“Twenty minutes,” I said, half listening to the sergeant speak rapidly and urgently into the telephone. “They’d have lost time pushing the car off the road to fox us, then they had a long walk to the garage. Twenty minutes.”
“They’ve had it,” Hardanger said confidently. “There’s a half-dozen police cars patrolling in the next thirty miles or so and they know those roads as only local county policemen do. And once one of those cars gets on Oregon’s tail — well, he’ll never shake them off.”
“Tell them to set up road-blocks,” I said. “Tell them to stop him at all costs.”
“Are you mad?” Hardanger said shortly. “Are you out of your mind, Cavell? Do you want your wife killed? Damn you, you know he’ll use her as a living shield. As it is, she’s safe. Gregori hasn’t seen a policeman — except that fellow on traffic duty — since he left MacDonald’s house. He’ll be half-believing now that we have called off the search. Can’t you see that, man?”
“Road-blocks,” I repeated. “Set up road-blocks. Where are the cars going to tail him to — the heart of London? Where he’s going to release his damn’ botulinus. Once in London they’ll lose him, they’re bound to lose him. Don’t you see, he has to be stopped somewhere? If he’s not, if he’s let loose in London—–”
“But you yourself agreed—–”
“That was before I knew for sure that he was headed for London.”
“General,” Hardanger appealed. “Can’t you make Cavell
“She’s my only child, Hardanger, and an old man shouldn’t be asked to decide life or death for his only child,” the General said tonelessly. “You know as well as any man what I think of Mary.” He paused, then went on in the same level voice. “I agree with Cavell. Please do as he suggests.”
Hardanger swore bitterly under his breath and leaned forward to speak to the sergeant. When he had finished, the General said calmly, “While we’re waiting, my boy, you might fill in a few remaining pieces in the jig-saw. I’m in no condition to fill them in for myself. The question the superintendent is always coming up with. The red herrings. All those red herrings. Why?”
“To buy time.” I was in no condition to fill in jig-saws myself, but what was left of my mind was still working just well enough to appreciate the reason behind the request — to try to take our minds off the car in front, the trapped and terrified girl at the mercy of ruthless and sadistic killers, to reduce the tearing anxiety, to ease the destructive tension that was slowly pulling tired minds and bodies to pieces. I went on, fumbling along mentally, “Our friend in the car up front had to buy time. The more false leads we followed and the more blind alleys we blundered into — and there were plenty — the more time it would take us to get around to inquiring in the really dangerous places. He overestimated us, but for all that we moved faster than he bad expected — don’t forget that it’s only forty hours since the crime was discovered. But he knew that sooner or later we would get around to making inquiries in the one place he feared — MacDonald’s. He knew he might have to dispose of Mac-Donald sooner or later. And the later the better for within a few hours of MacDonald’s death a sealed envelope in a bank or police-station would be opened and then we’d be on to him like an express train. Whatever Oregon’s ultimate intentions are he would obviously have preferred to carry those out while still a respectable member of the Alfringham community instead of a wanted murderer on the run from half the police in Britain.”
“It’s difficult to threaten the Government — and the nation — with the law breathing down the back of your neck,” the General conceded. The old man’s detachment, his iron control, was almost more than human. “But why did MacDonald have to die?”
“Because of two things. Because he knew what Gregori’s ultimate end was and if MacDonald had lived to tell it, all his, Gregori’s, plans would have been ruined. And because of Mrs. Turpin. MacDonald was a pretty tough character and he might not have talked even when the police got on to him — after all, although he almost certainly had no hand in any killing, he was pretty deep in the mire himself. But Mrs. Turpin would have made him talk — if not, she’d have talked herself. Madame Halle gave me to understand in Paris that MacDonald was pretty much of a philanderer — and philanderers don’t change their ways easily. Not before eighty, anyway. Mrs. Turpin was a good-looking woman — and her fiercely protective attitude towards MacDonald was a dead giveaway. She was in love with him — whether he was with her I couldn’t guess and it doesn’t matter. If things had gone wrong she’d have had MacDonald turn Queen’s evidence and lower the boom on Gregori by betraying his plans. I think, his evidence might have been so important, so vastly important, that either she or MacDonald or both would be convinced that at the most MacDonald would have received ; no more than a light sentence. With all hopes of his money 1 from Oregon gone, I don’t think MacDonald would have hesitated between turning Queen’s evidence — if it was important enough he might even have received a free pardon — and being held as an accessory to murder for gain, which still calls; for a walk to the gallows in this country. And if he had I hesitated, Mrs. Turpin would have made up his mind for him. I “My guess — it’s only a guess but we can check at Mordon — is that Mrs. Turpin phoned MacDonald at the lab immediately after I had left and that Gregori either overheard or was told what had happened. He probably accompanied Mac-Donald home to see how the land lay — and it didn’t take him a couple of minutes to find out. The heat was on MacDonald and that could have been fatal for Gregori. To prevent that, Gregori had to make it fatal for MacDonald and Mrs. Turpin.”
“All neatly buttoned up, eh?” Hardanger said. His face was dead-pan, he was still a fair way from forgiving me.
“Net tightened and completely closed,” I agreed. “The only trouble is that the big fish has already escaped and what’s left is useless. But one thing we know. We can forget all this rubbish about demolishing Mordon. If that was Oregon’s plan it wouldn’t have helped or hindered him in the execution of it if MacDonald had talked, for the whole country knew of it already. Whatever it is is something on a much bigger, much more important scale, something that might have been foiled, probably would have been foiled had we known of it in advance.” “Such as what?” Hardanger demanded. “You tell me. I’m done with guessing for the day.” And I was through with guessing and talking for the day, except when necessity absolutely demanded it. Slumped back in the warmth and comfort of the deeply-cushioned seats, reaction was beginning to set in. The anaesthetising effect of the need for non-stop action and urgent thinking was beginning to wear off, and the more it wore off the older and more worn I felt. And the more pain. I thought of the widely-held belief that you can’t feel more than one pain at one time and wondered what misinformed idiot had started that one. I wondered what part of me was causing me the most pain, my foot, my ribs or my head, and came to the conclusion that my ribs won, by a short head. Was that a pun? The driver was reaching over ninety on the longer stretches of wet road, but he drove so smoothly and skilfully that even with my fear and anxiety for Mary I think I was beginning to doze off when the loudspeaker up front began to crackle.
First came the identification sign then the message, “Grey Humber saloon, answering description of wanted car, number not identified, has just turned left from London road to ‘ B’ road to avoid block at Flemington cross-road, two and a half miles east of Crutchley. Am following.”
“Flemington cross-roads.” The voice of the sergeant in the front seat, an Alfringham man, held a rising note of excitement. “He’s on a blind road. It doesn’t lead anywhere except to Flemington and then back on to the main London road about three miles farther on again.”
“How far are we from what’s the name of the place — Crutchley?” Hardanger demanded.
“Near enough four miles, sir.”
“So that would make it between nine and ten miles to the junction where Gregori must rejoin the main London road. This side road through Flemington, the one he’s on. How long is it, how long would it take him?”