by Alan Hunter
‘He was in an odd mood,’ Keynes said. ‘He didn’t want to talk about his session with you. Then you rang this morning and it seemed to decide him. He said there was something he must do in town.’
‘Something he must do?’
Keynes nodded. ‘Those were the precise words he used. I didn’t query it and he didn’t explain it. I lent him a couple of pounds for petrol.’
‘And that suggests nothing more to you now – like some person he may have been meeting?’
‘It doesn’t,’ Keynes said. ‘I wish it did. But I don’t know of any acquaintance he had in London.’
Gently grunted. ‘He knew Mr Walling. Nina Walling. Ivan Webster.’
Keynes gestured. ‘He may have met them down here, but you would scarcely class them as acquaintances.’
‘Wouldn’t he have seen them in town?’
‘Not very likely. He could have run across them when he stayed with Adrian.’
‘Or his other trips?’
Keynes looked blank. ‘He’s been to town only twice in the past year.’
‘Because he’s living on air,’ Jennifer Britton said softly. ‘No money for trips. Too proud to borrow.’ She turned her face to the sofa. ‘Poor Lawry.’
‘How much money had he this morning?’ Gently asked.
Keynes shook his head. ‘Not enough to flit on.’
‘He had the car.’
‘He wouldn’t make off with it. Lawrence is one of those old-fashioned people.’
‘So,’ Gently said. ‘It amounts to this. Turner decided on the trip after I rang. He packed nothing, took little money, and appeared to expect to return today. Instead of which there comes this telegram, containing a confession and saying goodbye.’ He turned abruptly to Walling. ‘And his acquaintance in London stops with you, your daughter and her lover.’ He paused. ‘So where is Turner?’
Walling gaped at him, his face sagging. ‘I-I – please! H-how should I know? I-I’ve scarcely ever m-met him!’
‘But you know where he is.’
‘N-no –!’
‘Yes! Turner must have gone to town to see one of you three. He would have missed your daughter and Webster, so that just leaves you.’
‘B-but that’s insane! I never saw him! I was being q-questioned by detectives.’
‘Only in the morning. After that, you were free enough to drive down here.’
‘But I didn’t see him.’
‘Why did you come here?’
Walling dragged on his hair. ‘To confess! It’s the t-truth, I didn’t see Turner. Oh, please, why can’t you believe me?’
And suddenly he was on his knees again, with the brandy glass still clasped in his hand. He held it up in a sort of weird supplication, a votive offering to Gently’s wrath.
‘But at least you would know who did see him.’
Walling trembled. ‘N-no! Nothing! The d-detectives were with me all the morning. I haven’t seen my daughter, or . . . or . . .’
‘Look, Webster and your daughter were here earlier.’
Walling shook his head stupidly. ‘Please . . . no!’
‘Webster was trying to increase my suspicion of Turner – and now, lo and behold! This telegram.’
‘I d-don’t know anything!’
‘Listen, Webster could have sent this telegram, but the telegram would be no use unless Turner had been persuaded not to return here. And Turner hasn’t returned here – at least, not yet. All we have is you, with a fake confession. And if you know enough for the need for that, you’ll know enough to tell us where to find Turner.’
‘But I just d-d-don’t!’ Walling wailed. ‘The telegram, Turner, nothing at all! It’s me who’s guilty, just me. Oh, I should have shot myself back there!’
He sagged forward, blubbering; and Keynes had to move swiftly to catch the brandy glass from his hand. He helped Walling up, sat him again, and tipped some brandy into his mouth. Walling spluttered and coughed, but drank the brandy; he sat goggling and gaping like a landed fish. Keynes nodded to Gently and went out to the hall. After a moment, Gently followed him.
‘I think Oscar’s telling the truth,’ Keynes said quietly. ‘At least, about not having seen Lawrence. If Lawrence has got himself mixed up with Webster, then it must have been Webster he went to see.’
Gently hunched. ‘He’d have missed him this morning. Webster couldn’t have been back there till after three.’
‘So he’d have hung about waiting,’ Keynes said. ‘Perhaps checked on pubs or coffee-bars that Webster uses. But what the devil did he want with Webster?’
‘That’s what’s troubling me,’ Gently said.
‘You don’t think he was in it with him?’
