routine inquiry?
He fought down the thoughts, and the temptation to demand of Crawford why they were here. What would an innocent, respectable citizen say. How would he look?
'But who could have done such a thing?' If his voice sounded strained and shocked, that was natural enough. 'I can't believe it!' He shook his head in bewilderment. 'I mean - he couldn't have been murdered by ... by robbers, surely? He didn't look ... well, he didn't seem to have five cents to rub together - did he, Peggy?'
'He would have the five pounds or thereabouts that you gave him, Mr Franklin,' Crawford reminded him. 'Unless, that is, he had spent it in the meantime. We have no way, of knowing how long elapsed between his leaving Oxton and his death. The fact that there was nothing but a few coppers in the grave suggests that he had spent it - for if murderers robbed him, why did they leave a fine gold watch? No, robbery seems unlikely. And yet - to spend five pounds takes a wee while, and our inquiries so far have turned up no traces of the man after he left Oxton Hall. If he remained in the vicinity, as seems likely in view of where his body was found, it's odd that no one remembers him - Americans aren't that common in those parts. And that he was an American was something we quickly established - and which you've confirmed this morning. The watch was made in Philadelphia; the coppers in the grave included an American cent coin; the boots - or what remained of them - were of American manufacture; that was established from the heel-plates. So you can understand,' continued Crawford mildly, 'why our investigations have led us to you, Mr Franklin. As the only American residing - or occasionally residing - in the vicinity, you were a natural subject of inquiry - if you'll forgive the expression.'
'I see. Of course.' Mr Franklin saw all too clearly. They didn't know who Logan really was - yet. But they might find out. And if they did, with the help of the American lawmen, what else would they find? There was no reason why they should ever stumble across any trace in America of Mark Franklin - as he'd reminded the Kid, there were no posters, no rewards, no files on him. There was no earthly reason why Crawford should connect him with Logan's death, beyond the fact that they were both Americans, and the grave had been found within half a mile of Lancing Manor. But what did that signify? As long as his own American past remained hidden, there were no grounds even for suspicion, much less proof. The fact that he'd admitted knowing Logan in America meant nothing - thousands of respectable people must have known him, without even suspecting what he was ...
'And now that I learn that you were acquainted with him in the United States, you can appreciate my anxiety to learn anything at all that you knew of him there - anything that might afford us some further clue, or suggest a line of inquiry.' The blue eyes were placid, interested.
'I'm trying to think, inspector - but it's tough to know what I could tell you that might help. I still can't get over the shock of this ... this dreadful business. To think that this poor fellow's been ... been murdered, you say, and buried on my property, goodness knows how long - '
'Not on your property, Mr Franklin. Did I not make it clear? No, possibly not; I beg your pardon.' Crawford's eyes showed a flicker that might have been annoyance - or disappointment. 'The grave was not in the ground of Lye Cottage, but in a thicket nearby.'
'Oh, I see. I'm sorry, I misunderstood.'
'Not at all, I may have misled you.' Crawford paused, and gently fingered his long nose reflectively. 'However, if nothing comes to your mind at the moment ... perhaps if you recollect any wee thing - no matter what - you'd be good enough to give me a call at the Yard? Criminal Investigation Department will find me, or Sergeant Green here. In the meanwhile, you've been most helpful, both of you.' He rose and smiled at Peggy. 'I can see Mrs Franklin's ready for sleep, and I apologise again for imposing on your time.' He gathered up his ulster, and the sergeant rose behind him.
'You'll bear in -mind, Mr Franklin, that the nub of the question for us is a simple one,' Crawford added. He pursed his lips and contemplated the carpet. 'Why would any person - here, or in America, or anywhere at all - wish to do this man Logan to death? That's the clincher.' He shook his head and smiled ruefully at Mr Franklin. 'It always is, in this kind of case. Give us the motive, and we'll give you the man.'
