Nagle gave a shout of harsh laughter: “Bolam’s murder! You’ll never get me for that! And I’ll tell you why, you poor boobs. Because I didn’t kill her! If you want to make fools of yourselves, go ahead. Don’t let me stop you. But I warn you. If I’m arrested for Bolam’s murder, I’ll make your names stink in every newspaper in the country.”
He held out his wrists to Dalgliesh. “Come on, Superintendent! Go ahead and charge me. What’s stopping you? You’ve worked it all out very cleverly, haven’t you? You’ve been too clever by half, you bloody supercilious copper!”
“I’m not charging you,” said Dalgliesh. “I’m inviting you to come to headquarters to answer some questions and to make a statement. If you want a solicitor present, you’re entitled to have one.”
“I’ll have one all right. But not just at the moment. I’m in no hurry, Superintendent. You see, I’m expecting a visitor. We arranged to meet here at ten and it’s nearly that now. I must say we’d planned to have the place to ourselves and I don’t think my visitor will be particularly pleased to see you. But if you want to meet Miss Bolam’s killer, you’d better stick around. It won’t be long. The person I’m expecting has been trained to be on time.”
Suddenly all his fear seemed to have left him. The large brown eyes were expressionless again, muddy pools in which only the black iris burned with life. Martin, still clasping Nagle’s arms, could feel the muscles bracing, could sense the physical return of confidence. But before anyone had time to speak, their ears caught simultaneously the sound of footsteps. Someone had come in by the basement door and was moving quietly down the passage.
Dalgliesh moved to the door in one silent stride and braced himself against it. The footsteps, timid, hesitant, stopped outside. Three pairs of eyes watched as the doorknob turned, first right, then left. A voice called softly: “Nagle! Are you there, Nagle! Open the door.”
With a single movement Dalgliesh stepped to one side and crashed open the door. The slight figure moved forward involuntarily under the blaze of the fluorescent lights. The immense grey eyes widened and slewed from face to face, the eyes of an uncomprehending child. Whimpering, she clutched a handbag to her breast in a sudden protective gesture as if she were shielding a baby. Wrenching himself from Martin’s grip Nagle snatched it from her and tossed it to Dalgliesh. It fell plumply into the detective’s hands, the cheap plastic sticking warmly to his fingers. Nagle tried to keep his voice level but it cracked with excitement and triumph.
“Take a look inside, Superintendent. It’s all there. I’ll tell you what you’ll find. A signed confession of Enid Bolam’s murder and one hundred pounds in notes, a first payment on account to keep my mouth shut.”
He turned to his visitor. “Sorry, kid. I didn’t plan it this way. I was willing enough to keep quiet about what I’d seen but things have changed since Friday night. I’ve got troubles of my own to worry about now and no one’s going to pin a murder charge on me. Our little arrangement’s off.”
But Marion Bolam had fainted.
Two months later a magistrate’s court committed Marion Grace Bolam for trial on a charge of her cousin’s murder. A capricious autumn had hardened into winter and Dalgliesh walked back alone to headquarters under a grey blanket of sky which sagged with its weight of snow. The first moist flakes were already falling, melting gently against his face. In his chief’s office the lights were lit and the curtains drawn, shutting out the glittering river, the necklace of light along the Embankment and all the cold inertia of a winter afternoon.
Dalgliesh made his report briefly. The AC listened in silence, then said: “They’ll try for diminished responsibility, I suppose. How did the girl seem?”
“Perfectly calm, like a child who knows she’s been naughty and is on her best behaviour in the hope that the grown-ups will overlook it. She feels no particular guilt, I suspect, except the usual female guilt at being found out.”
“It was a perfectly straightforward case,” said the AC. “The obvious suspect, the obvious motive.”
“Too obvious for me, apparently,” said Dalgliesh bitterly. “If this case doesn’t cure me of conceit, nothing will. If I’d paid more attention to the obvious, I might have questioned why she didn’t get back to Rettinger Street until after eleven when the television service was closing down. She’d been with Nagle, of course, arranging the blackmail payments. They met in St James’s Park, apparently. He saw his chance, all right, when he went into that record room and found her bending over her cousin’s body. He must have been on her before she heard a sound. He took over from there with his usual efficiency. It was he who put the fetish so carefully on the body, of course. Even that detail misled me. Somehow I couldn’t see Marion Bolam making that final, contemptuous gesture. But it was an obvious crime, all right. She hardly made an attempt at concealment. The rubber gloves she wore were stuffed back in her uniform pocket. The weapons she chose were the ones nearest to hand. She wasn’t trying to incriminate anyone else. She wasn’t even trying to be clever. At about six-twelve she telephoned the general office and asked Nagle not to come down yet for the laundry; he couldn’t resist lying about that call, incidentally, which gave me another opportunity for being over-subtle. Then she rang for her cousin. She couldn’t be absolutely sure that Enid would come alone and the excuse had to be valid so she threw the medical records on the floor. Then she waited in the record room for her victim, fetish in hand and chisel in her uniform pocket. It was unfortunate for her that Nagle returned secretly to the clinic when he was out with the post. He’d overheard Miss Bolam’s call to the group secretary and wanted to get his hands on the Fenton record. It seemed safer to chuck it in the basement furnace. Coming upon the murder forced him to change his plan and he didn’t get another chance once the body was discovered and the record room sealed. Nurse Bolam, of course, had no choice of time. She discovered on Wednesday night that Enid intended to alter her will. Friday was the earliest evening when there was a lysergic-acid session and she would have the basement to herself. She couldn’t act earlier; she daren’t act later.”
“The murder was highly convenient for Nagle,” said his chief. “You can’t blame yourself for concentrating on him. But if you insist on indulging in self-pity, don’t let me spoil your fun.”
“Convenient, perhaps, but not necessary,” Dalgliesh replied. “And why should he have killed Bolam? His one aim, apart from making easy money, was to take up the Bollinger and get away to Europe without fuss. He must have known that it would be difficult to pin the Fenton blackmail on him even if the group secretary decided to call in the police. And, in fact, we still haven’t enough evidence to charge him. But murder is different. Anyone connected with murder is likely to have his private plans disorganized. Even the innocent can’t so easily shake off that contaminating dust. To kill Bolam only increased his danger. But to kill Priddy was a different matter. At one stroke he could safeguard his alibi, get rid of an encumbrance and give himself the hope of marrying the heiress of nearly thirty thousand. He knew he’d have little chance with Marion Bolam if she learned that Priddy had been his mistress. She wasn’t Enid Bolam’s cousin for nothing.”
The AC said: “At least we’ve got him as an accessory after the fact and that should put him away for quite a time. I’m not sorry that the Fentons will be spared the ordeal of giving evidence. But I doubt whether the charge of attempted murder will stick—not unless Priddy changes her mind. If she persists in supporting his story, we’ll get nowhere.”