by Roy Lewis
It was ridiculous. She was a grown woman. What the hell was the matter with her?
She threw back the bedclothes with her free hand, swung her legs out of bed and stepped across to the wall switch.
She flicked it twice, three times.
Nothing happened. The torch beam wavered.
‘This is stupid,’ she said aloud, but her voice was little more than a whisper. Determinedly she walked to the wardrobe, and took out her dressing-gown. The beam flashed on the familiar ceiling as she slipped the gown over her nightdress. ‘A power cut, a damned power cut, and I get into this state!’
She opened the bedroom door and marched out into the hall.
It was cold and uninviting. More. It was unfriendly. She tried the hall light. It didn’t work. She hesitated.
Something ticked over at the back of her mind. Slowly she moved to the small table just inside the hall door. The beam of her torch picked out the dark, shining shape of the telephone. She stood beside the table, with her back to the sitting-room door, standing slightly ajar. Hesitatingly, her hand stretched out for the telephone. Her fingers touched it, lightly, doubtfully, slid around it.
Shirley lifted the telephone and after a pause listened.
It was dead.
She dropped it like a hot cake and it clattered noisily down; she opened her mouth to scream and grabbed for the door but there was a scrabbling sound behind her and a hand tore at her shoulder, took purchase, dragged her backwards. She felt herself falling, twisting in panic, and she thudded into the open door of the sitting-room. There was an arm thrust against her throat and she grabbed at it, terrified. Her legs struck the settee and she fell to the carpet. Her hand jolted against the arm of the settee and the torch was thrown halfway across the room. Its beam showed her, briefly, as she struggled to her knees, a disorderly pile in the corner of the room, records, tapes, books . . .
Something came at her in the darkness and she fell sideways again as the blow took her on the shoulder. She heard a strained, gasping sound and she kicked out with her bare feet, dragging herself towards the settee as she did so. Her breath was an angry terrified rasp in her throat as the darkness of her assailant rose up in front of her. She was aware of, rather than saw the blow coming again, and again she was wriggling away so that it took her high on the cheekbone. She screamed then, once, shortly, and then there was a hand on her throat, and one on her shoulder, pressing her back.
Her assailant’s face was close, and in the dim reflections cast by the still glowing torch across the room she could see the shape of the man’s head, the faint outline of his features.
She recognised him.
Uncomprehendingly, fearfully, she gasped at him, called his name. The grip on her throat tightened, and the second hand took her throat as his body shifted across hers, pinning her down.
In that moment she knew that he meant to kill.
The weight of his body on hers drove the breath from her; his thighs were splaying obscenely against her, pinning her, preventing her struggles. The fingers on her throat bit deep and her eyes were wide open but she saw nothing but the blackness. The pounding began in her ears and she struggled, kicked violently, dragged with tearing fingers at the remorseless hands on her throat. The pounding of the blood in her head came louder and louder, the blackness was shot with stars, fleeing and darting. Her mouth felt swollen, her teeth were being forced apart, and the pressure on her throat brought agony to her lungs. She was sliding, sliding, sliding . . .
* * *
And then she was on her knees in Peter’s arms, and she was sobbing agonisingly, and his hand was on her hair, gently, caressingly.
‘It’s all right, Shirley, everything’s all right now,’ he soothed.
The terror was draining away but she kept her head burrowed into his shoulder as she felt the lights swing over them and heard the tramp of feet and the sound of voices.
‘Oh, Peter . . .’
‘It’s all right, Shirley, you’re safe now. It’s all over. Everything is over.’
She twisted her head to look at him, and the grip of his arms slackened. It was then that she saw Inspector Crow standing above them. At his feet, across the room from her was the still figure of her assailant.
‘No,’ said Inspector Crow impassively. ‘He’s not dead. But when we broke in, I couldn’t stop Mr Marlin giving him quite a crack on the skull.’
She stared at the man on the floor.
‘But why—’
‘He was after the tape,’ Peter said quietly. ‘He wasn’t to know that it was already with the police.’
