The doctor paused—for so long that Nailsworth at last prompted him. “Well, sir?”
“Well?”
“What account did Mr. Chesterman give you of his movements?”
“Oh. I’m sorry. I thought you wanted no hearsay evidence.”
Nailsworth’s lips tightened. The Chief Constable put in curtly, “You may tell us that, Doctor.”
“He said he just happened to be somewhere else when the crime was committed, but couldn’t prove it.”
Nailsworth leant heavily towards him, his face redder even than usual.
“Do you say you were ‘satisfied’ by that? Went round the corner to see a man about a dog—that’s what it amounts to, eh?” The Chief Inspector was evidently holding himself in by a mere thread.
“One believes one’s friends,” replied Jacko, not without dignity.
“When they are convicted jewel thieves? You are not normally in the habit, I take it, of consorting with—”
“Steady, Nailsworth,” warned Colonel Allison.
“I know it must sound pretty impossible to you chaps,” said Jacko, with a pleasant, open smile. “I can only say that I believed Hugo had been going straight, recently, and I’m naïve enough to imagine that a conviction for robbery doesn’t turn a fundamentally decent young chap into a murderer.”
“But, since then, you’ve changed your mind, sir?” Thorne’s colourless expression—he might have been a clerk in a booking-office discussing a destination with a traveller—betrayed nothing of the excitement throbbing within him. He remembered now that Amberley, alias Chesterman, had been a cat burglar of phenomenal agility: it was all fitting in.
Dr. Jaques made a deprecatory gesture, his open hands pushing away something from before him: he’s like a dog, thought the Chief Constable, sitting up begging, its fore-paws scrabbling at the air.
“You changed your mind,” Thorne repeated.
The doctor’s features fell, or rearranged themselves, into an agonised expression: he seemed to be having difficulty with his voice.
“I’m afraid so. Yes. Last night I had a long talk with Miss Bland. She was in an overwrought condition, on the verge of collapse. I thought it would be good for her to talk it out of her system—what had happened down here.” He gulped. “Look here, must you have all this?”
“It’s what you came down here to tell us, isn’t it?” Colonel Allison tried to conceal his growing distaste for the man, but not altogether successfully. He was startled by a dart of rancour, really venomous, from the doctor’s eyes.
“It’s not very public-school, I agree,” said Jacko. “But one’s public-school code—my friends, right or wrong—doesn’t seem to me altogether adequate when a policeman has been shot in cold blood.”
The Chief Constable frowned. This damnable fellow had gone right to the spot, like a mind-reader: the public-school code, that the only unforgivable sin is to betray one’s friends, was exactly what had been colouring the Colonel’s mind during this interview. And worse—the doctor’s last remark had adroitly driven a wedge between the Colonel and his two subordinates, who were unhampered by this sort of gentlemanliness.
“Can we keep to the point,” he said. “Your talk with Miss—er—Bland.”
Jacko related it, at full length and with little hesitation, to the continuo of the stenographer’s pencil. When he had finished, there was a brief silence.
“Have you seen this revolver of Chesterman’s? Do you know what make it is?” the Chief Inspector asked.
“I don’t.”
“But your private opinion is that he did not get rid of it, as Miss Bland wished you to believe, after the altercation at his brother’s house?”
“That is my impression. I only hope I am wrong.”
“You know Chesterman’s present whereabouts, I take it?”
Jacko’s eyes flickered. Then, a little too quickly, he said, “No, I’m afraid I don’t.”
“That is unfortunate. Most unfortunate.” Nailsworth’s tone conveyed somehow that it might be even more unfortunate for Dr. Jaques than for the police. “But surely Miss Bland is in touch with him?”
“Not to my knowledge. Of course, you can ask her.”
“We shall, sir. And now, perhaps you will give us a description of Chesterman.”
“But Scotland Yard will have that on its files.”
“You can bring it up to date for us. If you please, sir,” Nailsworth relentlessly pressed him.
“Oh well, if I must, I must.”
The Chief Constable abruptly rose. His Intelligence work during the war had involved him in some pretty unscrupulous transactions; but they had never caused him the physical nausea which he felt in Dr. Jaques’ presence. Nailsworth and Thorne had stronger stomachs—best leave it to them.
