I was watching her hands. They tell more than the face, especially when it’s an actress. I saw the nails of her right hand – they are varnished red – bite into the palm. But that wasn’t all. The point is, she didn’t say anything more just then. There’s no doubt she was seen near our village soon after the ‘accident’, and there’s not much doubt that George lives in Gloucestershire. You see the point? If she hadn’t something to conceal, the natural thing would be for her to have said, ‘Oh, whereabouts in Glucestershire? I’ve got a friend who lives there.’ Of course, it might be simply an intrigue with George that she’s wanting to conceal. But I doubt it. Girls like her are not coverd with guilt and confusion nowadays by that sort of thing. What else but the fact that she had been in the car when Martie was killed could have made her go suddenly silent at the mention of Gloucestershire?
‘Yes,’ I went on. ‘In a little village near Cirencester. I’m always meaning to go back there, but I’ve somehow never quite managed.’
I didn’t dare mention the name of the village. That might have scared her off altogether. I watched her pinched nostrils and the strained withdrawn look in her eyes for a moment. Then I began to talk about something else.
At once she started chattering away faster than ever. Relief will loosen anyone’s tongue. I felt oddly grateful and friendly towards her for that moment of self-exposure and laid myself out to please. Never in my wildest dreams have I imagined myself giggling and exchanging coy glances with a film actress. We both drank a goodish amount. After a bit of this, she asked me what my Christian name was.
‘Felix,’ I said.
‘Felix?’ She wiggled the tip of her tongue at me – ‘roguishly’ is the word, I believe. ‘I think I’ll call you “Pussy”, then.’
‘You’d better not, or I shall refuse to have anything more to do with you.’
‘You do want to see me again, then?’
‘Believe me, I don’t intend to lose sight of you for a long time,’ I said. The opportunities for tragic irony are becoming quite alarmingly plentiful; I mustn’t get into the habit of it. There was a good deal more of this kind of badinage, which I won’t embarrass myself by writing down. We’re dining together next Thursday.
27 July
LENA IS NOT such a fool as she looks – or rather, as people of her appearance are assumed to be. She certainly gave me a nasty shaking-up this evening. It was after the theatre. She asked me to come in for a final drink – I’d taken her back to her flat. She was standing by the fireplace, rather pensive, and suddenly she swung round to me and said point-blank:
‘What’s the idea of all this?’
‘The idea?’
‘Yes. Taking me around and spending your money? What’s on your mind?’
I stammered out something about the book I wanted to write – getting ideas – the possibility of writing one suitable for film adaptation.
‘Well, when are you going to get started?’
‘Started?’
‘That’s what I said. D’you know, you’ve not said a single word about this book yet. Where do I come in, anyway? Am I meant to be the pen wiper, or what? I’ll not believe in this book of yours till I see it.’
For a moment I was paralysed. I felt she must somehow have guessed what I was after. Staring at her, I thought I saw something like apprehension, distrust, fear in her eyes. Then I wasn’t sure if it was that. But still, I think it was sheer panic which made me say:
‘Well then, it wasn’t just the book. It wasn’t the book. When I saw you in that film, I wanted you. The loveliest thing. I’d never seen –’
The fright she’d given me must have made me sound exactly like the confused, timid lover. She raised her head, her nostrils distended, a different look on her face.
‘I see,’ she said. ‘I see … Well?’
Her shoulders drooped towards me. I kissed her. Ought I to have felt like Judas? I didn’t, anyway. Why should I, though? It’s a business deal, give and take, we’ve both got something to gain by it. I want George and Lena wants my money. I realise now, of course, that the scene she was staging about the book was simpy a manoeuvre to make the timid admirer declare himself. She must have felt all along that the book was just a pretext on my part, and she wanted to bring me to the point. Where she went wrong was in her idea of what the book was a pretext for. Really, it’s turned out very well. Making love to her was like a whetting of my revenge.
After a bit, she said, ‘I think you’ll have to shave your beard off, Pussy. I’m not used to them.’
‘You’ll get used. I can’t take it off. It’s my disguise. I’m really a murderer, you see, in hiding from the police.’
