by Roy Lewis
‘Yes,’ Sam was continuing cheerfully. ‘I gather there have been some unpleasant innuendoes. Nonsense, isn’t it, Peter — sort of judging before anything is proved!’
‘What do you mean by that?’ asked Peter coldly.
Sam’s eyes were roundly innocent. ‘Nothing at all. Have you seen much of Shirley recently?’
Peter Marlin looked at Mrs Gaines: she could read nothing in his face.
‘I have seen her,’ he replied carefully.
‘Nice girl,’ said Sam. ‘Still, so was Jeannette. Friendly, lovely girl. And you and she used to throw the most marvellous parties. You’ll remember me coming home slewed from a few of those, Mother, I bet! I tell you they were swinging. I think she had the capacity, Jeannette, the capacity to make a party come alive!’
‘Sam,’ Mrs Gaines tried to interrupt. She felt that the conversation was taking a turn that might prove painful for Peter Marlin. Sam seemed oblivious. He had locked his hands behind his head, and was staring at the trees, with a smile on his face.
‘And do you remember that party at Christmas, Peter? When old Joe Harvey got dumped in the snow, and got locked out all night — almost caught pneumonia? Hell, that was a game. But they were . . . they were great parties. Lashings of drink, streams of women, and music — she had some marvellous canned music, did Jeannette. Apart from records she used to tape stuff herself, Mother, do you know that? We ought to do it — yes, why don’t we hold a party here, Mrs Gaines, a midsummer party? We could have it in the sitting-room and on the terrace we’d leave your precious drawing-room alone — and we could invite everyone for twenty miles around. Marvellous! We could borrow some of Jeannette’s music and have a real swinging—’
‘No.’ Peter Marlin had risen to his feet.
His face was ashen. Mrs Gaines felt concern at his appearance. ‘Jeannette — my wife’s tapes, I — I haven’t got them any more. That is, I lent them—’
‘Well, that’s all right,’ said Sam breezily. ‘When you get them back—’
‘I doubt if I’ll bother to collect them until just before Shirley leaves town,’ said Peter quickly. ‘Mrs Gaines, I’m afraid I really must be going now. Thank you indeed for the coffee — and please don’t worry about the trust holding. My judgment will be completely vindicated before the year is out.’
‘I hope you’re right, Peter Marlin,’ said Mrs Gaines levelly.
‘I’ll see you out, dear chap,’ offered Sam. But when he returned his face was twisted. She heard him swear under his breath at Marlin’s departure. She couldn’t ask him what bothered him, for old Byrne — strange, how she thought Byrne old when she was older! — kept up an uninteresting, extended conversation with her. She took the opportunity to observe Sam nevertheless: he seemed nervous, and expectant. He kept glancing at his watch and twice he ran his hands along his sides, as though he were drying them.
When finally Byrne took his leave she faced Sam.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked bluntly.
He laughed. ‘The matter? Nothing. The trust holding nonsense, I suppose. See—’ he held out his hands. ‘Left me shaking.’
‘Don’t fool with me, Sam,’ she snapped.
He placed his hand on his heart. ‘Mother mine, how could I ever trifle with your love?’
She glared at him. He was being deliberately evasive, but his charm wasn’t working on her now. It seemed as though he suddenly realised it too, for his expression changed.
‘Don’t worry about things that don’t concern you, Mother,’ he said, and there was an edge to his tone. But there was something else, too. It was his eyes. Mrs Gaines felt oddly cold. What she saw in Sam’s eyes was a reflection of something she had seen in other eyes. Fear — and yet not exactly fear . . . it was more a haunting doubt. She couldn’t really put words to it, even for herself, but it was there in Sam’s eyes, and in someone other’s.
John Sainsby’s.
The front doorbell rang, and she started. ‘I’ll get it,’ said Sam quickly. He wasn’t quick enough — Molly was already in the hall. She heard voices, and through the half-open door she saw Sam sending Molly back, then speaking with the person at the door.
A moment later he stepped back, allowing the visitor entry. Mrs Gaines was unable to suppress a start of surprise. The visitor was immensely tall, and gaunt. He removed his hat and a great white dome of a head emerged. He was looking towards her.
