Алистер Маклин - The Satan Bug

“What in heaven’s name–” Hardanger began harshly.

“Inspector Wylie,” I interrupted. “How long would it take you to get an arrest warrant? Murder. Accessory.”

“No time at all,” he said grimly. He patted his breast pocket. “I have three of them here already signed. Like you said yourself, there are times when we can’t wait for the law. We fill ’em in. Murder, eh?”

“Accessory.”

“And the name?” Hardanger demanded. He still wasn’t sure that he shouldn’t be calling the doctor.

“Dr. Roger Hartnell,” I said.

“What in the name of God are you talking about?” Dr. Roger Hartnell, a young man with a face suddenly old and tired and strained, stared at us, then at his wife who was standing rigidly beside them, then back at us again. “Accessory after murder. What are you talking about, man?”

“It’s our belief that you know well enough what we are talking about,” Wylie said calmly. It was the Inspector’s bailiwick and it was he who had just read out the charge and was making the formal arrest. He went on, “I have to warn you that what you say now may be used against you at your trial. It would help us if you made a full confession now, I admit: but arrested men have their rights. You may wish to take legal advice before you speak.” Like hell he was going to take legal advice: he was going to talk before he left that house and Hardanger, Wylie and I all knew it.

“Will someone please explain what this – this nonsense is about?” Mrs. Hartnell said coldly. The slightly supercilious incomprehension, the well-bred distaste were done to a turn, but the hostile rigidity of the figure overdone, the gripping hands so tightly clasped that the tremor showed. And she was still wearing the elastic stockings.

“Gladly,” Wylie said. “Yesterday, Dr. Hartnell, you made a statement to Mr. Cavell here to–”

“Cavell?” Hartnell did some more staring. “That’s not Cavell.”

“I didn’t like my old face,” I said. “Do you blame me? Inspector Wylie is talking, Hartnell.”

“–to the effect,” Wylie went on, “that you made a late trip night before last to see Mr. Tuffnell. Intensive investigation has turned up several people who were in a position to have seen you had you travelled in the direction you said you did at the time you said you did. Not one of those people saw you. That’s point number one.” And quite a good point it was, too, even if the purest fiction: the check had been made all right, but not a single witness found to confirm or deny Hartnell’s story, which had been just as expected.

“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!”

“Time 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–”