CHAPTER THIRTY — SEVEN
The police car was stuck at the intersection of a sheep crossing and a convoy of army trucks. It was a confusion of khaki green and dirty white wool, and Tree barged through it, horn blaring, as I stood up, grasping the windscreen, waving my arms wildly. Constable Gilbert got the message and backed up, did a hard turn, and followed us into town. Short of the canal we pulled over and I filled in Kaz and the constables as quickly as I could.
“Charlie is trying to get word through to Payne,” I said. “But Crowley could already be there.”
“Perhaps not,” Cook said. “Why would he have waited this long? He could have taken a potshot at either of us anytime.”
“Because Kaz and I have been on the scene. Two armed men are quite a deterrent. He probably thinks we’re gone now that the Neville killing is wrapped up.”
“Yes,” Cook said, “that may be. We should split up and cover both entrances. When we get close, Gilbert will go into Doctor Brisbane’s office and telephone the inspector from there. The baron and I will go around back, and you take the main door.”
“Be careful,” I said, looking at Kaz. He already had his Webley out and spun the chamber, checking his load. He shrugged at my warning. Careful wasn’t how Kaz operated.
We drove on, parking away from the station. I watched Gilbert go into Doc Brisbane’s, but I didn’t want to wait on word from him. Kaz waved as he and Cook scurried around the rear of the station house.
“Let’s just take it at a stroll,” I said to Tree. “When I go in, you stay outside in case Crowley comes along, okay?” I scanned the street for our quarry, but he wasn’t anywhere in sight. There were plenty of bicycles outside of shops, but it was impossible to know if one was his.
“I don’t think so, Billy,” Tree said. “Nice try, but I’m going in with you. Behind you, yeah, but with you.”
“It’s not your fight,” I said.
“Seems like I heard that one before, when I told you the same thing back in Boston. Didn’t stop you then, won’t stop me now.”
“Okay. Follow my lead,” I said, glad to have the extra firepower.
“Sure thing. I’ll follow from right behind you. Solid guy like you ought to stop bird shot no problem.”
We were in front of the station. Curtains were drawn across the window, which could mean Payne was taking a nap, or Crowley was setting a trap, waiting for Cook to return alone. At the door, I laid my hand on the knob. It was cold. I looked across the street, hoping to see Gilbert emerge from Brisbane’s with a look of relief on his face. Nothing.
I drew my.38 Police Special. Tree had his.45 automatic ready and I turned the knob, keeping one hand on it and the other pointing my revolver straight ahead. Cook’s office was on the right, his door about ten feet down the hallway the led to the cells, a squad room and the rear entrance. Cook’s door was open halfway, but I couldn’t see inside. I moved forward, shuffling my feet to keep the sound down.
The telephone rang. No one picked up. After five rings, it stopped. I edged closer to the door.
“Crowley? Are you here?” I asked.
“Come in, one and all,” came the answer. I turned to Tree and motioned him to stay where he was. I sidestepped across the open door, glancing inside as I moved. It was Crowley, seated at Cook’s desk, his shotgun pointed in the direction of the chair where we’d left Inspector Payne, just out of sight.
“I’m unhurt, Boyle,” Payne said. “Mr. Crowley is waiting for Constable Cook to arrive.”
“That I am. Come in, Captain Boyle. I’ve got nothing against you.”
“Cook’s not coming,” I said. “He left for Newbury this morning. Police business.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. That nice American fellow who called said you’d be here soon with the good constable. Nice try, though. Now come in, come in. I’ve got a nice collection of shells with me, but none has your name on it.” Crowley smiled as if inviting us to a party. For him, it probably was.
“Inspector, are you sure you’re all right?” I asked.
“As of this moment, yes. Probably best for you to stay where you are, though.”
“Crowley,” I said. “There’s still time to step back from all this. Why don’t you put the shotgun down and we’ll talk it over?”
“Step back?” Crowley’s voice rose. “No one stepped back when my father was put in this very jail! No one said, let the poor fellow go, he’s suffered enough. No one said, step back, it was only three moth-eaten shirts!”
“Okay, I understand,” I said, trying to calm the situation down. “I’m going to come in, okay?”
“Not with that pistol, you aren’t.” Crowley’s voice was calmer now, more of a low growl.
“Fine, fine,” I said, setting it down on the floor with a clatter before putting it back in the shoulder holster. I hoped Crowley wouldn’t notice the bulge, and hadn’t noticed Tree behind me. I pointed to myself and then mimicked a left-hand turn, so Tree would know where I’d be in the room. “Coming in.”
I stepped into the room, and felt a cold rush of sweat down the small of my back as my heart pounded against my chest. Staring down the black holes of a double-barreled shotgun has a way of focusing your attention, once you overcome the terror of it. I held my hands out at my sides.
“I’m sorry about everything that happened to your family,” I said. “My father was in the war too. It took a toll on them all.”
“All my dad wanted to do was work out under the sky, earn his wages and come home to us,” Crowley said. “But that bastard Brackmann cheated him, and the law drove him crazy. How’s that for a heavy toll, Captain?” His face twisted in a grimace of resentment, a generation’s worth of hatred.
“But why take revenge on these two men? Why not leave things be, go back to taking care of the horses? It’s not too late. I’m sure the inspector understands how upset you are.” I didn’t think Crowley would buy it, but I wanted to get him talking, keep him distracted, long enough for Tree or Kaz to make a move, if they had one.
“Don’t pretend you haven’t figured out what happened to Tom Eastman,” Crowley said. “It was the next best thing to killing that bastard Samuel. To lay his son’s body on his grave. To ruin their family as mine was ruined. That was me who killed him, damn you! You can’t take that away from me, especially not by pinning it on that darkie.”
“Did Brackmann really hang himself, or was that you as well?” I asked. I glanced at Payne, and saw his hands grip the arms of the chair. The cast on his leg left him nearly immobile in that position, but he was ready to launch himself as best he could.
“Of course that was my doing,” Crowley said. “He had no idea who I was. I came by asking for work, and he told me to bugger off. I took a tosh to his head and dragged him to the barn. I only regret he didn’t know he was being strangled. Father would have liked him to know, I’m sure.”
“This was all for your father, wasn’t it?” I said, trying to sound sympathetic.
“Of course,” Crowley said, his face softening a touch. “Who wouldn’t step into his father’s shoes? It was what he wanted, what he taught me to do.”
“I know,” I said. “We saw the letters. That was a heavy burden to lay on you.”
“Go to hell,” Crowley said. “You didn’t know my father.”
“I’m pretty sure your father would think you pathetic,” I said, deciding that the sympathetic approach wasn’t getting us anywhere. “He was a veteran, a hero. And what did you amount to? A criminal and a killer. They’ll probably send you to Broadmoor too, if they don’t hang you.” I was working on provoking him, to get him out of that chair and pointing the shotgun someplace other than Payne’s chest.
“Stop it! You said you were sorry about my father!” Rage flitted across his face, and then his lips quivered as if he were holding in a torrent of tears.
“I’m sorry he has you for a son, Angus. You didn’t even take his name, for God’s sake.”
That struck a chord. “My name is Angus Wycks!” He stood and shouted again, “Angus Wycks!” He held the shotgun in both hands, waving it wildly between Payne and me, his eyes crazed with pain and memory.
“Now!” I yelled, and dove for the floor, reaching for my pistol.
The door from the squad room crashed open, and Kaz burst in, his Webley searching for a target, finding
