XVII

The evening was hot, thunder in the air. Mr. Morton sat in the hotel lounge, fanning himself occasionally with a handkerchief. “My word, that was a good dinner. A really beautiful piece of lamb. Roast lamb and mint sauce, green peas and new potatoes, there’s nothing to beat it.”

Bill Lonergan, who had the evening paper before his face, grunted.

“Newton did very well this afternoon, I thought. Didn’t you think so, eh?”

“Very well.”

“To-morrow the defence opens. Be interesting to see how young Wilkins stands up in the box, eh? Would you like a glass of brandy, Bill, my boy?”

“No, thank you.”

“I don’t believe he will stand up to it, you know, shouldn’t be surprised if he breaks down in court. I don’t know if Hayley’s quite the man for the job. Marshall Hall, now, was different. He’d have torn a young scoundrel like this limb from limb. Before your time, of course. I think I shall have a glass of brandy. Are you sure you won’t join me?”

“You shouldn’t drink, you know that.”

“Brandy is medicinal. Besides, I’m feeling so much better.” Indeed he did look better, almost well, this dapper little gentleman in his tweed suit.

“I shall go back in the morning, uncle.” The freckles stood out clearly on Bill Lonergan’s nose and forehead.

“Go back?” Mr. Morton put down the glass from which he had been delicately sipping, and stared. “Bless my soul. Not see the end of the trial, not see Geoffrey Wilkins’s son in the box.”

“I’ve got to go back, had a letter from my firm. Besides I’ve given my evidence. Nothing to stay for.”

“You could easily stay another couple of days.” Mr. Morton’s voice assumed the whine with which he had once addressed Sheila. “You don’t want to miss the defence. I wouldn’t mind betting Newton’s got one or two things up his sleeve.”

Bill Lonergan turned on his uncle furiously. “Don’t you realise I hate every minute of this damned business, this cat and mouse game. It makes me shudder.” He stopped. “I’m sorry, Uncle. I’ve really got to go to-morrow. There’s a train at 8.30, I shall catch that. I’d better do some packing.”

His uncle watched him go, finished his brandy and ordered another. Then he quavered across on his stick-legs to a table at which two other men were sitting. They knew him, but he was upon them before they could get up. “Another good day in court,” he said. “That man Newton, now, he tore the so-called expert to ribbons. Let me tell you…” A frail eager-eyed grasshopper, he sat down unsteadily in a chair.

“Do you remember a woman named Betty Prenton? Or you might just have called her Betty?” Doctor Andreadis asked.

John Wilkins shook his head. It was still light outside, but only a little light pervaded the cell. Wilkins sat on the bed with hands upon knees, apparently apathetic. When the psychiatrist had repeated Betty Prenton’s story he said, “I don’t remember.”

“She says you were upset, talked about your wife and how you hated her. Do you remember that?”

“I said that to everybody, and it was true. I still hate her.”

Wilkins looked at him directly, and in his eyes Andreadis could see no expression. The psychiatrist had for a moment the strange illusion that he was speaking to a dummy. To break the silence he said, “You could remember what happened on that Monday night. If you wanted to remember, you could remember.”

“What time did I leave her?”

“Just after eleven.”

“Then I still had time to do it.”

“Your wife says you came in at twenty-five minutes to twelve.”

“But there was the man who saw me coming up the steps from the beach at twenty to twelve.”

“Listen to me, John.” Andreadis took hold of the prisoner by his shoulders. “You heard Newton’s cross-examination of that man in the box. He isn’t sure of the identification. What this woman says will help you. She says you were with her up to eleven o’clock. She explains the cut on your thumb. You have a very good chance of acquittal, do you understand? But it depends on you. Tell your story simply. Say exactly what happened as you remember it. Don’t try to conceal anything. You hated your wife—say so, if you’re asked. Tell the truth, that’s all you have to do.”

“Tell the truth,” Wilkins said without expression. “But what is the truth?”

“You have nothing to be afraid of. There are no tricks. You can’t be trapped into saying something you don’t mean, unless you make foolish answers. Don’t try to be clever or sarcastic. Don’t get angry. Just tell the truth as you know it.”

Wilkins looked up. Andreadis hoped that he would ask some intelligent question. “This Betty Prenton—what is she?”

“What is—oh, I see. She’s a prostitute. Showed courage in coming forward.”

Wilkins nodded, murmured something, and his head sank forward again. Andreadis could not be sure, but thought he heard the word, “Disgusting.” When he left a quarter of an hour later it was with the knowledge that he had merely been scratching the surface of things. The prisoner had retreated from all those confidences about his past life into some Berchtesgaden of the mind.

“Have the other half,” Betty Prenton said. “Come on.”

“I really shouldn’t.”

“It’s not every day you get the chance of tracking down a vital witness in a murder trial. Another half of bitter there.”

“Not quite so loud.” Mr. Lambie looked nervously round the bar. He sipped his bitter. “My word, Miss Prenton, it’s hot.”

“Certainly is.” Betty Prenton was wearing a thin blouse through which outline of brassiere and firm shoulders could be seen. “You’re a persevering little devil, aren’t you? Tell me, do you really like being a nark? I can’t imagine anything more like hell.”

“You see life, you know. But I won’t say it’s what I’d choose. I haven’t always done this kind of thing, you understand that. Before the war I had my own shop, Lambie and Company, sports outfitters. But afterwards things were, well, difficult. If I could have kept the shop on—if I hadn’t gone into the armed forces—it seemed to be my duty.” He brooded quietly on an imaginary past.

“You’re pretty hot on duty.” She drank her gin and unobtrusively ordered another. “Married, aren’t you?” From a stained leather wallet the little man produced a worn photograph showing a round dumpling of a woman. “Of course that was taken some years back, just after the war. Goodness gracious, what’s this?”

“It’s the third half.”

“But my dear Miss Prenton—”

“Betty.”

“My work here is over. I told Mrs. Wilkins and Mr. Hunton that I thought there was nothing further I could usefully do. I have to catch a train. I mustn’t arrive home—er—a little bit tiddly.”

“I’m not going to go home tiddly, Lambie. I’m going to get downright tight before I go home. Do you know why?” The little man shook his head. “Because I hate what I’m doing. I hate helping the bloody police in any way whatever. Do you know why I’m doing it?”

“Why, Miss Prenton—Betty—it’s your duty.”

Her forceful, intelligent face was red with drink. “Duty’s got nothing to do with it. I don’t believe you had much to do with it either.”

“Then what—”

“Christ, but it’s hot to-night. Tell you something, Lambie. I didn’t like him. Wilkins, I mean. I’m not a mother by nature. I don’t like young men who want a shoulder to cry on. And shall I tell you something else? I don’t believe he did it, Lambie. He’s not the type.” Her face was now so close that by leaning forward slightly he could have kissed her. Instead he drew back an inch or two. “But once the cops have got their claws on someone they don’t let go. They’re going to find him guilty.”