4

No Need for Panic?

She had been killed by a knife-thrust to the heart.

When he had recovered from that first shock of recognition, Garth knelt again—and saw the knife-handle sticking out. With a queer sense of unreality, he recognised the knife itself—a memento of Madrid that he had picked up in the early days of the Spanish Civil War, with a stiletto-type blade and a solid handle ornamented with delicate Moorish inlay-work.

There were red stains on the torn white blouse, and she had obviously struggled. Her face was in set lines of fear; almost of frenzy, and there were scratches on her face.

Garth straightened up again.

The shock of the discovery still affected him: he could not think clearly. He crossed unsteadily to the cabinet and poured a stiff whisky, which he drank at a gulp. Then stood there, the glass still in his hand, staring helplessly towards the murdered girl.

Why had she come here?

And who had been waiting to kill her?

Above all, why had she been killed?

The whisky began to work, and the mental paralysis passed. He ought to send for the police, he thought. Then stared at the knife. He had not touched it, but the way it jutted up from her breast made him feel sick.

If he summoned the police, would they take his word that he had discovered her there? Or would they suspect him of killing her?

He moved towards her again.

He had not thought to check whether her flesh was cold. Now he touched it. There was still warmth in her body: she had not been dead for long. That made it even worse. If he sent for the police even Ryall and Russi would provide no real alibi: no assurance, that he had not killed her since he returned.

This is madness!’ he said, aloud, getting a grip on himself. ‘They’ve got to know! I can’t …’

The telephone shrilled out.

He stared at it, uncomprehending at first. It rang again and he moved towards it automatically, glancing at his watch as he went. A little after five past nine. Darkness was falling: he should pull the curtains. Five past nine, he thought stupidly, as the bell rang again. Four hours since he had talked to her in the hope—he admitted it, now—of reviving their old association; of displacing George in her affections.

George Kent—what would he say?

Several windows along the street showed lights, so it was not yet black-out time. He lifted the receiver and managed to keep his voice steady.

‘Hallo?’

‘On the dot, as promised,’ said a familiar voice. Mike’s voice. ‘Don’t talk freely, now. Did you see him?’

Garth said: ‘Yes, I …’

‘Good man!’ The eagerness remained, contrasting bitterly with the dead girl behind him. ‘You know Mrs. Parmitter, don’t you?’ Without waiting for an answer Mike went on: ‘Call there in an hour—I’ll be waiting. She’s at …’

‘Stop!’ Garth cried desperately. ‘Don’t go!’ He drew a deep breath. ‘Are you still there?’

‘Yes …’ Mike suddenly sobered. ‘You don’t sound too happy, old man?’

‘I can’t come, do you understand? I can’t come! Something’s happened here. I can’t talk about it over the telephone, but something’s happened. I can’t come.’ He remembered suddenly that he must not let even Mike know what had happened. And now he could see lights going out as black-outs were drawn. It would soon be dark: he could get the body out of the flat. He was panicking, now—telling himself it was useless to hope the police would believe he had found her there: useless to do the right thing.

‘Oh,’ said Mike. ‘Like that, is it?’

‘I can’t come!’ Garth repeated, desperately. ‘I’m out of this show now, do you understand?’

As he replaced the receiver, he saw two people walking along the street below. They were glancing up at him and he realised they could see his face: perhaps even his expression. Hastily, he drew the curtains and then dabbed his perspiring forehead with his handkerchief. He turned, and saw Anne again. Saw her hair, so dark and lovely: hair that he had loved. As he had loved her. There had been bitterness in his soul because she had preferred the steadier George to him. But what was that bitterness, to this? And now what?

‘Oh, God—what shall I do?’ he asked aloud.

Reason insisted still that he should call the police. But the knife was his—almost certainly his finger-prints were on it. The special lock which he had believed could only be opened by his key—he had only one, and that was in his pocket. Like a drowning man snatching at a straw, he took out his key-case. Yes, the key was there. He thought wildly of what an unanswerable case could be built up against him. Motive—jealousy; had he not once been engaged to Anne? Opportunity.… The weapon.…

‘This won’t do,’ he ground out, between clenched teeth. ‘It just won’t do!’

