Salt is Leaving

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Salt is Leaving Page 2

by J. B. Priestley


  Then their mother appeared in the doorway. She looked triumphant rather than dismayed. ‘I know what this is all about – your father going off like that. One of you must ring up your Aunt May.’ Mrs Culworth never trusted herself to make long-distance calls. ‘I’m sure it’s that wretched husband of hers again, in some sort of trouble and expecting your father to get him out of it.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’ Alan demanded.

  Maggie pointed to something her mother was holding. ‘Is that a note he left for you?’

  ‘If it is, then it’s mine, isn’t it? And you started fussing before you even looked round—’

  ‘I don’t search other people’s bedrooms, if that’s what you mean,’ Maggie began angrily.

  ‘Quiet, Mag. Now – Mother?’ And Alan gave her an inviting smile.

  ‘Thank you, Alan dear. Well, as soon as I got upstairs I realized he’d taken the smaller case and some things for the night. So that was that. Then I saw this note hanging out of the little box where we keep some money for sudden emergencies. And this is what it says: Have taken ten pounds. Suddenly called away. Explain later.’ She looked at Maggie. ‘Did anybody telephone him at the shop?’

  ‘I was out. But Mrs Chapman said he took a call.’

  ‘Then I know exactly what happened. That wretched brother-in-law of his, May’s husband, is in trouble again, and she asked him to go at once to Luton. He didn’t explain what it was because he didn’t like to. He knows I think he’s done enough for them, and he promised me he’d say No next time. But of course he’s just weak where those two are concerned. Always was. And I’ve told him over and over again that she’s nearly as shiftless as her husband is. She says he drinks, but if you ask me, so does she. Alan, ring them up – the number’s in the little book by the telephone – and if your father’s still there, say I want to speak to him.’ She came in to take the towel that Alan had picked up. ‘Go on, hurry up! Goodness knows what those two might be persuading him to do!’

  The telephone was in the sitting room and Alan, being knowledgeable, was no shouter on long-distance, so he was completely out of hearing. Having restrained their curiosity, Maggie and her mother proceeded to wash up in a rather detached and dignified manner, as if they were demonstrators of washing up at an exhibition of detergents. Mrs Culworth, who had detested her sister-in-law for nearly thirty-five years, added a few acid comments on the double-whisky life in Luton, while Maggie used unnecessary force on the little mop thing and said, ‘Yes, I know’ at intervals. She was feeling curiously let-down and depressed.

  ‘Well,’ Alan began quite cheerfully, ‘he isn’t there. And Aunt May never called him at the shop. And they’re very well, thank you, and Albert is doing quite nicely in the used-car business.’ And as if to prove that none of this worried him, he began lighting his pipe.

  ‘I knew it,’ said Maggie.

  ‘What – all of it?’ said Alan.

  ‘No, of course not. But I knew somehow he wasn’t there.’

  ‘All right, then,’ her mother began angrily, ‘if you know so much, then just tell me where he is, if he isn’t there.’ She turned to Alan. ‘Who answered? May, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes, he was out. Probably knocking them back somewhere. Why, Mother?’

  ‘She could have been lying. Perhaps your father asked her to say he wasn’t there—’

  ‘No, lady, I can’t buy that,’ Alan told her, doing his American act. ‘She’s not that good a performer. She was gen-u-winely surprised, ma’am.’

  ‘Besides, Daddy would never ask her to tell a lie for him.’ Maggie was indignant. ‘He isn’t that kind of man.’

  ‘He certainly isn’t, sister.’

  ‘Oh – do be quiet, both of you. I’m trying to think where he could have gone, intending to spend the night. What about some silly book sale, a long way off?’ She looked at Maggie.

  ‘It’s just possible,’ said Maggie carefully. ‘But I doubt it. I suggested that to Bertha Chapman and she said he wasn’t keen on sales now and that anyhow he looked different – really worried—’

  ‘I don’t want to know what Mrs Chapman thinks,’ her mother told her sharply. ‘She’s always seemed to me a stupid woman. Now be quiet and just let me think.’

