by Roy Lewis
‘I’ve got it here,’ gasped an empurpled station master.
‘We have an arrangement whereby we allow individuals to lease a locker over a period of time, if they wish. They retain the key, and pay when they return it. It’s on a monthly or three-monthly basis.’
‘This locker?’
‘It was leased for a month, ten months ago, and then re-leased, by post, quarterly. To a Mrs Jean Matthews.’
‘Or Jeannette Marlin,’ said Peter harshly. ‘Was it continually used?’
‘Oh, that we can’t say. If the key is out, that’s it. We don’t inquire—’
‘I see,’ cut in Crow brusquely. ‘Is there any other information you can give us about it?’
‘I’m afraid not. You see, I—’
‘Thank you, we’ll take no more of your time.’
Crow stepped out of the office. He walked slowly across the booking-hall, the others following just behind. He stood staring at the lockers. Pity. At some time between ten-fifteen and ten-fifty-five someone had opened that locker with the key that Peter Marlin claimed was in his pocket last night. It didn’t mean, of course, that Marlin couldn’t have arranged for someone else to open that locker and remove the contents . . .
In the background the station master was hovering anxiously. But Crow paid him no attention: Marlin and the girl had moved behind him out of his line of vision. They were standing just beyond the end locker to Crow’s left, and Shirley Walker was saying something in a low voice.
‘Did . . . did you see that man, as we came into the booking-hall?’
Peter’s reply was inaudible.
‘But he looked as though he knew you,’ came the girl’s insistent voice. ‘And he looked away, as though he didn’t want to be recognised. Do you know him?’
In the short pause that followed Crow moved quickly, close enough to catch the reluctant reply.
‘Yes . . . I know him . . . slightly. He’s called Jackson.’
They were moving away from the lockers now.
‘Paul Jackson . . .’
CHAPTER 5
When Peter entered the office on Thursday morning Betty was so surprised that she actually left her seat and intercepted him.
‘Ooh, Mr Marlin, are you all right? I heard that—’
‘Yes, thank you, Betty. I’m quite all right.’ He couldn’t prevent the smile that came to his face at the sight of Betty’s eyes, riveted to the discolouration around his temple and eyebrow.
‘You really got a bashin’, didn’t you, Mr Marlin!’
‘Yes,’ replied Peter gravely, ‘I really got a bashing.’
He went on up the stairs. Joan wasn’t in the ante-room, but he wasn’t surprised. It was a difficult situation. She would obviously wish to see as little of him as possible, but would she leave the firm now? He hoped not; he had no quarrel with her for telling the truth, even if she had been moved to do so by the belief that he had taken up with Shirley again.
Had he?
He opened the door to his office. It remained to be seen; he wasn’t sure of his own feelings yet, let alone hers. He also had to admit to himself that the realisation that he had known so little of what Jeannette was thinking about, what she was, tended to make him reluctant to enter another emotional entanglement. He smiled wryly. Assuming that one could avoid an entanglement. He suspected that such things happened with little control of the situation being possible.
But he really must try to get in touch with Joan, persuade her to come into the office, carry on with her job. It wouldn’t be long now before he would be leaving Martin, Sainsby and Sons and it was foolish that she should relinquish her job in the circumstances.
He rang reception. Betty answered at once. ‘Betty — I gather Joan isn’t in today. Can you ask one of the juniors to call up here in about an hour’s time to do some filing for me? I’ve a stack of stuff to deal with. Oh, and, Betty — do you know if there have been any calls for me? No? Well, if there are later, put them straight through to me here.’
He opened the appointment book. Three only, all of which he could push off on to Daly or one of the other experienced legal executives. And lunch with the Round Table. Better give that a miss: there might be a certain amount of strain. There might even be a certain surprise to see him there out of Crow’s clutches.
