The Investigation (11 page)

“Gregory, I want to go back to London. You don’t need me here anymore,” Sorensen interrupted. “Let me take the car. You can get another one at the station house.”

“We’ll talk about that in a minute,” Gregory snapped. Sorensen was beginning to get on his nerves. A moment later, though, he added, “I’ll try to work something out for you.” Gregory was staring at the wrinkled canvas. Though he’d only seen the corpse for a few moments, he remembered it vividly. The dead man was a little under sixty years old. He had tired, work-stained palms. His head was almost bald, and there was a gray stubble covering his neck and cheeks. Most distinctly etched in Gregory’s memory, however, was the expression of surprise in the half-closed, clouded eyes. It was beginning to get warmer, and Gregory wanted to throw off his coat. He tried impatiently to calculate how long it would be before the sun reached the areas that were still in the shade. It was absolutely necessary to get casts of all the footprints and other markings before the snow melted.

He was about to send the constable up the road when he saw his crew approaching. Gregory walked over to meet them.

“It’s about time. Now listen, the snow is beginning to melt so don’t waste any time. Thomas, I’m particularly interested in the prints between the window and the door, but the snow is wet, so be careful or everything will fall apart! I’m going into town now. When you finish with the prints, measure everything that looks important, and get the distance from here to the water—there’s a stream over there behind the bushes. Take a few pictures of the whole area and search the bank of the stream. I may have missed something.”

“Don’t worry about it, Gregory,” said Wilson. His equipment, slung over his shoulder in a flat bag, kept slapping him on the hip as he walked, making him limp slightly. “And don’t forget to send the car to pick us up,” he added casually.

“Of course.”

Gregory walked back toward the road, completely forgetting about Sorensen. Turning around for a moment, he saw the doctor following him. The ropes blocking off the scene of the accident had already been taken down, and two men in a wrecker were pulling the Bentley out of the ditch alongside the road. His car was standing next to the bridge, turned in the direction of London. Without a word, Gregory slid into the front seat next to Calls, The doctor, noting that the car’s motor was already turning over, speeded up his pace. A moment later they drove past the policeman from the highway patrol and headed back toward Pickering.

The police station was located in a two-story building on the market square. With a constable to show him the way, Gregory went upstairs and passed through a long corridor lined with doors. Through the window at one end he could see the roofs of the one-story houses on the other side of the square.

The district commander rose to greet him. He was a long-headed, red-haired man, with a reddish mark from his hatband about halfway down his forehead. His cap lay on the desk beside him.

Smiling nervously, not showing any signs of friendliness or good humor, the commander rubbed his hands together.

“Well, let’s get to work,” Gregory sighed, settling into a chair. “Do you know how Williams is? Can I speak to him?”

The commander shook his head.

“It’s out of the question. He has a skull fracture. I phoned the hospital at Hackey just a minute or two ago. They say he’s still unconscious, and according to the doctors it’ll be a long time before he comes to—if he ever does.”

“I see. Tell me, you know your own men, is Williams a good policeman? How long has he been on the force? In fact, tell me everything you know about him.”

Gregory spoke somewhat distractedly. In his mind he was back at the mortuary, still looking at the prints in the snow.

“Williams? What can I tell you? He’s been with me for four years. Before that he was up north. He served in the army, was wounded, got a medal. He got married after he came here and has two children. Nothing special to distinguish him. He likes to go fishing. He’s even-tempered, reasonably intelligent. No major offenses on his record.”

“What about minor ones?”

“Well … maybe he was a little too … easygoing. But in a good-hearted way, you know what I mean. He had a tendency to interpret the regulations independently. Of course in a town like this everyone knows everybody else … but it never involved anything important. He didn’t write enough tickets … that kind of thing. He was quiet, maybe even too quiet, I would say … uh, I mean he is,” the commander corrected himself with a wince.

“Did he believe in ghosts?” Gregory asked very seriously. The commander looked at him.