Then he heard footsteps, outside the flat door.

He stood rigid, his hands clenched, staring towards it. There was only his flat on this floor, and the one above was used as an office; it was never occupied during the evening. The people outside might be firewatchers; but it was hardly likely they would be on duty so quickly after black-out. He began to tremble uncontrollably.

There was a ring at the doorbell.

Should he pretend he was out?

But the caller might well be a friend in whom he could confide. And he felt in urgent need of the opinion of another person, who would be more dispassionate. He crossed to the door, deciding that he would close it when he reached the hall and if necessary take the caller into the little morning-room. Then if …

He stopped short as the bell rang again.

If he put his hat on and picked up his gloves, he thought wildly, it would appear that he had only just come in—had not yet been into the larger room. He could bring the caller in and they could make the ‘discovery’ together! He forgot that the taxi-driver would know what time he had arrived; that his call from Mike might be discovered. He picked up his hat and gloves, put on his hat, and then opened the door on a third, louder ring.

The bald-headed American friend of Ryall’s stood smiling at him.

‘Russi!’ he exclaimed, really shaken.

‘Hallo, Garth. I guess I should have called you up, but …’

‘It … it doesn’t matter,’ said Garth. ‘Come in.’

Now that the emergency was on him, he did not know what to pretend. Russi must realise there was something amiss: he could not go through the farce of opening his study door and ‘discovering’ Anne convincingly, now. As they stood in the little hall, the American regarded him curiously.

‘Are you feeling all right?’

‘I … yes,’ said Garth, hoarsely. ‘Thanks. Of course I …’

‘Well, you sure look like you’d seen a thousand ghosts.’ Russi’s mellow drawl was soothing. ‘I had a call from Ryall, who asked me to bring a message along as I was passing.’

The words made little impression on Garth.

If he told the police what had happened, he would have to name Ryall and Russi. And when questioned, Russi would certainly remember the queerness of his manner now. It was useless to attempt deception and he desperately needed to confide in someone—anyone. And here was a man whose detachment was unquestionable, and who—because they thought along the same lines, ostensibly at least—would probably be sympathetic.

Abruptly, he admitted: ‘You’re right—I’m not feeling myself. I’ve had a shock.’

‘Not bad news, I hope?’

‘Bad enough,’ said Garth harshly. ‘I think I can … can rely on you. When I got back here, the flat had been burgled …’

‘Say, that’s bad!’ Russi looked startled. ‘Nothing taken that matters I hope?’

‘I haven’t looked,’ Garth admitted. It was no use, he was behaving like a fool, yet he somehow felt better for the sympathetic American’s presence. All that ‘Mike’ and ‘Mark’ had said should have made him suspicious of the man’s intentions; even of the coincidence of his arrival.

No such thought even passed through his mind.

‘Come with me,’ he said.

He opened the door of the lounge and went in, then held it for the American to step through and pointed to Anne. Russi’s brows contracted as he looked down.

Garth watched him closely, tensely.

The round eyes narrowed, the tentative smile faded from Russi’s lips. He stared for a long moment, then turned back to Garth. His face had lost all friendliness now; was cold and suspicious.

‘Say, what is this? What are you trying to pull?’

‘Listen to me,’ Garth urged him. ‘That is … was … a friend of mine. I came back here to find the flat burgled and this door open—and Anne lying there, killed with my knife! She couldn’t have been dead more than half-an-hour. I may be crazy, but—if I go to the police…’

He broke off, unable to utter the obvious.

Russi’s expression grew softer. He took out a cigarette-case and proffered it, then flicked a lighter into flame and lit up for Garth and then for himself.

‘It’s bad,’ he said softly. ‘I guess I can see the way your mind’s working. It looks like someone is trying to frame you, doesn’t it?