Shirley’s voice was hoarse.
‘But why did he want the tape? There was nothing on it—’
Inspector Crow looked across at her.
‘The tape hinted that Mrs Marlin wasn’t alone. That’s all. But he couldn’t be sure. It was just possible that his voice was on it. You see, he was either in the house all the time that Stephen Sainsby was there, or he came in as Sainsby left, secretly. Mrs Marlin must have removed the tape then and slipped it with the others, as he was talking to her. But in the hurry and the panic after he killed her, while he riffled her desk he didn’t do a thorough job: he missed three letters, and he forgot the tape. It was only later that he remembered . . .’
Inspector Crow sighed. Shirley felt bewildered.
‘You look confused, darling,’ smiled Peter. ‘Perhaps I should bring you up to date. You see, we had discovered that Jeannette had started issuing blackmail letters, and she had an accomplice—’
He gestured to the man on the floor. ‘And it was he who killed Jeannette,’ breathed Shirley.
‘Yes,’ nodded Crow, ‘and he must have been excited, panicky, after he killed her. Perhaps he was hurrying, for fear that Mr Marlin would return; perhaps he had already heard his car. Anyway, he overlooked the tape. How could he then get it back? He decided to wait. After all, there was considerable suspicion that Mr Marlin had killed his wife. If the circumstantial evidence pointed to the husband, he might even be saved the necessity for seeking out the tape. And after all, he wasn’t sure that it would incriminate him.’
‘He took a chance, waiting,’ mused Peter.
‘It was a chance he had to take, while you were suspected of murder,’ replied Crow gravely. ‘He must have been very disappointed when the coroner’s verdict didn’t point the finger at you.’
‘And it was he who attacked Peter — was he looking for the tape that night?’ queried Shirley.
‘We think so — it’s all still largely guesswork, of course, but I think we’re right. But that night, it wasn’t only the tape he was after. He had said already that he had received a blackmail letter — its production would divert suspicion from himself and perhaps incriminate Mr Marlin. He needed to do this particularly in view of the latest development that had come to his notice: the fact that Mr Marlin had called in a private investigator — who might have discovered something uncomfortable. He saw Sneed in Mr Marlin’s office and knew there might be trouble.’
‘As there probably would have been,’ commented Peter. ‘I imagine Sneed must have discovered that Jeannette had not asked to be taken back by Lavender — she had wanted money from him as the price of her silence.’
‘Information which was denied to us,’ said Crow gloomily. Peter knew what he meant and a flash of sympathy went out from him to Crow. The inspector must have chafed under the orders to leave Max Lavender alone.
‘Anyway,’ continued Crow, ‘our friend here needed a blackmail letter and when he discovered that Mr Marlin was to be away for the evening until late—’
‘The Holford meeting,’ interposed Peter, ‘which was in fact cancelled. You remember, I came round to you instead, and took Sneed’s phone call here.’
‘—he broke into Mr Marlin’s house, cut the telephone line, broke the main fuses, so that he wouldn’t be disturbed by sudden lights and, I imagine, with the aid of a flashlamp, started to type a blackmail letter addressed to himself.
You see he had to use the machine that Mrs Marlin had used, and similar paper. He hadn’t finished it when someone arrived.’
‘Mr Sneed,’ breathed Shirley. ‘You mean he killed him too?’
Crow nodded.
‘Here were two of his problems about to be solved. The letter he needed he’d almost finished; when Sneed arrived he must have come down, opened the door to him, attacked and killed him. Perhaps he went down openly, calling that the lights had fused; perhaps Sneed walked in, unsuspectingly, glad to get out of the rain, thinking the person opening the door was Mr Marlin.’
‘But he still hadn’t got the tape,’ said Peter. ‘In attacking me, why didn’t he kill me too?’
‘What was the point?’ asked Crow. ‘Leaving you injured with the murder weapon in your hand was more sensible, for he was still hoping that you’d be charged with Jeannette’s murder — and now with the murder of Sneed also.’