“Just remembered. An appointment with the Town Clerk. Will you carry on, Chief Inspector,” he said; and with a curt nod he strode briskly from the office.
As the door closed, Thorne observed a queer little grin on Dr. Jaques’s face—a grin of relief? satisfaction? or was it just a reflex to the Colonel’s brusque treatment? The atmosphere in the room was more relaxed, at any rate, after his departure—so relaxed, indeed, that when the doctor’s description of Hugo Chesterman had been taken down, Thorne suddenly poked his long nose at him, saying in a tone of complicity, camaraderie almost:
“Now, come off it, Doctor. Don’t tell me you don’t know where Chesterman is hiding up. You must have some channel of communication with him, anyway?”
The expression of disapproval on Nailsworth’s huge face faded into one of crafty alertness. All right: if that was the way to take this medico to pieces, he could do his share of the bouncing. He made a little sign, dismissing the stenographer from the room.
“Look, you’ve got that description,” said Jacko. “You really can’t ask me to do more. It’s—”
“I beg your pardon, sir, but we are asking you. This description is all very well: but we don’t want Chesterman slipping out of our hands. We’ve got to find him at once.”
“You’re talking as if he—as if the case was already proved against him,” Jacko protested.
“You’ve certainly convinced me, sir, that there is a strong case against him theoretically, on our present evidence.” Thorne spoke without apparent irony, still in that tone of something like matiness. Watching the two, Nailsworth was astounded to find himself thinking “birds of a feather.”
“If he is innocent,” Thorne continued, “he’ll be able to prove it—and the sooner, the better. His young woman must be in great suspense. Bad for her. But you’re a doctor—I don’t need to tell you that.”
“Yes, that’s true,” said Jacko, with a sort of eagerness, as though this consideration, presented to him for the first time, offered him an honourable way out.
“This girl now, Daisy Bland—was she an accomplice of his, in his jewel robberies?” asked Nailsworth heavily.
Thorne could have kicked the Chief Inspector. After playing the doctor so skilfully, and all but landing him, to have the line snapped by this clumsy intervention!
Dr. Jaques froze up. “Really, Chief Inspector, what an extraordinary question! How should I know? I assure you I was never in their confidence to that extent. Apart from anything else, my professional—”
“Quite, sir, quite.” Thorne attempted to close this exhibition of huffiness. “As we were saying, it’s simply a matter of getting in touch with Chesterman as soon as possible. If he’s innocent, well and good. We’re only asking you—”
“I’ve already told you. I don’t know his whereabouts.”
“Then I advise you, for your own good, to find out,” said Nailsworth menacingly. He had had enough of this velvet glove stuff: an obscure resentment smouldered in him, at Thorne’s making all the running; and his anger over the killing of Inspector Stone was implacable.
“Are you threatening me?” said Jacko. “I come here to help the police, and—”
Nailsworth’s hu
ge fist crashed down on the table. “You’re in a very awkward position. I’m warning you. You’ve already compounded a felony, it may be, by assisting this man to escape from Southbourne. You are harbouring a woman who is very likely his accomplice.”
“Oh bosh!” exclaimed Jacko, quite unintimidated. He might have been trying to goad the Chief Inspector into violence.
“Don’t you take that line with me!” Nailsworth made a powerful effort to control himself. “I’m just telling you. Ask yourself how it’ll look when the case comes into court. A doctor’s professional reputation is easily lost, eh? A doctor who is on intimate terms with a jewel thief and his mistress: a doctor who helps a murderer and obstructs the police—oh yes, it’ll all come out.”
“I can see why you sent away your stenographer. Didn’t want him to hear you blackmailing a witness—sorry, putting pressure on a witness sounds better, doesn’t it?” Jacko appeared to be enjoying himself hugely.
“Come now, sir, do you wish to co-operate with us, or not?” asked Thorne.
“I’ve given you a statement. Don’t you call that cooperation?”
“Should Chesterman get in touch with you, before we’ve found him ourselves, are you prepared to communicate the fact to us?”
