‘I am not trying to conceal it.’
‘And that, of course, would be when you borrowed the key from Watts?’
‘Exactly.’ Baxter sniffed. ‘Your deduction is keen, Superintendent.’
‘So it seems that you had the key from around six p.m. yesterday evening?’
‘I did. And I have no worthwhile alibi to offer you.’
‘You finished your sketch and then went home?’
‘To my cottage at Dunton. Where I live by myself.’
‘And that is the only key?’
‘It’s the only one we have, though I dare say you’ll find some others if you inquire at the Castle.’
Abruptly Gently left them and stalked out of the Gardens. Across the Avenue they were still hosing pens and forking up the soiled straw. He picked on the driver of the lorry:
‘When did you get here this morning?’
They began at seven, he was told, but they had seen nobody in the Gardens.
‘When did that Singer park there?’ This they hadn’t precisely noticed, but a consensus of their opinion was that it hadn’t been there for long. One of the sweepers had seen Baxter come out. They couldn’t recall any suspicious noises. A number of people had gone by, mostly transport workers, but the only wheeled traffic had been bicycles and a truck.
He returned to the Gardens to find Hansom at work on Baxter — a classic example of bludgeon versus rapier. If anything the artist seemed to be enjoying the contest, and small head tilted, chose his stinging ripostes deliberately.
‘You will notice, I trust, that my own picture has suffered…?’
Gently ignored him, drawing the Inspector aside. ‘We’ll have to treat this as serious though it may be only a hoax — some person with a grudge, who likes to make things spectacular! I’m afraid we’ll have to rope in a lot of people. It’s going to be a day of old-fashioned routine…’
‘Do you think it could be Johnson?’
‘No. That doesn’t make sense. If there’s any link at all, it’s in the exception made of Farrer.’
‘Yeah — that’s my impression. Chummie doesn’t like Farrer.’
‘We’ll look him over first, after you’ve set the wheels turning.’
Farrer was a family man; he had a teenage son and daughter. It was the latter, clad in a dressing gown, who admitted the policeman into the bank house. Here there was an air of Sunday mornings, of relaxation and petty carelessness. One smelt some bacon being fried and saw, on a table, last night’s cups. They were taken into the lounge, the curtains of which had to be hastily drawn, while the chairs pushed together in a semicircle suggested that the family had been watching TV.
‘I’ll just see if Daddy is out of the bathroom…’
The girl went out quickly, clutching her dressing gown together. A minute or two later her brother peered in, found a paperback western and retired without speaking.
‘It must be nice to manage a bank!’ Hansom prowled round the room, allotting price tags to the contents. He was particularly struck by the TV and by the voluptuous Persian carpet. It was a room without taste, however, and overcrowded with oppressive furniture; the walls were hung with some insipid watercolours and the light bowl was of mottled glass.
‘Daddy will be with you in just a minute…’ This time it was Mrs Farrer who came to look them over. She was a heavy, dowdy woman and had prominent brown eyes, and seeing her, one at once understood the room.
‘You won’t keep him, will you? We’re driving over to Lynton…’
She brought a smell of bath salts with her, and like the others, wore a dressing gown. Seeing the cushions still awry, she deftly shook them and set them straight. Then she piled the cups together, smiled uncertainly and went out.
Finally, Farrer made his entrance — by way of contrast, neatly dressed. He came forward with his manner of a man who was used to handling business.
‘Something new about Johnson, is it?’
He smiled engagingly from one to the other; nevertheless, one could tell from his eyes that he was far from feeling at ease.
‘No… this is a little different. It’s to do with the exhibition.’
‘I don’t know much about that, I’m afraid.’
‘Would you care to tell us how you spent last night?’
After a pause he told them, without any hedging. He had been to his club for a game of tennis. Then he had returned home to watch the television, and had gone to bed soon after it closed down.
‘What time did you get up this morning?’
‘Oh… about nine. Does it matter?’
Now he was beginning to look visibly unhappy, his smile becoming fixed and without conviction.
‘Perhaps I’d better tell you what happened.’ Gently briefly related the facts. Hansom, sprawling in an easy chair, kept his hard eyes fixed on the bank manager. And he had been right, quite right about one thing: Farrer’s smile was not proof against this. Before Gently had done, the last vestige had vanished and a look of unmistakable fear had replaced it.
‘So it looks very much as though someone…’
‘My God!’ Farrer had turned almost grey. The shock, indeed, had exceeded Hansom’s estimate; it seemed to have dealt a mortal blow to the man.
‘I wouldn’t be too alarmed… it may be coincidental-’
‘No!’ Farrer’s head shook with exaggerated insistence.
‘You don’t think it is?’
‘My God — I know it isn’t! You don’t know the half of it… the other half is here!’
He touched his breast with his hand as though making a dramatic gesture, then, without any warning, he flopped down in a chair. He was shaking so badly that he could hardly get to his wallet. Muscles twitched in his face and at the corners of his eyes.
‘It’s a nightmare… I don’t know… I wasn’t going to show it to you! It was a joke, I thought… just somebody taking the rise. I found it this morning. They had shoved it through the door… My God — but now! I don’t know where I am…’
He had managed to get from the wallet a carelessly opened manilla envelope, and this he held out tremblingly for Gently to take. Inside it was a folded sheet of softish grey paper, to one side of which had been pasted some printed capitals:
YOU HELPED HIM TO GET AWAY THERE’S ANOTHER KNIFE WAITING
They were all of one typeface and had been very neatly arranged. The envelope was a common one such as are sold by the thousand, but the paper was unusual, seemingly of linen manufacture.
‘It’s a nightmare, I tell you…!’
The bank manager’s voice sounded hoarse. He made an attempt to get up, then sank back weakly in his chair.
‘What have I done to deserve it… nothing! I’ve done nothing at all. He’s a madman, whoever it is… I want protection until he’s arrested!’
Gently passed the missive to Hansom, handling it carefully by its edges. He stared for a moment at the appealing face on which blank terror was stamped so plainly.
‘Another time you may not be so ready to fool the police!’
‘But I didn’t — I didn’t know — he didn’t tell me you were watching him!’
‘Someone thinks you knew, by the look of that letter.’
‘But it’s a mistake, a crazy mistake! You’ve got to give me police protection…’
Gently shrugged. ‘In that case, perhaps we can have your cooperation — you must admit that up till now it hasn’t been a conspicuous feature.’
‘I’ll tell you anything you want to know!’
‘Right — what precisely did Johnson tell you?’
‘He said that he had to get out for a bit — there was nothing else, I’m willing to swear it!’
‘Didn’t he tell you who he thought had done it?’
‘He asked me that. He thought it was one of us.’
‘And what was your opinion about it?’
Farrer swallowed, pointing falteringly at the letter. ‘I was certain of that from the first — it had to be one of us who’d done it. Aymas, he was the one I bet on… they’d had a flaming row that evening …’
‘And the letter seems to confirm it?’
‘Good Lord! Haven’t you noticed what paper it’s on? That’s a special watercolour paper… at first, I told you, I thought it was a joke…’