‘And, after I got you inside,’ Brent reminded him, ‘I left you alone for an hour or more while I went to your apartment to get you a change of clothes – remember? When I came back, you were not where I left you – but asleep in my bed which you must have made.’
‘You mean I could have gone to my office, stolen the manuscript from myself and taken it here to Jeremy’s place, and then returned to your apartment while you were uptown? It’s possible. But wasn’t I out cold?’
‘You were when I dragged you into the apartment. But drunks can do amazing things and not remember a bit of it afterwards. And you could have sobered up. I rather think you had lost most of your liquor.’
Philip nodded his head. It was possible. But – ‘If I stole the manuscript myself, why did I have to force the lock on the drawer of my desk?’
Brent smiled. ‘I’ve thought of that, too. Don’t forget, I had your keys!’
Steven Foster and Dr Matthews had to wait several minutes before they managed to hail a taxi outside the office building. Then, while Matthews filled the inside of the cab with a thick cloud of rank smoke, the driver proceeded to get into one traffic jam after another. When he finally drew up at the address Foster had given him, it turned out to be a commercial building and obviously not the loft where Jeremy lived. Another five minutes were wasted in finding a drugstore, a telephone book and Jeremy Foulkes’ correct address. By the time they reached their destination, a good forty-five minutes had elapsed and their cab parked at the kerb behind another car from which Dorothy and Jeremy had just alighted.
Matthews spoke to them and explained that Foster and he had followed Philip after he had broken away from them in Foster’s office. He also told Jeremy that Philip suspected him of having written the ‘Confession’. Dorothy wanted to know what Matthews was talking about and, to add to the confusion, Foster came up and solemnly warned both Jeremy and Dorothy that ‘Philip is a dangerous madman’.
‘But he’s alone upstairs with Brent!’ cried Jeremy. He brushed past Matthews and began to run up the wide steps two and three at a time. Matthews hesitated an instant, and then ran after him. He caught up with him just as he reached the top of the two long flights. ‘Don’t break in on him like that,’ he said. ‘Let us all go in together and give him a chance to explain.’
They did not have to open the door themselves. Philip had heard the commotion on the stairs and he opened the door and asked them in. Brent was standing beside him, obviously unharmed, and much of Jeremy’s agitation disappeared. But Steven Foster, still panting from the exertion of climbing the stairs, roared at Philip. ‘What have you done!’
Philip was calm now. ‘Nothing, I assure you,’ he replied and, glancing over his father-in-law’s shoulder, said to Matthews, ‘If you will ask them all to come into the apartment and let me talk to them for a few minutes, I think I can get to the bottom of all this.’
They all came in and seated themselves in corners of the great loft room. Philip talked for a few minutes and told them briefly about the ‘Confession’ and the events of the past two days. He handed the manuscript around so each could see it for himself, and while they looked at it he told them of Brent’s theory. He said that he found that he could accept every part of it as a theory except the basic premise that he had been writing the ‘Confession’ himself. To accept this was to admit that he was mad. And, although yesterday he had almost convinced himself of his own insanity, by now he had sufficiently recovered from his nightmarish experience to fight the idea. ‘For one thing,’ he said, and he looked directly at Dr Matthews, ‘too many people seem to want me to think that I am insane.’
Dorothy’s reaction to what he had to say was to sit quietly, to withdraw, and – as the story Philip told grew more involved and terrible in its implications – to come over to where he was standing and to take his hand. Jeremy was amazed. ‘Why, Philip, that’s damnable! Who would play such a rotten trick on you!’ he cried.
‘One of us here,’ Philip replied, looking at each person in turn, Brent, Foster, Jeremy, Dorothy, and, walking to the mirror, at himself. ‘Brent may be right and I am just bedevilling myself. If that is so’ – and his voice grew lower – ‘you may have to follow Dr Matthews’ wishes and have me placed in a sanatorium, Dorothy.’
His wife gripped his hand tightly. ‘I’ll never do that, Philip,’ she said.