It was casually said, the kind of quietly philosophical remark with which Inspector Crawford had no doubt terminated a hundred similar interviews. It might have been a normal reminder to stimulate the memory of a possibly helpful witness. Or it might have been an invitation to someone of whom Inspector Crawford knew, or suspected, a great deal more than he had admitted - in which case bland silence would in itself be a damning admission. Suppose Crawford already knew all about Mark Franklin of Hole-in-the-Wall? But he simply couldn't - it was not possible. And in that confidence Mr Franklin was able to shrug regretfully and say:
'I'll certainly give it some thought, inspector, but I'm afraid it won't be of much help to you. As I said, I didn't know the man all that well - hardly at all, really. Certainly not enough to know why anyone should want to shoot him.'
He was turning to the door as he said it, and his hand was on the knob when Crawford's voice said quietly behind him.
'Did I say he'd been shot? Surely not, did I?'
Mr Franklin's heart gave a sickening lurch, but he turned the knob and opened the door, looking round as he did so, trying to sound natural.
'Didn't you? I don't remember. I guess I just assumed it, then. Wasn't he shot, inspector?'
'Aye - as a matter of fact he was.' Crawford was regarding him with interest, Green stolidly, and Peggy, near the inspector's side, was looking from him to Mr Franklin with only mild curiosity. 'What made you think that that was so, Mr Franklin?'
'I really don't know, inspector.' He forced a wry smile. 'Probably just that if you've been brought up in the Western states, as I was, when you hear someone has died violently, you assume it was from a gunshot. I'm afraid that used to happen all too often.'
'Aye, so I believe,' said the inspector, but he made no move to pass through the door that Mr Franklin was now holding open. He glanced at Peggy, and then at Mr Franklin, and seemed to be debating something in his mind. Finally he came to a conclusion. 'Aye, he was shot. Fractures in the rib-cage of the skeleton are consistent with gunshot wounds, but what put our examiners' diagnosis beyond doubt was the presence in the grave of three metal objects, much misshapen, but still easily identifiable as spent bullets from a revolving pistol of heavy calibre.' The inspector's tone was brisk and matter-of-fact. His glance went from Mr Franklin's face to his waist, and his gesture was casual.
`A pistol similar to those you're wearing, Mr Franklin. Not uncommon, of course, but not commonplace. Are those your own, or were they hired for the costume ball?'
`What about you, Mark? Had enough?' On the table, his pair of kings, an eight, an ace - and another ace in the hole. Across the table, two pairs visible, and an opponent ready to go all the way while the others threw in and old Davis sweated and groaned and seemed to be on the verge of apoplexy. 'Had enough, Mark? Why don't you quit? 1 got you licked, little boy!'
That had been for money. Now it was for life.
'What d'you say, Franklin? I can't hear you! Talk up, goddam it - if you got anything to say!' Deaf Charley Hanks with his back to the hitching-rail, his thumbs hooked into his belt where the big Navy Colt was thrust into the band of his britches, his shaven head cocked to catch the words. Behind him Tracy on the boardwalk with the shotgun cradled, feet clattering as the onlookers scampered for cover, the shrieks and cries of alarm, his own ears trying to shut out the sounds and his eyes fixed on those big hands - and a half-eye for Tracy as well. His own voice? 'I've nothing to say to you, Charley, except I'm here if you want me. It's up to you. If you don't want me, go on inside with your prairie-dog there.' 'Want you, you son-of-a-bitch? Why would I want you? You're no-account!' The ugly peasant face twisted in the well-known grin, the head turned in the permanent attitude of the deaf man. 'I don't want you, Franklin - not till I'm rea
dy! And when I'm ready, in my own good time. I'll pay you out, like any other fresh young squirt! But you won't be here, if you know what's good for you! And you know what's good for you - running like hell away from O. C. Hanks! So git - and when I feel like it I'll come settle you!' And knowing that all he had to do was stand his ground, with his life in the balance, and wait for Deaf Charley to do what he had promised to do.
