The Man Who Killed Himself (7 page)

H Washed out her stomach, given her an injection, she’s asleep. (Then terrible glare) What did she have tonight?

Self You were at the party, you saw for yourself.(Nice touch.) I’m afraid she sometimes drinks more than is good for her, with her stomach.

H Afterwards?

Self Nothing afterwards. Except her usual nightcap, hot whisky and lime juice. (Boldly) I made it for her.

H Glass.

Self What’s that?

H Glass, man, where’s the glass?

Self I washed it up and put it away.

H Ha (Two letters only, but an awful sound.) Bottles.

I got him the bottles of whisky and lime juice. He sniffed, tasted, recorked them. I thought of saying ‘You should know the smell of whisky if anyone does,’ but didn’t of course. Had to say something though, asked if it was gastric attack. I shall never forget his reply.

‘If you call poisoning gastric.’

Poisoning! What a dreadful word! Don’t know how I managed to look at him, but I did. I even managed to say something about it being possibly one of the canapés. He answered as if he were talking to a child, didn’t sound at all drunk.

‘When I saw your wife recently there was nothing at all seriously wrong with her.’ I said quietly that she had been sick. ‘I said nothing serious. Now she’s had a violent stomach upset, caused by something she’s eaten or drunk. The two things aren’t connected. I’ve an impression it was something corrosive, a mild solution of some metallic poison possibly. Something she drank would be more likely than food.’

‘I don’t see what it could be.’

‘Mystery then. But she’ll do, no need to worry. I’ll look in tomorrow. Be careful what she eats and drinks for the next day or two. I’ll tell her when I see her. But you might bear it in mind too.’

Harmless words? But they weren’t, I know they weren’t. I know they were a warning. He is not the fool he looks, he knew. But why should this happen to me? In the Croydon case the doctors never had any doubt it was gastric trouble, any more than Armstrong’s doctor had any doubt. Why should I be so unlucky? I’m sure that anyone would have thought as I did about Hubble.

When he had left I knew I dare not go on. Unlocked briefcase, took out rest of Z, flushed it down the lavatory, burned both envelopes. All right then. But what happens now? I must write out the words of my humiliation plainly.

I have failed.

The Man from Ugli

Clare made a quick recovery. He seemed to spend Sunday in making little milky dishes and taking them up to her. Hubble paid a visit on Sunday afternoon and expressed himself satisfied with her progress but still mystified by the origin of her illness. His manner was neither friendly nor hostile. The only solace was the slot racing layout. Arthur spent most of the afternoon in the attic, rearranging the track to make a Silverstone circuit and putting the pits and spectator stands into new positions. He did not race the cars because Clare was having a nap, and he was afraid of waking her.

By Monday morning she was up and about the house. She attributed her illness to Hubble’s unwisdom in urging her to eat bloody bits of meat and other heavy foods, and her return to semi-vegetarianism began on Monday evening with a dish of grated cheese and carrots. On Tuesday morning Arthur gratefully escaped, telling her that he had an important engagement in Bristol, followed by a tour of the West country. He had more or less recovered what he thought of as his poise. Something, he said to himself in the train on the way up from Fraycut to Waterloo, something will have to be done. But what? In a sense there was no need to do anything at all, for it was hardly likely that, when Clare received her bank statement, she would take legal action against him. He rehearsed in the train a dialogue in which he rebutted her complaints of fraud and forgery. ‘You have only yourself to blame…a wife’s money should belong to her husband…if you had not deliberately denied me the capital I needed to develop my inventions…’

He shook his head sadly. All that might be true, but it really did not matter if it was, because he would never be able to bring himself to say such things. He saw instead a future in which Clare’s domination over him would be unbearably complete.

On this Tuesday he found it difficult to slip into the personality of Easonby Mellon. He did not open the post with his usual zest nor interview clients with his customary conviction. The shadow of Arthur Brownjohn hung over him like a heavy cold, and it was only partly dispelled after a telephone call made to Clare to say that he had found it impossible to postpone his West country tour – he had promised that he would try to do so – and would not be home until Friday. He had four days of freedom, but what were they worth? It was a gloomy Easonby Mellon who went home that evening to Clapham and to Joan. A bit of nonsense revived him slightly, and the meal of liver and bacon followed by steamed sultana pudding which they ate afterwards confirmed him in a feeling that life might have its silver lining. They sat out in the little back garden listening to the purring lawn mower next door. The sound induced a sense of peace. He closed his eyes and did not hear her properly when Joan said something. He asked her to repeat it.

‘I said, having ructions at the office?’

There was something odd about her tone. He opened his eyes. Her face wore what she no doubt thought of as a cryptic smile. He said with an effort, ‘If I’ve been out of sorts it’s not because –’

‘I wondered. Because he’s been here.’

‘Who?’

She looked round, leaned over and whispered. ‘The man from UGLI.’

Was she out of her mind? Was there to be no peace even in Clapham? He sat up in the deck-chair. ‘Joan, what are you talking about?’