Gently shook his head. ‘But I think he may know more than is good for him. At the end of my questioning he nearly came up with something, as though being under pressure had jolted his memory. But then he seemed to think I wouldn’t have believed him. I think he went to town today to check.’
‘Something about Webster?’
‘That’s fairly certain. Have you any idea what?’
Keynes looked blank. ‘I know I suggested Webster to you, but I don’t really know much about him. I’ve seen him once or twice down here with Adrian. Seen a couple of sick plays of his on the box. Summed him up as a decadent, and dangerous. That’s about all I can tell you of Webster.’
‘Turner wasn’t attracted to him.’
‘Lawrence didn’t like him. Felt the same nausea for him that I did.’
‘Any letters? Phone calls?’
‘None I know of. I assure you, Webster made no impact at all.’ He hesitated, his eyes searching Gently’s. ‘May I ask if you’ve made up your mind about Webster?’
Gently turned his back on the writer. ‘Yes. Since a chat I’ve had with Walling.’
‘But then Lawrence . . . what’s happened?’
‘I have a pick-up out on Turner.’
‘Oh . . . good heavens!’ Keynes exclaimed. He dropped down suddenly on one of the hall-chairs.
The telephone rang: Lyons.
‘Chiefie, I’m ringing from Webster’s flat. Webster has taken off somewhere. His car was seen here earlier, but not since around four p.m. We’re doing our best to make contact.’
‘Any sign of Turner or his car?’
‘No, sir. Nothing on that yet.’
‘Where is Miss Walling?’
‘She’s at the Capri. Seems she arrived there earlier than usual.’
‘What about the flat?’
‘We’ve just made a start, sir. But there’s one thing I can tell you. Someone’s been sleeping on a pull-out bed. It’s been folded up with the soiled bed-clothes in it.’
‘Hang on,’ Gently said.
From the drive outside had come the leisurely crunch of wheels on gravel. They passed the house, circled, and stopped, to the accompaniment of the brisk chat of a handbrake. Keynes jumped to his feet: Gently grabbed him. A car door opened and slammed. Then footsteps sounded in the passage. Ivan Webster entered the hall.
He stared at Gently in mocking surprise, and stood casually flapping his sheepskin jacket.
‘Hullo?’ Gently said to the phone. ‘Forget Webster. He’s been kind enough to walk through the door.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
WEBSTER REMAINED UNPERTURBED. His mocking eye travelled from Gently to Keynes, then back to Gently.
‘Now isn’t this just crazy,’ he said tauntingly. ‘Me busting two birds with the one shot. I drive down to see these nice people, and look who I’m running into as well.’
‘What are you doing here?’ Gently asked.
Webster fanned the sheepskin. ‘Being friendly, fuzz. Like almost a Good Samaritan I am, driving out here twice to help my friends. Yah, a Samaritan is what I am. Before you crash out, ring Ivan.’
‘We weren’t expecting him,’ Keynes said tightly.
‘I should have called you,’ Webster leered. ‘But like then it would have spoiled a surprise. And my bus
iness being personal, like that.’
Keynes took a step towards him. ‘What business?’
‘Yah, don’t get uptight,’ Webster said. ‘Haven’t I been saying I’m here to help people? And that goes for top-brass fuzz, too.’ He stroked his lapel. ‘So why don’t we go in,’ he said. ‘What I have to say is for the benefit of all.’
Keynes glanced at Gently, who shrugged. Keynes opened the door to the drawing-room. Webster lounged through. His appearance was greeted by a whimper from Walling, and an exclamation from Maryon Britton.
‘You!’
Webster ducked his head. Maryon Britton jumped to her feet. She glared aggressively at Webster, who returned the glare with a lazy grin.
‘Did you send that telegram?’
‘Like, which telegram?’
‘The one that was supposed to come from Lawrence!’
Webster shook his head in mock wonder. ‘Like I tried to talk him out of it. He must have sent it just the same.’
‘Then you know where he is?’
Webster nodded towards Gently. ‘Maybe not officially or for the record. But maybe, like between friends, I could have a wild notion. Maybe that’s why I’m here now.’
Jennifer Britton sat up. ‘Where is Lawrence?’
‘Around,’ Webster said. ‘He’s around. Do I get to sitting down?’
Maryon Britton’s chin tilted. ‘Sit,’ she said, hissing the word.