And he had stood his ground, and Deaf Charley had made his move, and his nerve had not failed him, just as it had not failed him at the poker table. Now it was for his life again, and the opponent this time had all his cards in the hole, none showing, and the opponent himself, with his long nose and sleepy eyes and avuncular manner and gentle voice was a damned sight more dangerous than any Kid Curry or Deaf Charley Hanks, heeled or not. If he was an opponent - he must be - and yet Mr Franklin could still not be entirely sure. There was no absolute certainty yet that Crawford had even a hand or a stake to get into the game.
'No, they're my own guns,' he said easily, as any innocent, law-abiding citizen might have done. 'They're Remingtons - my wife thought they might add an authentic touch for the fancy-dress party.'
'Indeed,' said Crawford. 'May I see one of them, Mr Franklin?'
Again only mild curiosity - and what innocent man could object to that? Mr Franklin put his finger inside the right-hand trigger guard and drew the pistol, and by sheer force of habit spun it so that the barrel lay in his hand and the butt was towards the inspector. And he heard Peggy's sudden gasp, and saw her eyes widen with shock, and knew that the careless, practised gesture had suddenly brought home to her the possible implication of everything that had been said in that room. Logan dead from revolver fire, buried within a half-mile of Lancing Manor, Logan an acquaintance of Mark Franklin who handled a six-shooter with such familiar ease. And it was utterly impossible that Crawford should not have drawn the same inference - certainly in the course of the interview, possibly long before it began. Depending on how much Crawford already knew, or suspected. But the inspector was taking the gun imperturbably, examining the cylinder, turning it in his hand.
'A fine weapon,' he said. 'Aye, and dangerous. Are those live rounds that I see in your belt, Mr Franklin?'
'Yes, inspector. They're live shells - but don't worry. I take good care with them.'
'I'm glad to hear it,' said Crawford, and held the Remington out to him. 'Aye,' he added, 'it would be just such a gun that killed Curry.'
It was meant to stun, to strike inside his guard and make him betray himself. And if it had been said a few minutes earlier, it might have succeeded. But by now Mr Franklin was alert and ready, and while the name went through him like an electric shock, the shock did not show. In a way, he felt almost relieved, for now the game was on, and Crawford had shown his first card at last, having held back as long as he could in the hope that Mr Franklin would incriminate himself either by word or by silence. And Mr Franklin liked to think he had done neither, and if there was one thing sure it was that he wasn't going to be bluffed by any sandy-whiskered Scotch wiseacre with a long nose. He took the gun without comment, slipped it into its holster, and stood back to let Crawford pass into the hall. The inspector frowned.
'Did ye hear what I said, Mr Franklin?' He must be slightly put out; his accent had broadened suddenly.
'I'm sorry,' said Mr Franklin innocently. 'What was that?'
'I said it would be just such a gun that killed Curry. Perhaps you didn't know that Logan also went under that name - in the United States?'
If he lied, did Crawford know enough already to prove him a liar?
And if Crawford did not know enough, could he ferret it out, with the help of the American authorities? Possibly - in which case the lie could be damning circumstantial evidence. If he told the truth, admitted that he had known Logan was Kid Curry - what then? Why hadn't he admitted it already? Either way, it began to look as though there was a fair chance that his American history was going to come out, for what it was worth. The past that he had hidden from everyone, that he had thought was done with until the moment when he had seen Kid Curry standing there just inside the doorway of Oxton Hall, the past that he had thought was dead and buried with Curry in the Lye thicket. The past that could still be traced, by just such a bloodhound as Crawford, back all the way to Hole-in-the-Wall, and the U.P. hold-ups, and Deadwood jail, and Deaf Charley Hanks in the street at Cheyenne, and Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and the Wild Bunch. Not traced with certainty, and they couldn't pin a thing on him under American law - but if enough of it, or the suspicion of it, came out, what could Crawford make of it in connection with the body in Lye thicket? What would a jury make of it all? But it all depended on how much Crawford knew - or could discover. And as he stood, poker-faced, considering the inspector's question and how to answer, the decision was made for him.