‘Frame me?’ Garth echoed, blankly.

‘Sure. Unless …’ Russi went down swiftly on one knee, beside the body. ‘Maybe she did it herself. But the way she’s been righting doesn’t figure. Yes, I said “frame you”, Garth. If anything like that was dumped in my flat, I guess I’d wonder who wanted me in bad with the police and would like to see me fried. Any ideas?’

His words made the whole thing worse, not better.

Garth drew a weary hand across his eyes, and then crushed out his cigarette in the nearest ash-tray, staring at the American. It must be true of course. This had been done deliberately. To get him arrested on a charge of murder, presumably. Some enemy …

No, it was fantastic!

‘I can’t believe it,’ he muttered shortly. ‘No one dislikes me enough for that!’

‘Someone doesn’t love you much,’ Russi pointed out, laconically. ‘Did she have another boy-friend?’ He seemed altogether too casual, and Garth wished him anywhere but there. ‘Because my guess is she had, and you maybe took her away from him …’ Russi paused, expectantly.

Garth spoke with an effort.

‘Let’s keep our feet on the ground. The fact is, it was the other way round—and a long time ago. And I can’t believe …’ He broke off. ‘Oh, what’s the use? I’ll have to call the police right away.’

Russi said an incredulous:

‘What?’

‘You heard me.’ Garth snapped roughly.

‘I guess I didn’t believe I’d heard right.’ Russi shook his head. ‘I’ll admit your police are different from ours, Garth, but if I wanted a one-way ticket to the electric chair, that’s what I’d do—ring them up and tell them about this! You didn’t kill her, did you?’

‘Don’t be a fool! Of course I didn’t!’

‘Then why fry for it?’ demanded the American. ‘It’s not your pigeon—and you surely won’t be much use to Ryall if you’re up on a charge of murder. Although I guess he’d want to help you all he could.’

‘Why don’t you tell me what you would do, not what you wouldn’t?’ Garth demanded fiercely.

‘That’s easy.’ Russi was very calm. I’d get her out of here as fast as I could. The black-out’s on. There’s no moon. You could get her away—dump her some place where no one would find her till morning. Get that knife out, if its yours. No one would know where she’d been …’

‘Someone might have seen her come here.’

‘Sure. And they might not have seen her go away. You couldn’t have answered the door if you hadn’t been here, could you?’ He looked at his watch, then at the small gold one on Anne’s wrist. The glass was broken, but it was still going. Calmly, he bent down, unstrapped it, turned it back to a little past eight, deliberately bent the minute-hand and banged the watch against the wall.

Then he held it to his ear and nodded with satisfaction.

‘It’s stopped,’ he said. ‘Now listen to me, Garth. I want to see you through this—I guess I’ll be wanting your help later, and I can’t have it if we don’t get the girl away from here. We can put her somewhere the cops will find her in the morning. They’ll see her watch and think that was the time it happened. You were at Wimbledon at five minutes after eight: no one can argue about that. I’ll say so; so will Ryall, the maid, the cab-driver. The only thing you have to worry about is getting her out of here.’ Cryptically, he asked: ‘Any ideas on that?’

Almost against his will, Garth said:

‘There are several bombed buildings nearby …’

‘You’ve said it!’ Russi’s eyes glinted. ‘I remember I passed one in a cab. We’ll wait till it’s properly dark and take her down. Is there any way of getting her there without going through the main streets?’

‘Yes … But … if we’re caught …’

‘Aw, forget it!’

‘If we’re caught, I mean, you’ll be involved!’ Garth snapped.

‘And if we’re not, neither of us will be,’ said Russi. ‘If we are, then what difference does it make? You tell the truth and that watch gives evidence for you. And she must have been killed some time after eight. Rigor mortis won’t tell them much—they can’t argue to an hour or two about the time of death.’

Carefully, he wiped the back of the watch on a handkerchief, removing the finger-prints. Then with equal care, he polished the leather strap and, holding it with the handkerchief fastened it back on the dead girl’s wrist.