“Well,” said Jacko guardedly, “that’s asking a hell of a lot of me.”
“I’m asking you to do your duty as a citizen.”
Oh God, thought Nailsworth, the double-talk again!
“You realise, sir, of course, that we may have to inquire into your own bona fides?” Thorne smoothly proceeded. “Just the usual routine inquiries. You have a partner, I suppose?”
“No.” For the first time, Jacko looked uneasy.
“Must be awkward for you, then—these visits to Southbourne? Cancelling your appointments at such short notice?”
“My appointments?”
“Your patients. You did say you were a doctor of medicine, didn’t you, sir? You are in practice?”
“Oh, yes. Private practice. I take a few patients. I’ve money of my own.”
“Ah. I see.” Thorne made it sound uncommonly sinister. “Well, sir, if you’ll read and sign your statement, we’ll not keep you any longer from your professional duties.”
There was silence till the typewritten sheets were brought in, silence while Jacko read through them and signed his name at the end.
“If you’ll also initial each page, please, sir,” said Thorne: then, “That will be all. For the present. You may be hearing from us. Good morning, Doctor Jaques.”
Was there the faintest stress on “Doctor”? Nailsworth didn’t know what his colleague was up to, but he’d let him play it his own way. The two police officers appeared to have lost all interest in their witness: Thorne even turned his back as Dr. Jaques went to the door; and it was Thorne’s back which, from the doorway, Jacko addressed:
“Look here. Supposing Hugo does get in touch with me—what line am I to take?”
Nailsworth expelled a long, slow breath. Thorne, speaking over his shoulder, not looking at Jacko, said, “That’s up to you, Doctor. You could make an appointment to meet him, in some public place probably. And you have our telephone number.”
Jacko came back a little way into the room. “Are you suggesting I should be actually present when you arrest him?”
“We should detain him for questioning. We could detain you too, if that’d make your mind easier, Doctor.”
“But, damn it, he’s a friend of mine.”
“Very painful for you, sir, I realise. Well, it’s up to you. Oh, one thing more, Doctor,” said Thorne when Jacko was at the door again. “This girl, Daisy Bland. Was Chesterman intending to marry her? In the near future?”
“I—I really don’t know. Why?”
“Just wondered. Her health good?” Thorne’s voice was cheerful and detached.
“Oh yes. She’s quite a robust young woman. But I don’t—”
“Rather an ordeal for her, giving evidence in court. Think she’d stand up to it, in her present condition?”
“My dear chap, there’s no question of her giving evidence against him.”
“Why? She’s not his wife.”
There was the briefest pause, before Jacko replied, “Oh, I see… What I meant was, she’s devoted to him. She wouldn’t do it.”
The door had hardly closed behind Doctor Jaques when the Chief Inspector was giving instructions on the internal telephone that he should be shadowed.
“And now, my lad,” he turned formidably to Thorne. “You’ve got some explaining to do.”
“Sir?” asked Thorne innocently.
“Oh, come off it. You as good as tell that blighter to arrange a marriage pronto between Chesterman and his girl. A wife can’t give evidence against her husband. And without this girl’s evidence we shouldn’t have a hope in hell. You must be off your rocker.”
“No, Chief. What I was conveying to the doctor is that he should damn well see to it they don’t get married.”
Nailsworth stared at him incredulously. “You really think?—But he’s fond of them—must be, to help Chesterman out and take the girl into his house.”
“Maybe he’s fond of the girl. Maybe he’s too fond of her by half. So he comes in here, oh, ever so reluctantly—it’s a painful business informing against your best friend, but every right-thinking citizen must assist the Law—and puts the spot on this Chesterman. No doubt he’ll be comforting the girl on the morning of the execution. Nothing like a good solid family friend when you’re in trouble.” Thorne spoke with a raging bitterness that Nailsworth had never encountered before.
“Draw it mild, old man. He’s a queer cuss all right, but—”
“He’s rotten from top to toe. It’ll take me months to wash him out of my system. He plays it dirty. And this Chesterman, if he did it, he played it dirty too. So I’ve got to play dirty. Sometimes I wish I was in some decent clean job—like sewage-tasting.”
