“Why did you do it, West?
There was nothing sinister about the voice; it was just a man’s, earnest, rather grim. He’d heard it before, in the car driving down the hill near Helsham.
The man moved; Roger heard the sound, but it was too dark to see anything.
“Why don’t you tell me? Why did you do it?”
The man moved again.
Light came on, not bright, just a single wall-lamp near the door; everything in this affair seemed to be played out in semi-darkness. The man was little more than a shape, but his eyes were like silver fire.
“Why did you do it?”
“I don’t get this. I didn’t do it.” The denial sounded weak, even to Roger; he wasn’t really on top of himself.
“Who do you think will believe you?” the man demanded.
“Anyone with sense.”
“Anyone who sees that film, and knows the rest, will believe that you killed her, West.”
Roger turned and sat down. The cigarette-box was on its side, and the cigarettes were spread over the table. He took one and lit it; it was a relief to smoke. The man stood staring at him.
“What do you want?” Roger asked, heavily.
“I want you to get some facts straight. Don’t you remember going to Paris? Don’t you remember going to the cottage?”
“I haven’t been to Paris for over a year.”
“You could have seen her then.”
“I didn’t see her. I’ve never seen her before.”
The man drew nearer.
“West, you don’t seem to realize your position. You went to Paris and saw that girl—the camera doesn’t lie, the film is here, a copy of it can be sent to Scotland Yard. You went to Copse Cottage, you were alone there when the girl was killed. You appeared to be someone other than yourself—to fool the police. You were rescued by friends, who nearly killed a police-constable. Your colleagues at the Yard think you killed the girl. The evidence is so strong. That film, proving that you knew her before and had an affaire with her, gives you a motive. You met her by assignation in a lonely country cottage. You arranged that someone should telephone the Yard with a faked message, pretending to come from your wife, but you didn’t realize that your wife would deny having sent such a message. You thought you’d get safely home and no one would suspect you, didn’t you? But you didn’t have the
Roger said: “One of us is crazy.”
“No one at Scotland Yard would believe that you’re crazy. You’re too well known, too clever. This has all the hall-marks of a crafty crime—the kind of crime that a man who knows the law might commit. You’re a policeman.” The voice maintained its monotonous level, there was no sneer, no hint of a gloating smile, it was just factual. “You know how the police build up their cases, you’ve often collected the evidence to send a man to the gallows. You’ve briefed the prosecuting counsel a hundred times. Imagine him being briefed with all this evidence! That you once went to Paris; that this girl is French; that you saw her there; that she came to England and threatened to break up your home life; that you planned to meet her and to kill her, to save your domestic life from collapse. Don’t just tell me that you didn’t do it. West, tell me what you think a prosecuting counsel would make of it.”
Roger said: “In every trial, there’s a defending counsel, too.”
“I’ll leave you to think it over,” said the man abruptly. He put his hand to his pocket, pulled out an envelope and tossed it into Roger’s lap. He turned towards the door, and as he went out of the room the shutter began to fold up, and sunlight came in through the window again.
Roger fingered the large envelope, which seemed to have several folded papers inside. He groped for another cigarette. His hand was unsteady when he took the contents from the envelope. There were three smaller envelopes, each of them stamped with a French stamp; each with a Paris postmark, each with a blue sticker reading
The writing was the same as on the envelope. The address was simply: Paris, with the date. He scanned the first. It was a love letter, as from a woman pouring out her heart. It was a good letter, written in fair English with a few odd turns of phrase, and an occasional word or expression in French; the signature was “Lucille.” There was a postcript:
He opened the second letter, dated two weeks afterwards, and the first words were the same, and then it went on with a fierce directness which shook him badly
The third letter was very brief; she would be in England on Saturday, March 12, and he was to write to her at the Oxford Palace Hotel, London, to say when and where he could meet her.
* * * *
He could tear the letters up and be no better off. They would have anticipated that, would have photostat copies, and there would be other letters, too, not just these three. Letters addressed to Arthur King, and passionately written. Put these into the hands of the prosecuting counsel together with everything else, and no jury in the country would acquit him. The film was faked. It wasn’t hard for experts to fake a film, and it might be possible to get other experts to testify that it had been faked, that one had been placed upon another—but by itself that wouldn’t be a defence. He had been superimposed on the picture; that was all—a simple technical problem.
