A Lover Too Many

by Roy Lewis

  Shirley met his gaze calmly. ‘Don’t you know?’

  ‘I wouldn’t ask, if I did.’

  ‘If you don’t know, I can’t tell you.’

  ‘And you don’t want me to pursue it. Women!’

  ‘If you express such disgust in your voice again,’ Shirley warned, ‘I’ll throw you out before ten.’

  ‘Don’t do that,’ protested Peter. ‘Particularly, since I’ve arranged for Sneed to call me here when he can this evening.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Well, before 11.30 anyway.’ He smiled. ‘You see, he rang me this morning—’

  ‘With news?’

  ‘No, just to say that he hoped to have some more information by this evening. He sounded oddly . . . well . . . excited, you know. Anyway, he said he’d ring back, and I told him I’d be here and could be reached at this number till 11.30. I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘Terribly. At least it means that I can legitimately present you with your coat at 11.31 without feeling that I have destroyed my image as a hostess.’

  ‘You’d make a splendid hostess.’

  ‘I’m not sure that remark was in the best of taste. I’ll get some coffee.’

  He sat there grinning as she busied herself in the kitchen.

  ‘Cigarette?’ he yelled, after a while.

  When she refused, he took out his cigarette case and lit one. Returning the lighter to his pocket he felt the key there and drew it out reflectively.

  C4976.

  What had Jeannette wanted with this key?

  Why was it sufficiently important to be hidden, impulsively it would seem, in a sugar tin? Why had she not retrieved it? What was it for? They were puzzling questions. Perhaps Sneed would be able to provide some of the answers when he rang, or when he returned.

  Whatever they were, Lavender would be involved.

  Lavender. Curiously enough, the anger that Peter had felt when he discovered the man’s liaison with Jeannette had now dulled somewhat. It had become impersonal. The first sickening crunch that the knowledge of Jeannette’s infidelity had brought had been eroded now, and this could only mean that his pride had exaggerated the importance of that discovery to himself. What he was really now admitting to himself, for perhaps the first time, was that his marriage to Jeannette had developed into an empty shell, a form that had lost its reality long before she had died. So personal feelings against Lavender had been violent in the first instance because he had felt that they should be violent: now their unimportance was recognised. Now, it was a question not of personal vengeance, but of making Lavender pay for the crime he had undoubtedly committed. He had been Jeannette’s lover. And he had killed her.

  ‘You’ve not discovered what that key is for yet?’

  He was still holding it in his hand.

  ‘No,’ he said, slipping it back into his pocket to take the proffered coffee from Shirley. ‘I think it’s one of these public locker places — it seems too big and stumpy to apply to a household lock of any kind. But where or what the locker is I’ve no idea.’

  ‘More important, what does it contain?’

  Peter shrugged.

  ‘More of friend Max’s letters? Doesn’t really matter. We’ve got enough on him now. I’m hoping Sneed will pick up more.’ Shirley glanced at the clock.

  ‘He should be phoning soon.’

  ‘And then you can throw me out.’

  Sneed did not in fact telephone until 11.45.

  Peter was depressed, and on the point of leaving the house when Shirley’s telephone rang. She ran to it, and then presented it to Peter.

  ‘Mr Marlin? Sneed here.’

  ‘Good, Sneed. I thought you weren’t going to make it.’

  ‘No. Later than expected.’

  ‘Well, did you get what we wanted? Did the information you expected reach you?’ The thin voice on the other end of the line was hesitant.

  ‘Mr Marlin . . . I think I’m right in saying that the alibi of the gentleman in question is somewhat less than watertight. I think it can be broken.’

  ‘I knew it! I knew it could!’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s not quite that simple. I told you that the gentleman has a current girl-friend. It would seem that the alibi was concocted in order to disguise the fact that he was with her.’

  ‘But was he with her?’

  ‘This I have not yet been able to discover. I have spoken with her, but—’

  ‘And even if she says he was with her is that necessarily conclusive? After all, one alibi can be broken, why can’t a second?’

