Martin stood very still, staring straight at Macdonald, who recognised him at once as Rory Macshane, the much publicised escaper from Dartmoor.
“What’s it about?” asked Martin.
“It’s about an incident higher up the pipe line. I think you’ve got some explaining to do, and I’m going to stand by and see fair play.”
Seeing the other’s puzzled face, Macdonald went on: “Perhaps you need a witness, if you’re going to ask questions. Well, I’m the witness—C.I.D. man. I only want to give you a chance to sort the muddle out.”
Martin suddenly grinned. “O.K. I’ll take you at your word. You’re right, I do need a witness.”
He fell into step beside Macdonald, apparently quite willingly, and Macdonald said:
“I followed the track of the first lorry until it hit the bank. Then I saw your tarpaulin arrangements and I thought I might get nearer the truth if I came and fetched you.”
“Sure, you’re bright for a busy,” said Martin, “but the truth will come if you’ll listen.”
“I’m here to listen, Rory Macshane, so go ahead.”
“I trussed the blighter up—Sam Borwick. I knew the only way to make him tell the truth was to frighten him. He’s frightened all right now—frightened of being buried before his time.”
“I’m sure he is, but remember I’m a policeman, so no more frightfulness, please.”
Macshane suddenly laughed. “O.K. I’m not silly all along the line, only in patches. Come along down the trench. Now when I’ve got him uncovered, you listen, listen hard.” When they reached the covered body, he lifted up part of the tarpaulin, bent over the man beneath, and said: “It’s Rory, Sam. I told you I’d come back and I’ve come. If you only talk sense and tell the truth, I’ll let you go and you needn’t think of being buried no more, you can just beat it, but you’ve got to own up first. Here’s a drink, reckon you’re parched. I’ll take a swill first so you know it’s not poison. Now, then, what’s your name? Answer—the truth, mind.”
“Sam Borwick,” replied a hoarse voice.
“Correct. Now what was the name of the warehouse place where you and me tried to make our fortunes a year ago? Come on—answer!”
“Raine’s Wharf.”
“Correct! You’re doing fine. Who was the old blighter came on the job with us?”
“Wally Millstone.”
“Correct, we’re nearly through and then you can sit up in the sun. Never thought you’d see the sun again, did you, you silly coon? I told you I’d come back and I’ve always been straight with you, better for you if you’d been straight with me. Now, who coshed the poor old bodger, the night watchman at Raine’s Wharf? Answer out loud.”
“ ’Twas Wally Millstone, bloody ole fool, he would do it ’Twasn’t you, you never touched him, ’twasn’t me.”
“Too true. Now, then, when I said I’d come in on that job with you and cover you when you beat it, what did you promise me? Come on, answer.”
“I promised I’d leave you some money, hidden near the letter box at the Leverstone-Bolton crossroads.”
“Yes, you promised—and you never did it. I knew I could get away no matter where they imprisoned me, but a bloke needs a little brass in this country. You promised—£100 you promised and it weren’t there. Not a halfpenny, not a tanner. You silly fool, Sam Borwick,” said Rory Macshane. “You did the dirty on me, though I always played straight with you, so you’ve no cause for complaint if I hit back. Here’s a policeman sitting beside you, listening to all you’ve said. And remember this, if you try to go back on it, you’ll have me to reckon with for the rest of your life. Tell him again. What was the name of that warehouse place?”
Sam Borwick was sitting up now, supported by the side of the muddy trench. His red hair was still covered by a cap pulled down to his eyes, his face was pallid and streaked with dark grime; his arms were still lashed to his body, his legs tied together. He hardly glanced at Macdonald, his fearful eyes were on Rory Macshane.
“ ’ Twas Raine’s Wharf, Rory,” he said, “and ’twas Wally Millstone did the coshing, and don’t you think you’ve got aught against me. I didn’t leave t’ brass as I promised but I hadn’t any to leave. We didn’t get anything from that job. After you was took I got Wally away and told him where he could lay up, snug and safe. I thought Wally’d got some brass salted away, but no, he hadn’t a bean. ’Twasn’t my fault I let you down, Rory. I couldn’t help it.”
Rory Macshane turned to Macdonald. “You heard all that? Now you know. I reckoned he’d never tell the truth unless I put the fear of death into him, but he’s told the truth. I knew he’d come up here sometime to that old farmhouse he was always talking about, and when they told us about the old farmer being attacked yesterday, I reckoned that was Sam, he was always a fool.”
If Macdonald had said anything, he would have said that this was about the most unexpected conversation he had ever listened to and the most unorthodox evidence which had ever come his way in his professional career, but he had to admit that Rory Macshane had shown considerable acumen, not only in capturing and concealing the duller-witted Borwick, but in the manner of
