“This is what I think happened. At about ten past six he goes down to the porters’ restroom to put on his outdoor coat. It’s then that he unlocks the record-room door and throws the files on the floor. He leaves the light on and shuts the door but doesn’t bolt it. Then he unlocks the back door. Next he goes into the general office to collect the outgoing post. Miss Priddy is there but periodically visits the adjoining filing room. He only needs half a minute to telephone Miss Bolam and to ask her to come down to the record room as he has something serious to show her. We know how she reacted to that message. Before Nagle has a chance to replace the receiver, Jennifer Priddy is back. He keeps his head, depresses the receiver rest and pretends to be speaking to Nurse Bolam about the laundry. Then, without wasting any more time, he leaves with the post. He has only to take it to the box across the road. Then he darts down the mews, enters the basement by the unlocked back door, slips the chisel in his pocket, collects Tippett’s fetish and enters the record room. Miss Bolam is there as he expects, kneeling to pick up the torn and scattered files. She looks up at him, ready no doubt to ask where he’s been. But before she has time to speak, he strikes. Once she’s unconscious he can take his time over the stabbing. There mustn’t be any mistake and there isn’t. Nagle paints from the nude and his knowledge of anatomy is probably as good as that of most psychiatrists. And he was handy with that chisel. For this most important job he chose a tool he had confidence in and knew how to use.”
Martin said: “He couldn’t have got down to the basement in time if he’d walked to the corner of Beefsteak Street for his Standard. But the newsboy there couldn’t swear that he’d seen him. He was carrying a paper when he returned to the Steen but he could have got that in his lunch hour and kept it in his pocket.”
“I think he did,” said Dalgliesh. “That’s why he wouldn’t let Cully see it to check the racing results. Cully would have seen at once that it was the midday edition. Instead Nagle takes it downstairs and later uses it to wrap up the cat’s food before burning it in the boiler. He wasn’t in the basement alone for long, of course. Jenny Priddy was hard on his heels. But he had time to bolt the back door again and visit Nurse Bolam to ask if the clean laundry was ready to be carried upstairs. If Priddy hadn’t come down, Nagle would have joined her in the general office. He would take care not to be alone in the basement for more than a minute. The killing had to be fixed for the time when he was out with the post.”
Martin said: “I wondered why he didn’t unbolt the basement door after the killing but, like as not, he couldn’t bring himself to draw attention to it. After all, if an outsider could have gained access that way, it wouldn’t take long for people to start thinking ‘and so could Nagle.’ He took that fifteen quid no doubt after Colonel Fenton’s break-in. The local boys always did think it odd that the thief knew where to find it. Nagle thought he had a right to it, I suppose.”
“More likely he wanted to obscure the reason for the break-in, to make it look like a common burglary. It wouldn’t do for the police to start wondering why an unknown intruder should want to get his hands on the medical records. Pinching that fifteen pounds—which only Nagle had the chance to do—confused the issue. So did that business with the lift, of course. That was a nice touch. It would only take a minute to wind it up to the second floor before he slipped out of the basement door and there was a reasonable chance that someone would hear it and remember.”
Sergeant Martin thought that it all hung together very well but that it was going to be the devil to prove and said so.
“That’s why I showed my hand at the clinic yesterday. We’ve got to get him rattled. That’s why it’s worth looking in at the Steen tonight. If he’s there we’ll put on the pressure a bit. At least we know now where we’re going.”
Half an hour before Dalgliesh and Martin called at the Pimlico flat, Peter Nagle let himself into the Steen by the front door and locked it behind him. He did not put on the lights but made his way to the basement with the aid of his heavy torch. There wasn’t much to be done: just the kiln to be turned off, the boiler inspected. Then there was a little matter of his own to be attended to. It would mean entering the record room but that warm, echoing place of death had no terror for him. The dead were dead, finished, powerless, silenced for ever. In a world of increasing uncertainty, that much was certain. A man with the nerve to kill had much that he might reasonably fear. But he had nothing to fear from the dead.
It was then that he heard the front-door bell. It was a hesitant, tentative ring but it sounded unnaturally loud in the silence of the clinic. When he opened the door, the figure of Jenny slid through so quickly that she seemed to pass by him like a wraith, a slim ghost born of the darkness and mist of the night.
She said breathlessly: “I’m sorry, darling, I had to see you. When you weren’t at the studio, I thought you might be here.”
“Did anyone see you at the studio?” he asked. He felt that the question was important without knowing why.
She looked up at him, surprised. “No. The house seemed empty. I didn’t meet anyone. Why?”
“Nothing. It doesn’t matter. Come on downstairs. I’ll light the gas stove. You’re shivering.”
They went down to the basement together, their footsteps echoing in the eerie, presageful calm of a house which, with tomorrow, would awaken to voices, movement and the ceaseless hum of purposeful activity. She began walking on tiptoe and, when she spoke, it was in whispers. At the top of the stairs she reached for his hand and he could feel hers trembling. Halfway down, there was a sudden faint noise and she started.
“What is it? What’s that noise?”
“Nothing. Tigger in his scratch tin, I imagine.”
