War Game

It's not really about gold, it's about murder. They say that he killed the pair of them, first the son and then the father.'

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'The old man died of cirrhosis,' said Stocker.

'A mere detail. He simply anticipated his murder—and that was why Cousin James had to go first. But Charlie wanted the estate, and Charlie got it, that's what it amounts to.'

'The estate?' Stocker growled derisively. 'The estate is little more than the land on which Standingham Castle stands.

And that—'

'Is near-derelict?' Audley grinned, warming to the task of imagining the extent of Charlie Ratcliffe's villainies. 'And no doubt the old man was up to his neck in debt—don't bother to tell me. It's all there between the lines.'

'It is?' The Minister looked down at the cutting, then back at Audley. 'I must say I don't see it.'

'You don't see it, Minister, because you don't need to see it—

you already know it.' Audley paused. 'The man who wrote that—the reporter, or the re-write man or the sub- editor, or whoever—I hope they pay him what he's worth. There's not a word in it any lawyer could quarrel with. But what it amounts to is that Charlie found the gold, or at least he established to his own satisfaction where it was. Only he didn't want any arguments about ownership—or problems with death duties, either. And if there was doubt about the ownership, then if the father died before the son he might have to face double death duties—which is why the son had to be killed off before cirrhosis got the father. So he killed the son, waited for nature to take its course with the father, and then came up with the goodies. How's that for size?'

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'Very neat.' The Minister stared at Audley thoughtfully.

'And substantially correct?'

The Minister nodded slowly. 'Substantially . . . yes, it very probably is. I don't dispute that.' He lifted the cutting. 'But there's nothing here that says as much. In fact they go out of their way to say that he didn't do it.'

'Oh no, they don't.' Audley shook his head. 'They most carefully don't say that. What they say—or what they very clearly imply—is that he couldn't have done it.'

'Very well—couldn't. In this context it amounts to the same thing.'

'Not at all. It amounts to the opposite, Minister.'

The Minister frowned. 'Are you suggesting that 'couldn't'

means 'could'?'

'No. I'm saying that 'couldn't' means did.' Audley sat back.

'Not in law, of course. Otherwise the editor would be in trouble now. But we're not a nation of lawyers anyway, Minister. We're a nation of detective story readers.'

'So?'

'So we know a perfect crime when we see one—means, motive, but no opportunity. The locked room, the flawless alibi, the unshakeable eye-witness. And Charlie Ratcliffe has seven thousand eye-witnesses to testify that he didn't do it, has he not?'

The Minister nodded again, clearly puzzled. 'Yes.'

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'Right. But everyone knows exactly what Hercule Poirot would say to that: 'Here is a man with seven thousand witnesses to his innocence, so my little grey cells tell me that he is the guilty one, mes enfants. Seven thousand witnesses must be wrong.''

Audley was suddenly aware that he was trying to out-shout a jumbo jet which had stolen up on him and now seemed to be passing ten feet above his head. He noticed also that Stocker was smiling.

The Minister waited until the jet thunder had faded. 'So what do your little grey cells tell you?'

It was time to consult his thumbs again, thought Audley.

Stocker's smile had faded with the jet engines, but the memory of it still reverberated. 'That I'm in the process of being conned.'

'You ... are being conned?' The Minister cocked his head on one side. 'I'm afraid I don't understand, Dr. Audley.'

'Murder is for policemen, Minister— I've already said so. If you want me to ... pin the rap on Charlie Ratcliffe I'm afraid you're going to be disappointed. I won't do it.'

'Won't?' The Minister's voice was silky.

'Can't.'

'You think he's innocent, then?'

'On the contrary. You've already told me he's guilty. I wouldn't dream of disbelieving you, Minister.'

'And the seven thousand witnesses?'

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Audley shook his head. 'I don't mean he did it himself—as I'm sure you didn't either. But for one per cent of ?2?

million I could put out a contract on anyone you care to name

—or let's say two per cent, inflation being what it is ... No, I'm sure he's guilty. But I'm also sure that I'm not