He had understanding eyes.
He inclined his head briefly in her direction, before allowing himself to be led off to the library by Sam.
When Molly walked past the terrace Mrs Gaines called her and asked about the visitor. ‘It’s an Inspector Crow, madam.’ She hesitated. ‘He’s . . . he’s funny-looking, isn’t he, madam?’
Mrs Gaines had liked his eyes.
It was twenty minutes before Inspector Crow left. Sam did not bring him out to the terrace. When her son came to rejoin her Mrs Gaines looked up.
‘Inspector Crow — what did he want?’
‘He was looking for Peter Marlin.’
‘What on earth would he want with Peter?’ Sam’s eyes were hot, and there was an unpleasant twist to his mouth.
‘He wants to arrest him, Mother.’
‘Arrest him!’
‘That’s right, Mother dear, arrest him — on a simple charge of blackmail!’
CHAPTER 7
‘But that’s absurd!’
Inspector Crow turned from the papers he had before him to look steadily at Peter Marlin.
‘Blackmail, Mr Marlin, is never absurd.’
Peter flushed angrily.
‘But you’re not seriously suggesting that I have anything to do with issuing blackmailing letters!’
The Inspector’s eyes were sad under the heavy black eyebrows.
‘Tell me, Mr Marlin, when did you first discover that John Sainsby and Samuel Gaines were homosexuals?’
Peter laughed in surprise.
‘You must be going round the bend! What on earth do you mean — Sam and John homosexuals! I hope you know what the hell you’re talking about because I certainly don’t!’
‘When did you first discover,’ persisted Crow quietly, ‘that John Sainsby and Samuel Gaines had been indulging in homosexual activity together?’
Peter glared at the man seated behind the desk.
‘I’ve told you, Inspector Crow,’ he snapped, ‘I did not — I do not — know that they have homosexual inclinations and I certainly have no idea whether they have or have not been having a homosexual “affair” or indeed whether they would even want to. Besides,’ he flared, ‘if they do, what difference does it make? They’re adults, and if they have been indulging in such activity, which I personally doubt — they would no doubt have been consenting adults, and the “affair” would have been conducted discreetly, in private, so what’s the problem? There’s no law against it.’
‘No,’ replied Crow with a sigh. ‘There’s no law against it. But, Mr Marlin, you know as well as I, that while it is not illegal to indulge in homosexual activity in those circumstances you describe, that is not to say that society does not place its own form of punishment upon the individuals concerned.’
‘So?’
‘That’s where the blackmail comes in.’
‘But that’s not where I come in!’ Peter stood up furiously. He heard the constable at his back shuffle uneasily. Inspector Crow regarded him thoughtfully for a moment.
‘Please sit down, Mr Marlin. Perhaps we will start from the beginning and then you will be able to see precisely what cards I hold in my hand. You will doubtless then be able to decide how you can, so to speak, play yours.’
‘Inspector—’
‘Please, Mr Marlin. I am being sweet reasonableness itself. I am a logical man; you are an intelligent and, I imagine, also a logical man. Contain yourself for a moment.’
Peter sat down stiffly. Crow extended his long legs beneath the table, involuntarily touching one of Peter’s feet. Instinctive
ly, Peter removed his foot quickly. Crow smiled gently.
‘I came to your office, you remember, Mr Marlin, to have a word with you—’
‘I remember,’ interrupted Peter grimly.
‘I also spoke with Miss Shaw, who at that time was providing you with corroboration as to your whereabouts on the night your wife died. I then had occasion to speak with Mr John Sainsby — to be more precise, he asked me into his office. He seemed somewhat distraught—’
Peter recalled John’s nervousness when he’d seen him, after Crow had left.
‘After a certain amount of prevarication, which was natural enough in the circumstances, Mr Sainsby plucked up enough courage to tell me that for the past year he had been associating with Mr Samuel Gaines — in what we may describe as a somewhat clandestine manner — and that they had been indulging in homosexual activity in the privacy of Mr Sainsby’s flat. To his knowledge, the matter had not become known, but two months previously he had received a letter, which he ignored, though it frightened him considerably. He destroyed it. Then came a second letter. Both demanded money, and threatened that if it were not forthcoming he would be exposed.’
