Off the Record (20 page)

Jack raised his eyebrows. ‘Er, no. That’s a fresh approach to literary criticism, Archie. I haven’t really stressed the meat
motif
. My victim gets knocked off by an electrified window-frame. It’s rather well worked out, actually. You see . . .’

‘Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes,’ said Keyne impatiently. ‘As long as there isn’t any meat in it, I don’t mind. He’s not a politician, is he?’

‘It isn’t a he, it’s a she. Why this down on the roast beef of Old England? You haven’t become a vegetarian, have you?’

‘I’m likely to become a cannibal if I don’t get a bit of cooperation. The new issue of the
Piccadilly
is out this morning and they’re running virtually the same story as us. A cabinet minister gets bumped off from eating a poisoned chicken casserole.’

‘That’s a neat trick,’ said Jack admiringly. ‘Poisoning a casserole, I mean. Everything’s mixed up, you see.’

Keyne contented himself with a look. ‘Ours is about poisoned shepherd’s pie and a Home Secretary but the principle’s the same. Damn these ruddy writers. It’s hard enough to tell the magazines apart as it is and if we start running the same stories at the same time, we haven’t a chance.’

‘D’you know,’ said Jack, mildly, ‘when I first started this writing game I had no idea that the lack of shepherd’s pie would prove essential to success.’

Keyne propped his chin on his thumb. ‘An electrified window frame, eh? Have you got the girl looking through it?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Put that scene in. We can use one of the illustrations to the shepherd’s pie story.’

‘I could make it her reflections or thoughts or something – you know, looking back into the past.’

‘Yes, that’d do it. Take a look at the other pictures we’ve got and see what you can work round them.’

‘Can’t I have at least one picture of my hero?’

‘Is he young and clean-shaven?’

‘No. Middle-aged and bearded. The beard’s important.’

‘Damn! Never mind. We must have an illustration of a bearded bloke somewhere in stock. Use that. One chap in a beard looks much like any other and they all look like Methuselah. The pictures can mean anything. It’s the words around them that are important. Get Radcliffe to work on it and give him instructions for the cover. We’ll have to run your story as the lead. Can you let me have it, complete with pictures, by five o’clock?’

‘I’ll try. Although what my readers would say if they knew I was writing stories to fit the pictures rather than the other way round, I don’t know.’

‘They’ll love it. This isn’t art, it’s business.’ Archie Keyne made an impatient noise as the telephone on his desk rang. ‘Yes?’ he barked down the phone. He glanced at Jack. ‘Yes, he’s here.’ He covered the mouthpiece with his hand. ‘It’s a Hector Ferguson. Don’t even think of leaving the building.’

‘Relax,’ said Jack, taking the phone. ‘Ferguson?’

‘Thank God!’ said Ferguson. ‘I rang you at home but your landlady said you were at work. I need to talk to you.’

Talk? Ferguson’s voice was cracked with worry. Bill said he was going to approach the Shanghai and Oriental again. It sounded as if Ferguson had realized something was in the air. If Ferguson wanted to talk then he wanted to listen but he couldn’t – simply couldn’t – let Archie down.

‘Can we,’ said Ferguson, ‘meet for lunch?’

‘Sorry,’ said Jack, performing a complicated manoeuvre as he shrugged off his coat whilst continuing to hold the telephone. He heard Archie’s sigh of relief. ‘I’m going to be here until at least five, probably later.’

‘Can you come to the house, then?’ begged Ferguson. ‘I’ll be alone. I . . . I could do with talking things over. I think I might have made a fool of myself.’

F
erguson, thought Jack, was in a state. The ashtray beside him was overflowing and, even though the window was open, the room stank of cigarette smoke. He’d downed a whisky and soda that was obviously not his first of the afternoon in record time and was working his way through another. Jack couldn’t help wondering what Mrs Dunbar, who was attending a matinée with Mr Bryce, would say when she got home. He hoped, because it had been a very long day, he wouldn’t be around to hear it.

Jack glanced at his watch, that particular hope fading fast. The man simply wouldn’t get to the point. ‘Ferguson,’ he demanded, interrupting a rambling narrative about jazz, New York and mothers, ‘why did you want to see me? You said you’d made a fool of yourself. How?’

Ferguson cut off mid sentence, baulked visibly. ‘It’s the police,’ he said at last. ‘I know they’ve been digging away about me. Tommy Paxton, who works at the Shanghai and Oriental, says they’ve been round again. If they ask him, I know he’ll tell them what I did. He’s . . . he’s a good sort, Tommy, but he can’t tell lies. Not to the police.’ He broke off. ‘I don’t know what to
do
, Jack.’