‘I’m surprised, looking back, that you didn’t charge me with killing Sneed,’ murmured Peter ruefully.
Crow shook his head.
‘It worried me. It was all too pat. A reasonable suspicion that you might have killed your wife, and then to be lying there with injuries that could have been caused by a battle with Sneed, and the murder weapon in your hand. Yes, I thought you might have committed two murders, but I also wondered whether there was someone who might have wanted you to be thought a double murderer.’
The man on the floor groaned lightly. ‘He’s coming round . . . Anyway,’ continued Crow, ‘after killing Sneed he went back upstairs, with a coolness that some might commend. He finished the letter just as you arrived — you heard the last click of the keys as you came in—’
‘And I think I might also have seen a brief flash from his lamp as I walked up the drive,’ added Peter.
‘He had nerve,’ commented Crow impassively. ‘He had to finish that letter, for he needed it to divert suspicion from himself once the blackmailing matter was put in our hands completely. Then, while Mr Marlin was stumbling about in the darkness he flashed the light to blind him, and attacked him.’
‘It’s horrible,’ shuddered Shirley. ‘Peter — and poor Mr Sneed, killed for nothing, really.’
‘Not so far as this man was concerned,’ said Crow grimly. ‘It prevented Sneed giving whatever information he did have to Mr Marlin, it muddied issues somewhat, and it cast further suspicion on Mr Marlin. Remember, he wanted Jeannette Marlin’s husband convicted — he wasn’t safe till then. And there was still the tape.’
Constable Wilson broke into the room. ‘Excuse me, sir. The radio car — we’ve just heard that Mr Stephen Sainsby has been traced. He’s been staying in London with Lord Leyton. The office—’
Crow waved his bony hand.
‘We’ll want to see him, but later today. Suggest that he not be inconvenienced too much.’
Peter was staring at the prostrate man on the floor. He remembered when he had been lying stunned, just inside his own doorway. ‘What about the key in my pocket?’ he queried suddenly. ‘The one he took.’
Crow shrugged gauntly.
‘I would suspect that the locker contained further blackmailing material. He searched you, found the key, went to the locker before we could get there.’
‘And then, when you didn’t charge Peter for Sneed’s murder?’ asked Shirley.
‘He got really worried, I would imagine. He could still hope that Mr Marlin would be charged, but he had one last card up his sleeve. Blackmail. It could get Mr Marlin out of the way for a while at least. You see, the evidence pointed to the letters having been typed on one machine — and two of the letters had been issued after Mrs Marlin’s death! In fact, of course, they had been written before her death: my guess is that the two of them had prepared a number of letters for issue at staggered intervals. Perhaps they intended posting them from different parts of the country on specified dates. Of course, it’s possible that the killer typed three letters before Sneed disturbed him that night, but I doubt it. It makes little difference. For he’d been too clever; he’d cut his own throat.’
‘How do you mean?’ asked Shirley.
‘When Mr Marlin wrote his letter the a key was damaged. It appeared in the letter. Now, the letter that our blackmailing friend wrote to himself, also contained a damaged key: it was he who probably chipped it anyway, in the darkness. But he made a bad mistake as it turned out: in his effort to clear himself of suspicion he back-dated his letter to before Mrs Marlin’s death. And there it was: his letter with a broken key, two letters which were supposed to have been written after his without a broken key showing, and then Mr Marlin’s letter. It raised a question in my mind. If that letter had been backdated, why was it so done? The answer wasn’t long coming.’
‘He had been indulging in blackmail with Jeannette, and was now trying to protect himself.’
‘Even so—’ Shirley shook her head. ‘I would never have believed he would have been capable of murder.’
‘Nor would I,’ replied Crow grimly, ‘had I not seen the report of a car accident in which he was involved a year ago. The doctors suspected that he’d dragged the other man out of the car and viciously beaten him — while the man was unconscious. I felt, when I read it, that such a man would be capable of anything — even murder.’
‘And then,’ added Peter, ‘I remembered that yesterday morning I’d let slip the fact that Jeannette’s music — Jeannette’s tapes had been lent — and I wouldn’t collect them until just before you left town. I realised that he’d guess the tape was in your possession . . .’
