes, yes… of course… I… don’t have anything to hide,” stammered the young man, obviously quite frightened by the formal statement Gregory had just recited to him. “Please sir,” he continued, “there wasn’t a thing I could do… he just threw himself in front of the car. It was nighttime and there was all that fog — by the time I saw him it was too late. I was driving very slowly, I swear it, and I did everything I could to avoid hitting him… I even smashed the car up because of him. But it was all his fault, and to make matters worse it isn’t even my car… I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“Please, Mr. Smithers,” Gregory said. “Tell me the whole story as accurately as you can. How fast were you going?”
“No more than thirty miles an hour, so help me God. Because of all the fog, and it was snowing too. I could hardly see. In fact, I couldn’t even put my headlights on because that would have made it worse.”
“You mean you were driving with your lights off?”
“No, never in the world. My foglights were on, but even so I couldn’t see more than ten or fifteen feet ahead. All of a sudden he was right in front of the car — believe me, please, he must have been blind, or crazy — he ran straight at me and simply threw himself under the car.”
“Did he have anything in his hands?”
“Excuse me, sir?”
“I asked if he was holding anything in his hand?”
“I didn’t notice at the time. Afterward, when I picked him up, I saw that he was holding a pistol, but during the accident I didn’t notice a thing. I just stepped on the brake as hard as I could, the car went into a spin and turned completely around, and I smashed into the tree. I got pretty badly cut,” he said, pointing to his forehead.
There was a thick red line of clotted blood running across Smithers’s forehead and disappearing beneath his hair.
