“I didn’t even feel it at the time, I was so scared,” he continued. “For a minute I thought I had managed to miss him. I mean, I really did miss him and I still don’t know how he got hit when I skidded — maybe it was the bumper. He was lying in the snow. I began rubbing him with snow — I wasn’t even thinking about myself, although the blood was running down into my eyes. He was out cold and my first thought was to get him to the hospital, but I couldn’t get my car started — something was knocked out of kilter, I don’t know what — so I ran up the road and made a phone call from the first house.”
“Why did you carry him to the side of the road instead of to the car?”
“Well…” the young man hesitated, “because… because, uh, they say you should always keep an unconscious person flat on his back and there wasn’t enough room in the car. And I thought that if I left him in the middle of the road someone else might run over him…”
“Good. What time did all this happen?”
“A little after five. Maybe ten or fifteen minutes after.”
“Did you see anyone on the road when you were going to the telephone?”
“No, not a soul.”
“What about earlier, when you were driving? Did you see anyone? Pedestrians? Cars?”
“Pedestrians, no. Cars? No, no cars either; I did pass two trucks, but that was while I was still on the expressway.”
“Where were you coming from?”
“London.”
The room was silent. Smithers walked over to Gregory.
“Inspector, please… am I free to go now? And what about the car?”
“Don’t worry about the car,” said the commander, who was still standing near the window. “If you want, my men can take it to a garage for you, we’ll tow it over ourselves. There’s a good one not far from here — we’ll take the car over and you can get it repaired.”
“Thank you. That’ll be perfect. Only I’ll have to wire home for some money. May… May I go now?”
Gregory and the commander glanced at each other and came to a silent understanding. With an affirmative nod, Gregory turned to Smithers. “Please leave your name and address,” he said. “An address where we can reach you if necessary.”
Smithers turned to leave, then stood for a moment with his hand on the doorknob.
“Uh… the constable… how is he?” he asked quietly.
“He may come out of it. We don’t know yet,” said the commander. Smithers opened his mouth as if to speak, then walked out of the room without another word.
Overcome by an incomprehensible feeling of fatigue, Gregory turned to the desk and rested his head in his hands. More than anything he would have liked to sit quietly for a while, not talking, not thinking.
“What was he running away from?” he suddenly blurted out, surprising even himself. “What the hell was he running away from?”
“You mean ‘who,’ don’t you?” said the commander, taking his seat behind the desk again.
“No. If he had trouble with a human being he would have used his gun, wouldn’t he? As sure as two and two make four he would have, don’t you agree?”
“Did you look over those prints yourself?” asked the commander. He was busily trying to push the strap of his cap through its buckle. Gregory took a good look at him. The commander of the Pickering police station had wrinkled cheeks, bloodshot eyes, crow’s feet; there were already a few gray strands scattered through his red hair.
“What was the situation when you got there?” Gregory parried the commander’s question with a question of his own. The commander, with great concentration, was working on his buckle.
“The man on duty in the station was Parrings. That kid, Smithers, called at about half past five. Parrings woke me up right away — I live in the house next door. I told him to contact the Yard, then started out as fast as I could.”
“Was it still dark when you got there?”
“It was brightening up a little, but there was a thick fog.”
“Was it snowing?”
“No, not anymore.”
The commander put his cap down; the dangling chin strap slapped against the desk.
“The doctor was busy with Williams when I got there. Williams is a big man, so I helped the doctor and the driver lift him into the ambulance. Meanwhile, two men from the highway patrol arrived on the scene. I posted them on the road to keep the accident area clear, and then I went down to the cemetery by myself.”
“Did you have a flashlight?”
“No, but I took Hardley’s — he’s the highway patrol sergeant. I found the body lying on the ground just outside the door, its head facing the door sill. The door was open.”
“What position was the body in?”
“Arms and legs bent. I think they call it a geniculate position.”
“Where did you get the canvas?”
“I found it inside the mortuary.”
“You mean you went inside?”
“Yes. Sideways. You know, I jumped over the door sill. Maybe I missed something in the dark, but the only prints I saw around the mortuary were Williams’s, and I thought there might still be someone inside —” He stopped abruptly.
“You mean you thought the perpetrator was still there?”
“Right.”
The decisive tone of the answer took Gregory by surprise.
“What made you think so?”
“Something moved when I shined my light inside…”
Hunched over and twisted around in his chair, Gregory studied the commander’s face. They were no more than two feet apart, maybe a little less. Clearly in no hurry to continue, the commander raised his eyes. A vague smile crossed his lips, as if he was a little ashamed of what he was going to say.
“It was a cat…”
He tapped a finger against the surface of his desk and added, “I have him here.”
“Where?”
Gregory took a quick look around the room, but the commander shook his head. “Here…”
He opened a drawer, revealing a small package wrapped in newspaper. After a moment’s hesitation he put it on the desk. Gregory carefully pulled back the folded edge of the paper and saw a skinny white kitten with a black tuft at the end of its tail. Its fur was wet and tangled, its paws unnaturally stiff, and the narrow, dull pupil of one eye was staring at him.
“He’s dead?” Gregory turned to the commander in bewilderment.
“He was still alive when I first entered the mortuary.”
“Huh?”
Gregory’s cry was involuntary.
“When did he die?”
“He was yowling in agony. When I picked him up he was already beginning to get stiff.”
“Where did you find him?”
“Near the coffin. He was sitting… on the wreath.”
Gregory closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and looked at the cat, covered him with the newspaper again, and placed the package on the windowsill.
“I’ll have to take this for an autopsy or something,” he muttered, wiping his forehead.
“What made you bring the cat back to the station?” he continued.
“The prints. You didn’t see any paw prints, did you?”
“No.”
“Because there were none,” the commander explained. “All I had with me was a flashlight, but I looked around very carefully. The cat didn’t leave any prints in the snow.”
“In that case how did he get into the mortuary?”