“In ghosts?” he repeated involuntarily. He seemed confused. “In ghosts? No… I don’t think so. I don’t know, really. Are you suggesting that he…” He didn’t finish. Both men were silent for a moment.

“Have you any idea what he was running away from?” Gregory asked quietly, leaning forward and looking the commander straight in the eye. The commander didn’t answer. He lowered his head slightly, then raised it.

“I haven’t the slightest idea, but…”

“But?”

The commander studied Gregory’s face. At last, as if alienated by it, he shrugged his shoulders.

“All right. In that case we’ll stick
to
the facts. Do you have Williams’s pistol?”

“I do.”

“And?”

“He was holding it in his hand,” the commander said in a quiet voice,

“Go on. Did he fire it?”

“No. The safety was still on. But … there was a cartridge in the chamber.”

“Loaded? What of it? Don’t tell me your men go on patrol with their guns unloaded?”

“Why not? This is a quiet town. There’s always time to load…”

“How do you think Williams managed to get from the place where the car hit him to where the ambulance crew picked him up?”

A surprised expression came over the commander’s face. “He wasn’t able to go anywhere after the accident, Lieutenant. Smithers, the man who hit Williams, says he moved him…”

“I see. Well, that certainly simplifies things. Let’s say that … well, it simplifies things,” said Gregory. “Do you have Smithers here?”

“Yes.”

“I’d like to question him, if that’s all right with you.”

“Of course.”

The commander opened the door and said a few words to someone, then walked over to the window. A minute or so later a slim, good-looking young man in tight-fitting flannel trousers and a bulky-knit sweater walked in. He had narrow hips and the face of a B-movie leading man; pausing in the doorway he glanced nervously at Gregory, who was leaning back in his chair and watching him with a searching look. After a moment Gregory spoke.

“I’m down from the Yard to handle the investigation here. You may be able to help me clear up a few things.”

Smithers nodded his head slowly.

“I … actually, I’ve already told the whole story… I’m innocent—believe me, it wasn’t my fault.”

“If you’re innocent, you have nothing to worry about. Now then, the charge against you is causing an accident and endangering human life. The law does not require you to provide any information that could form the basis of a criminal indictment against you. Are you willing to answer my questions?”

“Yes, yes … of course … I … don’t have anything to hide,” stammered the young man, obviously quite frightened by the formal statement Gregory had just recited to him. “Please sir,” he continued, “there wasn’t a thing I could do … he just threw himself in front of the car. It was nighttime and there was all that fog—by the time I saw him it was too late. I was driving very slowly, I swear it, and I did everything I could to avoid hitting him… I even smashed the car up because of him. But it was all his fault, and to make matters worse it isn’t even my car… I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“Please, Mr. Smithers,” Gregory said. “Tell me the whole story as accurately as you can. How fast were you going?”

“No more than thirty miles an hour, so help me God. Because of all the fog, and it was snowing too. I could hardly see. In fact, I couldn’t even put my headlights on because that would have made it worse.”

“You mean you were driving with your lights off?”

“No, never in the world. My foglights were on, but even so I couldn’t see more than ten or fifteen feet ahead. All of a sudden he was right in front of the car—believe me, please, he must have been blind, or crazy—he ran straight at me and simply threw himself under the car.”

“Did he have anything in his hands?”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“I asked if he was holding anything in his hand?”

“I didn’t notice at the time. Afterward, when I picked him up, I saw that he was holding a pistol, but during the accident I didn’t notice a thing. I just stepped on the brake as hard as I could, the car went into a spin and turned completely around, and I smashed into the tree. I got pretty badly cut,” he said, pointing to his forehead.

There was a thick red line of clotted blood running across Smithers’s forehead and disappearing beneath his hair.

“I didn’t even feel it at the time, I was so scared,” he continued. “For a minute I thought I had managed to miss him, I mean, I really did miss him and I still don’t know how he got hit when I skidded—maybe it was the bumper. He was lying in the snow. I began rubbing him with snow—I wasn’t even thinking about myself, although the blood was running down into my eyes. He was out cold and my first thought was to get him to the hospital, but I couldn’t get my car started—something was knocked out of kilter, I don’t know what—so I ran up the road and made a phone call from the first house.”