His mouth trembled in ineffectual anger. ‘
Bloody
Dunbar! I’ve always hated him.’ He looked at Jack in bewilderment. ‘What was I supposed to do? I was only a kid when my mother married him but I knew he was a swine. He loved finding fault with me.
Spare the rod and spoil the child.
That’s what he would say. Then he’d take me into his study and beat seven bells out of me. I . . . I used to imagine killing him.’

Jack chilled. ‘Did you?’

‘Oh, yes. I used to comfort myself with it. Horrible, isn’t it? True, though.’

‘What on earth did your mother say?’

‘Most kids get a tanning occasionally, don’t they? I imagine I deserved some of them but he really loved walloping hell out of me. When my mother realized that, she left him.’ He nearly laughed. ‘Most people couldn’t understand it, you know? You know how grown-ups talk over your head when you’re a kid? If you keep quiet you hear all sorts of things you’re not meant to. He was thought to be a good husband. He didn’t have affairs or get drunk.’ Ferguson broke off and took another gulp of whisky. ‘No one seemed to notice how cold hearted he was, how money-grubbing. He was an elder of the church and so respected but if he worshipped anything, it was money. I hate churches, especially those Scottish ones.’ He finished his whisky. ‘My mother wanted a divorce.’

‘Did she?’

Ferguson raised his head at the question. ‘You didn’t know that. I shouldn’t have told you, should I? We’ve been trying to keep it quiet.’ He looked at the empty glass in his hand. ‘Perhaps I’ve had a couple too many, but what does it matter? You’d have found out sooner or later.’

‘I knew she couldn’t be happily married. She was separated, after all.’

‘Yes, but a divorce is different, isn’t it?’ said Ferguson, walking to the sideboard and pouring himself another drink. ‘He didn’t want one. Dunbar, I mean. He’d have to make her a settlement and he didn’t want that. It’s true, you know, what she told you the other day. It really is all her money. It isn’t fair.’ He leaned against the sideboard. ‘And then there’s that poor beggar, Bryce. He thinks the world of her. You’d guessed, hadn’t you?’ Jack nodded. ‘I knew you had. My stepfather guessed as well. I ask you, what would any normal man do? If they knew, I mean.’

‘I imagine they’d be angry,’ said Jack cautiously.

Ferguson laughed harshly. ‘I would. You would. Not him. Not holier-than-thou Dunbar. He kept Bryce close to him for the sheer pleasure of seeing him squirm. It’s damned hard to get a job at his age and poor old Bryce had to put up with it or starve. My stepfather loved getting one over on someone. I like old Bryce. He’s a decent sort. And it was all so painfully innocent, you know? There wasn’t anything dodgy going on, I’ll swear to it.’

‘Ferguson,’ said Jack awkwardly. ‘Should you really be telling me all this?’

‘Why not? You knew already. Most of it, anyway. Besides, you’re a pal.’ He took another drink. ‘S’right, isn’t it? I know what’s bothering you,’ he added with bleary insight. ‘You’re trying to work out who killed that swine. You think I’ve said too much.’

‘It might be difficult for your mother, you know. To say nothing of Mr Bryce.’

Ferguson raised his head. ‘It’s all right. There’s no way on God’s earth she would have laid a finger on him. She’s too soft. So’s Bryce. Nice bloke. I like him.’

‘Even so . . .’

‘For God’s sake, Haldean, they didn’t do it! I know they didn’t do it. Look, I can prove it!’

He put a hand in his pocket, took out a key with a fob, and threw it on to the table.

Jack gazed at the key. He could see a number on the fob. 206. The number of Andrew Dunbar’s room. He stared at Ferguson. His face was pale, his eyes unnaturally bright. ‘How did you get hold of that?’

‘I was there! Don’t you understand? I was there.’ He buried his head in his hands. ‘I can’t stand it. I know the police are getting closer and closer, but I didn’t do it.’ He looked at Jack helplessly. ‘I wanted to tell you. I know I’m going to be found out. The police are after me, aren’t they?’

Jack didn’t see anything for it but to agree. ‘They’re checking your alibi.’

Ferguson made a sound between a laugh and a sob. ‘Alibi? Oh my God, I haven’t got an alibi. I lied. It wasn’t meant to be an alibi, just an arrangement between me and Tommy Paxton.’