Inspector Crow was looking down at the man slowly sitting up, holding his head.
‘And there it was,’ he said quietly, ‘two murders, blackmail, attempted murder and a letter written to protect yourself — and instead, you gave yourself away.’
Shirley’s assailant was staggering to his feet and Crow put out a hand to support and restrain him.
‘I — I want to see John Sainsby,’ said Sam Gaines.
* * *
Sam and Jeannette had been two of a kind, Peter knew that now. Both committed to a life of frivolity, utterly amoral, both desperately wanting money, both needing it to carry on the sort of social life they desired. Jeannette had had a taste of freedom, and high living, with Max Lavender: she was not prepared to do without it. In Sam she found a kindred spirit; curbed by the allowance his mother gave him, he was, like Jeannette, prepared to do anything to get money.
It would seem that at one of the parties they had both attended Sam had retailed some of the gossip that he had picked up, and Jeannette’s sharp brain had seen the possibilities of the situation. While they were completely unlike each other in their sexual tastes, they yet were drawn together into a working partnership: Sam’s information, culled from all over the county, married to the snippets she picked up from some of Peter Marlin’s files, could be used to produce an unexpected income for them both and an unexpected excitement too, perhaps. It was all stated at the preliminary hearing.
‘The Crown will introduce evidence that will show that Samuel John Gaines, in company with Jeannette Marlin, systematically set out to demand money with menaces.’
But Jeannette, with what Peter now realised was a characteristic malice, had gone too far.
‘The Crown will further introduce evidence to show that Samuel Gaines, on learning that his accomplice had issued a letter of this nature to a man with whom Samuel Gaines was indulging in homosexual activity, in a blind rage strangled the said accomplice, Mrs Jeannette Marlin.
‘It will further show that in an attempt to avoid suspicion by typing a “blackmail” letter to himself he entered the house of Peter Marlin, using a key given to him by the said woman, and there beat to death Mr William Sneed, and committed grievous bodily harm to the person of Mr Marlin.
‘Finally, the Crown will introduce evidence to show that Samuel Gaines broke and entered into the house of Miss Shirley Anne Walker, with intent to steal, and attempted to murd
er aforesaid Miss Walker.’
Mrs Gaines had engaged eminent counsel but defence was reserved: Gaines was committed for trial at the next Assizes.
‘Inevitable,’ shrugged Inspector Crow as he met Peter on the steps outside the courtroom. ‘He doesn’t stand a chance, whoever defends him. The evidence is overwhelming. He was really doomed, I suppose, as soon as John Sainsby told him that he had received a blackmail letter, and foolishly, to keep John quiet, he said he’d got one too, and persuaded John not to go at once to the police.’
Peter nodded. ‘That’s why John was so worried — he knew he should have gone at once to the police. He felt he shouldn’t have allowed Gaines to persuade him. But Gaines — his mind must have been in a whirl. The fear of being caught out on Jeannette’s death; pressure from John Sainsby to produce the blackmail letter he said he had; John’s urging him to go together to the police; worrying about the tape which might give him away, and on top of all that trying to find out what was happening over the trust holding takeover. He must have been agonised.’
Inspector Crow squinted at him in the sunshine.
‘You sound almost sorry for him,’ he said softly.
Peter shrugged. ‘Perhaps I am.’
There was compassion in Crow’s tone.
‘I know what you mean. The sad thing is that Gaines’s action when he killed your wife was, well, understandable. It was one thing to issue blackmail letters to people who meant nothing to him. It was another to discover suddenly that she intended blackmailing John Sainsby — using Gaines’s own affection for John. Gaines must have been beside himself with rage — and his instinct was to protect John. I think Gaines’s counsel will rely heavily on the heat of their quarrel — but it won’t do much good. There’s still Sneed’s murder. But in wanting to protect John Sainsby — you know, it’s the one honest thing in the man: the very real regard he had for your partner.’