Webster chose a chair and sprawled on it. Maryon Britton returned to the sofa. Keynes, tense-faced, drew up a chair till he was sitting almost knee-to-knee with the scriptwriter. Gently quietly closed the door and motioned Metfield nearer to it. Then he crossed to the french windows, closed those too, and took a chair by them.
Webster didn’t seem to notice; he sprawled indolently, hands dug into the pockets of the sheepskin.
‘Yah, well,’ he said. ‘This afternoon. I’d just got back from the country scene. So there’s this Turner parked outside and waiting to grab me as I came in. Seems like he felt the fuzz were breathing on him, that it was time he busted out. Like he wanted some help from his friends until he wasn’t such a hot property.’
‘Yes, that’s likely!’ Maryon Britton snapped. ‘When were you such a friend of Lawrence’s?’
‘Lady, lady!’ Webster drawled. ‘Who else could that nervy cat turn to? Me, he knew. I put him in the scene when he was on that trip with Adrian. Like it struck him I was no fuzz-lover, wouldn’t blow him to the pigs. So he came to Ivan. If you work it out, there was nowhere else for him to go.’
‘Yes, but why?’ Keynes demanded hotly. ‘Lawrence didn’t have to run. He wasn’t intending to, either, not when he left the cottage this morning.’
Webster leered from under his hair. ‘That was this morning, Mack,’ he said. ‘By mid-afternoon he’d had time to meditate, and like then he decided the Smoke was cosier.’
‘That doesn’t sound like Lawrence.’
‘Be told,’ Webster said.
‘This lout is lying,’ Keynes said to Gently.
‘Yah?’ Webster said. ‘What I’m trying not to say is that Turner knew he had reasons why he should hole up. Well, I don’t know that. He didn’t tell me. So just you go on believing he’s innocent. But meantime there he was on my doorstep, about blowing his lid because of the fuzz.’
He tossed back his hair and stared meanly at Keynes, who was regarding him with still, empty eyes.
‘But what happened to Lawrence?’ Jennifer Britton said.
Webster relaxed, his eyes hooding. ‘Yah, so I took him inside,’ he said. ‘Made some coffee, tried to cool him down. Like I tried to tell him the fuzz couldn’t touch him, like he only needed to keep his cool. But he was too strung up, you couldn’t undo him. So I thought it was best to go along.’
‘You agreed to hide him?’ Keynes said.
Webster sneered. ‘Forget it, Mack. Not with the fuzz flapping their ears do I say comic things like that.’
‘But you advised him?’
‘Yah, I advised him.’
‘You know where he is.’
‘Lay off,’ Webster said. ‘You aren’t the fuzz, don’t make like the fuzz. Let them come up with the square questions.’
‘Then what have you come to tell us?’
Webster pushed his face at Keynes. ‘I’ve come to tell you this, Mack, and you’d best grab it. Your blue-eyed boy is, like, very disturbed, and needs to have someone holding his hand. I would have kept him at the flat, but that wasn’t sensible, so I gave him some advice and turned him loose. He is going to phone you, and when he does, the smart thing will be to get out there fast. Because he’s like to crash out, you comprehend? That phone call will maybe be the last.’
Jennifer Britton came slowly to her feet. She stared hauntedly at Webster. ‘You’ve killed Lawrence.’
Webster’s hands crept out of his pockets. ‘Are you stoned?’ he jeered. ‘More like that cat would have killed me.’
‘Yes, you killed him,’ Jennifer Britton said. ‘I knew you’d killed him when you walked in. I knew that Adrian was going to die. Now I know you’ve killed Lawrence.’
Webster hesitated fractionally before bursting into harsh laughter. ‘This cow is crazy,’ he jeered. ‘A crazy cow. Like someone should lock this cow up.’
‘He killed Lawrence,’ Jennifer Britton said. She pointed a straight, untrembling finger. ‘He killed him. He killed Lawrence. That man there killed Lawrence.’
‘Look!’ Webster shouted. ‘This is madsville!’
‘Did you kill him?’ Keynes said.
‘Like would I have walked in here if I had?’
‘Yes,’ Jennifer Britton said. ‘He killed him. He killed him.’
There came a sudden little whimper from Walling’s corner and the plump man struggled to his feet. He, too, pointed a finger at Webster, though in his case the finger was trembling violently. His shapeless mouth wobbled.