When they were in the restroom and the fire was lit, he threw himself into one of the armchairs and smiled up at her. It was the devil of a nuisance that she should turn up now but somehow he must hide his irritation. With any luck he could get rid of her fairly quickly. She would be out of the clinic well before ten.
“Well?” he asked. Suddenly she was on the rug at his feet and clasping his thighs. Her pale eyes searched his in passionate entreaty.
“Darling, I’ve got to know! I don’t mind what you’ve done as long as I know. I love you and I want to help. Darling, you must tell me if you’re in any trouble.”
It was worse than he feared. Somehow she had got hold of something. But how, and what? Keeping his voice light he asked: “What sort of trouble, for God’s sake? You’ll be saying next that I killed her.”
“Oh, Peter, please don’t joke! I’ve been worried. There is something wrong, I know there is. It’s the money isn’t it? You took that fifteen pounds.”
He could have laughed aloud with relief. In a surge of emotion he put his arms round her and drew her down upon him, his voice muffled in her hair.
“You silly kid. I could have helped myself to the petty cash any time if I wanted to steal. What the hell started you off on this nonsense?”
“That’s what I’ve been telling myself. Why should you take it? Oh, darling, don’t be angry with me. I’ve been so worried. You see, it was the paper.”
“What paper, for God’s sake.” It was all he could do not to shake her into coherence. He was glad that she could not see his face. So long as he need not meet her eyes, he could fight his anger and the fatal, insidious panic. What in God’s name was she trying to say?
“The Standard. That sergeant came to see us this evening. I’d been to fetch the fish and chips. When I was unwrapping them in the kitchen, I looked at the paper they were wrapped in. It was Friday’s Standard and it had a large picture of that air crash all over the front page. Then I remembered that we had used your Standard to wrap up Tigger’s food and the front page was different. I hadn’t seen that picture before.”
He tightened his hold on her and said very quietly: “Did you say anything about this to the police?”
“Darling, of course I didn’t! Suppose it made them suspect you! I
didn’t say anything to anyone but I needed to see you. I don’t care about the fifteen pounds. I don’t care if you did meet her in the basement. I know you didn’t kill her. All I want is for you to trust me. I love you and I want to help. I can’t bear it if you keep things from me.”
That’s what they all said but there wasn’t one in a million who really wanted to know the truth about a man. For a second he was tempted to tell her, spit the whole brutal story into her silly, pleading face and watch the sudden draining away of pity and love. She could probably bear to know about Bolam. What she couldn’t bear would be the knowledge that he hadn’t blackmailed for her sake, that he hadn’t acted to preserve their love, that there wasn’t any love to preserve and never had been. He would have to marry her, of course. He had always known that it might be necessary. Only she could effectively witness against him and there was one sure way to stop her tongue. But time was short. He planned to be in Paris by the end of the week. Now it looked as if he wouldn’t be travelling alone.
He thought quickly. Shifting her weight to the arm of the chair but still keeping his arms around her, his face resting against her cheek, he said softly: “Listen, darling. There’s something you’ve got to know. I didn’t tell you before because I didn’t want to worry you. I did take the fifteen quid. It was a bloody stupid thing to do but there’s no sense in worrying about that now. I suppose Miss Bolam might have guessed. I don’t know. She didn’t say anything to me and it wasn’t I who phoned her. But I was in the basement after she was killed. I left the back door open and came back that way. I get sick of that old fool Cully booking me in and out as if I were as nutty as a patient and asking for the paper as soon as I appear. Why can’t he buy his own, the mean old devil. I thought I’d fool him for once. When I came in at the basement door, I saw that there was a light in the record room and the door was ajar, so I went to look. I found her body. I knew that I daren’t be found there, particularly if they ever discovered about the fifteen quid, so I said nothing and left again by the back door and came in as usual by the front. I’ve kept quiet ever since. I must, darling. I’ve got to take up the Bollinger by the end of this week and the police wouldn’t let me go if they started suspecting me. If I don’t get away now, I’ll never have the chance again as long as I live.”
That at least was true. He had to get away now. It had become an obsession. It wasn’t only the money, the freedom, the sun and the colours. It was the final vindication of the lean, pallid years of struggle and humiliation. He had to take up the Bollinger. Other painters could fail here and still succeed in the end. But not he.
And, even now, he might fail. It was a thin story. He was struck, as he spoke, by the inconsistencies, the improbabilities. But it hung together—just. He couldn’t see how she could prove it false. And she wouldn’t want to try. But he was surprised by her reaction.
“By the end of this week! You mean, you’re going to Paris almost at once. What about the clinic … your job?”
“For God’s sake, Jenny, what the hell does that matter? I shall leave without notice and they’ll find someone else. They’ll have to do without me.”
“And me?”
“You’re coming with me, of course. I always meant that you should. Surely you knew that?”
“No,” she said, and it seemed to him that her voice held a great sadness. “No, I never knew that.”
He tried to assume a tone of confidence tinged with slight reproach.
