The Protagonists
Page 35
Fortescue said, ‘Don’t you know? You asked me once.’
MacIndoe said quite patiently, ‘Don’t waste time on facetiousness. Many of my questions will seem irrelevant. For your own sake, just answer them. It will save your breath. Now, let’s have your full name.’
‘Roy Marlborough Fortescue.’
‘What is your job?’
‘I’m a representative.’
‘When you say representative, do you mean a traveller or some other kind of representative?’
‘A traveller.’
‘Who are your employers?’
‘The Perfecta Soap Company.’
‘How long have they employed you?’
‘Since 1946.’
‘Which area do you cover for them?’
‘Middleshire.’
‘All of it?’
‘Yes.’
‘How long have you been doing this particular job?’
‘Since I joined them.’
‘Do you know the county well?’
‘Naturally.’
‘Do you travel to Almond Vale?’ T have to.’
‘Who are your customers there?’
‘A chemist in High Street and a hairdresser by the bridge.’
‘When did you last call?’
‘Oh, I can’t remember.’
‘Was it last Tuesday?’
‘No; before that.’
‘How long before?’
‘Weeks. I call about once a month.’
‘You don’t go there often?’
‘No.’
‘Can you cover other small towns and villages on the same day?’
‘Yes. That’s what I do.’
‘You don’t spend much time on small towns?’
‘No. I can do several in a day.’
‘Where do you spend the major part of your efforts? Large towns?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the city of Birlchester?’
‘Naturally.’
‘You know Birlchester well?’
‘Of course. I live there too.’
‘If a new shop is opened, you would notice it and make a call?’
‘Of course.’
‘And if one was repainted?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Do you cover south-east Birlchester?’
‘I told you: all of it.’
‘Have you ever called at Swan’s of 57 Clifford Avenue?’
‘Yes. I often go there.’
‘How often?’
‘Once a fortnight.’
‘On what day?’
‘Tuesdays usually.’
‘Have you ever called at Birrell’s, two doors away?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘It’s only two doors away.’
‘It’s not a chemist’s shop.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I’ve passed it.’
‘Did you ever call there? Did you call there on March 22nd?’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever called.’
‘What makes you sure?’
‘It’s a grocer’s shop.’
‘You don’t bother with grocers?’
‘I do, but not as much as the others.’
‘What others?’
‘Chemists.’
‘You said others. That’s plural. What else besides chemists? Do you call at hairdressers?’
‘Yes.’
‘A few of them or many?’
‘A lot of them.’
‘As many as possible?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you ever called at 1227 Almond Vale Road?’
‘It doesn’t strike a chord.’
‘It’s round the corner from Swan’s and Birrell’s. You remembered them.’
‘I don’t remember it.’
‘The proprietress is Mrs Harper. The shop is called Olga’s.’
‘I’ve never been there.’
‘It’s been there years. It’s not a new shop, although they re-painted it not long ago. It’s on the main road. You’ve been calling in the district for years. You call at every shop, you say, but not at that one. Why not?’
‘Perhaps I did and they rejected my stuff.’
‘Are you incompetent at your work?’
‘I’m not infallible.’
‘Then why didn’t you call there?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps I did.’
‘Make up your mind.’
‘It’s a long time ago. I –’
‘What was a long time ago?’
Fortescue stammered. ‘When I first covered that suburb.’
‘If you were rebuffed then, wouldn’t you have called again?’
‘If I had time.’
‘Surely you would make time. Isn’t that the whole point of your job – to expand the business of your employers?’
Fortescue did not answer, and MacIndoe proceeded: ‘What are the names of the products you might sell to hairdressers?’
Fortescue gave the names.
‘Those are household words,’ said MacIndoe. ‘Wouldn’t a hairdresser actually need them?’
‘A good one would.’
‘And wouldn’t one who failed to purchase them be liable to lose customers?’
‘Yes.’
‘Knowing that, wouldn’t you be eager to call again?’
‘Unless they’d been unpleasant.’
‘But they hadn’t, had they? You would have remembered it, wouldn’t you?’
‘Not necessarily.’
‘Who served you when you made your first call at Olga Harper’s?’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘Can you remember when you called?’
‘I don’t think I did call.’
‘Did you see Mrs Harper?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Perhaps she will know.’
‘She won’t.’
‘Why won’t she?’
Fortescue’s lips trembled; he could see that even with care one could be trapped. ‘Why should she?’