“Why did you carry him to the side of the road instead of to the car?”

“Well…” the young man hesitated, “because … because, uh, they say you should always keep an unconscious person flat on his back and there wasn’t enough room in the car. And I thought that if I left him in the middle of the road someone else might run over him…”

“Good. What time did all this happen?”

“A little after five. Maybe ten or fifteen minutes after.”

“Did you see anyone on the road when you were going to the telephone?”

“No, not a soul.”

“What about earlier, when you were driving? Did you see anyone? Pedestrians? Cars?”

“Pedestrians, no. Cars? No, no cars either; I did pass two trucks, but that was while I was still on the expressway.”

“Where were you coming from?”

“London.”

The room was silent. Smithers walked over to Gregory.

“Inspector, please … am I free to go now? And what about the car?”

“Don’t worry about the car,” said the commander, who was still standing near the window. “If you want, my men can take it to a garage for you, we’ll tow it over ourselves. There’s a good one not far from here—we’ll take the car over and you can get it repaired.”

“Thank you. That’ll be perfect. Only I’ll have to wire home for some money. May… May I go now?”

Gregory and the commander glanced at each other and came to a silent understanding. With an affirmative nod, Gregory turned to Smithers. “Please leave your name and address,” he said. “An address where we can reach you if necessary.”

Smithers turned to leave, then stood for a moment with his hand on the doorknob.

“Uh … the constable … how is he?” he asked quietly.

“He may come out of it. We don’t know yet,” said the commander. Smithers opened his mouth as if to speak, then walked out of the room without another word.

Overcome by an incomprehensible feeling of fatigue, Gregory turned to the desk and rested his head in his hands. More than anything he would have liked to sit quietly for a while, not talking, not thinking.

“What was he running away from?” he suddenly blurted out, surprising even himself. “What the hell was he running away from?”

“You mean ‘who,’ don’t you?” said the commander, taking his seat behind the desk again.

“No. If he had trouble with a human being he would have used his gun, wouldn’t he? As sure as two and two make four he would have, don’t you agree?”

“Did you look over those prints yourself?” asked the commander. He was busily trying to push the strap of his cap through its buckle. Gregory took a good look at him. The commander of the Pickering police station had wrinkled cheeks, bloodshot eyes, crow’s feet; there were already a few gray strands scattered through his red hair.

“What was the situation when you got there?” Gregory parried the commander’s question with a question of his own. The commander, with great concentration, was working on his buckle.

“The man on duty in the station was Parrings. That kid, Smithers, called at about half past five. Parrings woke me up right away—I live in the house next door. I told him to contact the Yard, then started out as fast as I could.”

“Was it still dark when you got there?”

“It was brightening up a little, but there was a thick fog.”

“Was it snowing?”

“No, not anymore.”

The commander put his cap down; the dangling chin strap slapped against the desk.

“The doctor was busy with Williams when I got there. Williams is a big man, so I helped the doctor and the driver lift him into the ambulance. Meanwhile, two men from the highway patrol arrived on the scene. I posted them on the road to keep the accident area clear, and then I went down to the cemetery by myself.”

“Did you have a flashlight?”

“No, but I took Hardley’s—he’s the highway patrol sergeant. I found the body lying on the ground just outside the door, its head facing the door sill. The door was open.”

“What position was the body in?”

“Arms and legs bent. I think they call it a geniculate position.”

“Where did you get the canvas?”

“I found it inside the mortuary.”

“You mean you went inside?”

“Yes. Sideways. You know, I jumped over the door sill. Maybe I missed something in the dark, but the only prints I saw around the mortuary were Williams’s, and I thought there might still be someone inside—” He stopped abruptly.

“You mean you thought the perpetrator was still there?”

“Right.”

The decisive tone of the answer took Gregory by surprise.

“What made you think so?”