Farewell Gesture

by Roger Ormerod

  “Tell me…” Greaves was shaking his head, his jowls flying as he assembled his attitude. “Tell me, do you read much romantic fiction? Was that all they could find you in the prison library? I’ve never heard such a load of rubbish—”

  “It’s true, damn it.”

  “Don’t argue with me, Manson. I’m warning you.”

  Lucy cleared her throat. “May I say something, sir?”

  He inclined his head. “If you can make sense of it, by all means.”

  “Well…surely the possible truth of what Mr. Manson has said isn’t really the point. If he thought it was true, if he had reason to believe Mr. Filey was about to kick her head in, surely that’s what matters. Sir,” she added as an afterthought.

  I smiled at her. She didn’t smile back. It was Greaves who did so, a wolfish grin. “But that isn’t what matters to me. Manson made a murderous attack. What you said, Sergeant, is for the defence to bring up in court.”

  I was silent. Greaves opened his window to shake his pipe outside. Lucy watched him with grim anticipation, while Greaves made up his mind.

  “I’ll need to speak to Mr. Filey, of course. Later, I’ll get along to the hospital. But in the meantime, it’s clear I’ll have to have a word with Dorothy Mann.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “You do that. She’ll tell you—”

  “Be quiet! I shall speak to her. We’ll see if there’s anything other than wild imagination in what you’ve told us.”

  I had my hand on the door catch. “Yes. We’ll see then, and you can just—”

  “You, Mr. Manson, will see nothing. The sergeant and I will go over there now. You will remain here. You’ll sit where you are now, and not move. I’ve got men who can persuade you if you’ve got other ideas. You will sit, and you will wait. Do you understand?”

  “Of course.” I couldn’t get much force into it.

  “I’m very pleased to hear it. Come along, Sergeant. She’ll have had time to clean herself up by now.”

  They got out of the car. Not even glancing back, Greaves being so certain of the strength of my surveillance, they walked across to the hotel. I waited. Looking round, I could see no sign of large, rugged coppers. But, having no intention of doing anything provoking, I had no difficulty in sitting back, closing my eyes, and trying to relax. Ridiculously, I fell asleep, jerking awake as the car door opened. Greaves slid in beside me, Lucy again climbing in behind the wheel.

  For some moments Greaves didn’t speak. His face wasn’t moving around now, but was set rather more grimly than I liked to see. At last he marshalled his words.

  “Miss Mann has told us that she thought Mr. Filey was about to kick her head in.”

  “Just what I told you!”

  “She has claimed that he’s hated her ever since the warehouse job. She remains adamant that he conned Philomena into pointing out Carl Packer at the trial. And she says Filey did this by offering Arthur Torrance’s freedom from prosecution on the murder charge.”

  He’d said this in a toneless voice, giving me no clues as to his reaction. I helped him along. “Exactly what I said.”

  “Oh no! Oh no it’s not. You said Mr. Filey interfered with the evidence.”

  “And so he did. He cleaned—”

  “I got the impression,” he went on, raising his voice, “that Miss Mann is as obsessed as you are about it. No…the other way round. What you say is what she’s fed you.” He held up his huge palm. “And if you interrupt again I’ll have your mouth plastered over. Listen for once. You’ve got yourself involved in this, and you’ve taken it on yourself to go round questioning people. It’s your right to do that. Not to demand answers, but to ask. I can’t stop you talking, more’s the pity, but you seem to have accepted that everything you’ve heard from everybody has to be the plain truth. No, damn you, shut your mouth. I believe that Miss Mann is no longer in a condition to think logically on anything. Arthur Torrance is a born liar and clever with it. Carl Packer would say anything to get out of Gartree. And Douglas French! My God, you can’t tell me he was sane. All these, you’ve listened to and believed. So now…I’ve had enough of it. When I’ve had a word with Mr. Filey—we’ll see. If he cares to lay charges against you, then you’ll find yourself inside again. Do I make myself clear? That’s a question, so answer it.”

  I licked my dry lips. In contrast to his normal attitude, Greaves in a nasty mood was impressive. I didn’t dare to look at Lucy.

