He was shivering, the sweat standing out cold on his skin. He had committed himself. There was no way to turn back.
If this had to be known as murder, then he must make it look like one. He had surely known enough murders to know what the police would look for. Sissons had been dead for at least two or three hours. There was no danger they would suspect him. Better it should be an impersonal robbery than hatred or revenge, which would indicate someone who knew him.
Was there money in the office? He should make it look as if it had been searched, at the very least. And quickly. He must not seem to have stood there debating what to do. An honest man would have raised the alarm immediately. He had already delayed almost too long. There was no time for indecision.
He pulled out the desk drawers and tipped them onto the floor, then the files. There was a little petty cash. He could not bring himself to take it. Instead he put it under one of the drawers and replaced it. It was not very satisfactory, but it would have to do.
He riffled quickly through other pieces of paper to see if there was anything else about the Prince’s loan. They seemed to be all concerning the factory and its daily running, orders and receipts, a few letters of intent. Then one caught his eye because he knew the handwriting. Coldness filled him as he read it.
My dear friend,
It is a most noble sacrifice you are making for the cause. I cannot stress how much you are admired among your fellows. Your ruin at the hands of a certain person will set off a fire which will never be extinguished. The light of it will be seen all over Europe, and your name remembered with reverence as a hero of the people.
Long after the violence and the death are forgotten your memorial will be the peace and prosperity of those ordinary men and women who came after.
Yours with the utmost respect.
It was signed with a swirl of the pen which could have been anything. What flared in Pitt’s brain like an explosion was the fact that the writer had known about Sissons’s ruin, and very possibly even his death. The wording was ambiguous, but it seemed that was what it meant.
He must destroy it also, immediately. Already he could hear footsteps in the passage outside. He had been gone too long. Wally would be looking for him to make sure everything was all right.
He ripped the letter into pieces. There was no time to get rid of it, but at least it would be illegible. He would have to make an opportunity to put the remnants of both letters, and the gun, in one of the vats.
Even as he was moving towards the door he remembered where he had seen the handwriting. He stumbled and banged into the corner of the desk as the full import struck him. It had been during the investigation of Martin Fetters’s death—it was John Adinett’s hand!
He stood stock-still, dizzy for an instant, his leg throbbing where the desk corner had bruised it, but he was only dimly aware.
Wally’s footsteps were almost at the door.
Adinett had known of the plan for Sissons’s ruin, and had praised him for it! He was not a royalist, as they had presumed, but as far from it as possible. So why had he killed Martin Fetters?
The door opened and Wally peered around it, the lantern in his hand making his face look ghostly in the upward light.
“You all right, Tom?” he said anxiously.
“Sissons is dead,” Pitt replied, startled by how hoarse his voice was, and that his hands were shaking. “Looks as if somebody shot him. I’m going to get the police. You stay here and make sure no one else comes in.”
“Shot ’im!” Wally was stunned. “W’y?” He stared across at the figure slumped across the desk. “Gawd! Poor devil. Wot’ll ’appen now?” There was fear in his voice and in his face, which was slack with shock and dismay.
Pitt was hideously conscious of the gun in his pocket and the torn-up pieces of the two letters.
“I don’t know. But we’d better get the police quickly.”
“They’ll blame us!” Wally said, panic in his face.
“No, they won’t!” Pitt denied, but the same thought was like a sick ache in the bottom of his stomach. “Anyway, we’ve got no choice.” He moved past Wally and out of the door, carrying his own lantern high so he could see the way. He must find an unattended vat and get rid of the gun.
The first room he tried had a night worker in it who looked up without curiosity; so did the second. The third was unoccupied and he lifted the lid of the vat, smelling the thick liquid. The paper would not sink in it. He would have to stir it in, but he dared not be found with the pieces. They could still be placed together, with care. He put them on the surface and used the gun to move them around until they were lost, then he let the gun go and watched it sink slowly.
As soon as it was out of sight he went out into the corridor again and ran down the rest of the stairs and out into the yard. He went straight to the gates and down Brick Lane towards the Whitechapel High Street. The false dawn had widened across the sky, but it was still long before daylight. The lamps gleamed like dying moons along the curb edge and shone pale arcs on the wet cobbles.
He found the constable just around the corner.
“Eh, eh! Wot’s the matter wi’ you, then?” the constable asked, stepping in front of him. Pitt could only see the outline of him because they were between lampposts, but he was tall and seemed very solid in his cape and helmet. It was the first time in his life Pitt had been afraid of a policeman, and it was a cold, sick feeling, alien to all his nature.
“Mr. Sissons has been shot,” he said, his breath rasping. “In his office, in the factory up Brick Lane.”
“Shot?” the constable said unsteadily. “You sure? Is ’e ’urt bad?”
“He’s dead.”
