You did ask him then to bring in Pollitt’s car?”
Betty sat down before her trembling legs dropped her to the floor. Fire! A palpitating red glow across the fields.…
“Yes, that’s right.” She made a mighty effort at control and watched Claythorne record her words in his notebook.
“About what time, Miss Shapley?”
“It was eleven-thirty when I arrived at his house door. I remember the church clock just striking.…”
“I understand from Mr. Clayton you had been with Pollitt since dinnertime, and then left him finally to come and get Clayton’s assistance for the car. What time was this?”
“Oh, I—I suppose it must have been about half past ten.”
“Then it took you an hour to walk say two and a half miles?”
“About that. I—I took my time.”
“Hmm.… Mr. Clayton has stated that as he approached the spot where he expected to find Mr. Pollitt he saw the car on fire—and then a man came tearing past him on a bicycle. A man whom he identified in the headlights as…Vincent Grey.”
Betty, her eyes pinched shut behind finger and thumb, saw in her inner vision that white-sweatered figure pedalling with insane energy under the streetlamps of the High Street.
“I would add,” Morgan said, “that I have informed Scotland Yard of his description, name, and so forth. A dragnet will be out by now to catch him. He’s disappeared.”
Disappeared! Of course he’d disappeared! Down Riverside Avenue!
“Mr. Clayton,” Morgan resumed heavily, “was just in time to pull the dead man free of the blazing car, but having no extinguisher, he had to let it burn itself out—then he came straight to us.… I understand, Miss Shapley, that you are acquainted with Vincent Grey?”
“Yes.” Betty was almost inaudible.
“Do you know of any reason why he might have met Mr. Pollitt tonight?”
Betty lowered her hand and opened her eyes again. “No, Inspector, I do not. When I left Herby, he was alone. I can’t imagine where Vincent came from, or why.”
“I see.” Morgan’s eyes strayed to Claythorne’s notes. “Just what do you know of Mr. Grey? Was he on friendly terms with Herbert Pollitt? Or were they enemies?”
“Well, they—they were rivals. Over me.”
“Ah, I think I understand now.… When did you last see Vincent Grey?”
Defiance rose up in Betty—defiance of the truth, defiance of everything. Suddenly she saw the one man she really loved in the most deadly danger. She herself had seen him racing away from the crime.
“I last saw him on Saturday,” she stated quite calmly. “It was in the evening. He took me to the Langhorn cinema and left me here about eleven. Mother and father can verify that.”
Morgan glanced round, and Mr. and Mrs. Shapley both nodded.
“And,” Morgan turned to Betty with a direct look, “you have not seen Vincent Grey since that time?”
Betty was silent, and evidently Morgan took it for acquiescence for he nodded to Claythorne. The lanky young sergeant closed his notebook and waited.
“I’m sorry I had to ask you all these questions at this hour of night,” Morgan said, with a clumsy attempt at apology. “But we must learn all we can right away. I’ve already seen the landlady of the rooms where Pollitt lived, and Clayton has of course identified the body. Now I have seen you, I have got to discover where Vincent Grey has gone.”
“He didn’t go to his rooms, then?” asked Mrs. Shapley in surprise.
Morgan smiled coldly. “If he were at home, madam, it would not have been necessary for me to contact the Yard. Men do not as a rule dash straight home when they have committed a murder. I understand from his landlady that he went to Lexham to play chess with a friend, leaving his rooms at about half past six yesterday evening.…” Morgan drew himself up and fastened the top button of his uniform.
“I’ll not need to bother you any further at the moment. Thank you—and good night.”
He turned to the kitchen doorway with Claythorne behind him. Old man Shapley saw them through the shop and out into the street again—then he drew over the bolts noisily. Morgan led the way across the forecourt to his car.
“Looks as though the girl’s telling the truth, sir,” Claythorne said, slipping down in front of the steering wheel.
“Don’t let a pretty face run away with you, Sergeant,” Morgan advised him. “Don’t forget she had three beaux! Humph! Anyway, get going.”
Claythorne nodded, reflecting grimly on the tangled crime they were investigating. Murder, arson, and brutal bludgeoning all flung together.
“You know,” Morgan muttered, as the car streaked down the High Street, “I think it may prove to be the easiest murder we’ve ever had to handle. The murderer was actually seen cycling away from the scene of the crime. That’a rare stroke of luck. We know it couldn’t have been Clayton because he saw Grey cycling in the opposite direction, away from the crime. Not knowing then that murder had been done—and knowing the man as a rival instead of a friend—Clayton did not stop his truck to have words with him. When Clayton arrived, he found the car on fire and body afire, too. Nasty business Sergeant. But once we’ve toothcombed the district, we’ll find Grey. Then the job’s done.”
“Yes, sir,” Claythorne muttered, switching on the headlights as the car entered the long lane that led to tragedy—the same lane up which Betty had idled her way. “As you say, sir—but aren’t we taking Clayton’s statement a lot for granted? We’ve only his word for it that Pollitt was murdered when he got there. Suppose he had something to do with it?”
“Then why the hell should Grey pedal away at top speed? And why did Clayton come straight away and tell us? Murderers don’t do that. They do just what Vincent Grey did—run for it!”
“Yes, sir,” Claythorne said obediently; but there was no law to stop him thinking. He had imagination, within limits. Morgan had none at all.
Seven minutes more brought them to them to the area of the tragedy, illuminated now by the headlights of cars. There were three others besides Morgan’s. The fingerprint men from Lexham; the photographer and his assistant; and further back was Dr. Roberts’ two-seater. As Morgan and Claythorne climbed out into the glare they saw figures moving busily across the lights. Two policemen from the local force stood stolid and massive, looking on.
“Anything, Doc?” Morgan went over to the tired-looking Dr. Roberts, who did the local policework in addition to his own practice. He was just packing his bag.
“All I can tell you now, Inspector, is that he was hit with terrific force by something jagged and heavy. The blow seems to have hit him obliquely from above. The poor devil’s so badly smashed up and burned I hardly knew where to start probing. Even as it is, I can’t finish tonight. I’ll do a thorough p.m. on him in the morning if you’ll have him sent up to Lexham