  During the next hour she thought aloud of various relatives and some dubious old acquaintances, but Alan flatly refused to try to trace them on the telephone and told the women they were making a fuss about nothing. His mother finally pretended to believe him. Maggie didn’t, and she took her deepening anxiety to bed.

  3

  Next morning, Tuesday, was fine, with that curious mixture of a mellow sunlight and a smoky atmosphere peculiar to early autumn. Maggie felt less anxious than she had done the night before, the sunlight and stir of the morning making everything seem more reasonable and reliable. Nevertheless, on her way to the shop she decided to inquire about her father at the bus station. There was no longer a railway connection between Hemton and Birkden, the nearest large town, apparently in order to make the road between them even more congested with buses and cars, to Maggie’s disgust because she liked trains, hated buses and could not afford a car of her own. (The only Culworth car was Alan’s, an old sports model, really too small for him and almost too small for anybody else. Moreover, it was very noisy, given to sinister explosions.) Even though it rules Hemtonshire, Hemton itself is a small town, not a tenth the size of Birkden, but it is the centre of a considerable network of bus services.

  So Maggie wandered about the bus station, feeling an idiot. The drivers and conductors she tried couldn’t care less about a man in his late fifties wearing a grey suit and carrying a small brown suitcase. She was just telling herself to give it up when, as often happens, a bit of luck came her way. An older man, some kind of inspector, asked her if she wasn’t Miss Culworth of the bookshop. And when she explained why she was there, he said: ‘I know your father, of course, and I had a word with him when he was here yesterday. Yes, he had a bag with him. And he caught the 1.35 bus to Birkden Central. Oh – yes, I’m positive, Miss Culworth.’

  Well, now she knew something, but not much. He might have gone to Birkden on the way to somewhere else. Then she seemed to spend half her day dodging in and out of the main shop, to and from the little back office, to see if her father had come back. She said nothing to Sheila and young Reg, but whenever Bertha Chapman was free she asked her useless questions or gave her useless answers. There were not many telephone calls – there never were – but the people who did ring up were answered abruptly by Miss Culworth, just because they weren’t her father. There was no news at home at lunchtime, and now her mother was really worried. Maggie rang her up in the middle of the afternoon, only to be told that no telegram, no letter, no anything, had arrived.

  ‘But so what?’ This was Alan, cutting short their vague feminine speculations over the supper table. ‘You’re going on like a pair of witches. It’s ridiculous. You might be talking about Aunt May’s Albert. So far Dad’s been away one night. All right, we don’t know where he is. But does it matter? He’s just about the most respectable careful man in Hemtonshire. Cautious – considerate of himself and everybody else—’

  ‘But that’s the point,’ cried Maggie. ‘Just because he is like that, then why hasn’t he let us know where he is? It simply isn’t like him. Apart from Mother naturally wanting to know, I have to know because of the shop. There are things waiting for him to sign, and he knows that. Unless – something’s happened to him—’

  ‘Just what I’ve been wondering,’ said Mrs Culworth rather miserably.

  ‘But – for Pete’s sake – what could have happened to him?’ Alan still sounded exasperated.

  ‘How do I know, you idiot?’ Maggie began sharply, but then trailed off. ‘Something – anything—’

  ‘Look – if you’re thinking about accidents, then don’t. If he’d been involved in any serious accident, we’d have been told by this time. He’s got various things in his wallet that would
identify him. Business cards and private cards with addresses and telephone numbers on them. You suddenly become important when you’ve been in an accident. No, that’s out.’

  ‘But what if he’d had his wallet stolen?’

  ‘What? And then had an accident? That’s too much.’

  ‘What if he’s lost his memory?’ Which seemed silly to Maggie as soon as she’d said it.

  ‘I can do better than that,’ said Alan. ‘What if he’s barmy and is now addressing a street-corner meeting in Birkden or Birmingham, telling ’em he’s John the Baptist?’

  Maggie giggled. Their mother told them both that that was quite enough of that. ‘Now listen, Alan. If we haven’t heard anything by – well, say, ten o’clock – then you must go to the police—’

  ‘Honestly, Mother, they’ll tell me I’m wasting their time. It’ll make me look a fool.’

  ‘Well, I don’t care if policemen think I’m a fool,’ Maggie announced with more heat than truth. ‘If you won’t go, I will.’