  “All I can say is that I agree I’ve spoken to all those people you’ve mentioned. But not like a policeman, like an ex-Gartree resident, Mr. Greaves, and I’m quite convinced I heard the truth.”

  “Hah!” he barked in disgust.

  “But you,” I said, trying to sound more forceful, “you’re going to take the word of Filey.”

  “I most certainly am.”

  “I’ve spoken to him, too,” I said quietly.

  “And what does that mean?”

  “If anybody’s psychotic, it’s him.”

  “Watch what you say!”

  “Watch it, be damned. I can’t make anything worse than it is. Assume there was something in it, what Filey did over the warehouse robbery.”

  “I’ll assume nothing of the sort.”

  “Then I will. It all follows from that. Filey came here, just after Art did. Filey had his spies out. Philomena was going to make a decision on Frenchie’s offer. If what she decided to do included anything about Filey, then he’d have been in trouble. But she died. Frenchie might have known her decision, and was only waiting for her to pass it on to Art. So Frenchie presented a danger, and he died. Dorothy was close to Philomena. She could have known the truth, as told to her by Philomena. So she had to die. She would have died, only I happened to be there. And you intend to take the word of such a man!”

  “I don’t believe it!” Greaves whispered to his pipe.

  “I didn’t expect—”

  “Lucy,” he said, “have you been taking this down?”

  “No, sir.”

  “It’s just as well. Our Mr. Paul Manson must be crazy. Or so ridiculously naïve that it’s a wonder he’s still walking around.” He returned his attention to me. “And you will not be walking around for much longer, believe me. I can put theories together just as well as you, you know. And I can say you came here from Carl Packer to kill Philomena Wise, and that you did so. You argued with Douglas French, who’d also come along to do the job, and you put him away with a chunk of rock. You knew that Mr. Filey suspected all this, so you seized on an opportunity, when he and Miss Mann were disputing something between themselves, in order to attack him, and to kill him too. It’s in your blood, Manson. A killer instinct.”

  The skin of my face felt tight and drawn. He was watching me with what I thought might be a slight smile. “You don’t believe a word of that.”

  “Enough of it to put you away in a cell for safe keeping.”

  “It’s bloody absurd!”

  “Not nearly as nonsensical as the ideas you’ve been throwing around.”

  “Dorothy confirms he was going to kick her head in. You said that.”

  “She could change her mind.”

  “I’ve got to see her!” I cried, feeling panic rising in me.

  “I thought you’d say—”

  “You’ve got no right to stop me—”

  He spoke casually. “She asked to see you.”

  “She…asked…”

  “When I told her I was going to take you in, that was what she asked.”

  “Well then…”

  “I told her you could be seen in your cell at the station.”

  “For God’s sake…”

  “But I’m an impatient man,” he said placidly. “You may do it now.” The folds of his face were now so much relaxed that I was suspicious.

  “And you’ll let me do that?”

  “Certainly. But Sergeant Rice will be with you. This will have to be recorded. I think Miss Mann wants to tell you there’ll be no help comi
ng from her direction.”

  My mind hunted for stability. He was trying something on, and I couldn’t see what it was. “More likely,” I fumbled, “she wants to thank me for saving her life.”

  He shrugged, spreading his hands. “Wouldn’t that be nice! Lucy, you know what to do. Oh, and Manson, if you intend to try anything funny involving Sergeant Rice—don’t. Just don’t.”

  Unable to answer him, I struggled with the door catch and almost fell out of the door.

  Greaves, I tried to convince myself, didn’t believe his stupid theory against me, otherwise he wouldn’t have given me this chance. No, he expected something to emerge when we met, but how could that be if Lucy was with me? He was playing games with me, pushing the pieces around and hoping for checkmate. I was his black knight.

  Then Lucy was at my elbow, and together we crossed the road, not glancing at each other, not speaking. She led me through the lobby, already knowing which was Dorothy’s room. I tramped at her elbow, up the wide, marble-treaded staircase. The flock wallpaper was shiny at shoulder level, the red carpet runner worn thin. Lucy had now fallen back behind me. It was my visit. Lucy was my attendant shadow. She indicated which door.