Peter himself had been a little surprised at Crow’s attitude. They had returned to the police station and Peter had made a written statement. Crow had paced around the room on his long, thin legs and then sent the amanuensis out. He’d turned to Peter and Shirley then and said, ‘I’ve decided to press no charges at this stage. I’ll be perfectly frank with you, Mr Marlin. I’m not happy at your involvement in these two murders: a great deal remains to be explained. But while I yet harbour certain suspicions, you will know as well as I that the case I have is entirely circumstantial — and while circumstances have hanged men before now, in this case there are too many doubts.’
He had resumed his pacing.
‘You will shortly be leaving your firm,’ he had continued. ‘I would be happy if you saw fit not to leave the area — or at least, if you kept closely in touch with the police if you wish to leave. I’m doing nothing so melodramatic as to place you under surveillance, but I think you will appreciate that so far as I’m concerned you are certainly not out of the woods. Miss Walker agrees with you that you held the key to the locker before you left her; you say that the key was stolen from you. I still need to know why it was stolen, why it was important, and who could have stolen it. We will now be pursuing various lines of investigation . . . to which our inquiries concerning you will be peripheral.’
He smiled suddenly, though not warmly. ‘In other words, you can go — for the time being. And if anything else of relevance occurs to you, which might assist in our investigations, I’d appreciate your getting in touch with me — rather than going off at half-cock on your own.’
He didn’t add that Peter’s actions had already cost one life but the unspoken words were there between them.
Peter sighed and riffled through the papers on his desk. He still hadn’t dealt with Mrs Davies’s matrimonial problems. Perhaps it would be better if he handed the whole thing over to John Sainsby. He read quickly through the few letters that had arrived yesterday, but found himself unable to concentrate. Inspector Crow’s last words, as Peter left, kept returning to him.
‘And, Mr Marlin . . . I think that Mr Lavender has become an obsession with you, or is in danger of becoming so. You are making a mistake.’
Was he making a mistake? Was the possibility of Lavender’s implication in Jeannette’s death becoming obsessional?
It had all seemed so obvious, so logical.
Who else would want to kill Jeannette? Who else would have reason, or motive, or desire? Why was she killed? Who could possibly—
Peter suddenly felt cold. There was always the possibility that Lavender had not been Jeannette’s only lover. There could have been others. He shuddered: he was just beginning to realise how completely he had been unaware of the reality behind Jeannette. She had been his wife. They had lived together. But he did not know her. He had never known her. She had been bright, vivacious, lovely, exciting — and without his knowledge she had taken a lover. One lover. But what else didn’t he know about her?
The tap on the door made Peter start. Surprisingly, it was Stephen Sainsby. ‘Hallo, Peter. Busy? Mind if I come in for a moment?’
He walked slowly into the room, one hand in his trouser pocket, the other dangling at his side, as usual displaying the regulation inch of shirt-cuff, white, unsullied. His aristocratic features were smooth and unworried, but Peter sensed an unease about the senior partner that was uncharacteristic.
‘Mind if I sit down?’
At Peter’s nod he dropped into the armchair facing the desk. In doing so he took his hand out of his pocket. The knuckles were bandaged. Peter stared at the hand.
‘It seems we’ve both been in the wars,’ he said slo
wly.
‘Hah — yes. Barked my knuckles on the edge of the electric hedge-trimmer. Damned lethal thing! And you, my boy, how are you feeling?’
‘Somewhat conspicuous,’ remarked Peter dryly, touching his eye.
‘It’s as well you can smile about it,’ said Stephen, stretching his legs out in front of him and staring at his shoes. They were narrow and fashionable; dark grey suede. He was silent for a moment.
‘Got a man upstairs,’ he grunted. ‘I’d like you to see him. Unpleasant matter. Blackmail. Never could take to such matters largely because I always felt that if these damned people had behaved themselves in the first place they wouldn’t now be in the fix they are.’
‘You’re particularly moral this morning.’
‘Am I? I don’t know. It just seems to me that there are things one can do and things one can’t. A decent life. It doesn’t take a great deal to behave in a responsible manner. But people are foolish, and weak, and amoral — and then they run weeping to us, and often there’s not a damn thing we can do about it. Except write a silly little letter, or call in the police. People these days — I must be getting old.’