‘Don’t pither,’ said MacIndoe in an enormous voice. ‘You make a definite statement, Mrs Harper will not know if you have called. Why?’
‘I didn’t go there.’
‘Then she would know if you had called, wouldn’t she? Don’t be evasive, Mr Fortescue. Why won’t Mrs Harper recognize you?’
‘I didn’t see her.’
‘Whom did you see?’
‘One of her staff.’
‘Which one?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps it was Mrs Harper, but she seemed too young to be the proprietress.’
‘Then you remember her?’
‘Only that she was young.’
‘Was she pretty?’
‘How should I know?’
‘Don’t you notice pretty girls?’
‘No. I’m married.’
‘Did you ever know a woman named Myrel Burgess?’
Fortescue stared. ‘It does seem a familiar name.’
‘Were you her lover in 1940?’
‘I was only a kid.’
‘Was she married?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t understand your principles, Mr Fortescue. Would you like to explain them to me?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘I mean that in 1940 you, a single man, a kid as you call yourself, go through the business of love-making with a married woman, but now that you’re married you say you never look at girls – implying that
it’s because you’re married. I just wondered at the logic of it, that’s all.’
‘I don’t see what that’s got to do with it. All that was before I was married.’
‘You’ve changed your outlook since you married? You appreciate the sanctity of marriage now – is that it?’
‘If you like to put it that way.’
‘Do you know a Mrs Saunders?’
Fortescue said excitedly, ‘Good God, what bloody silly questions. It all goes back years. Trust the police to dig that up. She was at the tennis club. She wanted an affair with someone badly – it didn’t matter who – and I fell for such easy meat.’
‘Then you must have looked at the woman,’ said MacIndoe. ‘In other words, you do notice pretty girls. But perhaps Mrs Saunders was ugly. What was the girl like – the one at Mrs Harper’s? Was she fat?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Did she wear spectacles?’
‘No.’
‘Then it must have been the third girl,’ said MacIndoe. ‘It must have been the auburn-haired girl whose name was Olwen Hughes. Have a look at this photograph – was it her?’
Fortescue did not look at the proffered picture. He said, almost in anger, ‘Just because I knew her, doesn’t mean anything. Why don’t you ask me what you want to know and let me get back to the tennis match?’
‘Nobody’s said that knowing Olwen Hughes implied anything,’ MacIndoe said. ‘It’s just that there’s an acute shortage of people who knew her – I’m sure I don’t know why – and that we need the help of those who did. Don’t be anxious about the time, Mr Fortescue. We mustn’t hurry this; we have to be very accurate and sure of ourselves; justice is not quite the same as selling soap. Perhaps you’d like a drink of tea?’ He smiled, the irony still there. ‘Let’s all have a drink of tea. The constable will prepare one …’
A constable put his head out of the door and bellowed, ‘Tea up!’
Fortescue sat motionless, a great deal of his confidence still there. He was quite unaware that he had in any way committed himself; he did not realize that there were implications in MacIndoe’s questions; or that his obvious lies had been examined and where necessary disposed of. It seemed to MacIndoe that Fortescue had not in any way prepared a story; he had not, in anticipation of questioning, evolved lies that over-lapped each other; so confident was he that he just dealt with each question as it came along, truthfully if possible and untruthfully if not.
‘So you knew Olwen Hughes?’ MacIndoe commented, glancing at Baker as if to point out that all his questioning had been to arrive at this one important fact, as indeed it had. ‘Why didn’t you say so in the first place?’
‘I know you people,’ said Fortescue. ‘If anyone’s associated with a hot woman you think he’s killed her.’
‘Oh, no, nothing of the sort,’ said MacIndoe. ‘If anyone’s mixed with a dead woman we want to find out if he could have killed her. We’d be silly not to, wouldn’t we? What was your relationship with Miss Hughes?’ He sipped his tea as if the matter was academic and of scarcely any interest.
The door opened and Fortescue turned quickly in his chair as if half expecting to find someone he didn’t wish to see: a barman or waitress or boatman. Instead, it was another detective.
Maddocks, who was the detective who had entered, nodded to MacIndoe and said, ‘He’s prepared to swear in a court of law that those particular ones would make that particular impression.’
‘Good,’ said MacIndoe, while Fortescue stared anxiously. ‘Thank you, Inspector. That’s something we can really use without much dispute. This is Mr Fortescue.’
‘Yes, I know,’ said Maddocks. ‘Good afternoon.’
Fortescue seemed a little startled. Then he said, ‘I suppose you’re Maddocks.’
