Under the glare of the strip light, his face looked frowningly intent.
‘You were the last person to speak to her?’
‘Have I ever denied it?’
‘At lunchtime you called her bluff, and you were in purgatory until the evening. You hoped it would put a stop to her, that she would draw back from her threat — but she was determined, wasn’t she? In a few words, she confirmed it. So you followed her, trying to soothe her, telling her that after all you intended to pay — that the money was in the car, that the car was in the park-’
‘But it wasn’t, it was in the Haymarket!’
‘How many of your servants sleep in?’
‘Two-’
‘Above or below you?’
‘Above!’
‘So they wouldn’t hear you go out!’
All the time he kept the tone subdued, never allowing his voice to rise: his face was entirely flat and gave no hint of the feelings behind it. He was like some impassive robot drilled to destructive accusation, turning it, twisting it to an implacable purpose.
‘Last night you didn’t sleep much.’
‘I admit that. I had indigestion-’
‘During the evening you concocted that letter, not to warn Farrer, but to make him tremble. At two a.m. you crept out of your house, carrying the letter and one of the knives. Where do you say you lunched on Monday?’
‘At my house — the servants will tell you!’
‘Why was your car parked in the Haymarket?’
‘It couldn’t have been!’
‘So it was in the car park?’
‘No!’
‘Then where was your car? I thought you had decided it was in the Haymarket.’
‘If you’re talking about Monday evening-’
‘Yes, Monday evening. Where was it then?’
‘I can prove it was in the Haymarket!’
‘And of course, you knew who received that letter?’
Mallows threw up his hands in despair. He needed time to recover his balance. He wasn’t beaten — not yet; not by a long chalk he wasn’t! — but Gently had got him persistently moving in the wrong direction. He badly needed a break to discover the pattern of this ruthless treatment…
‘Didn’t you tell me that Farrer was a friend of yours?’
‘Yes… yes…’ Mallows strove to hold him off.
‘Goes to the same club — plays golf — exchanges visits?’
‘Yes… that’s right… I’ve met his family…’
‘And this is the way you treat a friend?’
‘What do you mean by that? I’ve always done my best-’
‘If the positions were reversed, would he have treated you like that?’
‘My dear fellow, regarding Farrer…’ Mallows broke off with a hunch of his shoulders.
‘You treated him shabbily! There’s no denying that. The whole trick was despicable, the product of an inferior mind. And you had the effrontery to admire it — to stand admiring those damaged pictures! In front of me, of all people, you showed the pleasure it gave you. There was a spectacle to arouse disgust and anger in the meanest of intellects, yet you, a distinguished artist, could only look about you and gloat…’
‘Gently Iscariot…!’ Mallows gave him a reproachful look, but Gently returned a marble stare and hurried on with his assault.
‘Getting back to fundamentals — how long had she been your mistress?’
‘I didn’t admit that she had-’
‘Oh? But we can produce several witnesses.’
‘I categorically deny it!’
‘That is your privilege, but the facts remain.’
‘We were friendly-’
‘So I understand — to the extent of her visiting you alone in your studio.’
‘Twice — three times she came to my studio!’
‘And after that she started the blackmail?’
‘There was no blackmail-’
‘We have evidence of that. And then again, you knew who received that letter…’
Two hours later it was still going on, in an atmosphere slowly thickening with tobacco smoke. Not once had Gently paused in his steady flood of accusation, and his low voice, varied only in tempo, seemed stamped on the character of the room. All of them were tiring except, apparently, Gently. The stenographer, who was only window dressing, had given up his pretence at scribbling. Hansom was studying the ceiling, his umpteenth cheroot in his mouth; Stephens kept smothering yawns, and Walker was frowning harder than ever.
‘And so, you knew who received that letter…’
That was the text of the fearsome gospel. Again and again it was punched at Mallows, till it began to take on an almost mystical quality. Sometimes the artist would try to counter it, wearily producing his argument of deduction; but this was no use, it was contemptuously shrugged aside, and always after an interval the words came again:
‘But of course, you knew who received that letter…’
Hansom thought he would scream if he heard them any more. So the charlie did know who received the flaming letter! And what was so killingly funny about that?
An interruption came at last in the form of a buzz from the phone, and so absorbed had they been with Gently that everybody gave a start.
‘Superintendent Gently here…’
Horrocks was ringing him from Chelmsford. He had discovered the lodgings where Johnson had claimed to have spent the night, and was able to confirm with near certainty that he had actually spent it there.
‘It’s only a small house with a spare bedroom to let. Johnson was in by half past ten and didn’t leave again till after breakfast — round about eight-thirty; a taxi called for him.’
‘Could he have left the house without their knowing?’
‘Not without a load of luck he couldn’t. The bedroom door sticks, there’s a loose board in the landing, the stairs squeak like mad and the landlady has insomnia. Apart from that he could have jumped from a first-floor window, but if he did, he landed lightly enough on a bed of geraniums.’
‘Did you get on to the cinema box office?’
‘Yes. She remembers him by his tash. Also, we’ve got a record of two trunk calls to Lordham exchange.’
Thus Johnson was finally eliminated as the possible author of the letter and slashings — saving a miracle, he could not have been on the spot at the time. From the beginning Gently had not considered his claims very seriously, but while he remained, a credible door had stood open…
‘Suppose we have some coffee now?’
The stenographer departed with alacrity. According to the office clock it was now past one a.m. Mallows, haggard, looking bemused, sat hunched and sprawling on his chair; his brilliant eyes were drooped and hooded, his finely boned hands hanging down beside him. How much further to go for the breakdown? Another hour? Another two, or three? Surely, by now, the artist could grasp its inevitability, could sense the undeflectable intent of his antagonist. He had nothing at all to gain: was it merely pride that made him hold on?
‘Where are you spending your leave this summer…?’
Over the coffee, Walker roused himself for a chat. For ten peaceful minutes there was conversation in the office, with Mallows, ignored, sitting listening or not listening. This was the usual thing, an acknowledged sleight of interrogation; you gave your subject a whiff of the normal life outside his nightmare. They were ordinary people, that was the gambit, they were only doing a job, it was foolish to give them trouble…
‘Didn’t I see that you’d won a prize in last year’s angling competition?’
‘I had a roach of just on three… it won it, against the national average…’
Stephens was showing Hansom his watch, an expensive self-winder of which he was proud: ‘It was my passing-out present at Ryton… all the family clubbed together.’
For ten minutes — and then it was over, with everyone turning their eyes back to Mallows. How could he fail to have been impressed by such a performance? Now let him cooperate, and they could all go home to bed…!
‘Don’t you think it would help if you agreed to make a statement?’