Peter was silent. It was obvious now what had been worrying John Sainsby. It accounted for his nervousness; and it accounted for his decision to leave the firm.
‘John told me,’ said Peter slowly, ‘that he had decided to go to the Bar. He didn’t tell me why.’
Inspector Crow stroked a clean-shaven chin. ‘He realised that he would not be able to remain at the firm — whether he were exposed, or the matter was hushed up. A leak was always possible, rumours could start — so he thought that it would be best if he left Martin, Sainsby and Sons and began his legal career afresh, at the Bar.’
‘A clean break.’
‘That was the idea,’ nodded Crow. ‘Mr Sainsby,’ he continued, ‘then heard no more. He consulted with Mr Gaines — who, it appeared, had also received such a letter. They decided to do nothing, not even to contact the police. But Mr Sainsby remained worried: he had not replied to the blackmailing instructions and he feared that he would be exposed at any moment. Then another letter came into his hands, from a lady who had committed certain indiscretions and he realised that things were worse than he feared. There were now three people who were suffering under the threats of exposure. And although Mr Gaines was against the idea, Mr Sainsby decided to tell me of the threat to himself, at least. It wasn’t until yesterday that he felt it necessary, having received their permission, to mention the other two.’
Crow stirred unhappily.
‘I recovered Mr Gaines’s letter from him this morning, when I went to Greygables. I now have four letters in my possession — one sent to Mr Sainsby, another sent to the lady I mentioned, a third sent to Mr Gaines, a fourth to Mr Prudhoe. Yes, I’m afraid that I took the liberty of getting a warrant to search your office when the Prudhoe letter was also brought to our attention by Mr Sainsby.’
‘You had no right to go through my files!’ gasped Peter.
‘We found nothing incriminating,’ commented Crow mildly.
‘Which even makes it more obvious that you had no right! And all this may be very interesting, Inspector Crow, but I don’t see what the hell it has to do with me!’
‘I’m sorry that you feel it necessary to take that line, Mr Marlin,’ said Crow sadly. ‘I was hoping that you’d be prepared to co-operate.’
‘Co-operate! Co-operate in what? You tell me that Sam and John are homosexuals, that there’s some woman in town who’s been misbehaving, and you mention Prudhoe, who has already told me his tale anyway — and then you want me to say that I wrote the letters to these people!’
‘It would be simpler if you did.’
‘Simpler! Simpler for you, maybe, but I didn’t write the damn’ things, and that’s that!’
Crow appeared to have allowed his attention to wander momentarily. Peter saw his lips frame words, and he mumbled to himself.
‘Simpler . . . simpler for whom . . . ?’
Then Crow seemed to recover himself. He darted a quick, thoughtful glance at Peter. ‘All the evidence, Mr Marlin, would seem to point to your being the author of these letters.’
‘Evidence? What evidence? You can’t be serious!’
‘Look, Mr Marlin,’ said Crow patiently. ‘I hand you these four letters. Look at them carefully. First, the letter addressed to Mr Sainsby. Read it.’
Its terms were as succinct as those in the letter that Mr Prudhoe had shown to Peter. This letter was also typewritten, on white paper of reasonably good quality.
‘Now the letter to the lady — I suppose we cannot really keep her identity from you.’ Mrs Sweeney. Peter knew her. The aberrations ascribed to her were fantastic. He would never have imagined—
‘The letter to Mr Gaines . . . and the letter to Mr Prudhoe, which you will have already read. Now having read them, Mr Marlin, what do you see?’
‘You tell me, Inspector,’ suggested Peter sarcastically.
Crow smiled faintly.
‘You see letters that are typed, Mr Marlin, on the same kind of paper, in the same kind of terms — and on the same machine.’
‘Is that so?’ queried Peter, thoughtfully.
‘It is so. We have examined them carefully. The typeface is the same. There are, curiously enough — but we’ll come to that in a moment. I pass to you now yet another letter. This one, no doubt you are familiar with.’