Lena laughed prettily.
‘What a liar you are! You couldn’t hurt a fly, Pussy darling.’
‘If you call me that again, you’ll see if I can’t hurt a fly.’
‘Pussy!’
Later, she said, ‘It’s queer, me falling for you. You’re no Weissmuller, are you, my sweet? It must be the funny way you look at me sometimes, as if I wasn’t there, or transparent, or something.’
What a transparent little hypocrite she is herself! But nice. As a pair, we should win the hypocrisy stakes against all comers.
29 July
SHE HAD DINNER at my flat yesterday evening. A very unpleasant thing happened. Luckily it passed off all right in the end, and if we hadn’t had the quarrel, maybe she wouldn’t have told me about George. But it’s a warning to me not to get careless. I can’t afford to make slips at this game.
I had my back to her. I was rummaging in the cupboard for drinks. She was wandering about, giving one of her quickfire monologues.
‘So Weinberg started to bawl me out, Whaddy’a think y’ are? An actress or a stuffed eel? I don’t pay you to go about looking like a stick of Edinburgh rock, do I? What’s the matter with you? Fallen in love or something, you dumb cluck? Not with you Father Time I said not with you so there’s no need to get all burned up I say Pussy what an angelic little room you do do yourself well don’t you? And oh, look! if it isn’t a teddybear – !’
I jumped up. It was much too late. She came out of my bedroom carrying Martie’s teddybear, which I kept on the mantelpiece. I’d forgotten to put it away. For some reason, I lost my head completely.
‘Give it to me,’ I said, making a snatch at it.
‘Naughty! Mustn’t snatch! So little Felix keeps dolls. Well, we live and learn.’ She made a face at the bear. ‘So this is me rival!’
‘Don’t be such a damned little idiot. Put it back!’
‘Oh, oh, oh. Ashamed because he plays with toys?’
‘As a matter of fact, it belonged to a nephew of mine. He died. I was very fond of him. Now will you give—’
‘Oh, so that’s it.’ Her face changed. I saw her breasts heaving. She looked a holy terror and quite amazingly attractive. I thought she was going to scratch my face. ‘So that’s it. I’m not good enough to touch your nephew’s teddybear? Think I might defile it, do you? It’s me you’re ashamed of, is it? Well, take the bloody thing!’
She flung the teddybear down violently on the floor at my feet. Something flared up in me. I smacked her in the face, hard. She came at me and we fought. She was abandoned and furious, like an animal in a trap. Her dress got torn away from her shoulders. I was far too angry to feel any distaste for this extraordinary scene. After a while, her body went soft and she moaned, ‘Oh, you’re killing me,’ and we were kissing each other. She was flushed, but I could still see the mark of my hand on her face.
Later she said, ‘But you are ashamed of me really, aren’t you? You think I’m a common little spitfire.’
‘Well, you’re quite at home in a rough house anyway.’
‘No. I want you to be serious. You wouldn’t introduce me into your family circle, would you? The old folks at home wouldn’t approve. I know.’
‘I haven’t got one. For that matter, you wouldn’t introduce me into yours. What’s the point? We’re m
uch happier as we are.’
‘What a cautious old thing you are! I do believe you think I’m trying to lead you up to the marriage lines.’ Her eyes sparkled at me suddenly. ‘Now that is an idea. I’d just like to see George’s face when—’
‘George. Who’s George?’
‘All right, all right. You don’t have to jump on me, jealous. George is just – well, he’s married to my sister.’
‘So what?’ (I’m learning the language, you see.)
‘Nothing.’
‘Go on. What’s George to you?’
‘Yes, you are jealous. A jealous, green-eyed Pussy. Well, if you must know, George used to try it on with me. I—’
‘Used to?’
‘That’s what I said. I told him I didn’t fancy myself as a home-breaker; though I must say Violet does ask for it.’
‘You’ve not been seeing him lately? Is he worrying you?’