15. An Arrest in London
Two days later, Jacko was sitting alone at a table in the buffet of Charing Cross station. He sat with his elbows on the table, which he had carefully dusted off with a clean handkerchief, in the attitude of a chess-player who has made a strong move but will not relax his attention, is already thinking ahead to guard against any unexpected reply of his opponent. From time to time he raised his eyes to the door which faced him, but absently, as though he was more interested by his own thoughts than by the imminent arrival of the person whom he awaited. He wiped the rim of his coffee cup daintily before taking a drink, then, head in hands again, resumed his meditative pose. No one observing him could have guessed the extraordinary exhilaration which was flooding through him.
On his return from Southbourne two days ago, he had written to Hugo Chesterman at the accommodation address which Hugo had given him, to make an appointment: if Hugo could not come, he was to ring Jacko at his own house: he had not rung yesterday, so no doubt he’d be turning up here any minute now. Jacko paused to recall admiringly the finesse of the letter he had written: without committing himself to anything he would not be able to explain when they met, he had hinted that there were new developments which made a meeting imperative. Silence on Hugo’s part meaning consent, Jacko had rung up Inspector Thorne at Scotland Yard yesterday evening, to inform him of the assignation: “Of course,” he’d said at the end of their brief conversation, “you’ll go through the motions of arresting me as well.”
It was pleasant to sit gloating over his dispositions. He almost hoped that Hugo would not arrive too punctually and interrupt his thoughts. He did not hate Hugo, any more than a tarantula hates its natural prey. Not now, at any rate. There had been times in the past when Hugo got beneath his skin—“Oh, Daisy’s safe enough with you”—that sort of thing had rankled for a moment; but Jacko had sealed off those light, deadly barbs at once, being able to contemplate, even to relish any aberration of his own except his physical impotence. No, the pleasure he now felt was unalloyed by hatred—
the pure pleasure of power. He had played with human lives before, but never to such purpose. The sensation of controlling Hugo’s destiny, and Daisy’s, was almost physical—a heady, stimulating pleasure better than any drug; and the risk he himself ran seemed to increase the area of this delicious sensation.
His thoughts wandered to Daisy Bland. Her beauty, like Hugo’s, careless taunts, had exacerbated him from time to time. Her trust in him made a piquant addition to the cold, reckless game he was playing. Oh yes, he could lust after her all right; he found no trouble in admitting to himself that the sight of her distress was sexually agreeable, as it would be agreeable to torment her physically: but he was quite capable of subordinating his lust to the power-game which he found so much more satisfying.
A small child, passing, stumbled over his outstretched foot. He picked the child up, brushed her coat, made a few engaging faces at her, and restored her in good spirits to her mother. His mind returned smoothly to the problem of Hugo and Daisy. Their love for each other, so ardent and exclusive, had always irked him: he felt an obscure need, not vindictive but dispassionately compulsive, to defile it—bring it down to his own level, as a hooligan may be driven to shatter a stained-glass window or a beautiful image, the mere existence of which he resents because it reproaches him with a kind of truth quite beyond his understanding. It occurred to Jacko now that, if Daisy Bland could be persuaded to give evidence against her lover, voluntarily, with no pressure from the police, their love would be brought down to the dust more effectually than by any other conceivable method. For this, Hugo would never forgive her, nor Daisy forgive herself.
Jacko contemplated the idea with the awed fascination of an artist who imposes upon himself a task of almost impossible difficulty, knowing that if he succeeds the result will be his masterpiece. He must persuade or coerce the girl into believing that, unless she gave evidence against Hugo, she too would be charged with murder. She was stupid enough, docile enough, to believe it. But—here was the appalling obstacle—would the infatuated creature care? Might she not prefer to die with Hugo, as a convicted murderess, rather than to live without him? There was the baby, of course: Jacko had forgotten the baby—that’d be the best way to undermine her resistance. And if he could convince Daisy that Hugo himself wanted her to give evidence, so as to save the baby’s future and her own, there was quite a chance that he could break her down.