‘That’s right,’ said MacIndoe. ‘I wonder how you knew that. Perhaps you’ve been reading the papers.’ A pause while he let the implication of that sink in, then he said, ‘Mr Fortescue says he knew Olwen Hughes.’ He turned directly to Fortescue. ‘You were about to explain your relations with Miss Hughes.’
Fortescue said, ‘Well, she was just an ordinary pick-up.’
‘How did you pick her up?’
‘She gave me the eye in the shop and then came for a ride in my car.’
‘You asked her?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Where did you go in the car?’
‘Oh, just driving around.’
‘Anywhere in particular?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Whose car was it? The company’s?’
‘No. Mine.’
‘What sort of car was it?’
‘A saloon. Black.’
‘What’s the number?’
‘The number?’
‘Yes, that’s what I asked.’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘How long have you had it?’
‘Oh, months.’
‘And you can’t remember the number?’
‘Not at the moment. I can look it up.’
‘Did you ever possess a red sports car?’
‘No.’
‘Have you ever borrowed one?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Where did you go with her?’
‘I told you: nowhere in particular.’
‘Did she mean that little to you?’
‘She was only a pick-up.’
‘Do you often pick women up?’
Fortescue hesitated. ‘No.’
‘Then where did you take this one to obtain privacy?’
‘We parked in lanes and places.’
‘What for?’
‘The usual.’
‘Did she demand payments?’
‘No; she just hinted.’
‘Did you give her any money?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘What for?’
‘For a present.’
‘You need not have done?’
‘No.’
‘Why did you, since she was only a pick-up?’
‘She might have gone to someone else.’
‘Would that have mattered?’
‘I don’t like women dumping me.’
‘You like to dump them?’
‘Naturally.’
‘You are successful with women?’
‘I can get the skirt I want.’
‘Women don’t usually dump you?’
‘No fear. I dump them.’
‘Did you dump Olwen Hughes?’
‘No,’ said Fortescue quickly.
‘Did she dump you?’
‘No’ – in equal haste.
‘You were still on friendly terms with her at the time of her death?’
‘I hadn’t seen her for some time.’
‘Quite. But you were still friendly?’
‘I liked her.’
‘Has her death upset you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, because we were friends.’
‘You were friends?’
‘Yes.’
‘She was something more than a pick-up?’
‘I suppose she was.’
‘Were you fond of her?’
‘She had what it takes.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘She’d got a good body.’
‘I asked if you were fond of her.’
‘Well, yes, I suppose so.’
‘Was she fond of you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was she in love with you?’
‘She liked it.’
‘I asked if she was in
love with you.’
‘She might have been.’
‘Good God! Don’t you know when a woman is in love with you? Was she or wasn’t she?’
‘She must have been.’
‘Why all this doubt? You’d had previous experience of people being in love with you, hadn’t you? Was Olwen?’
Fortescue smirked. ‘She was.’
‘Was she satisfied with the pick-up relationship?’
‘She must have been.’
‘Did she ever talk about marriage?’
‘They always talk about marriage.’
‘What did Olwen Hughes say about it?’
‘She’d drop hints.’
‘What about?’
‘About how nice it would be to be married.’
‘To you?’
‘To anybody.’
‘But she was in love with you.’ Fortescue made no comment, and MacIndoe proceeded: ‘She wanted to be married to you?’
Fortescue waved a hand in a gesture of contempt. ‘They all do.’
‘Did you wish to marry her?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m already married.’
‘Happily married?’
‘Within the limitations of marriage.’
‘If you are happily married, why pick up women at all?’
Fortescue said callously, ‘Why not? I don’t go to church.’
‘Yes; but doesn’t your wife mind?’
‘God knows. She doesn’t know anything. She’s ill, anyway.’
‘What sort of illness?’
‘Psychological, I suppose.’
‘Mental, d’you mean?’
‘Not quite that.’
‘Why not get divorced?’
Fortescue shrugged. ‘What for? She’s a good cook.’
‘Then you could marry someone else.’
‘I wouldn’t be that stupid.’
‘Would you have married Olwen Hughes?’
‘How do I know?’
‘If you were in love with her, you would know.’
‘I wasn’t mushy about her.’
‘Did you tell her that you were married?’
Fortescue hesitated. ‘Yes.’
‘What did she say about that?’
‘She wasn’t worried.’
‘She didn’t mind the fact of your being married?’
‘No, no; she just wanted what she could get.’