  “This is it.”

  I knocked. Dorothy didn’t call out to ask who it was, but the door moved to the pressure of my knuckles. I put my shoulder against it and walked in.

  She had a large room with a bay window, overlooking the yacht basin. The furnishings were heavy and old, the bed large and high from the floor. It was possible to be able to sit on it comfortably, and she had been doing so, but now she’d fallen sideways to her left, away from me, her head resting on her left arm, which was spread on the coverlet. Her right arm was hanging towards the floor, the fingers lax. Beneath her hand was lying the small automatic pistol I’d last seen in her office at Killingham. Her shoulder-bag was a yard away on the floor, lying open with its contents scattered.

  It might have taken a long while to absorb this picture, or a split second. Still believing wildly that she could be asleep, I moved slowly into the room until I could look down at her. There was a small, angry hole in her right temple. Very little blood. I whispered thanks that there was very little blood, but that was before I looked at the bedcover, beyond her head.

  I turned, retching drily. Lucy moved past me into the room. I ran from there, ran into the wall opposite, staggered, then leaned against it, gulping in air. Lucy was shaking my arm. “Get Greaves. Quickly, Paul!” Her face swam in front of me, the blood drained from it.

  Slowly my head cleared. “Get Greaves!” I had to force myself into movement and found myself fumbling down the stairs sideways, both hands sliding along the marble balustrade. In the lobby I was only yards from the open air, clean and fresh air. I thrust myself through the door. Get Greaves, she’d said. I stood at the head of the steps, the sea air cutting at me, catching my breath.

  Below me, standing on the pavement with his fists on his hips and his feet braced apart, was Inspector Filey.

  “So there you are,” he said hoarsely.

  I stood, swaying. He wasn’t real. He was in hospital, so he couldn’t be real. Nothing was real. I opened my mouth, but couldn’t speak.

  Then he’d run up the steps and grabbed my arms, and was shaking me. “What is it? What is it, Manson?” he croaked.

  “Upstairs,” I whispered.

  He stared into my face for a moment, then he released me and ran into the lobby. Slowly I sat down on the top step and buried my face in my hands.

  Seventeen

  “Did you touch anything?” said Lucy.

  “What?”

  “When you went into her room—did you touch anything?” She jerked at my arm.

  I raised my head from between my knees. We were in the lounge, alone, sitting in the corner on one of the wall benches, our knees touching because we were at right angles to each other. There was a table in front of us, on it a glass of brandy. I recalled that she’d fetched it for me, but I’d been unable to touch it, afraid of aggravating the nausea.

  “I don’t think so,” I said, my voice seeming to be miles away. “You were there—you must’ve seen.”

  “Try some brandy. Your brain’s slipped out of gear.”

  I tried to smile at her, but only half of my mouth seemed to be working. She’d had experience, and was very much less affected by the death than I was. I took a sip of brandy. It felt good, so I took another.

  “Does it matter what I touched?”

  Her eyes were shaded, and she did not look at me directly. “It’s too early to say what matters. Think. Try to remember. Did you touch anything? I’d got other things to do than look at you.”

  I knew that I needed every tiny cell of my brain working at full stretch, and welcomed the warm flow of blood the brandy had provoked. The question was a tester, so I gave it my full attention. She was trying to help me.

  “The door was open a crack. Yes. I knocked. Remember? Just knuckles. It swung open a bit more. The rest…I put my shoulder to it and we just walked in. And looked. And came out again.”

  “Good.”

  “You’re thinking about fingerprints?”

  “Fingermarks, we call ’em. Yes. It could be a question of elimination.”

  I groaned. “Why? I’d have thought it was all too bloody obvious.”

  “Nothing’s taken as obvious in a sudden and violent death.” She was shaking her head when I looked at her. In sorrow for me? “Oh, Paul, you know so little of what goes on. There’s a routine, a procedure. It has to be like that, then nothing’s missed. All down as evidence, solid, undisputable, on record. That’s in case anything gets challenged in court.”