Garth watched him—fascinated, at first, and then with dawning realisation.

Russi, he suddenly recognised, was far too accomplished in his self-appointed task. The care he took, the way his mind sprang to and dealt with all the dangers, suggested that he was not unused to such emergencies—or too great a knowledge of this particular one.

It was as well that he was paying careful attention to the watch, for Garth’s eyes in that moment betrayed his sudden comprehension of the whole truth.

Then Russi straightened up.

‘I guess we’re all set, now.’

‘Yes …’ Garth grimaced, wanly. ‘I … I don’t like it.… ’

‘Give yourself a drink,’ said Russi, shortly. ‘Where’s your nerve? Do you want to get yourself into trouble?’ There was a faint, badly-concealed truculence in his manner, very different from the easy friendliness of the Wimbledon interlude and his first show of concern here at the flat. Garth noticed the change, and it confirmed his suspicions.

He was fully alert, now.

The shock of that sudden recognition of the truth had brought him to a far greater awareness of the dangerous business in which he was involved than even the death of Anne. The fact that she was dead, that all this discussion was about her dead body, did not seem real. That part of his consciousness which dealt with Anne would not accept the facts; was still completely numbed. For the rest, his awareness of crisis deepened; he was putting himself in Russi’s power.

He was certain, now, that Russi had known what he would find when he reached the flat: that Russi and Ryall were framing him.

He did not quite know, then, why he allowed himself to be an accessory to his own victimisation. But at all events, he found himself going along with Russi’s plans: concentrating on selecting a suitable hiding-place—somewhere that could be reached without much difficulty, and without using the main streets.

It should be easy enough.

A hundred yards along Jermyn Street was a turning which led to a small, quiet square where there were several bombed houses—cleaned up now, but with piles of debris still on the sites. An ideal place—and it would take him no more than five minutes to carry Anne there.…

Russi looked up to ask:

‘What time shall we start?’

‘Well—we’d better not go any earlier than ten o’clock,’ Garth cautioned, and was glad to find that his new-found self-control seemed to be gaining in strength. Russi would think that his own coolness had given him confidence. And he would let him think so.

It was half past nine by the time they had finished. Anne’s body was wrapped now in an old mackintosh, and Russi had drawn out the knife and cleaned it. During that operation the nearness of Anne and all she had meant to him nearly wrecked Garth’s poise. But Russi’s almost inhumanly casual attitude to the whole affair angered him so deeply that the momentary weakness passed.

The waiting period was intolerable.

At a few minutes to ten, Russi finished a whisky-and-soda, glanced at his watch, and got to his feet.

‘This is when we start. Will you carry her, or shall I?’

Garth said steadily:

‘I shall.’

‘Suits me. You going the back way?’

That startled Garth. The back stairs were little used and certainly would not be known to a casual visitor: further evidence, he felt bleakly, that Russi knew more about the flat than he professed. In his own mind, he had already decided that the best route would be via the front door. The darkness should be complete enough to hide his burden from the casual glance of possible passers-by.

He raised Anne in his arms.

For a moment, his heart contracted. But he gritted his teeth, and when Russi opened the door for him, he walked through steadily enough. The staircase was empty and Russi led the way, a few steps ahead of him. As they reached the open front door the American whispered a warning and a moment later, Garth heard the deliberate tread of a policeman passing nearby.

‘Come on!’ Russi murmured, when the coast was clear, and Garth followed him into the pitch-dark street.

The dim light thrown by Russi’s torch was just enough to show the way without touching on Garth or his burden. A couple passed them on the other side of the road, giggling together; but they reached the corner of the little square without meeting anyone else. They hurried across it, Russi still leading the way, and reached the far corner. Garth was planning to turn right, and make for the bombed-out shell of a building which he knew was surrounded by a low, easily-surmounted wall.

It was then that someone suddenly shone a torch into Russi’s face.