Towards Zero

Just as she was leaving the room, Battle stopped her.

‘One minute, Ma’am, how did you come to pitch upon Sylvia as the one responsible for these—er—leakages?’

‘My methods, Mr Battle, were psychological.’

Miss Amphrey spoke with dignity.

‘Psychological? H’m. What about the evidence, Miss Amphrey?’

‘Yes, yes, I quite understand, Mr Battle—you would feel that way. Your—er—profession steps in. But psychology is beginning to be recognized in criminology. I can assure you that there is no mistake—Sylvia freely admits the whole thing.’

‘Yes, yes—I know that. I was just asking how you came to pitch upon her to begin with.’

‘Well, Mr Battle, this business of things being taken out of the girls’ lockers was on the increase. I called the school together and told them the facts. At the same time, I studied their faces unobtrusively. Sylvia’s expression struck me at once. It was guilty—confused. I knew at that moment who was responsible. I wanted, not to confront her with her guilt, but to get her to admit it herself. I set a little test for her—a word association.’

Battle nodded to show he understood.

‘And finally the child admitted it all.’

Her father said:

‘I see.’

Miss Amphrey hesitated a minute, then went out.

Battle was standing looking out of the window when the door opened again.

He turned round slowly and looked at his daughter.

Sylvia stood just inside the door, which she had closed behind her. She was tall, dark, angular. Her face was sullen and bore marks of tears. She said timidly rather than defiantly:

‘Well, here I am.’

Battle looked at her thoughtfully for a minute or two. He sighed.

‘I should never have sent you to this place,’ he said. ‘That woman’s a fool.’

Sylvia lost sight of her own problems in sheer amazement.

‘Miss Amphrey? Oh, but she’s wonderful. We all think so.’

‘H’m,’ said Battle. ‘Can’t be quite a fool, then, if she sells the idea of herself as well as that. All the same, Meadway wasn’t the place for you—although I don’t know—this might have happened anywhere.’

Sylvia twisted her hands together. She looked down. She said:

‘I’m—I’m sorry, Father. I really am.’

‘So you should be,’ said Battle shortly. ‘Come here.’

She came slowly and unwillingly across the room to him. He took her chin in his great square hand and looked closely into her face.

‘Been through a good deal, haven’t you?’ he said gently.

Tears started into her eyes.

Battle said slowly:

‘You see, Sylvia, I’ve known all along with you, that there was something. Most people have got a weakness of some kind or another. Usually it’s plain enough. You can see when a child’s greedy, or bad-tempered, or got a streak of the bully in him. You were a good child, very quiet—very sweet-tempered—no trouble in any way—and sometimes I’ve worried. Because if there’s a flaw you don’t see, sometimes it wrecks the whole show when the article is tried out.’

‘Like me!’ said Sylvia.

‘Yes, like you. You’ve cracked under strain—and in a damned queer way too. It’s a way, oddly enough, I’ve never come across before.’

The girl said suddenly and scornfully:

‘I should think you’d come across thieves often enough!’

‘Oh yes—I know all about them. And that’s why, my dear—not because I’m your father (fathers don’t know much about their children) but because I’m a policeman I know well enough you’re not a thief. You never took a thing in this place. Thieves are of two kinds, the kind that yields to sudden and overwhelming temptation—(and that happens damned seldom—it’s amazing what temptation the ordinary normal honest human being can withstand) and there’s the kind that just takes what doesn’t belong to them almost as a matter of course. You don’t belong to either type. You’re not a thief. You’re a very unusual type of liar.’

Sylvia began, ‘But—’

He swept on.

‘You’ve admitted it all? Oh yes, I know that. There was a saint once—went out with bread for the poor. Husband didn’t like it. Met her and asked what there was in her basket. She lost her nerve and said it was roses—he tore open her basket and roses it was—a miracle! Now if you’d been Saint Elizabeth and were out with a basket of roses, and your husband had come along and asked what you’d got, you’d have lost your nerve and said “Bread”.’

He paused and then said gently:

‘That’s how it happened, isn’t it?’

There was a longer pause and then the girl suddenly bent her head.

Battle said:

‘Tell me, child. What happened exactly?’

‘She had us all up. Made a speech. And I saw her eyes on me and I knew she thought it was me! I felt myself getting red—and I saw some of the girls looking at me. It was awful. And then the others began looking at me and whispering in corners. I could see they all thought so. And then the Amp had me up here with some of the others one evening and we played a sort of word game—she said words and we gave answers—’

Battle gave a disgusted grunt.

‘And I could see what it meant—and—and I sort of got paralysed. I tried not to give the wrong word—I tried to think of things quite outside—like squirrels or flowers—and the Amp was there watching me with eyes like gimlets—you know, sort of boring inside one. And after that—oh, it got worse and worse, and one day the Amp talked to me quite kindly and so—so understandingly—and—and I broke down and said I had done it—and oh! Daddy, the relief!’

Battle was stroking his chin.

‘I see.’

‘You do understand?’

‘No, Sylvia, I don’t understand, because I’m not made that way. If anyone tried to make me say I’d done something I hadn’t I’d feel more like giving them a sock on the jaw. But I see how it came about in your case—and that gimlet-eyed Amp of yours has had as pretty an example of unusual psychology shoved under her nose as any half-baked exponent of misunderstood theories could ask for. The thing to do now is clear up this mess. Where’s Miss Amphrey?’