‘However,’ he continued, loosening her grip on his hand, ‘I am not convinced that I am even neurotic, let alone insane. I think each one of you had a motive, as well as an opportunity, to write the “Confession”, steal it and all the rest.’
He glanced at Steven Foster first. ‘My father-in-law and I work at the same office – or I should say worked, he discharged me yesterday. As you know, he was my employer. I think I can say that he never approved of me as a son-in-law. I also have my doubts as to whether he would approve of any man as a son-in-law. From what I have observed of his reliationship with my wife he has always loved her deeply.’ Philip paused and searched Foster’s eyes. The old man did not flinch under the inspection. ‘You had the opportunity, Steven,’ Philip went on, ‘and we need not fool ourselves that you wouldn’t rather be rid of me. You certainly knew as much about me as anyone. I know that Dorothy has long made a practice of coming and talking to you about her troubles with me. Yes, I think you would even have known whom we were having to dinner and whether I had read Henry Miller. But, I think, if you had chosen to get rid of me, you would have taken a gun and shot me. You would never have considered as subtle a weapon as the “Confession”.’
Philip turned away from Steven Foster, and Dorothy squeezed his hand. Matthews noticed this by-play. Several times so far he had wanted to interrupt but had not because he felt that Philip, of all people, deserved a chance to clear up the muddle. He saw now that Philip had turned his attention to Brent. And Jeremy had noticed that she was the next to be suspected.
Jeremy’s florid face grew grim. ‘Look here, Philip, you’re going too far. If you keep this up, I’ll say you’re insane!’
Philip remained cool. ‘Is that a threat, Jerry?’
‘Take it any way you damn please. All I’m saying is that Brent has no motive – and that you owe her an apology.’
Philip bowed to Brent. ‘I have already made my apologies to Miss Holliday. But I must say that she has a motive for this crime –’
‘Crime?’ cried Jeremy. ‘What crime? Since when is writing a manuscript a crime?’
‘Writing a manuscript is not a crime. But when you sign another person’s name to it and present it to that person in such a way that it seems the handiwork of his own mind – with the intention of frightening him out of his wits – I call that a crime. Certainly, some of the statements made in the “Confession” are slander as well!’
Jeremy sniffed and walked over to Brent. Now they faced each other across the big room – Jeremy and Brent, Philip and Dorothy.
‘Brent loves you, Jeremy. You have talked to her about me. She knows what our relationship is like and what it has been in the past. I rather imagine you have expressed many of the resentments you have felt against me to her. She is a sensitive, artistic person. She is equipped to write a long narrative. She might have conceived of this fiction with harmless intent as a means of shaming me into behaving better towards you.
‘But, when she met me, she took a dislike to me. She sensed a conflict, not only between you and me, but also between Dorothy and myself, and impulsively decided that I should be taught a lesson. Knowing enough of psychology to employ it to a bad end, but not enough to realize that the end was bad – she might have written the second chapter of the “Confession” to frighten me even more. After all, she might have reasoned, I am committing no crime – you reasoned that way yourself just now, didn’t you, Jerry? – doing no serious harm.’
‘You said that the person who wrote this strange manuscript had to have the opportunity, too, didn’t you?’ Dorothy asked. ‘When could Brent
have stolen it from your desk? And how would she have known the essential facts about you?’
‘She could have stolen it last night. She had my keys, and I know from experience that she could have gotten past the night watchman. Jeremy could, inadvertently, have supplied her with all the information she needed. There is surprisingly little background material in the “Confession” and the most startling aspects of it, the predictions, Brent could have forced to happen.’
Jeremy exploded. He rushed at Philip and shook his fist under his nose. ‘I did no damn such thing and she did no damn such thing!’ he cried. ‘The whole idea is preposterous!’
Philip backed away from his old friend’s wrath. It was becoming more and more difficult for him to hold his temper, Matthews saw. But at the same time, by the very fact that Philip was remaining calm in crisis, he was proving his own contention that he was not unbalanced. ‘I didn’t say that Brent had done it,’ he said. ‘I brought up the possibilities so that I could consider them all and then eliminate her. I don’t think she did it, although I can’t be sure. I think her motivation is weak in comparison to other suspects, and I believe her story. Beyond that, outside of myself, she is the one person who has suffered unpleasant experiences because of this.’ Philip stepped forward and gazed directly at Brent. ‘Did you write the “Confession”, Brent?’ he asked.