‘I’ll see him in a few minutes,’ said Peter quietly.
Stephen Sainsby’s lean fingers fiddled absently with the immaculately knotted tie as his grey eyes held Peter’s.
‘Good,’ he said suddenly. ‘But that’s not the only reason why I came in. I had a couple of things to say. First, I’m glad to see you back here — I heard about the attack upon you, and I was coming around to the station when they told me you were being released. Anyway, I’m glad you’re all right. Second, I think that I must apologise.’
Peter’s eyebrows lifted. Sainsby bared his teeth in a bright caricature of a smile.
‘You look surprised. But even I can apologise. I got angry, the other day. We had a set-to in my office. I shouldn’t have lost my temper. We should have settled the whole thing more amicably. I am sorry. I would wish that we would part on more friendly terms.’
He sounded sincere. Peter felt slightly shamefaced. He shrugged.
‘I don’t really think that your apology is necessary, Stephen. I know how you felt. You were right, of course. My staying on could do the firm nothing but harm. It was I who should have offered to get out. I can only plead that your request was a shock—’
‘I know, my boy, I know. It’s just that I was always certain that you would put the firm first, and that you would do the right thing, and then when you were a bit . . . er . . . difficult, I lost my temper. Anyway, all over now, eh?’
Pat me on the head and call me a good boy, perhaps give me a sticky piece of chewing-gum, thought Peter sourly.
‘That’s right, Stephen,’ he commented.
‘Good,’ said Stephen briskly, rising athletically to his feet. ‘Now, two other things about your leaving. First, young Jenkins has been with us as an articled clerk and his results will be out next week. Do you think we should take him on as an assistant?’
‘He’s a good lad. You should take him on, with the offer of a junior partnership within two years.’
‘Yes. Good. I think he would fit in well. Now, the other matter. I’ve gone over John’s figures — he let me have them yesterday. I think he’s been a bit . . . er . . . generous in his estimates, but I’m not inclined to quibble about it. He suggests that a fair share in the assets, which you would take out with you, would be two to two and a half thousand. What’s your reaction?’
Peter thought of the long nights in this room; the nights when Jeannette had been in Lavender’s bed.
‘I’m not going to argue over that figure,’ he said.
‘Fine! That’s settled then! Somewhere between those two figures, work out the details with you end of the week.’
The smile on his lean face was genuine now. He probably knew damned well that he was getting his partner out of the firm cheaply. Peter had no doubt that John’s figures would have been around the three thousand mark. To hell with it all!
‘Good. Well, I’ll send down this chap from upstairs.’
Stephen Sainsby sauntered to the door.
His uneasiness had evaporated. He obviously thought that he had managed things very well: both his apology, which was the softening-up process, and the agreement over the partnership share, which was the kidney punch. And yet there was something else too, an excitement that communicated itself to Peter, a satisfaction present in the man’s bearing.
The reason came when he finally reached the door. Stephen paused there as though remembering something. When he looked back, his thin, handsome face was impassive but there was a glint of triumph in his eyes.
‘By the way,’ he said casually enough, ‘I had dinner with Lord Leyton last night. I . . . er . . . I was led to expect that before long we’re likely to see an announcement in the newspapers. Nothing official yet, of course, but it looks as though I’m going to be . . . er . . . elevated, as they say.’
‘My congratulations,’ Peter said dryly. When the door closed quietly behind the senior partner Peter grimaced. The old man had done it at last. His socialising, his good works, his elegance, his political speechmaking, his good, solid, solicitor background had enabled him to pull it off.
A title among the principals of the firm would look fine on the headed notepaper. Stephen Sainsby, C.B.E. — or perhaps even Sir Stephen Sainsby. But whose name would appear below it? Not Peter’s — nor, it would seem, John Sainsby’s. Unless he changed his mind.
One thing was certain. John hadn’t told Stephen yet.
