“Point number two,” Wylie went on. “Mud was found last night under the front mudguard of your motor-scooter, a mud which seems to be identical with the red loam found locally only outside Mordon. We suspect you went there early in the evening to reconnoitre. Your machine is at present being moved to police laboratories for tests. Point number——”
“My scooter!” Hartnell looked as if a bridge had fallen on him. “Mordon. I swear to——”
“Number three. Later that night you took your scooter — and wife — to a spot near Chessingham’s house. You almost gave yourself away to Mr. Cavell — you said that the policeman alleged to have seen you on your scooter could back up your story about the trip to Alfringham and then you remembered, almost too late, that if he had seen you he would also have seen your wife on the pillion seat. We found the imprint of your scooter’s wheels among bushes not twenty yards from where the Bedford had been abandoned. Careless, Doctor, very careless. I note you’re not protesting that one.” He couldn’t. We’d found the imprints less than twenty minutes previously.
“Points four and five. Hammer used to stun the guard dog. Pliers used to cut the Mordon fence. Both found last night in your tool-shed. Again by Mr. Cavell.”
“Why, you filthy, sneaking, thieving—–” His face twisted, the hair-trigger control suddenly snapped and he flung himself at me, clawed hands outstretched. He didn’t get three feet, Hardanger and Wylie just moved in massively from either side and pinned him helplessly between their bulks. Hartnell struggled madly, uselessly, his insane fury increasing. “I took you in here, you — you swine. I entertained your wife. I did—–*’ His voice weakened and faded and when it came again it was another man talking. “The hammer used to stun the dog ? The pliers? Here? In my house? They were found here? How could they have been found here?” He couldn’t have been more bewildered if he’d heard the late Senator McCarthy declaring himself to be a lifelong Communist. “They couldn’t have been found here. What are they talking about, Jane?” He’d turned to his wife and his face was desperate.
“We’re talking of murder,” Wylie said flatly. “I didn’t expect your co-operation, Hartnell. Please come along, both of you.”
“There’s some terrible mistake. I — I don’t understand. A terrible mistake.” Hartnell stared as us, his face hunted. “I can clear it up, I’m sure I can clear it up. If you have to take anyone with you, take me. But don’t drag my wife along. Please.”
“Why not?” I said. “You didn’t hesitate to drag her along a couple of nights ago.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said wearily.
“Would you say the same thing, Mrs. Hartnell?” I asked. “In view of the statement made by your doctor, who saw you less than three weeks ago, that you are in perfect health?”
“What do you mean?” she demanded. She was under better control than her husband. “What are you getting at?”
“The fact that you went to a chemist’s in Alfringham yesterday and bought a pair of elastic stockings. The gorse outside Mordon is pretty vicious stuff, Mrs. Hartnell, and it was very dark when you ran off after decoying the soldiers from their truck. You were pretty badly scratched, weren’t you? And you had to cover those scratches, didn’t you. Policemen are just naturally suspicious — especially in a murder case.”
“This is entirely ridiculous.” Her voice was flat, mechanical. “How dare you insinuate—–”
“You are wasting our time, madam!” Hardanger spoke for the first time, his voice sharp and authoritative. “We have a policewoman outside. Must I bring her in?” Silence. “Very well, then, I suggest we leave for the police station.”
“Could I have a few words with Dr. Hartnell, first?” I asked. “Alone, that is?”
Hardanger and Wylie exchanged glances. I’d already had their permission but I had to have it again to make things right — for them — if the need arose at the trial.
“Why?” Hardanger demanded.
“Dr. Hartnell and I used to know each other fairly well,” I said. “We were on fairly friendly terms. Time is desperately short. He might be willing to talk to me.”
“Talk to you?” It’s no easy feat to sneer and shout at the same moment, but Hartnell achieved it. “By God, never!”
“Tune is indeed short,” Hardanger agreed sombrely. “Ten minutes, Cavell.” He nodded to Mrs. Hartnell. She hesitated, looked at her husband, then walked out, followed by Hardanger and Wylie. Hartnell made to follow but I swung across and blocked his way.
“Let me past” His voice was low and ugly. “I’ve nothing to say to people like you.” He gave a short description of what he thought people like me were like, and when I showed no signs of stepping aside he swung back his right fist for a clumsy round-house swing that a blind octogenarian could have parried or avoided. I showed him my gun and he changed his mind.
“Have you a cellar in your house?” I asked.
“A cellar. Yes, we—–” He broke off and his face was
ugly again. “If you think you’re going to take me—–”
I swung my left fist in’ imitation of his own cumbersome effort and when he lifted his right arm in defence I tapped him with the barrel of the Hanyatti, just enough to take the fight out of him, caught his left arm up behind his left shoulder and marched him down towards the rear of the house where a flight of steps led down to a cellar. I closed the door behind us and shoved him roughly on to a rough wooden bench. He sat there for some seconds, rubbing his head, then looked up at me.
“This is a put-up job,” he said hoarsely. “Hardanger and Wylie — they knew you were going to do.”
“Hardanger and Wylie are hampered,” I said coldly. “They’re hampered by regulations concerning interrogation of suspects. They’re hampered by the thoughts of careers and pensions. I have no such thoughts. I’m a private individual.”
“And you think you’ll get away with this?” he said incredulously. “Do you seriously think I won’t talk about it?”
“By the time I have finished,” I said impersonally, “I doubt whether you will be able to talk. I’ll have the truth in fifteen minutes — and I won’t leave a mark. I’m an expert on torture, Hartnell — a group of Belgian quislings gave me a course of instruction over a period of three weeks. I was the subject. Try hard to believe I don’t care much if you are badly hurt.”
He looked at me. He was trying hard not to believe me but he wasn’t sure. There was nothing tough about Hartnell.
“Let’s try it the easy way first, though,” I said. “Let’s try it by reminding you that there’s a madman on the loose with the Satan Bug threatening to wipe out God knows how much of England if his conditions aren’t met — and his first demonstration is due any hour.”
“What are you talking about?” he demanded hoarsely.
I told him what Hardanger had told me and then went on, “If this madman wipes out any part of the country the nation will demand revenge. They’ll demand a scapegoat and public pressure will be so terrific that they’ll get their scapegoat. Surely you’re not so stupid as not to see that? Surely you’re not so stupid that you can’t visualise your wife Jane with the hangman’s knot under her chin as the executioner opens the trap-door. The fall, the jolt, the snapping of the vertebrae, the momentary reflex kicking of the feet — can you see your wife, Hartnell? Can you see what you are going to do to her? She is young to die. And death by hanging is a terrible death — and it’s still the prescribed penalty for a guilty accessory to murder for gain.”
He looked up at me, dull hate and misery in the sick eyes. In the half-light of the cellar his face was grey and there was the sheen of sweat on his forehead.
I went on, “You realise that you can retract any statement you make to me here. Without witnesses, a statement is valueless.” I paused and dropped my voice. “You’re deep in this, aren’t you?”
He nodded. He was staring at the floor.
“Who’s the killer? Who’s behind all this?”
“I don’t know. As God is my judge, I don’t know. A man rang me up and offered me money if I’d cause this diversion. Jane and myself. I thought he was crazy and if he wasn’t something stank about it… I refused. Next morning £200 arrived by post with a note to say there would be £300 more if I did what I was told. A — a fortnight went by and then he came on the phone again.”