Her answer came loud and clear, and with a smile. ‘I did not.’
Philip motioned to Jeremy. ‘You’re the next suspect, Jerry. And until I talked to Brent, my most likely. Now I’m not so sure. You had motivation. You’ve hated me ever since I took Dorothy away from you, to put it bluntly. As to opportunity – well, where were you during the last twenty-four hours?’
Jeremy reddened. He started to stammer when he tried to speak. ‘H-h-hate’s a h-hard word, Ph-Phil. I was j-jealous of you, I admit. B-but I never hated you.’
Philip’s voice was low. ‘Where were you yesterday afternoon, last night and this morning, Jerry?’
‘I won’t say.’
Philip realized that Brent was no longer standing beside Jeremy, that she had slipped away and now was standing closer to himself. Jeremy had gotten up from his chair and was walking towards Philip, his jaw tense, his body in a crouch. Philip heard his wife sigh. He glanced at her and saw that she was excited.
‘I wouldn’t try anything if I were –’ Jeremy was on him, his fist crashing into the pit of his stomach – before Philip could finish his sentence or Matthews could spring between them. Philip spun, crouched, weaved, lashed out with a left, blocked a wild right that Jerry threw with all his might. Then, as Jeremy charged past, Philip hit him on the back of his neck with the side of his hand. Jeremy sprawled on the floor.
Dorothy and Matthews rushed over to him. Philip could see that he was breathing hard, but was completely unconscious. Matthews was taking his pulse. ‘I’m sorry I had to do that,’ Philip said.
Dorothy stood looking down at Jeremy. Then, savagely, she turned and faced Philip. Her hand stroked at her dark hair, clawed at its abundance, came away leaving it in wild disarray. Her eyes glistened, her lips writhed in anger. ‘I’d like to do some accusing now, Philip. I’m not afraid to look you in the face and say you’re mad. I’ve lived with you, shared the experience of marriage with you, and I know your twisted ego!
‘You’re vain, Philip, vain and ageing. You’re slipping, Philip. And you know it. You’ve built your life on the satisfaction of your senses, taken as much as you’ve wanted and paid as little as you could for it. But now the pace has begun to tell. Oh, I know – I can see it in your eyes. They look tired, you know. You see it, too. I’ve watched you look in mirrors. You did it only a little while ago. You’ve no need to worry, Philip, not for another year or so at least. Some of it’s still left, darling. You have a bit more to spend!’
She paused and threw back her dark, disordered mane. ‘But not with me, Philip. I shall divorce you. Poor Jeremy wouldn’t tell you where he was yesterday, but I shall. He was with me, Philip. We spent the night together. We went down to your office, Philip, yesterday after lunch to tell you – but you weren’t there. Then we went to Jeremy’s place while he packed a bag. He was with me, Philip, all last night. Now do you understand? Isn’t it plain why your weak mind has to invent stories to tell itself to hide the unpleasant facts of your decline? Face up to it, Philip. You’ve suffered a defeat – I’ll never come again to your beck and call!’
Brent had withered in a moment. Her hand was to her mouth again, but her eyes – those eyes that could be so brave – were piteous. Dorothy did not see what her words had done to Brent. She was watching Philip, and she was dismayed by his passivity. He was actually smiling.
‘If I wrote the “Confession”, Dorothy – and, mind you, I’m not saying I didn’t – how did I know that Brent and Jeremy were coming to our house for dinner when you didn’t tell me until I reached home that evening?’
Dorothy was confused. ‘But didn’t I tell you before that?’ she asked. She turned to Brent. ‘When did you and Jeremy decide to come to dinner?’
Brent thought for a moment. ‘You asked us earlier in the week. You gave us several days’ notice.’
‘Dorothy,’ said Philip. ‘You never told me until that night. And you said Jeremy had called up and told you that he was bringing someone to dinner – that you didn’t know her name.’