  I reckoned she was talking just in order to give me time to recover. “Why’re you telling me this?”

  “Because very soon Mr. Greaves and Mr. Filey will be down here to put a few questions to you, and I don’t want you coming out again with a load of nonsense, such as we got in the car a little while ago.”

  I stared at her, startled. Her voice had been stern and inflexible.

  “It wasn’t nonsense.”

  “Hah!” She chopped what might have been a laugh into a sharper bark of contempt. “If you only knew! It was all Mr. Greaves and I could do to prevent ourselves from laughing out loud. All right, don’t look so offended. You’ll get the chance of asking Mr. Filey yourself. I reckon you’ve got five minutes or so to pull yourself together, Paul.”

  Like that, was it? Even Lucy now! “I wouldn’t have thought they could spare time for a useless nothing like me.”

  She didn’t say anything. When I glanced at her she was smiling down at her hands. I could tell it was a smile, from the side. One corner of her mouth was twitching.

  “Oh, but you’re important, Paul. Believe me.” She twisted so that she could face me more squarely, her knees firmly against mine now. “They’ll be standing out in the corridor, up there, discussing things. You, perhaps. The SOCO’s in charge.”

  “Sockoh?”

  “Scene of Crimes Officer. It’s Sergeant Forbes. It’s his job to take charge, tell the technical lot what he wants doing, and make sure it’s all done by the book. He wouldn’t allow any paltry Inspectors across the threshold. Do you understand what I’m telling you, Paul?”

  “No.”

  “Oh—for heaven’s sake pull yourself together. You’ve been basing all your ideas on a complete misunderstanding of what happens when a serious crime occurs. Admit it, you’re completely ignorant.”

  “All I know about it is being taken in and charged, and all that.”

  “There you are then.”

  There I was where? She was warning me. Don’t stick your neck out, Paul. Which—I was now being informed brusquely—I’d been doing far too eagerly. I got to my feet, just to stretch my legs. My brain was working again, and I was just checking the rest of me.

  Lucy watched me as I wandered round the lounge, idly looking at the prints of old fighting vessels on the walls, flexing
my knees, rotating my arms.

  “Wondering whether you can run fast enough?” asked Lucy gently.

  “How long’ll they be?”

  “Don’t know. I can’t go and give them orders.”

  I moved across and stood in front of her, baffled that she’d been able to ride to easily through a scene of violence. She could force herself into objectivity. It wasn’t a dead person, it was a case. “D’you like your work, Lucy?”

  Smiling openly now, she said, “You meet a few interesting people. From time to time.”

  Before I could pursue this, she looked past my shoulder. “Here they are now.”

  I turned. Greaves, unsmiling, stood just inside the doorway. Filey, strangely smiling, was at his shoulder, carrying two thirds of a pint of beer in his fist. From time to time he was taking a sip from this, to lubricate his throat. They both stopped and stared at me. I was tensed, poised for action which might well be anything. When Filey spoke, I could tell the lubrication was working.

  “Any trouble, Sergeant?”

  “None at all, Inspector.”

  “A pity. I was looking forward…” He raised his glass and sipped.

  “He’s ready to talk,” said Lucy.

  “He’d better be. Sit down, Manson. Over there.” There was still very little power in his voice.

  Filey was carefully separating me from Lucy by urging me to take a seat in the middle of one of the side benches. This left Lucy alone at the table, and when I glanced at her I saw she’d produced her notebook, and everything I said was going to be in there. For posterity.

  Greaves asked me if I wanted anything to drink. I shook my head, and led off before anybody could take the initiative.

  “I thought you’d gone to hospital, Mr. Filey.”

  “Nobody puts me into a hospital bed, laddie. I could stand and I could walk, so I got out and walked back.”

  “I’m glad you’re all right.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Are you? You surprise me. Let’s get on with it. Mr. Greaves?” he asked politely. He was all brisk officialdom, and nothing was going to distract him from that.

  Greaves was too busy fouling the lounge with his pipe. This he waved. “Go ahead.”