Peter stared at it in astonishment. It was the letter he had sent to John Sainsby, outlining the transactions concerning the trust holdings and the takeover of Amalgamated Industries Ltd.
‘But what does this have to do with—’
‘Look carefully, Mr Marlin. Haven’t you been particularly careless? Look at the paper. And look at the typeface.’
Peter stared blankly at the letter in his hand.
‘You’re not suggesting—’
‘No, I’m not suggesting anything, Mr Marlin. I’m simply stating facts, as positively, but as fairly, as I can. The blackmail letters were typed on a certain machine. That letter that you wrote was typed on the same machine, using similar paper to that used by the blackmailer. Mr Sainsby recognised the similarity himself — it was why he immediately brought it to us. Need we continue with this farce, Mr Marlin?’
‘I swear to you—’
‘What? What are you prepared to swear to, Mr Marlin?’
‘I did not write those threatening letters,’ said Peter doggedly.
Crow was regarding him with a curious look on his face. He chewed at his lower lip thoughtfully.
‘Tell me, Mr Marlin,’ he asked quietly, ‘if you did not write those letters, then who did? Who else could have had access to that typewriter?’
‘I did not write them. But who else could have used—’
‘Yes, Mr Marlin?’
‘The typewriter . . . it was Jeanette’s.’
He sat stunned. Jeannette. Was there no end to her? She had died in that house and he had wept for her. Now he was past weeping. For the Jeannette that he thought he knew had never existed. Never, except in his infatuated imagination.
‘So,’ commented Crow sweetly, ‘you are suggesting that it was your wife who really wrote those blackmail letters.’
‘It could have been no one else,’ whispered Peter.
Crow stood up slowly, and walked around the desk, to stand in front of the window. His shoulders drooped.
‘I’m afraid that it won’t wash, Mr Marlin.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Look again at the blackmail letters. Look carefully at them. The person who wrote them was quite meticulous. They are all dated.’
He was right. Peter stared at the dates dully.
‘You will no doubt, Mr Marlin, immediately get the point. This letter to Mr Sainsby is dated three days before your wife died. The first one to him would have been even earlier. This second letter I hand you is similarly dated before Mrs Marlin was murdered. But I loo
k at the other two letters that have come into my possession. They are dated at least three weeks after your wife died. Are you still prepared to suggest that your wife wrote those letters, Mr Marlin? Particularly bearing in mind that with three of those letters we also have the envelopes, which are similarly postmarked with relevant dates?’
Peter shook his head unbelievingly.
‘But it must have been Jeannette. No one else . . .’
Crow locked his hands behind his back. ‘Let us suppose, Mr Marlin, let us suppose you did not write the letters. Let us forget also the problem of access to the typewriter. Let us ask ourselves — who would want to make the police believe that you had been demanding money by threats? Because if it is not you, or your wife, who wrote them, someone must have done — perhaps with the deliberate intention of — so to speak — “framing” you.’
‘Who?’ Peter thought furiously. John Sainsby? But why? They had no quarrel, and John would not want to expose himself in that way. Gaines? Again, why should he want to expose himself and his homosexual leanings to attack Peter? Paul Jackson? There was his inexplicable avoidance of Peter, and what would happen to Amalgamated Industries if Peter were in jail? Jackson would be in control — but that was nonsense. Paul would never be able to act in this way. He hadn’t even known Jeannette very well. Or had he? Max Lavender? Stephen Sainsby? All the other lovers of his wife? Why should they want to attack him? It didn’t make sense.
‘I can’t think — I can’t see who would want to try to make me out a blackmailer.’
‘Well,’ commented Crow mildly, ‘someone must be — if you didn’t write them yourself.’
‘I didn’t write them,’ said Peter, ‘and I don’t know who wrote them, and I don’t know how the hell they had access to that typewriter, and if you want to bloody well know, I don’t much care, either! I didn’t do it, and it seems to me that you’re supposed to be working on a murder investigation not blackmail! Why the hell are you harping on about this? Why the hell aren’t you trying to find out who killed my wife, and who killed Billy Sneed?’
‘You think I’m wasting my time, then?’ said Crow carefully, turning from the window with a studied casualness.