  ‘Once again, Mr Marlin, this is something one cannot yet establish. However . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  Again the odd hesitation.

  ‘There is another piece of information, which I must bring to your attention concerning this matter, Mr Marlin — its — er — delicacy inhibits me from imparting it to you over the telephone. I am now on my way home. I think it would be best if I were to call in the morning—’

  ‘Why not call in at my place tonight? Your taxi will be driving past.’

  ‘Well . . . if you will still be up . . .’

  ‘I’ll be waiting.’

  ‘In about an hour, then, Mr Marlin. At your house.’

  Peter replaced the receiver.

  ‘He’s got some information about Lavender. He’ll tell me at home, in about an hour’s time.’

  ‘You might as well wait here, Peter. I’ll get you a drink.’

  It was necessary. He felt tense and nervy.

  There had been an odd note in Sneed’s voice and it had communicated an inexplicable nervousness. His stomach felt empty and his fingertips tingled. The sensation was an odd one, not excitement, not fear, but a mingling of the two. Shirley saw it, and tried to wean him away, to put his mind on other things.

  ‘Have you seen Stephen Sainsby today?’

  ‘He’s in London.’

  ‘What’s happening about the partnership?’

  Peter shrugged.

  ‘I got the notice of dissolution a week ago now. In another two weeks I’ll be on the way out. John has been working on the figures, I understand. I imagine that in a couple of days he’ll have worked something out, and he and Stephen will present me with an offer of compensation for my share in the business.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘I’ll take it and get out, I suppose.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I’ve not really thought. Practise elsewhere, perhaps. Get a job with a commercial firm, go overseas, hell, I don’t know. Is that all the time is?’

  ‘I doubt if Sneed will be there before one o’clock . . . I think it’s hard that they should throw you out of the firm like that.’

  ‘They’re probably right,’ grunted Peter. ‘I can see Stephen’s point of view, if I think objectively. He’ll get a shock just the same. John’s leaving too.’

  ‘Because of you?’

  ‘Hell, no. As Stephen said, John’s a man of principles so long as he doesn’t have to stick to them. No, he’s got reasons of his own. Something’s worrying him — don’t know what it is. Funny chap, John. So precise. So . . . so careful.’

  Shirley got up, with her glass in her hand.

  She seemed embarrassed.

  ‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘Peter, have you ever thought — have you ever wondered—’

  ‘What?’ he asked, surprised at her prevarication.

  She was immediately confused, and laughed awkwardly.

  ‘Oh, nothing, nothing . . . I was just being stupid.’

  He thought no more of it. He had other preoccupations. He left Shirley at 12.50 and drove quickly down Gladstone Hill. The town was quiet. Tuesday nights died at 11.30 in this area. The traffic lights held him, and impatiently he thought of slipping through them. There were no other cars about. He held himself back. Shortly they changed.

  It began to rain, lightly, as he left the other side of town, and his windscreen wipers left a smear, but not sufficiently impenet
rable to make him stop and clean the windscreen. When he reached the house he hardly ran the car into the drive, but left it just inside the gate, its lights switched out as he came out of the street. He leapt out of the car and hurried for the front door. As he inserted his key he thought he saw a dim flash of light inside, and heard a light, clicking sound. Foolishly, he called out:

  ‘Sneed?’

  Foolish, because Sneed couldn’t have got in, anyway. Unless he carried a skeleton key. And the only person who’d be likely to do that, thought Peter grimly, would be Inspector Crow.

  He reached for the light switch just inside the hall door. When he depressed it, nothing happened. He swore. Light bulb, or fuse? He stepped gingerly through the darkness of the hall towards the kitchen. As he did so, his foot struck against something solid yet yielding at the bottom of the stairs.

  Peter stood stock still. His pulse began to race. Dimly, very dimly, he was able to make out a bulky shape on the floor. His foot pressed against it, warily.

  At the same moment he heard a slight sound on the stairs at his back.

