Death Knocks Three Times (13 page)

He began slowly to get ready for the journey downstairs. He’d told Clara Bond he was sixty-one, but actually it was nearer sixty-eight. He was pretty well preserved for his age, he decided. You couldn’t always trust these mirrors. Probably by morning Clara Bond would have thought better of going to the police. He looked at Isabel’s letters again, hesitating. Safer to destroy them, perhaps. On the odier hand, that nephew of hers might talk her into some sort of offer. He wouldn’t hold out, not for long. Perhaps he would have an opportunity to sound him later. Perhaps even the chap was in the bar at this very minute, and if he played his cards well he’d get the double Scotch after all. The very thought made him feel younger. He brushed his suit, rubbed up his shoes, strapped on his wrist the handsome watch diat didn’t go but could be counted on to make a good impression, and went jauntily down the stairs.

After Marlowe’s departure John remained where he was for about half a minute, staring stupidly at the door. He was distracted by his aunt saying testily: “My dear John, either come in or go out. Also I should like that window closed. I am in imminent danger of pneumonia, and though possibly nothing would please you better than my death, it might not prove quite so profitable as you perhaps hope.”

John turned and automatically moved toward the window. When he had shut it the truth of her words sank into his mind. Was it a warning that he wouldn’t inherit anyhow? Did she mean to leave everything to that old witch, Frances Pettigrew?

“Who was that chap?” asked John. “Oh, I know what you said, but—what’s his name?”

“I really cannot see that it is of any importance to you, but since you are kind enough to be interested, it is Marlowe.”

“Marlowe? Then he … ?”

“Yes?”

“Isn’t he the one who was going to marry Aunt Isabel?”

The old woman’s voice was bitter as the north wind. “Did she tell you that?”

John let that pass. “Aunt Clara, was he trying to make a touch?”

“Really, John! The vulgarity of your expressions appalls me.”

“He said something about Isabel’s letters.” John’s voice was very dogged. “He couldn’t have anything on her, surely.”

“Certainly not. In any case, I find it difficult to understand how it is possible to have anything, as you so crudely put it, on a dead woman.”

“No, of course not, but it might give him power over the dead woman’s relatives.”

“My dear John, you are allowing your novelist’s imagination to run away with you. Mr. Marlowe had hoped to marry your aunt or at all events to appeal to her sympathy to the fullest financial extent, and now that that is no longer possible he has made the mistake of supposing that I am made of the same weak stuff as she was. That is all. The majority of people with regular incomes are pestered from time to time by such men. If you were more successful in your chosen profession you would probably have had experience of them yourself.”

John watched her with more perspicacity than she had supposed him to possess. Badly shaken, he decided. So there was something. So what?

“He spoke of an offer being open and letters either written by or once in the possession of Aunt Isabel. And he wants money. Any one can see that. That type lives by its wits. You aren’t going to give him anything, are you?”

“If you are afraid that you will be the ultimate sufferer by any such improbable decision on my part …”

“I hadn’t thought of that. Hadn’t you better tell me … ?”

“When I require your assistance, John, I will ask for it. I must add that I have not hitherto noticed such solicitude on your part for my welfare.”

“You’ve always been able to look after yourself to date,” said John simply. “However, if you won’t—it’s your funeral, after all.”

“A singularly unfortunate expression,” gibed Miss Bond. “Ah, here is Frances. Now perhaps we can hope for some sensible conversation.”

“I could certainly do with some,” agreed Miss Pettigrew briskly. “If the public addiction to films is any indication of the mental stature of the country I am amazed that we are in as good a position as we are… . Ah, Mr. Sherren, still enjoying the fruits of idleness?”

“I had meant to go back tomorrow,” said John uneasily.

“Had? So something has happened to make you change your mind?”

“This is all great nonsense,” said Miss Bond composedly. “John is making a great flurry because one of poor Isabel’s ne’er-do-well

acquaintances has turned up and is proving—obstreperous. What John considers he could do by remaining here I have not yet fathomed.”