  ‘They’ll take much more notice of Alan, dear—’

  ‘Why should they? Just because you do—’

  ‘Maggie, I won’t have you speaking to me in that tone—’

  ‘Drop it. You’re both on edge,’ Alan told them. ‘I’ll go, but Maggie can come with me. That’ll make us look twice as silly or half as silly – I haven’t worked it out. Which reminds me – I have some work to do. But I’ll be down just before ten.’

  He wasn’t, but it was only about quarter past ten when they arrived at the police station. It was so near that even Alan, who hated walking, agreed that they needn’t take his car. That was one reason why Maggie didn’t feel fussed about marching into a police station: this one was so near home. The other reason was that she had now seen so many police stations on television.

  This one didn’t look any different, and the sergeant across the counter was first so polite and then so much like a kind uncle that Maggie began to feel they were all characters on television. He listened quite carefully and made a few notes on his pad. But his meaty face, his uniform, the telephones that kept ringing, the general atmosphere of the place, did combine to make their appeal to him look very small and silly. Alan did almost all the talking. Maggie felt that while the sergeant might be ready to lend her a handkerchief, give her a cup of tea, pat her hand, he wouldn’t want to listen to her very long. And Alan, of course, was really on the sergeant’s side; they formed immediately, on sight, one of those irritating masculine alliances.

  ‘Well, let’s see, now,’ the sergeant said finally, still their dear old uncle no doubt but not having any more time to spare for them. ‘Mr Edward Culworth packs a bag and takes the bus to Birkden yesterday early afternoon. All you know is that he was urgently called away – might be business – might be a private and personal matter. It’s inconvenient and a bit worrying that you don’t know where he is and when he’ll be coming back. Eh? Quite so. Well, I think you can take it for granted that he’s not met with a serious accident. All I can do is to put through a call to the Birkden police asking them to let us know about Mr Culworth if anything should come to their notice. And I must say I’d rather do that tomorrow night about this time – that is, if you’ve still heard nothing – than do it now.’

  ‘In other words,’ said Alan, ‘you really think we’re making a fuss about nothing.’

  ‘In these particular circumstances, sir – Mr Culworth being the sort of man you say he is – I don’t think we come into the picture yet.’

  ‘But why is he not telling us anything?’ This was Maggie, who felt she had to make one last protest.

  Then she wished she’d kept quiet, for now the sergeant gave her a bleak look. ‘He’s not a child, miss. He’s a responsible middle-aged man, and if he doesn’t choose to tell you everything he does, that’s not a police matter. Unless, of course, you haven’t told me all you know about him.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Maggie began furiously, but Alan, loud and clear, said, ‘But we have, Sergeant. Goodnight,’ and swept her out.

  ‘I’m sorry, Alan, but you saw how quite suddenly he stopped pretending to be so kind and fatherly. And that’s how they really are, I suppose.’

  ‘It’s how they have to be, Mag. But let’s stop all this fussing around. You heard what he said. Father’s all right. He’s minding his own business. We’ll mind ours.’

  ‘That’s all right for you. But I’m not just indulging in Mother’s kind of fuss. You forget that it’s his shop I’ve got on my hands, and unless he comes back soon, I shan’t know what the hell to do next.’ And then, to her disgust, she found herself noisily bursting into tears. And three youths, monsters from other planets, stopped and cried ‘Hoy – hoy!’ or something, and she grabbed Alan’s arm and broke almost into a trot – hurrying forward, we might say, into the maze.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Tuesday With Dr Salt

  1

  That same Tuesday, but during the morning, not in the evening, Dr Salt was also calling on the police. Their headquarters occupied one end of Birkden Town Hall, a very large building that looked as if an Italian palace was trying to get out of a warehouse. Dr Salt ran his car into a parking space labelled For Official Use Only. It was an old grey-green Citroën, not unlike an enormous battered frog. While Dr Salt was examining a crack across one of the headlights, a policeman arrived and told him he couldn’t park there.

  ‘I’m Dr Salt,’ he replied. ‘And I have an appointment with your Chief Constable. Now where do I go in – um?’

