But the right doglegged back to the street where Pitt had run the minute before, not the way Gower had gone. Unless he had passed Wrexham? Wrexham had come from the opposite way, not following West at all. So why had West run so frantically, as if he knew death was on his heels?
Pitt stumbled and came to a stop. Because it was not Wrexham whom West was afraid of, it was either Pitt himself, or Gower. He had had no reason to fear Pitt, but Gower was a superb runner. In an un-crowded alley he could break into a full sprint in seconds. He could have been there before, ducked back into the shelter of the alley entrance, and then burst out of it again as Pitt arrived. It was he who had killed West, not Wrexham. West’s blood was already pooled on the stones. Pitt could see it in his mind’s eye. Wrexham was the harmless man he appeared to be, the decoy to lure Pitt to St. Malo, and keep him here, while whatever was really happening came to its climax somewhere else.
It had to be London, otherwise it was pointless to lure Pitt away from it.
Gower. In fifteen or twenty minutes Pitt would be inside the walls of St. Malo again, back to their lodgings. Almost certainly Gower would be there waiting for him. Suddenly he was no longer the pleasant, ambitious young man he had seemed only this morning. Now he was a clever and extremely dangerous stranger, a man Pitt knew only in the most superficial way. He knew that Gower slept well, that his skin burned in the sun, that he liked chocolate cake, that he was occasionally careless when he shaved himself. He was attracted to women with dark hair and he could sing rather well. Pitt had no idea where he came from, what he believed, or even where his loyalties lay—all the things that mattered, that would govern what he would do when the mask was off.
Now suddenly Pitt must wear a mask as well. His own life might depend on it. He remembered with a chill how efficiently Gower had killed West, cut his throat in one movement, and left him on the stones, bleeding to death. One error and Pitt could end the same way. Who in St. Malo would think it more than a horrific street crime? No doubt Gower would be first on the scene again, full of horror and dismay.
There was no one Pitt could turn to. No one in France even knew who he was, and London could be in another world for any help it could offer now. Even if he sent a telegram to Narraway it would make no difference. Gower would simply disappear, anywhere in Europe.
He started to walk again. The sun was on the horizon and within minutes it would be gone. It would be almost dark by the time he was within the vast city walls. He had perhaps fifteen minutes to make up his mind. He must be totally prepared once he reached the house. One mistake, one slip, and it would be his last.
He thought of the chase to the East End, and finally the railway station. He realized with acute self-blame how easily Gower had led him, always making sure they did not lose Wrexham completely, and yet the chase seemed natural enough to be real. They lost him momentarily, and it was always Gower who found him. It was Gower who stopped Pitt from arresting him, pointing out the use of watching him and learning more. Gower had had enough money in his pocket to buy tickets on the ferry.
Come to that, it was Gower who said he had seen Linsky and Meister, and Pitt who had believed it.
What was this plan that used Wrexham to lure Pitt away from London? Of course Pitt must go back, knowing now as he did that Wrexham was not West’s killer. The question was what to say to Gower. What reason should he give? He would know there was no message from Lisson Grove. Had there been, it would have been delivered to the house, and simple enough to check on anyway. All Gower would have to do was ask at the post office.
The sun was already half gone, a burning orange semicircle above the purple horizon. Shadows were deepening right across the road.
Should Pitt try to elude him, simply go straight to the harbor now and wait for the next boat to Southampton? But that might not be till tomorrow morning; Gower would realize what had happened, and come after him, sometime during the night. Pitt didn’t even have the rest of his clothes with him. He was wearing only a light jacket in the warm afternoon.
The idea of fighting Gower here was not to be considered. Even if he could subdue him—and that was doubtful; Gower was younger and extremely fit—what would Pitt do with him? He had no power to arrest him. Could he leave him tied up, and then escape—assuming he was successful anyway?
But Gower would not be alone here. That thought sobered him like a drench of cold water, raising goose bumps on his skin. How many of the people at Frobisher’s house were part of his plan? The only answer was for Pitt to deceive him, make him believe that he had no suspicions at all, and that would not be easy. The slightest change in manner and Gower would know. Even a self-consciousness, a hesitation, a phrase too carefully chosen, and he would be aware.
How could Pitt tell him they were returning to London? What excuse would he believe?
Or should he suggest he himself return, and Gower stay here and watch Frobisher and Wrexham, just in case there was something after all? In case Meister or Linsky came back? Or anyone else they would recognize? The thought was an immense relief. A weight lifted off him as if it were a breathtaking escape, a flight into freedom. He would be alone—safe. Gower would stay here in France.
A second later he despised himself for his cowardice. When he had first gone on the beat in London, as a young man, he had expected a certain amount of violence. Indeed, now and then he had met with it. There had been a number of wild chases, with a degree of brawling at the end. But after promotion, as a detective he had almost exclusively used his mind. There had been long days, even longer nights. The emotional horror had been intense, the pressure to solve a case before a killer struck again, before the public were outraged and the police force disgraced. And after arrest there was testimony at the trial. Worst of all was the fear, which often kept him awake at night, that he had not caught the real criminal. Perhaps he had made a mistake, drawn a wrong conclusion, and it was an innocent person who was going to face the hangman.
But it was not physical violence. The battle of wits had not threatened his own life. He was chilled in the first darkness of the early evening. The sunset breeze was cold on his skin, and yet he was sweating. He must control himself. Gower would see nervousness; he would be watching for it. The suspicion that he had been found out would be the first thing to leap to his mind, not the last.
Before he reached the house, Pitt must have thought of what he would say, and then he must do it perfectly.
GOWER WAS ALREADY IN when Pitt arrived. He was sitting in one of the comfortable chairs reading a French newspaper, a glass of wine on the small table beside him. He seemed very English, very sunburned—or perhaps it was more windburn from the breeze off the sea. He looked up and smiled at Pitt, glanced then at Pitt’s dirty boots, and rose to his feet.
“Can I get you a glass of wine?” he offered. “I expect you’re hungry?”
For a moment Pitt was attacked by doubt. Was he being ridiculous thinking that this man had swiftly and brutally killed West, and then turned with an innocent face and helped Pitt pursue Wrexham all the way to