‘Really, Philip, you can hardly hold me responsible for so small a thing. How can I vouch for what I said about a detail two days ago? What difference can it make?’
Philip spoke quietly, but his words carried weight. ‘It means this much, Dorothy, that if you wrote the “Confession” you made one small mistake. You neglected to tell me about Jeremy and Brent before I read the manuscript.
‘You could have done the rest with ease. Like anyone else in this room you could have ordered the messenger service to deliver the manuscripts to Miss Grey by simply writing a letter and forging my name. You just admitted that you visited my office yesterday afternoon. You knew Miss Grey, and she would have let you in to my desk. You forced the lock on my drawer and stole the manuscripts. Then you and Jeremy came back here to his apartment. While he packed, you dropped the manuscript on the couch. I think you wanted someone to discover it so you could use it against me. It was written in the first person singular, wasn’t it? To the uninformed reader such a “Confession” would look damning. You planned to hold it over me – perhaps, you wanted to try to win me back by such a threat.
‘Behind all this was your own inadequacy – mostly imagined – which forces you to blame me for your coldness, your faults as a wife. Whenever I looked at another woman, instead of trying to attract me, you shrank from the conflict and commiserated with yourself. Your self-inflicted martyrdom grew until it became necessary for you to strike out at me – to have an affair with Jeremy – now to divorce me!’
Dorothy stared at him, and then she laughed. ‘Can’t you see that what you have just said is only your own neurosis turned inside out? The reflected image of your own narcissism which can never admit its own blemishes but must blame them on the mirror – in this case me? Philip, you wrote that “Confession”. You must face that fact if you are not to lose everything!’
At this point, Jeremy groaned and sat up. Dorothy did not notice. Dr Matthews and Brent helped him to his feet and into the kitchen where they began to apply cold cloths to his head. Philip walked to the front of the great room and stood looking down out of the deep windows. He noticed that the frames reached to the floor and that there were no sills. It would be easy to open the latch and just step out… he put his hand on the latch… and then he withdrew it as he became aware that Steven Foster was watching him.
Philip turned around. Dorothy had lighted a cigarette and was watching him, too. Philip felt trapped, hemmed in by animosities. ‘I’ll admit there’s truth in what you say. And I suppose that I’ll never know which one of us was right.’ He walked to the chair where he had lai
d his hat and coat, put them on and walked out the door. Then, as they stood looking at the door, he reappeared in it.
‘I’ll say this much, Dorothy. If I have hurt you, I’m sorry.’
He closed the door behind him. Dorothy stood staring at it, unable to move, yet feeling cheated. Dr Matthews came into the room.
‘Where is Philip?’ he asked.
Dorothy stood clenching and unclenching her hands, her mouth working but no words coming out. Her face was blenched and her eyes were stark, whether from grief or frustration Matthews could not tell.
She put her hand up to her face, cried out inarticulately and ran out of the room and down the stairs. ‘She’s gone after Philip!’ Foster shouted. He grabbed his coat and strode across the room to the door. ‘And I’ve got to stop her!’ Matthews heard the door slam, and then heard him pounding down the stairs.
Matthews had gone to the telephone and was calling Lieutenant Anderson. This was a matter for the police.
When he had finished his call, he, too, ran out of the house and up the street.
As he went down the steps of the subway station, Philip had the feeling he was being followed. ‘You can’t begin that again, old man,’ he told himself, ‘or the first thing you know you’ll be hearing things.’ But even as he got change and put his nickel in the turnstile, he could feel the hairs on the back of his neck bristle with the knowledge that someone was behind. Someone was coming down the stairs, pushing his way through the turnstile… after him?
He stepped onto the platform. A local was rounding the slight curve and came roaring into the station. ‘People are always behind you in the subway,’ he reassured himself. But as the noise increased, became a din, he heard a voice. ‘Philip, you’re cra-zee!’ The voice seemed to sound in his ear – he though he could feel the moist, warm breath against the sensitive membrane. ‘Oh, Philip!’ the voice said.
The Last of Philip Banter Page 19