  Respectful now, the policeman showed him. Dr Salt had no appointment with the Chief Constable, had never even exchanged a word with the Chief Constable, but when a quick lie was called for, he believed in lying firmly and well. Moreover, he did want to talk to some police officer.

  The sergeant who seemed to be on desk duty was a man he knew called Broadbent. Mrs Broadbent had been a patient of his.

  ‘I didn’t expect to see you here, Doctor,’ said Broadbent, a smiling man. ‘And I heard you’d left us.’

  ‘Not yet – though I’ll be leaving quite soon. I’ve already handed over my practice – to Dr Baldwin – pleasant young fellow. Your wife will like him. Now I want to talk to somebody about a former patient of mine – young girl – who’s missing.’

  ‘Do you think it’s important, Dr Salt?’

  ‘Yes, I do. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here, Sergeant Broadbent. And I don’t want one of your ordinary CID chaps. I want to go as high as possible – please.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do, Dr Salt. Take a seat, won’t you?’ Dr Salt did, realizing that the tactful Broadbent was putting him out of earshot of the telephone. But having very good ears, he was able to make out that Broadbent was telling somebody he was a clever and reliable doctor, who had been kind to Mrs Broadbent, and there wouldn’t be any harm in listening to what he had to say even if it turned out to be something and nothing, sir.

  ‘You’re going as high as possible, Dr Salt,’ said Broadbent, pleased with himself. ‘Superintendent Hurst will see you. Straight along the corridor – last door but one on the left.’ He leant forward and became a conspirator. ‘And you’ll be doing me a favour, Doctor, if you make it sound important – even if it means piling it on a bit – you know—’

  ‘I don’t need to pile it on,’ said Dr Salt, not using the same whispering tone. ‘I suspect that everything’s been piled on already.’

  Superintendent Hurst was a big beefy man in his fifties who made his desk, the two chairs, his whole room, look too small. ‘Dr Salt? Think I’ve seen you in court once or twice, haven’t I? Giving evidence, I mean, not in the dock – eh?’ He followed this with one of those mechanical laughs that the other man is supposed to echo.

  Dr Salt didn’t even produce a smile. He stared steadily at a point somewhere between the superintendent’s eyes and his moustache.

  ‘Well, let’s sit down—’ The superintendent’s manner was not quite so hearty now – ‘then you can t
ell me what we can do for you – that is, if it’s any business of ours—’

  ‘If it isn’t yours, it’s somebody’s,’ Dr Salt told him firmly. ‘I’ve disposed of my practice here and I’ll be leaving Birkden shortly. I want to leave everything nice and tidy—’

  ‘I’d feel the same. In fact, I will be doing in a couple of years – when I retire. But what’s wrong?’

  ‘A patient of mine – a young girl called Noreen Wilks – is missing—’

  ‘Noreen Wilks.’ Hurst made a note of it, or at least pretended he did. ‘Can’t say I know that name. Give me a few particulars.’

  ‘Age nineteen, perhaps twenty now. Mother died about a year ago – sarcoma. Never mentioned her father. Probably cleared out and left them years ago. After her mother died she lodged with a Mrs Pearson – I have the address.’ Dr Salt pulled out a rather fat and untidy pocketbook. ‘Yes, Mrs Pearson – 45 Olton Street—’

  ‘Now just a minute, Doctor. I think that rings a bell. Hold on.’ He spoke on his intercom to an Inspector Frith and asked him about Mrs Pearson of Olton Street. And it was soon obvious that neither of them cared for her. ‘That’s it,’ he continued to Dr Salt. ‘Nothing much wrong with my memory. Yes, we’ve had her here twice, screaming her head off – half pissed each time, I gather. And about this same Noreen Wilks, who’s gone off somewhere, not telling anybody. What sort of girl would you say she was, Dr Salt?’

  ‘What you’d expect from a bad background and the kind of muck the papers and magazines feed these girls now. Not vicious, as she might have been with that background, no real harm in her, but empty-headed, sloppy, silly.’

  ‘Just another of these little fly-by-nights,’ cried Hurst triumphantly. ‘And Birkden’s full of ’em these days. I’m sorry, Dr Salt, but if you’re looking for her, then you’re just wasting your time.’

 

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