But no. The eye flickered again and the voice, soft and distorted almost beyond recognition, murmured, ‘Funny, you know I needed. . Wilkie Pole. . the bastard.’
Once more he seemed to pass out, but after a long moment he spoke again. This time the voice was clearer, stronger. ‘Funny. . a stroke. . Never thought of a stroke. Thought it would be the old guts.’
The idea seemed to give him satisfaction. Maybe it was the knowledge that he had finally escaped his father’s shadow, that he was not destined to die of a perforated ulcer backstage at the Derby Hippodrome.
He didn’t speak again after that and was unconscious when the ambulance men arrived.
Charles wandered back down to the bar in a daze. It had only just closed. His interview with Barber had taken no more than twenty minutes. He met Gerald Venables pulling on his immaculate camel overcoat.
‘Well, Charles,’ said the solicitor urgently. ‘You said you’d know who killed Bill Peaky in half an hour and that was half an hour ago. Do you, know who did it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who?’
‘Chox Morton,’ said Charles Paris.