  Instinctively he whirled, and out of the darkness of the stairs a white light stabbed at him, blinding him. He heard a rushing sound, the thudding of a foot and then something struck him heavily across the forehead. He was aware of the light as he fell backwards, slamming against the half-open front door, thundering it shut. Then the pain leapt at him again as another blow took him across the head and another. Feebly, he struck back, and felt a shoulder, against his hand, but consciousness was slipping away from him. The light faded in a whirling soundless time and then there was nothing . . .

  Until there was the hardness of the door against the back of his neck, the throbbing pain in his head, the wetness on his face. There was the carpet under his fingers, something heavy — his hand, and leather, cloth, a hard, bony knee. Unwillingly, in the darkness, he leaned forward. His hand touched something cold. It was a face.

  The hair at the temples was sparse. And matted with blood.

  CHAPTER 4

  It was the same appalling nightmare all over again — the nightmare that he had suffered when Jeannette had died. The police cars drawn up in the drive and the curious eyes in the road outside, the police, the photographers, the news reporters, but this time more numerous than before for now there was the added curiosity value: two people had died in this house.

  And the nightmare was worse because of Peter’s own physical condition. The doctor had attended to him immediately, in the house; his head was bandaged, but though the injuries seemed to be largely superficial they produced a throbbing headache of massive proportions. He had been taken to the hospital for quick X-rays but these had proved negative. There had been plenty of blood but no bone injury, no skull fracture.

  By six in the morning he was propped up in a hospital bed, still half dazed. His fingers yet seemed to be aware of the hair and the blood: he couldn’t get rid of the sensation. The door opened, and a man in a white coat stood framed in the opening.

  ‘Good morning. How are you feeling?’

  Peter grimaced, and the man came forward. He was tall, fair-haired, young.

  ‘Head aching? Not surprising. No serious damage, though you’ve lost a little blood. Nothing that you can’t make up.’

  Peter squinted at him.

  ‘We’ve met, haven’t we?’

  ‘Dr Cranmer. Yes. I knew your — we met at a party at your place one night.’

  Peter closed his eyes. He remembered now.

  Cranmer . . . he had come to the house just the once, and he and Jeannette had spent rather a long time talking in one corner. That wasn’t surprising: she had often talked to personable young men in corners. She liked to see the admiration in their eyes. Few of them managed to control it.

  ‘I’ve seen your X-rays,’ Cranmer was saying. ‘Nothing to worry about. We’ll keep you in here for observation till this afternoon; but you don’t appear to be suffering from concussion either. I’m afraid your face will probably purple up though — around the eyes especially.’

  He hesitated.

  ‘The police will be in to see you in about twenty minutes. Feel up to it?’

  He sounded sympathetic. Perhaps it was because he had known Jeannette . . .

  Half an hour later Inspector Crow entered, in the company of a stocky constable. Crow took a seat beside the bed while the constable stationed himself just inside the door. The inspector’s long legs stuck out at awkward angles and he looked distinctly uncomfortable. His face was sympathetic, but Peter had the feeling that the expression might not be sincere.

  ‘Hallo, Marlin. How are you feeling?’

  Peter grimaced.

  ‘I could say all the better for seeing you, but I won’t.’

  Crow permitted himself a faint smile. It seemed to accentuate the narrowness of his jaw.

  ‘You sound as though you may be on the way to recovery anyway. Now then—’

  ‘Is he dead?’

  Crow regarded him fixedly; the domed skull gleamed above his heavy eyebrows.

  ‘I’m afraid Mr Sneed died almost immediately. The back of his skull was almost crushed. He had been beaten into insensibility. Why?’

  ‘What do you mean, why?’

  ‘He was killed, beaten to death with a brass paperweight. Just before I got here, I received the lab report — the brass carries only one set of fingerprints. They would seem to be yours.’

  There was a long silence. Peter could hardly understand what Crow was trying to say.

  ‘You must be crazy! Are you trying to make out that I killed Billy Sneed?’

  ‘I’m not trying to make out anything, Marlin. At this time I am simply relating facts. Sneed is dead. In your house. The murder weapon carries your fingerprints — and no one else’s. What comment do you have to make?’