‘It was exciting. Tell me, what does he look like?’

‘What does
who
look like?’

‘Flexner. I’m sure that’s who it was.’

He restrained an impulse to say that she was talking nonsense. How had he described Flexner? ‘He’s tall, over six foot, always dressed like a city man, dark grey or blue suit, umbrella and bowler hat –’

She was nodding. ‘He hadn’t got the bowler hat, but that’s right. And you said he was swarthy.’

‘Dark. Not swarthy.’

‘And a pigeon-toed walk, you mentioned that. Very sinister, I thought he was.’

He was suddenly angry at this tomfoolery. ‘It can’t have been Flexner.’

‘Oh, I’m sure it was. Why not?’

‘He’s out of the country. What did this man say?’

‘But E, I feel sure –’

‘What did he
say
?’ He was almost shouting. She looked alarmed. ‘Let’s go inside.’

In the flat she described him. ‘He was a tall man, swarthy, and he asked for you so I said you weren’t here, and then he said he wanted to contact you urgently and I thought I recognised him from your description so I said, “You’re attached to the Department, aren’t you?” I thought, you see, it wouldn’t mean anything to him if he weren’t. And he smiled, and it was one of those smiles you said he could give, that cut like a razor, and he said, “You might say I’m attached, yes.” So then I told him I expected he’d know where to find you and
he
said, “Ah yes, but there’s been a spot of trouble, I didn’t want to contact him there.” So I said I couldn’t help him and then I knew who he was and I said, “You’re Mr Flexner, aren’t you?” and he said with another smile, “That’s right.” So then I said would he leave a message, but he just said tell you that he would be in touch when the time came. I’m sorry if I did wrong, E.’

‘You didn’t do wrong.’ He let the waves of her talk move over him. In bed he felt such a chill of apprehension that he had to go out to the lavatory. On his return he did not go to sleep for a long time, and when he slept at last it was with one hand coiled tightly round the thumb of the other, a habit which belonged to his childhood.

At breakfast Joan talked about Flexner and the Department until he could bear it no longer, and shouted at her. She began to cry.

‘You don’t want me to have anything to do with your life. I’m just something to cook meals and go to bed with.’ This was so nearly true that he found it difficult to answer. ‘It’s not like being your wife at all. I thought I was really going to be part of your life, but you won’t let me. I hate the Department.’

‘You’re sure he didn’t say anything else? About getting in touch, I mean.’

‘No. Just when the time came. And he smiled. He’s got a nasty smile, hasn’t he?’

He agreed absently. ‘Chin up, old girl. Sorry I can’t tell you anything. It’s the old struggle for power.’

‘With AX, you mean?’

‘AX is playing a part, but it’s our own lot I’m worried about. There are moves to take us over, merge us with another department. That may be why Flexner was here.’

‘You said he was out of the country.’

He said snappishly, ‘Obviously I was wrong. Since he’s come back it must be about something important.’

He left her eager for a further instalment of Department news. His room in Romany House held the usual bunch of letters and postal orders. He dealt with them efficiently, but that sense of impending doom lay heavy as a ball in his stomach. The morning was alleviated only by a telephone call from Pat. She asked if they could meet and when he invited her to lunch she said that she would be too late for that, but could meet him at three o’clock in the hotel. This bold declaration of the fact that her interest was purely sexual flattered him, and gave savour to the quick lunch he ate in a pub. It was an expectant Major Easonby Mellon who entered the hotel, to be told with a smirk that his wife was already there.

He found her on the edge of the bed in bra and knickers, a cigarette in her mouth. She put out the cigarette at once but somehow her appearance on the bed, smoking and nearly naked, upset him. She looked, if he had to put the thing crudely, like a tart, and he wondered again why she had come to him. Sex, however, is a solvent for doubt, and by the time she had pulled him on to the bed and helped him to take off his clothes he was in no state to be concerned about her motives. He was astonished when she rolled off the bed and put on her knickers, which he had removed in the course of the scuffle. He was about to remonstrate when she jerked a thumb behind him. He turned.

A man was in the room with them. He was tall, thin and dark, he wore a dark grey suit, and he was smiling disagreeably. There could be little doubt that he was the man Joan had described as Flexner. In his hand there was a tiny camera, which he put away in his pocket. He nodded to Pat, who put on her frock. Then he said amiably enough, ‘Hi. Time for you and me to have a talk. I’m Jack Parker, Pat’s husband.’

Major Mellon felt at an enormous disadvantage without his clothes. He dressed quickly but in a fumbling manner, having difficulty with his trousers. His mind was empty of thought, he did not know what to say. Parker was quite at his ease.

‘Little club round the corner. I’m a member. No hurry. Talk round there when you’re ready.’