'Mark!' It was Peggy, her voice sharp with bewilderment, fear in her eyes. 'What is he talking about? What does he mean?'
'I'm not quite sure, Peggy,' said Mr Franklin. 'Just what do you mean, inspector?'
'I was merely asking, Mr Franklin,' said Crawford quietly, 'whether you were aware that Harvey Logan also went under the name of Curry?' He glanced at Peggy. 'But it's of no great importance, for the moment, anyway. I wonder ... perhaps we might continue this conversation at some later time that's convenient to you? Would you be able to spare me an hour at the Yard this afternoon? I could send a car for you - and we needn't trouble Mrs Franklin.'
If it was said out of consideration for Peggy - which Mr Franklin doubted - it was plainly too late in the day. Her face showed that she knew there was something badly, dangerously wrong, that there had been a sinister purpose behind all these questions that she had not understood. And whatever was coming now, she could not be shielded from it - if the old past was going to come out, she would have to know it. And why not? Was it any worse than the truth he had learned from her in the car that morning? By her own curious standards of morality, of which he had received such stunning proof, what had he to be ashamed of? How did infidelity rate in the scale beside a bank raid or blowing a boxcar? It would be interesting to find out. As for Crawford - whether he was merely groping in the dark, or knew the whole past already, or part of it, or could find it all out - let him make what he could of it. He might think he had a full hand, but let him try to play it - there were two jokers, Franklin and Samson, and unless ultimately he could break them, he might as well go back to catching street bookies.
'I've no objection to continuing the conversation here and now, inspector,' he said. 'In fact, I'd prefer it. I don't really care to visit Scotland Yard.'
Crawford glanced again at Peggy, hesitated, and then said slowly: 'I think it might be better, Mr Franklin.'
But Mr Franklin shook his head, and then to his astonishment Peggy took two quick steps forward and stood beside him, her hand slipping into his, clutching it tightly. Her face was frightened, but her mouth was tight-set and determined. For a moment he was puzzled, and then he understood, and looked at Crawford.
'Right now, inspector.'
If Crawford was sure of his ground, if the worst was going to happen, he would know it now. Crawford would arrest him, or take him into custody, or use whatever device the law allowed him. But if he wasn't sure, he would just have to make do on Mr Franklin's terms. The sleepy eyes considered him for a moment, and then Crawford said:
'As you please. I merely wished to spare Mrs Franklin any possible distress. However ... perhaps she had better sit down.'
Mr Franklin nodded, and Peggy allowed him to guide her back to her chair; he remained standing beside her. Crawford, after a moment's hesitation, resumed his seat. 'Well, Mr Franklin?'
'You asked if I knew that Logan sometimes called himself Curry. Yes, I did.'
'Indeed?' Crawford raised his sandy eyebrows. 'Why did you not tell me that earlier?'
'You didn't ask me it earlier. And it didn't occur to me.'
Crawford's lips tightened. 'Did
you also know that in America he was wanted for robbery and murder?'
Peggy gasped, and Mr Franklin reached down and took her hand. 'Yes, I did. Show me anyone west of Kansas City who didn't.'
`But again - you didn't mention it earlier, when I asked for any information about him?'
'I assumed you knew it, inspector - but that for reasons of your own, you weren't letting on that you knew it.' Mr Franklin's tone was quietly civil.. 'I don't care for people to play games with me - and when they do, I'm liable to play games with them.'
Crawford looked at him coldly. 'I take it you're aware that withholding information relating to a crime is a serious offence?'
'I didn't know that, no. But crimes which this man Curry may or may not have committed in the United States don't fall within your jurisdiction, surely?'
Crawford gave him a long hard stare. 'A crime committed in this country does,' he said deliberately. 'Very well, Mr Franklin. You knew this man was a dangerous, wanted criminal, you had been told that he had been found murdered in close proximity to your own home - but you decided not to divulge to me what you know about him. Is that not strange conduct for a respectable citizen?'
There was a slight emphasis on the last two words, but Mr Franklin smiled slightly as he replied.