Cartier took a blue and white spotted handkerchief from his sleeve and dabbed fastidiously at his forehead. Roger saw him closely for the first time. He was too narrow-jawed to be handsome, yet was good-looking with an excellent, almost feminine complexion. His fair hair was thin and curly, his eyes blue, his lips full and generous. There was a foppish air about him, but Roger wondered whether it was affectation.
“Now perhaps someone will be good enough to explain this remarkable visitation,” said Cartier.
“Cheri, I should have told you something of it before,” said his wife. She looked contrite and Cartier stared at her in growing bewilderment. “Perhaps you will be patient?” She looked at Abbott and added : “I would like to tell my husband what has caused this.”
Cartier stepped to the tray. The fruit knives were crossed and he straightened them, then picked up an apple and toyed with it.
“I should like to know it myself,” Abbott said drily. The man was positively human and Roger looked at him, surprised by this revelation, puzzled also by something else in his manner.
“Then please listen,” said Mrs Cartier.
Roger liked her telling of the story, touching on all she had told him and elaborating only those details which needed fuller explanation. She mentioned her visit to Bell Street and explained that she had seen Roger waiting at the end of Welbeck Street and had hurried off to arrange for this visit. She admitted that she and her husband had quarrelled at Welbeck Street, and she made it clear that because of his antagonism to her interest in the Society she had hesitated to take him into her confidence. She gave Roger the impression that it would have to be settled between them and that she was prepared to make concessions. Her eyes seemed to caress the man.
Then she told them what had happened at the flat.
Tiny Martin, probably the most proficient shorthand- writer at the Yard, took everything down, occasionally forced to write so fast that his pencil seemed to slide across the page of his note-book.
“I would have refused to answer but the Inspector told me to,” Mrs Cartier finished.
“I should think he did!” exclaimed Cartier. “I’ve never heard anything so wicked.” He broke off, put the apple down, stared at Roger and then went on : “Had you any idea what Pickerell was doing before ? If you did, you should have advised me.”
“I hadn’t the faintest idea,” Roger told him.
“Are you sure?”
“I don’t think that the Inspector would lie about it, Sylvester,” said Mrs Cartier. “It is surely clear that as he was being victimised, he would hardly know.” She looked at Abbott. “The wrong can be righted, I hope.”
Abbott so far forgot himself as to smile.
“Yes,” he said. “And it will be.”
Roger no longer noticed his swollen lips or puffy eye. Malone had receded, even the ‘unlucky 13th’ did not matter. He was in the clear, and Chatworth would admit it as freely as Abbott.
Roger left Bonnock House with Abbott, half an hour later, when the flat had been scoured for finger-prints : there would be plenty of Malone’s on the fragments of the tapes, which were carefully collected and put in a big bag which the maid, now much more herself, brought from the kitchen. Cartier revealed himself to be acute and shrewd by his questions to Abbott, but he gave the impression that the main issue would have to be decided between him and his wife.
Although it was barely half past nine, Roger telephoned the Legge hotel to find that Janet and the others were there. He told an excited Janet what had happened, and rang off. He frowned, thinking of Lois and wondering whether the time had come to tell the Yard all that he knew about her. He thought it had, but as he left the flats with Abbott he felt undecided. Sam had gone ahead.
The moon was rising and casting a faint grey light about the heath and the large houses and mansion flats bordering it. It shone dully on the three police cars outside.
The thought of the taxi-driver who should have telephoned Bell Street by now entered Roger’s mind. He missed a step, and Abbott asked :
“What is it, West?”
“I ought to telephone my house,” Roger said.
“You can do that from the Yard,” said Abbott. “I called Sir Guy before I left and I expect he will be waiting for us. I don’t want to keep him waiting.”
At the Yard, Abbott went to the AC’s office ahead, and Roger went into his own. It was dark and there was a smell of shag — Eddie Day’s tobacco.
Morgan’s man answered his telephone call to Bell Street.
“Have you had any calls?” Roger asked.
“No, it’s been all quiet,” the man replied. “Think there’s any need for me to stay, Mr West?”
“Yes,” said Roger. “But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t go to bed in the room with a telephone.”
“If you say so,” the man said.
Roger replaced the receiver, then called the London Hospital. He was given a good report on Pep Morgan. He walked along to Chatworth’s office. One or two men passed, staring at him in surprise and one of them asked him what he had done to his face.
Roger grinned painfully. Tobacco smoke stung his lips and he knew that he was a fool to smoke but could not bring himself to throw the cigarette away. He tapped on Chatworth’s door and was bidden to enter.
Chatworth was sitting back in his big chair, Abbott standing like a statue beside him; the tape-recorder in Chat- worth’s office was near his hand, a tape — the tape — was in front of Chatworth.
“Hallo, West,” said the AC. “You’ve had a nasty time, I hear. Sit down.” Roger did so. “Anyway, the air is much clearer,” said Chatworth.
“Thank you, sir,” Roger said. It was difficult to speak and his words were inclined to run into one another.
Chatworth tapped the tape.
“I propose to take this as conclusive,” he said. “I must admit I’m bewildered.” For Chatworth that was a great admission. “I could not bring myself to believe that anyone would go to such lengths to frame you.” He hesitated, his round face sombre — “it remains hardly credible.”
“I suppose not, sir,” mumbled Roger. Was he still doubtful ? He decided that it was not a question of doubt but of sheer bewilderment, and he felt better although the mood of exhilaration had passed. “Have you heard about the unlucky 13th?”
“Yes.” Chatworth indicated two manila folders on his desk. “Here are your reports for December 13th — it can only be the 13th of December.”
“Of course,” said Roger, his heart beating faster. “Have you looked through them ?”
“I’m leaving it to you,” said Chatworth. “But are you up to it just now?”
“I ought to try,” Roger said. He pulled his chair nearer the desk, as the folders were pushed towards him. “Was there any other indication about my alleged misdemeanours ?” The question sounded absurdly formal. He knew that the evidence of the bank pass-book must have seemed conclusive enough and yet there was a lingering doubt.
“Yes,” Chatworth answered. “There were statements that you had conspired with the man Malone, to warn him if action were to be taken against him.”
“Who made the statements?”
“Joe Leech,” said Chatworth. “There were other things which we won’t worry about now. If I were you I would go home and get some sleep. You’ll feel much fresher tomorrow. But if you insist on looking through those files —”
“I would like to.”
Ten minutes later, puzzled and frustrated, he pushed them away. There was nothing which gave him any idea as to why he had been victimised because of a discovery made on December 13th. Certainly nothing he had put in his reports was important enough to have worried Pickerell so much. The only thing of importance on the day had been a visit to a house in Battersea, where a man had murdered his wife. It had been a miserable affair, brightened only by the solicitor who had taken on the murderer’s defence. He sat back after he had told Chatworth so and the glimmering of an idea entered his mind, only to fade again. It reminded him of his flash of doubt concerning Antoinette Cartier. It faded as swiftly but made him feel uncertain and a little irritable. His eyes felt as if they were filled with grit and his tongue was like a plum against his lips.