‘No,’ she said, in a queer, wooden, stilted sort of voice, ‘I’ve not seen him for quite a bit.’ I could feel her body rigid beside me. Then she relaxed, laughing audaciously, a little wildly, ‘What the hell? It’d show George he’s not ev— Look here, suppose we go down there this weekend.’
‘Go down where?’
‘Severnbridge. Where they live. In Gloucestershire.’
‘But, my dear girl, I can’t—’
‘Of course you can. He won’t eat you. He’s a respectable married man, or supposed to be.’
‘But why?’
She gazed at me seriously. ‘Felix, do you love me? All right, don’t look so alarmed, I’m not trying to string you up. Do you like me enough to do something without asking a lot of questions?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Well then, I’ve reasons for wanting to go back there, and I want someone with me. I want you with me.’
Her voice sounded a little harsh and uncertain. I wonder how near she was to telling me everything; about George, and the accident that must have been haunting her. But I couldn’t trust myself to persuading her into a full confidence, and it would have been a bit too caddish just then, even for my present standards. Not that there was really much need. I seemed to sense behind her words a determination to have it out in the open, not with George, but with the horror she’s been running away from all these months. What did I say at the beginning of this diary about the murderer’s compulsion to return to the scene of his crime? She didn’t kill Martie. But she knows who did. She was there. She feels impelled to exorcise the haunting, deadly fascination of that moment, and she wants me to help her. Me! Heavens, what a savage piece of irony on the part of the Doomsters!
I said, ‘All right. I’ll drive you down on Saturday.’ I kept my voice light and uninterested. ‘What’s George? What does he do?’ I asked.
‘He owns a garage – in partnership – Rattery and Carfax. Rattery’s his name. He’s rather – it’s sweet of you to say you’ll come. I don’t know whether you’ll like him very much – he’s not exactly your saucer of milk.’
A garage. She doesn’t know whether I’ll like him very much. George Rattery.
31 July
SEVERNBRIDGE. I DROVE Lena down here this afternoon. I’d traded my old car in part exchange for a new one; undesirable to turn up with a Gloucestershire registration number. So here I am, in the enemy’s citadel, my wits against his. I don’t think there’s any danger of recognition – Severnbridge is at the opposite end of the county from my village, and my beard alters me enormously. The difficulty is going to be to get a firm footing in the Ratterys’ house, and to maintain it when I’ve got it. At present Lena is there and I’m staying at the Angler’s Arms – she thought it best to break me gently to the Rattery household – for the moment I’m just a ‘friend’ who kindly brought her down in his car. I dumped her and her suitcase outside the house. She says she did not write to tell them she was coming. Is this because she was afraid George might refuse to have her here? Very likely. He might well be nervous, considering the secret they share together – nervous of her getting hysterical when she saw him again and was reminded of it.
When I’d unpacked, I asked the boots which was the most efficient garage here. ‘Rattery and Carfax,’ he said. ‘That’s the one near the river, is it?’ I asked. ‘Yes, sir, backs on to it; just this side of the bridge, going up the High Street.’ Two more facts in the case against George Rattery. I’d worked it out that his garage must be an efficient one or it would not have in stock the necessary spare parts for replacing those damaged in the accident. And it backs on to the river – that’s where the damaged parts disappeared, I knew he’d hidden them somewhere like that …
Just then, Lena rang me up. They wanted me to go round there for dinner. I feel desperately, miserably nervous. If I feel like this just because I’m going to meet him for the first time, what’ll I feel like when I’m going to kill him? Calm as a nun, probably, familiarity with one’s victim should breed contempt and I’m going to study George Rattery with the flaying eye of hatred. I shall take my time, I shall glut my hatred and contempt for him before he dies – feed on him like a parasite on its host. I hope Lena doesn’t start getting too affectionate towards me at dinner. Now for it.
1 August
AN OBNOXIOUS CREATURE. A very, very objectionable man indeed. I’m glad. I had been more than a little afraid, I realise it now, that George might turn out to be a sympathetic character. But that’s all right; he’s not. I shall have no compunction at all about putting his light out.