“I never discussed it because I thought there were some things we didn’t need to say. I know the time’s short but it’ll be easier if you don’t have to stick around too long at home waiting. They’d only get suspicious. You’ve got a passport, haven’t you? Didn’t you go to France with the Guides that Easter? What I suggest is that we marry by special licence as soon as possible—after all, we’ve got the money now—and write to your parents when we get to Paris. You do want to come, don’t you, Jenny?”
Suddenly she was shaking in his arms and he felt the warm wetness of her tears stinging his face.
“I thought you meant to go without me. The days went by and you never said anything. Of course, I want to come. I don’t care what happens as long as we’re together. But we can’t get married. I never told you because I was afraid you’d be angry and you’ve never asked me anything about myself. I can’t get married because I’m married already.”
The car had turned into Vauxhall Bridge Road but traffic was heavy and they were making poor time. Dalgliesh sat back in his seat, as if all day were before him, but inwardly he was fidgeting with anxiety. He could discover no rational cause for this impatience. The call at the Steen was merely speculative. The chances were that Nagle, if indeed he had called at the clinic, would have left before they arrived. Probably he was even now putting down his evening pint in some Pimlico pub. At the next corner the traffic lights were against them and the car slowed to a halt for the third time in a hundred yards.
Suddenly Martin said: “He couldn’t have got away with it for long, even by killing Bolam. Sooner or later Mrs. Fenton—or another victim maybe—would have turned up at the Steen.”
Dalgliesh replied: “But he might well have got away with it for long enough to take up the Bollinger. And even if the blackmailing came to light before he got away—what could we prove? What can we prove now, come to that? With Bolam dead what jury could be sure beyond reasonable doubt that she wasn’t the blackmailer? Nagle’s only got to say that he remembers seeing the odd envelope addressed in green ink and that he placed it with the AO’s post. Fenton will confirm that he thought the telephone calls came from a woman. And blackmailers do occasionally come to a violent end. Nagle wouldn’t go on with it after Mrs. Fenton’s call. Even that would help his case. Bolam dies and the blackmailing stops. Oh, I know all the arguments against it! But what can anyone prove?”
Martin said stolidly: “He’ll try to be too clever. They always do. The girl’s under his thumb, of course, poor little devil. If she sticks to her story that he wasn’t alone long enough to make that call …”
“She’ll stick all right, Sergeant.”
“I’m pretty sure he doesn’t know about the husband. If she looks dangerous, he probably thinks that he can stop her tongue by marrying her.”
Dalgliesh said quietly: “What we’ve got to do is to pull him in before he finds out that he can’t.”
In the porters’ room at the Steen, Nagle was writing a letter. He wrote easily. The glib and lying phrases flowed with unexpected ease. He would have died rather than send such a letter. It would have been unbearable to think that any eyes could see this spate of emotional claptrap and recognize it as his. But the letter never would be read except by Jenny. Within thirty minutes it would be thrust into the boiler, its purpose served and the oily phrases only an uncomfortable memory. In the meantime he might as well make it convincing. It was easy enough to guess what Jenny would want him to say. He turned over the paper and wrote:
By the time you read this we shall be in France together. I know that this will cause you very great unhappiness, but please believe me when I say that we can’t live without each other. I know that one day we shall be free to marry. Until then Jenny will be safe with me and I shall spend my life trying to make her happy. Please try to understand and to forgive.
It was a good ending, he thought. It would appeal to Jenny, anyway, and no one else was going to see it. He called to her and pushed the paper across the table.
“Will this do?”
She read it in silence. “I suppose so.”
“Damn it all, kid, what’s wrong with it?” He felt a surge of anger that his careful effort should be found inadequate. He had expected, and had braced himself to meet, her astonished gratitude.
She said quietly: “Nothing’s wrong with it.”
“You’d better write your bit then. Not on the end. Take a fresh sheet.”
He slid the paper across the table at her, not meeting her eyes. This was taking time and
he could not be sure how much time there was.
“Better make it short,” he said. She took up the pen but made no effort to write.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“There isn’t much you need say. I’ve said it all.”
“Yes,” she said with great sadness. “You’ve said it all.”
He kept the rising irritation from his voice and told her: “Just write that you’re sorry to cause them unhappiness but you can’t help yourself. Something like that. Damn it all, you’re not going to the end of the world. It’s up to them. If they want to see you, I shan’t stop them. Don’t pile the agony on too much. I’m going upstairs to mend that lock in Miss Saxon’s room. When I come down, we’re going to celebrate. There’s only beer, but tonight you’ll drink beer, my darling, and like it.”
He took a screwdriver from the tool box and went out quickly before she had time to protest. His last glimpse was of her frightened face staring after him. But she didn’t call him back.
Upstairs it was a moment’s work only to slip on a pair of rubber gloves and prise open the door of the dangerous-drugs cupboard. It gave with a terrifyingly loud crack so that he stood rooted for a moment half expecting to hear her call. But there was no sound. He remembered clearly that scene some six months ago when one of Dr. Baguley’s patients had become violent and disorientated. Nagle had helped to control him while Baguley had called to Sister for paraldehyde. Nagle recalled the words.