“I know you think of yourself as invulnerable,” said John. “But because Greenglades appears to be a haven of respectability that doesn’t mean you’re living in a safe world. You’re not. It’s the jungle, here as elsewhere, and according to the experts, jungle warfare is the most dangerous, the most unpredictable there is.”

Miss Pettigrew said in the same brisk voice: “Dear me, I seem to have missed a great deal of excitement while I yawned my head off at that interminable film. Does your nephew imply, Clara, that the author of the anonymous letters has come into the open?”

“I never thought of that,” exclaimed John. “But no—he said Isabel’s letters.”

“So the threats have become concrete? I take it he is asking for money, Clara?”

“When you have seen Mr. Marlowe for yourself, Frances, as you are fairly certain to do since he is unhappily staying in this hotel, you will realize that his main activity is to persuade other people to provide him with a livelihood. However, I propose to lay information with the police in the morning, less on my own account— as John has just observed, I am very well able to look after myself —than on behalf of those other weak-minded women upon whom that type automatically preys.”

“And while you are about it you will mention the anonymous letters, won’t you, my dear Clara?”

“I doubt whether the police would take those very seriously. However, if it will stop all this argument I shall be delighted to do so. After all, I have been a taxpayer all my life. Who has a greater right than I to demand protection?”

Frances Pettigrew lifted her head to say unexpectedly: “As this i» your nephew’s last night at Brakemouth, Clara, for since you intend to approach the police he will not need to change his plans, would it not be a kind gesture to invite him to dine with us? Besides, it may be salutary for this Mr. Marlowe to realize we still have a man in the family.”

She was laughing at him and John knew it, but he said at once: “That’s very kind. I’d be delighted—that is, if you really mean it. Aunt Clara.”

“Since it is obvious that Frances, does, my assent is scarcely required.”

John murmured something about washing his hands and returned a few minutes later, minus the hat and coat, and laid himself out to be pleasant. A not-very-well-off bachelor, he had learned young to sing for his supper. Besides, he had his own reasons for wanting to be here tonight.

When he came back he found the two ladies placidly conversing on some quite innocuous topic.

“I hope you don’t mind. Aunt Clara,” he said. “I’ve ordered three glasses of sherry. The chap’s going to bring them in here.”

“Very liverish,” said his aunt. “And very extravagant.”

“But a delightful treat,” supplemented Miss Pettigrew. “And very thoughtful of your nephew.”

“In a way it’s a celebration, isn’t it?” suggested John, with a rather fatuous smile.

“Celebration of what?”

“When shall we three meet again?” said John airily, and Miss Bond wondered whether he’d started on his night’s libations in the bar.

“You are being very gallant to two old women,” she said severely. But she was thinking hard. She wasn’t accustomed to doing anything without some definite end in view. She didn’t suppose John was going to try and borrow money from her; if so, he could hardly have prepared the ground worse than by paying half a guinea for three absurdly small glasses of Empire sherry. But equally she was sure it was not affection behind this move.

The old autocrat would have been horrified to hear that she and the unscrupulous Marlowe had anything in common, but that night at least it was true. Both of them were at heart panic-stricken by the immediate future.

“What’s behind this?” thought Miss Bond. “Frances is looking very pleased. Does she know something? Are they in a plot together? Why did she suggest his staying? And he accepted before I had a chance of reinforcing the invitation.” She looked covertly from one face to the other, but they told her nothing. “Is Frances really my friend? What does she believe? What does she know? How much did Isabel tell her? She had never said a word. And John. He didn’t come down here for no reason at all.”

So the thoughts went around and around in her mind like a dormouse on its wheel. I can trust no one, no one, she reminded her self fiercely. I’ve known that all my life. Keep your own counsel. Don’t yield to ordinary human weakness. When knowledge is too much, for you, shut yourself up, don’t see a soul. Always be on guard against betrayal, the careless, treacherous word, the sympathetic atmosphere.

The sherry came on a tray and she took a glass suspiciously. Had the waiter turned it in a particular direction so as to ensure her taking a particular glass? But surely the waiter couldn’t be in a plot? Still, that had been a queer thing John said about even Greenglades being like a jungle. She tasted the wine cautiously. Not very nice, definitely rather odd, but that might be just the quality of the postwar drink. Before the war, of course, one only drank Spanish sherry. John was tossing his off comfortably enough. On an impulse she lunged forward and filled up his glass from her own.