I knew it the minute I went into the room, before he had said a word. He was standing by the fireplace, smoking a cigarette. He held it between first and second fingers, his elbow raised, his forearm horizontal – an unpleasingly self-important attitude – the attitude of a man who wants everyone to know that he is master in his own house. He stood there, a cock on a dunghill, eyeing me superciliously for a moment or two before he came forward.
After I’d been introduced to his wife and his mother, and given a peculiarly disagreeable cocktail, George went straight on with what he’d been saying before I came. Typical of his bullocking tactlessness, his innate bad manners. However, it gave me an opportunity to study him and I measured him like an executioner measures his man for the drop. He wouldn’t need a big drop, he’s so heavy: a big, fleshy man, his head recedes upward at the back, and the top of it slopes down to a low forehead. He has a pseudo-cavalry moustache, which does not succeed in hiding his arrogant, negroid lips. I should say he was in the middle forties.
I see the result looks like a caricature. I daresay some women – his wife, for instance – would think him a fine figure of a man. Admittedly, my eye is jaundiced. But there’s a crass, over-bearing quality about him which would turn any sensitive stomach.
After he’d finished his monologue, he looked at his watch in a marked manner.
‘Late again,’ he said.
No one made any comment.
‘Have you spoken to the servants, Vi? They’re getting later with the dinner every day.’
‘Yes, dear,’ his wife said. Violet Rattery is a washed-out, dispirited, pathetically eager-to-please version of Lena.
‘Huh,’ said George. ‘They don’t seem to pay much attention to you. I shall have to speak to them myself, I suppose.’
‘Please don’t do that, dear,’ his wife said, in a flustered voice: she blushed, smiling timidly. ‘We don’t want them to be giving notice.’ She caught my eye, and flushed again, painfully.
She just asks for it, of course. George is the sort of man whose nastiness thrives on that kind of submissiveness from the people around him. He’s an anachronism, really. His thick-skinned, brutal type was the natural thing in apeman days (Elizabethan days too; he’d have made a good sea captain or slave driver) but in a civilisation that gives no scope for those qualities, except an occasional war, his crude sort of power is confined to the bullying of his own household, and goes bad for lack of wider exercise.
It’s extraordinary how hat
red sharpens the eye. I feel I know more about George already than about people I’ve known for years. I gazed at him politely. I was thinking, There’s the man who killed Martie, who ran him down and gave him no chance at all, who finished a life worth more than a dozen of his sort, the one thing left for me to love. Never mind, Martie. His time is coming too. Soon.
At dinner I sat next to Violet Rattery, with Lena opposite me and old Mrs Rattery on my left. George, I noticed, kept glancing from Lena to myself – trying to sum up the situation. I would not say he was jealous, he’s too self-satisfied to imagine that a woman could prefer anyone else to himself, but he was obviously puzzled as to what Lena wants with an odd fish like Felix Lane. He treats her in an offhand, slightly proprietorial way, as though he was an elder brother. ‘George used to try it on with me,’ Lena had said that night at my flat. I wonder, was that only half the truth? There is a suggestion of intimacy in the very offhandedness of his behaviour towards her.
At one point he said, ‘So you’ve taken to poodle-curls too, Lena?’ He leaned over and ruffled the curls at the back of her head, glancing at me in a challenging sort of way and saying, ‘They’re slaves to fashion, the ladies, aren’t they, Lane? If some pansy from Paris told them that bald heads were all the rage, they’d shave off their hair pronto, eh?’
Old Mrs Rattery, who sat beside me surrounded by a faint aura of censure and mothballs, said:
‘In my young days a woman’s hair was considered her crowning glory. I’m glad all this Eton-crop nonsense has gone out.’
‘You standing up for the younger generation, mater? What’s the world coming to?’ said George.
‘The younger generation can stand up for themselves, I fancy – some of them at any rate.’ Mrs Rattery was staring straight in front of her, but I got the impression that the second part of her remark was aimed at Violet, also that she conceives George to have married into a lower social stratum – which is true enough. She treats Violet and Lena with a kind of patient, grande dame tolerance. Not a very nice old lady.
The Beast Must Die Page 5