‘This chap you used to work with?’

‘Yes. We junior clerks were supposed to be there until five o’clock but you know how it is. Everyone wants to slope off early at some time. The senior, Old Wallace, was dead easy to fool. We’ve all done it. If you wanted to go early, you got someone to initial the register for you. Wallace never noticed and, if he asked where Mr so-and-so was, someone would say they’d been called to Dispatch or Advance Orders or somewhere. It didn’t happen very often. We were never found out.’

‘You asked Tommy Paxton to initial the register for you?’ Ferguson nodded. ‘Why?’

Ferguson put his hand to his forehead. ‘Bryce wrote to my mother saying my stepfather was in London. We knew he’d be at the Marchmont. He always stayed there. I tell you, Haldean, I was worried. I knew my mother had just about reached the end of her tether with Dunbar and this divorce business.’ His face twisted. ‘She was going to cause a scene. She can’t help it, you know. She loves a good performance and every so often she lets rip. I didn’t want her to have a blazing row with him. It wouldn’t do any good and would make things even more beastly for Bryce. She wouldn’t listen, though. Bryce said in his letter that my stepfather was meeting Lewis and Carrington and she guessed the meeting would go on all afternoon. She planned to ring the hotel, make an appointment for afternoon tea while he was stuck with Lewis, and nab him before he could vanish. She was stupidly pleased with herself. I tried to argue, but she wouldn’t listen. She always thought she was going to win. She never did. Dunbar always came out best. I thought if I was there, I could calm things down, stop her getting out of hand, so I asked Tommy Paxton to sign me out.’

‘What time did you get to the hotel?’

‘Time?’ Ferguson thought for a moment. ‘It must have been twenty to five or so. My mother didn’t know I was coming. She didn’t exactly jump through hoops when I arrived. However, I was there and there wasn’t anything she could do about it. She’d sent a message saying she’d meet Dunbar at quarter to five, but quarter to five came and went and he didn’t show up. We hung about for a while, waiting, and my mother’s temper got worse and worse. She knew what room he was in and was on the verge of going upstairs. If she’d had clapped eyes on him at that moment, there’d have been fireworks, so I said I’d go. She was a bit iffy about it, but her ankle was giving her jip and she agreed.’ He broke off and lit another cigarette with shaking fingers.

‘What happened?’ prompted Jack.

‘I found him! My God, yes, I found him. His door was ajar and I pushed it open.’ He sucked deeply on his cigarette. ‘There he was. I can’t tell you how long I was there. Not long. I couldn’t believe he was dead until I touched him. It was as if a bomb went off in my head. He was
dead.
I couldn’t bring myself to touch him again but I knew he was dead. I backed out of the room and just stood there. I realized I had the key in my hand. It had been on the desk but I can’t really remember picking it up. I locked the room. I don’t know why. I think I wanted to hide it all. I was in a hell of state. I could hardly breath.’

‘Did you think he’d shot himself ?’

‘I didn’t think anything. All I knew was that he was dead. And then . . .’ He looked at Jack with wide eyes. ‘I hated seeing him, but somewhere, underneath it all, I was pleased. Nasty, isn’t it?’

‘Understandable, perhaps.’

‘Yes? It made me feel wrong. I felt as if
I’d
killed him. It was horrible. A chambermaid came along the corridor. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t have spoken to save my life but I knew she’d seen me and I knew I had to get away. I got back to the lobby and there was my mother, still waiting for him to show up. It was a nightmare. She took control, told me to go home, to act as if nothing had happened, and she’d cover my tracks. I did what she said – it was good to have someone tell me what to do – and it wasn’t until I was nearly home that it struck me that she thought I’d killed him. And you know what? I couldn’t get rid of the idea that maybe I
had.
I wondered if I could have acted in a blind rage, then forgotten what I’d done. I was pleased he was dead.’

Ferguson’s voice trembled. ‘He’d gone. Everyone could be happy again. I found the key in my pocket and imagined killing him. It felt good. I could have done, so very easily.’

He crushed out his cigarette and lit another one. ‘My mother won’t talk about it properly. When Gerry Carrington was arrested, she never thought he’d done it. She thought it was me. She likes Carrington. She felt sorry for him. He might have done it, you know? I wouldn’t blame him if he had. When you and that policeman said Carrington was free, she panicked. Ever since, she’s tried to make me go to New York. She’s convinced it’s only a matter of time before I’m arrested and . . . and she’s right, isn’t she?’