* * *
The man who sat in front of Peter was known to him in a vague fashion: his was a face that was familiar. They had certainly not moved in the same circle, but Peter had seen this round, chubby, good-natured face in the country club and at a few other functions besides. His name was Mr Prudhoe, and he owned a small chain of retail draper shops in the two counties. He was perhaps more than moderately successful in the business world, and as far as Peter knew, Prudhoe was respected as a cheerful companion, a man who could hold his liquor even if he did get rather boisterous in his cups, and one who retained a sense of business in spite of his more flamboyant gestures.
But it would seem that he had made one flamboyant gesture too many. It was with considerable reluctance that he told Peter; he left the impression that he would have preferred to deal with the older man upstairs. It was a common enough story. His wife was an invalid, and bedridden. She was unable to accompany him on his social outings—
‘—which I undertake, mainly for business reasons, you understand, Mr Marlin—’
He thought a great deal of her, but inevitably there were occasions when a young woman swam into his vision and made him think of other things than business. One such young woman was Susan Varley.
Peter knew her too, in an equally vague way. She was about twenty-five: old enough to know what life was all about. She had hovered on the fringe of Jeannette’s evenings at the country club at one time. However, it would seem that she had caught the eye of Mr Prudhoe.
‘You know how it is, I danced with her, and thought she was, well, a bit of a dish, if you know what I mean, a nice bit of crackling, but that was that.’
For the first time. But Mr Prudhoe had seen her again, on a less formal, less crowded occasion, and Susan had made it quite obvious that while she would not be prepared to regard him in a serious light, she would certainly not be averse to casual encounters in lonely places, provided the price was right.
‘Now don’t get me wrong, Mr Marlin. I mean, she’s not the kind of girl to demand money, but you know, there are other ways in which a chap can show his appreciation for an understanding girl . . .’
And Susan had certainly completed his education in that direction. There had been a couple of trips to London, and shopping sprees on those occasions had considerably lightened his pocket.
‘Mind you, I’m not saying she wasn’t worth it. No, indeed.’
He spared Peter the det
ails but left no doubt in his mind that Susan’s performances were more than up to scratch.
‘And then, Mr Prudhoe?’
‘And then I got this letter.’
It would seem that things had got rather difficult at home and Prudhoe had found it virtually impossible to get away for his occasional encounters. With considerable expressed regret to Susan, and just a little unexpressed relief to himself, he had called a halt, and Susan had accepted the kiss and goodbye without rancour. It had been the basis of their arrangement all along. No ties, no problems. But then, a month after it was all finished, the letter arrived, posted locally, white paper, white envelope, carefully typed. Peter read it. It contained nothing startling. Its statements were short, and bold.
Dear Mr Prudhoe,
I have kept a very close watch on your movements. You’ve been sleeping with Susan Varley. Your wife is ill. Were she to be informed of your conduct what would happen? You can buy my silence — for £500. Used notes. Not consecutive numbers. Ring Musgrave 291 at 8 on the 29th. Matters will proceed from there. And remember. Tell the police, and the news of your conduct will be all round town. After it reaches your wife.
It was unsigned.
‘I rang the number,’ said Mr Prudhoe. ‘It was a public call-box. There was no reply.’ He appeared shamefaced.
‘No further letter?’
‘No.’
Peter regarded him carefully.
‘It might be, of course, that nothing further will happen. The blackmailer might cry off. On the other hand—’
‘I’m worried,’ said Prudhoe miserably. ‘If Marjie finds out, God knows what’ll happen. She’s got a weak heart, you know.’
It was not for Peter to moralise. Prudhoe wanted something other than a sermon. Yet there was little that Peter could say: the man’s next step was obvious.
‘You haven’t been to the police?’
‘I can’t do that,’ cried Prudhoe. ‘You know what the letter says.’
‘But once you start paying—’
‘Marjie mustn’t know.’
‘Mr Prudhoe, your best bet is to go to the police. They’ll ensure that as much anonymity as is possible will cloak—’