For answer Colonel Vincent unlocked a drawer in the mahogany desk and pulled out a newspaper. He opened it out and pushed it across the desk towards Fletcher.
“Take a look at that.”
Fletcher took a look at it. It was not a very well printed paper but the pictures on the front page were clear enough for him to recognise them. There were three: one showing the name of the boat, Halcón Español; one showing a general view of the five bodies in the cabin; and another giving a close-up of one of the men and the bullet-hole in his head. There were possibly other pictures on another page, but he did not look for them; three were enough. He saw that the paper was called Freedom, and there was a banner headline reading: “Why is this crime being hushed up?”
Fletcher had heard of Freedom, though this was the first time he had seen a copy. It was an underground left-wing paper dedicated to the cause of overthrowing the President and his regime, and it was a crime even to be seen reading it. The Freedom press had several times been discovered and destroyed and its operators arrested, but always, after a brief interval of silence, it would spring up again like some cut-down weed the seeds of which had been left hidden in the soil.
Colonel Vincent tapped the paper with his forefinger. “In case you might imagine that this rag is already in circulation,” he said, “I may as well tell you that we have here the only surviving copy. Fortunately we received information which led us to the press and we were able to seize the entire edition before distribution could start.”
“That was very fortunate,” Fletcher said.
“Now I ask you again: why didn’t you tell us you had taken these photographs?”
“You think I took them?”
Colonel Vincent made a gesture of impatience. “Surely you are not going to be stupid enough to deny it?”
Fletcher did not answer the question. He said: “And you also think I supplied these pictures to Freedom?”
Vincent shook his head. “No. We know who supplied them — Dharam Singh.”
Fletcher had already worked that out for himself. Singh had evidently kept copies of the photographs and as a good man of business had seen where he could sell them. Apparently he had known how to get in touch with the editor of Freedom, but that was not altogether surprising; he was the kind of man who would have that sort of knowledge. Only in this instance he had over-reached himself and had brought the roof down on his head. It was obvious now why the police had been smashing up his place.
“And Dharam Singh told you I took the photographs?”
Vincent smiled coldly. “There was no need. Where else would he have got them?”
“He is a photographer himself.”
“But not a skin-diver.”
“There are plenty of skin-divers knocking around.”
“But only one who has reported finding a sunken boat.”
“Some people don’t like reporting things to the police.”
“And some people make only incomplete reports. Come, Mr. Fletcher, tell the truth. You took the photographs, didn’t you?”
There was not much point in denying it; they would not have believed him. And even if Dharam Singh had not already made a statement regarding the origin of the photographs, there could be little doubt that he soon would.
“Yes,” he said; “I took them.”
“And why didn’t you tell us?”
“I was afraid you’d pinch the film.”
Both Vincent and Green gave a laugh at that; it seemed to touch their sense of humour. Fletcher joined in the laughter, but he was not really feeling like it. Not there; not then. His laughter was a little strained.
It all ended abruptly.
“You should have known we would need the photographs,” Vincent said.
“I thought you might prefer to take your own.”
It sounded thin even to him, and he could see that it sounded thin to them, too. Colonel Vincent pressed his lips together and looked sceptical.
“Why did you take the film to Dharam Singh?” Captain Green asked.
“He’s the one I’ve always taken my films to. He’s handy.”
“A bit too handy.”
“Did you know he was going to sell copies to this thing?” Again Colonel Vincent stabbed at the paper with his forefinger. He seemed unable to bring himself to mention the title, as though it were an obscene word.
“Of course I didn’t know,” Fletcher said. “I didn’t even know he had kept any prints. It never occurred to me that he had.”
“A man like that, you might have been sure he would. How much did you tell him?”
“In what way?”
“I mean did you tell him where you took the pictures?”
“No.”
“Not that it makes any difference. The foolish thing, of course, was to let him process the film. If it was not something rather more than foolishness.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“What were you intending to do with the photographs?”
“Nothing.”
Colonel Vincent’s eyebrows went up “Nothing! That’s a little hard to believe. You take photographs and have no intention of doing anything with them?”
“Only to keep them. People do take photographs just to keep.”
“But these are hardly ordinary photographs, are they? Not the sort you paste in albums or hand round to your friends. These are potentially dangerous.”
“Dangerous to whom?”
Colonel Vincent leaned back in his chair and stroked his chin. “Mr. Fletcher, I find it difficult to make up my mind about you. Are you a liar or are you genuinely naïve?”
“I’m certainly not a liar,” Fletcher said. “I shouldn’t have described myself as naive, either. Though of course I may be without realising it.”
“Naïve or not, you are certainly fortunate.”
“Am I? I don’t quite see how.”
“It’s fortunate for you that we were able to nip this affair in the bud.” Colonel Vincent took the paper between thumb and forefinger and gave it a shake, as though chastising it for the sin of existing. “If this thing had gone into circulation even a plea of naïvety would hardly have saved you from the consequences.”
Fletcher experienced a sense of relief. “Then you are not going to arrest me?”
“For the present, no. But I am warning you again — don’t talk about this matter. Leave it to us; it’s our business, not yours.”
“And what are you doing about it?”
“We are doing all that is necessary.”
“Have you got a lead on the murderers?”
Vincent’s expression hardened slightly. “I have already told you, Mr. Fletcher, that is not your business.”
“Perhaps not, but one can’t help being interested. A mystery of this kind naturally arouses the curiosity.”
“Curiosity is a dangerous thing. I advise you to keep it strictly under control.”
“So you don’t intend to tell me anything?”
“No, Mr. Fletcher, I don’t intend to tell you anything. The less you know, the better it will be for all concerned. And that includes you.”
“And Mr. Singh? What happens to him?”
“Mr. Singh will have to face the music.”
“He’s a harmless little man.”
“Perhaps not as harmless as you imagine.”
“He has a wife and family. How will they manage if he isn’t there to support them?”
“Mr. Singh’s wife and family are no concern of mine,” Vincent said.
Fletcher saw that it would be useless to plead Dharam Singh’s cause; but he felt a certain degree of guilt concerning the unfortunate little man. If he had not taken the film to be processed Singh would not have been in his present trouble. On the other hand, it could not be denied that he had brought it on himself by dishonestly selling copies of the photographs to the Freedom newspaper. No one had compelled him to do that, least of all Fletcher. It was his own greed that was to blame for all that had happened to him and he would just have to face the consequences. Nevertheless, Fletcher’s conscience was not altogether soothed by these reflections; he could not help thinking of Singh’s family who were undoubtedly going to suffer. But perhaps the sisters would look after them.