Suppose I’m not prepared to come, suppose I say no to your little club, he thought. But he knew that he was not capable of this, that coming on top of everything else this misfortune had stunned him. He followed them obediently into a sordid basement club down a side street. The room was small and dirty, the barman was a Greek or Cypriot in need of a shave. Parker ordered three whiskies and they sat at a small table. He was completely self-possessed. He might have been talking about the weather.

‘I’ll put the position to you, Major, so that you know just where you are. First of all, the Major. You’re not entitled to call yourself that, there’s no Major Easonby Mellon in the Army List. Next your firm. You’ve got no licence to operate as you should have – I’ve checked and you haven’t got a secretary. You’re only in the office part time. It’s just a trick for making money. You’ve kidded your wife that you work for some mysterious Department or other, so I played along when I came last night.’

‘Outrageous.’ Major Mellon had found his voice, although it came through as a croak.

‘I thought you’d be pleased.’

‘How did you know where I lived?’

‘Followed you. Been keeping an eye on you ever since the day Pat came along. Careless of you not to notice. Another point, I just mention it in passing. You don’t go home to Clapham every night. I’m only making a guess, but do you know what it smells like to me? It smells as though you’ve got a little love nest tucked away somewhere else.’

‘He couldn’t have,’ the girl said. ‘He hasn’t got the guts.’

‘Shut up. Am I right?’

Alarm struggled with relief, alarm that the man had got so near to the truth, relief that he had not discovered it. ‘Of course not.’

Parker shrugged. ‘I could easily find out, but to me it doesn’t matter. This is a business deal.’

‘The badger game.’ He knew the phrase from books.

‘Not really.’ Parker smiled again. He looked like a large well-dressed rat. ‘I sent Pat along thinking you might put her in touch with a rich mark. She’s a clever girl. She spotted right away that you were a mark yourself.’

He sipped the whisky. It tasted disagreeably of oil. ‘How do you mean?’

‘Suppose it got through to the Greater London Council – they issue your licence, I’ve done my homework – that you’re operating under a false title and without a licence. Suppose Pat makes a complaint about you and I back it up with these pictures you’d be for the high jump, agreed?’

‘You’d never dare to do it.’

‘We’re clean. We’ve never been inside. The point is, you wouldn’t want us to do it. I’d lay odds Mellon’s not your real name. I dare say the bogeys would be pleased to know where you are.’

With a sense of shock he realised that they thought he was a crook like themselves, operating a racket. The fact that this was in a sense true did not make him less indignant.

Parker went to the bar and brought back three more whiskies. The girl was becoming impatient. ‘Get to it, Jack. You’re too fond of the sound of your own voice.’

‘We’ll do it my way if you don’t mind.’ She flinched slightly. ‘I want the Major here to know just where he stands. Then we can fix the deal.’

‘The deal?’

‘It’s a business deal. I said so from the start, no hard feelings.’

He sipped the second whisky. The inside of his mouth seemed to be numb. ‘What sort of deal?’

‘Twenty a week.’

‘Pounds?’ He could not take it in. ‘You want me to pay you twenty pounds each week?’

‘Every Friday. One of us will drop in to collect. Probably me. You might forget yourself with Pat.’ He smiled again.

‘Impossible.’

‘Don’t say that. Let’s keep it friendly.’ Parker’s mouth when he did not smile was like two lines of steel. ‘I tell you what. There are two ways of doing this. Twenty a week straight, and that’s what I’d like. Or a fiver a week and you give Pat some introductions to marks.’

‘No, I can’t do that. I don’t work in that way, I couldn’t possibly–’ He left the sentence unfinished.

‘It would have advantages.’ Parker was watching him. ‘You’d get a cut. Twenty per cent. And you don’t have to know anything about it, there’d be no trouble. Pat’s clever. She can tell which ones to take. And you can trust me, I know how hard to squeeze.’

The walls of the room were lime green, and one was discoloured where damp had seeped through. They made him feel sick. ‘That sort of thing, I can’t involve myself in it.’

Parker took out a long thin cheroot from a case and lighted it. The cheroot stuck out sharply from a face composed of a series of angles. ‘I’m being patient, Dad, but you haven’t grasped it. You’re over a barrel. You don’t have a choice. It’s twenty a week, or five and a little co-operation, a partnership. I’ll be frank, we don’t want trouble, but that’s nothing to the way you don’t want it.’

‘I must have time to think.’

‘No. Here and now.’

He seemed to be incapable of thought. Major Mellon had shrivelled to Arthur Brownjohn, and it was Arthur who said miserably, ‘Five. And the – the co-operation.’

‘Sensible.’ Parker gripped his hand. ‘Let’s get along.’

‘Where to?’

‘Where do you think? The office.’

The next hour was one of the most miserable in his life. They took a taxi to Romany House and went to the office of Matrimonial Assistance. He gave Parker five pound notes and then the Parkers went through his files, looking for possible marks and making rude comments. They picked out a dozen possibles, mostly elderly men who said that they had a private income, or middle-aged businessmen. He agreed to send them Pat’s name, with a special recommendation.