  Peter lay back and laughed. There was little amusement in it. Crow watched him with narrowed eyes.

  ‘Well, Marlin?’

  ‘It’s beautifully fixed, isn’t it? By God, I’ll get that cunning—’

  He stopped abruptly.

  ‘I’d better tell you all I know.’

  ‘That would be wise,’ nodded the inspector.

  Peter took a deep breath.

  ‘I had an appointment to meet Sneed at my house—’

  ‘You were employing him?’

  ‘I was. To discover evidence that would fix the guilt of Jeannette’s murderer.’

  ‘I see.’ Inspector Crow cupped his narrow chin on his hands and leaned forward. His eyes were bright. ‘You didn’t tell me that you had any information that might lead to . . . the murderer.’

  ‘You seemed to have an idea it was I. I knew I could prove otherwise when I found the letters. So I engaged Sneed to follow it up.’

  ‘Unwise . . .’ murmured Crow. ‘But I am getting somewhat lost. Letters? What letters? I think you’d better start from the beginning.’

  Peter did so. He told Crow of his feelings after their first meeting and of his discovery of the letters. Crow remained impassive when he learned the name of Jeannette’s lover, but Peter detected a flash of interest in the man’s eyes when he mentioned the threats that Lavender had made. He went on to relate the gist of Sneed’s telephone call at Shirley’s and his own visit to the house, to discover Sneed’s body. He related the circumstances of the assault upon himself.

  ‘Yes . . . the reason why the lights didn’t work, it would seem, was that the main fuse box had been damaged. Incidentally, the telephone lines had been cut also . . . You say that Sneed had some information to impart of a delicate nature. Any idea as to what it was about?’

  ‘No. But it’s easy enough to discover, isn’t it?’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Of course. It concerns Lavender. All you have to do now is to arrest him, charge him with the murder of Jeannette and Billy Sneed and you’ll soon sweat the whole thing out of him.’

  ‘I’m afraid you’re moving far too quickly for me,’ said Crow quiet
ly.

  ‘But isn’t it completely obvious? Lavender killed my wife. He thought that he had covered his tracks. Then he discovered that Sneed was investigating his whereabouts and got panicky. First he threatened me and got no change. Later the same day Sneed found his alibi could be broken, so what else could he do — particularly when it would seem that Sneed had discovered some other information, damaging to Lavender, that he was about to impart to me? He had to kill Sneed!’

  ‘But at your house?’

  Peter shrugged angrily. ‘At my house. Probably the opportunity didn’t present itself earlier. He must have followed Sneed, saw him reach the empty house, and seized his chance. When I disturbed him he knocked me out too, stuck the weapon in my hand and beat a hasty retreat. Hell, it’s all so perfectly obvious!’

  ‘Not to me, I’m afraid, Mr Marlin.’ Crow sighed. ‘Did Sneed possess a key to the house?’

  ‘No, but I don’t see—’

  ‘Then how did he get inside? I presume the house was locked?’

  ‘Yes, it was, but it must have been Lavender who—’

  ‘Lavender may have been your wife’s lover, but do you really think he was in the habit of visiting your house? Would Mrs Marlin have given him a key?’

  Peter saw the remoteness of the possibility: the affair between Jeannette and Lavender had been carried on well away from here. ‘Perhaps I didn’t lock the door,’ he argued lamely. ‘Perhaps they broke in.’

  ‘They? Who? Sneed? Why should he break in? Lavender? How would he know that Sneed was going there?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ Peter cried. ‘You’re the expert here. You tell me what happened!’

  Crow shook his head sadly, irritatingly.

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t do that, Mr Marlin. All I can do is to look at the provable facts and raise inferences from them in the absence of direct evidence from eye-witnesses. First item — there is no evidence that the house was broken into. Second item — Mr Sneed was killed by a weapon which bore your fingerprints. Third item — it would seem you had arranged to meet him there, assuming that Miss Walker corroborates that part of your story. Fourth item — all the lights were out. Why did you cut the wires, Mr Marlin?’