‘How did they fix it?’
‘By spotting that the sliding-window had been nailed fast. He didn’t anticipate their noticing it. When the police first questioned him, he made the ghastly mistake of telling them that he knew nothing of the window having ever been nailed up. If he’d said it had been, and given some plausible reason for it, Wright might well have thought no more of it. However. It could only have been nailed up as a precaution against someone popping into Stephen’s room and looking through into Millicent’s. Therefore the murder must have been done while there were still people in the office—and even the partners never stayed much later than 6 p.m. on a Friday. Therefore the time of the murder could reasonably be narrowed down to between 5.20 and 6.’
Clare gave Basil Ryle some more brandy. Ever since coming to the studio, he had eyed her from time to time in an incredulous way, as though he found it difficult to identify her with the dummy of Nigel’s macabre reconstruction. Now he said:
‘I’m afraid I never took to Stephen very much. Couldn’t discover what made him tick. And of course he was one of the old guard, while I was in the firm on sufferance—a brash little clever scholarship boy. But I’d never have thought he’d try to incriminate me.’
‘He didn’t.’
‘But that razor—’
‘The razor was planted in your room by Liz Wenham.’
‘Liz? Oh, come off it!’
‘Liz had a very soft spot for Stephen Protheroe—that was obvious to me from the start. She’s an extremely intelligent woman, so she had no difficulty in perceiving the strength of the case I was building against Stephen, or in picking up the hints I let fall to her about it. Moreover, her love for him had made her instinctively aware of his hatred for Millicent. I believe she suspected him first during that dinner party in the Geraldines’ flat.’
‘How so?’
‘You remember, I mentioned the telephone call Gleed had made to his mother the day before the murder—the one fixing an appointment with her at his flat. Stephen said he “couldn’t have heard what she said”. I caught a curious, apprehensive look on Liz’s face just after. My guess is that she’d been in Stephen’s room when that telephone call came through, and heard it because the sliding-window was open; so why, she wondered, did Stephen say he had not heard the conversation? Anyway, when I interviewed her last, she could not conceal her worry about Stephen, and I deliberately dropped some clanging hints. On my way out, I overheard her ringing him up, asking him to lunch. Heaven knows what passed between them—Stephen wouldn’t consciously let anything out, I’m sure—but her suspicion was confirmed, and—’
‘But why should she pick on me?’ asked Ryle irritably.
‘You’ve already answered that; because you were not one of the old guard—not a Wenham, or a Geraldine, or a Protheroe. And she loved Stephen, in her peculiar way. Anything to divert suspicion from him. Now, outside the job, Liz is a naïve, unworldly type. And impulsive. On an impulse to protect Stephen, she rummaged out that old-fashioned razor—belonged to her father, no doubt—her house is a museum of Wenham relics; she cut herself with it, then rushed off to plant it in your room at the office. It was she who asked for that file to be looked out on Monday morning.’
‘Well, I must say’—began Ryle in an aggrieved tone that sounded faintly absurd.
‘No doubt she’s very ashamed of herself now—of being so incompetent as to suppose that the police wouldn’t have searched your room thoroughly enough to find it. But, as I say, she did it on the spur of the moment, panicking about Stephen. And it would fit in with the theory that you’d killed Miss Miles in a brainstorm. There’s a lot of ruthlessness in Liz: she’s a monomaniac, you must remember, about the firm’s reputation; and the only other thing in life she was devoted to was Stephen.’
Basil Ryle gave Nigel an almost inimical look. ‘While we’re talking about ruthlessness—’
‘Oh, Geraldine’s the same in his way. But he’s got a softer centre. He’d been shaking in his shoes about an early episode with Miss Miles. There are two versions of it, and I don’t give a damn which is the true one. He had to use Liz as an intermediary to convey his own version to me. He’s a moral coward; but he had no motive conceivably strong enough for murder.’
‘I’m not talking about Geraldine. I’m talking about your demonstration this evening. Was it necessary to put Stephen through that ordeal? Damn it, man, it was absolutely sadistic. Surely the police would have got him sooner or later? Traced his purchases of the false beard and the duffel coat?’
‘Yes, I expect they would,’ replied Nigel mildly, ‘once they started inquiring for Stephen in connection with them, instead of Cyprian Gleed.’
‘Well then, how can you justify that melodramatic business this evening? It was like—like torturing a man to soften him up for a confession.’
‘For God’s sake, Mr. Ryle!’ Clare’s voice trembled with indignation. ‘Don’t you even understand that? Do you think Nigel was enjoying himself?’ She rose, with a swirl of black hair, and stood over Basil Ryle. ‘You’ve said it yourself—the police would have got him “sooner or later”. But it had to be sooner. For your sake.’ Clare stamped her foot. ‘Your sake. Nigel was afraid for you—for what might happen to you if you were left in suspense any longer, wondering whether you hadn’t done it in a brain-storm. That’s why Stephen Protheroe had to be broken down quickly. You should be grateful to him, instead of taking up this sentimental attitude towards—’
‘All right, all right. I’m sorry. Really. I never thought—’ Basil Ryle offered Nigel his hand; then, with a glance at Clare and a glint of his old perkiness, added, ‘You’re a lucky chap.’
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