“A very kind thought,” she said breathlessly, “but when one isn’t accustomed to drinks, a little is enough.”

She waited expectantly. John continued to sip at his glass. Not very good, he was thinking, but you couldn’t expect anything better at a place like this. Old women seldom had any palate for drink. Miss Pettigrew had quietly put her glass aside, saying she only drank wine with her meals. She would take it into the dining room with her.

During dinner Miss Bond was unusually gracious. Conversation was general and uninspired. Marlowe didn’t appear. Presumably he was out on the hunt for a fresh prey along the front or at one of the local bars. It was only desperation and the need to nail Mi^ Bond at all costs that had brought him here. And now it looked to him uncommonly probable that he was going to walk into a trap rather than tap oil. It was the usual not very distinguished dinner and afterwards Miss Pettigrew suggested bridge, if John played. John said he did, and they found a fourth in the person of a Major Atkins, a garrulous widower and a habitue of seaside hotels.

In short it was an evening like any other, with nothing on the surface to indicate that it was the last Clara Bond would ever know.

In fact, her mood improved as the evening wore on. She was

playing with her nephew, who showed himself unexpectedly sound as a partner, and Miss Pettigrew and her intolerable partner went down steadily. She played well, too, but Culbertson himself would have found it difficult to win with Major Atkins on the opposite side of the table. He was conversational, confident and rash. All the time he played he talked about the campaigns in which he had taken part, and at the end of each hand he conducted an eager post mortem, pointing out that if his partner had understood his unusual strategy, victory would have been theirs. Miss Pettigrew startled them all a little by observing conversationally, halfway through the evening: “What are your views on murder. Major Atkins? In your experience, is there ever a time when it is justified?”

“Shouldn’t like to commit myself,” rumbled the Major, “but I’ve always thought judges should exercise more discretion than they do. There are times when only murder seems to meet the bill.”

“How interesting to find we agree on one point,” said that human viper, Frances Pettigrew.

She had brought it on herself, of course; the Major was already embarked on the history of an incident that must have been as dull as ditch water twenty years ago. Miss Bond said briskly: “Well played, partner,” as John brought off an extremely skilful coup and Miss Pettigrew seized the opportunity to say that bachelors had so many advantages, subtly intimating that when he was in London John spent considerably more time at the card-table than at his desk.

“Did you know Miss Bond’s nephew was a writer. Major Atkins?” she added, maliciously.

, “Writing’s a woman’s job,” said Major Atkins. “Chap ought to live an outdoor life.” His glance said he could tell John had never worn a uniform. He picked up the cards and misdealt enthusiastically. But presently even his exuberance was dulled by Miss Bond’s complete lack of response. He found himself glancing nervously at the huge masculine watch on his wrist. How long would this old trout expect him to continue losing his pension? He had never played with this trio before and he made an instant resolve never to do it again.

“Lucky in cards, unlucky in love,” said he bravely, arranging his hand, which he could see at a glance was an execrable one. He’d

be on the wagon for a fortnight by the time the rubber was over, he shouldn’t wonder.

Respite came for him at last at ten o’clock with the arrival of Miss Bond’s regular order of tea.

“Won’t you have a cup with us. Major Atkins?” said the old lady in a voice that promised, to his ears, arsenic in place of sugar. Hurriedly he pushed back his chair, muttering that he wouldn’t get a wink of sleep if he drank tea at this hour.

“Just slip along for a quick one,” he said, shooting yet another glance at his watch, and blundering toward the door. “Well, better luck next time, partner.”

“One must certainly hope so,” agreed the frigid Miss Pettigrew. He went out reflecting that she was exactly like a horse—a trooper’s horse, he amended, not an officer’s.

“Phew, what an evening! Thank Heaven, that’s over,” he said.

But it wasn’t for the other members of the party, and the next day even he found himself badgered by the police asking a lot of damned silly questions and expecting him to give verbatim reports of anything his three companions had said. As if a man of action could be expected to listen seriously to two old women and a chap who wrote novels.