‘He k-killed Adrian, too!’
‘Why, you fat bum-boy!’ Webster snarled, leaping up.
‘Sit down!’ Keynes snapped. ‘You’ll hear what he says.’
‘Yah?’ Webster barked. ‘He’d better remember his daughter!’
Walling swayed, but his finger kept pointing. ‘He killed Adrian,’ he said. ‘He told me he killed him. He’s been asking me for money. He said if I shopped him he would shop Nina, too.’
‘You lying bastard!’ Webster howled.
‘And it’s true, isn’t it?’ Keynes demanded.
‘No it isn’t! He’s lying like a pig.’
‘There are two fingers pointing at you, Webster.’
Webster struck at him. Keynes went rolling. Webster bolted towards the door. Metfield moved in front of it: without hesitation, Webster flashed a karate chop at Metfield’s throat.
‘Oh no you don’t, sonny!’ Metfield grunted, bobbing away with unexpected agility. Then he hooked Webster with a slamming left shot. Webster went down. He didn’t move.
‘Oh God, have you killed him?’ Maryon Britton cried.
‘Just restrained him, ma’am,’ Metfield said. He polished his knuckles and looked across at Gently, who was sitting unmoved by the french windows. ‘Cuffs, sir?’
Gently nodded.
Maryon Britton laughed a little hysterically. Jennifer Britton was standing stiff and huge-eyed. Walling had collapsed again on his chair.
Metfield snapped cuffs on the still-groggy Webster and heaved him unceremoniously to a seat. The script-writer sat massaging his swelling jaw and staring hate at the fleshy Inspector. Gently rose slowly and came over. Webster’s flaming eyes hooked on to him. Gently placed a chair to confront Webster and sat, his arms folded.
‘Now listen carefully,’ he said. ‘You are under arrest on suspicion of being involved in the murder of Adrian Stoll. The punishment for murder is life imprisonment, which formerly could be as little as nine-and-a-half years. That is so no longer. It is possible now to give a sentence for a minimum number of years. And if you have made aw
ay with the young man, Lawrence Turner, you may never see the outside world again. Do you understand?’
Webster tossed his hair furiously. ‘Yah, I understand, fuzz,’ he snarled. ‘And now you listen to me, because you, like, can’t prove any of it, and you’re going to be sorry you ever arrested me. I wasn’t around when Stoll was murdered. That call from Rosenberg wasn’t a fake. And if that fat pansy says I’m involved, it’s just his word against mine, yah? And who’s going to believe a twister like that, and him with a motive as big as a house? So you’d just better get this hardware off me, or like, I’ll pull the roof in on you.’
‘Who was your lodger at Battersea?’ Gently said.
Webster’s eyes flickered. ‘Who says I had one?’
‘We say it,’ Gently said. ‘He’s been staying with you for several weeks. He got out of your flat only last weekend.’
‘That’s a lie! There’s been nobody there.’
‘A youngster of about twenty,’ Gently said.
‘It’s a frame!’
‘Described as a hippie type. Tallish. Wears a beard.’ Webster’s narrow features writhed. ‘You won’t get away with this, fuzz,’ he snarled. ‘There’s no connection. You can’t connect it. I’m clear all the way along the line.’
‘I can’t connect it – but Turner can?’
‘Just turn me loose!’ Webster bawled. ‘You’ll never get me for doing Turner. That one’s as bum as all the rest.’
‘Because you have an alibi.’
‘Yah – an alibi!’
‘Such as coming down here to bring a message.’
Webster came off his chair, his manacled fists clubbed, and was promptly dumped back into it by Metfield.
‘You lying bastards!’ he roared.
‘So this was your alibi,’ Gently said. ‘You came down here to hint at Turner’s impending suicide while your confederate was engaged in murdering him.’
‘Prove it!’ Webster howled. ‘You can’t prove it – because like, I’m here and nowhere else. And if you’re pinning your hopes on Turner, just bloody forget all about it, fuzz.’
‘Where is Turner?’
‘I said forget it!’
‘It could mean the difference between ten and thirty years.’
‘Yah, difference nothing,’ Webster snarled. ‘Because Turner won’t talk any more than Adrian – it’s all finished, kaput, in the can. And you’ve got nothing to come but grief.’
