Plain Murder

by C. S. Forester

  ‘And you’ll be coming there, too, Miss Campbell,’ he said.

  Morris could have had Lamb, or Howlett, or Oldroyd, or even Shepherd for the matter of that. The first two were good average workers. Oldroyd might have been the wisest choice, when all was said and done. He would have been able to keep his eye on Oldroyd, and perhaps cover up some of his deficiencies. But he was yielding to his inclination and his ambitions. He wanted to have Miss Campbell with him. That was partly because he had grown to like having her at his side. But also it was because he wanted to establish himself well in her favour in case Fate should make him a widower. He already had a lurking suspicion that something like that might happen.

  18

  There is no need now to describe in detail the astounding success of the Ultra-violet Soap Distributive Bonus Scheme. That is a matter of advertising history now. It is quoted in manuals of the profession, and advertising men all the world over imitate its details slavishly. It was a lottery to which the police could not find any objection; the money distributed, which apparently came from the firm, actually came from the pockets of the public. It held the public spellbound; it sent up the sales of Ultra-violet Soap amazingly – as was only to be expected of a public who were quite prepared to believe in a connection (implied, though hardly expressed) between a perfume of violets and the benignant properties of ultra-violet light. The newspapers were forced to give it publicity it had not paid for. Soon the most definite proof of its renown was reached, when the Bonus Scheme became a subject for music-hall gags. Yet such was Mr Campbell’s nature that he could never help commenting to himself, with a wry smile, on the incongruity which rewarded Oldroyd for his idea with a pound a week rise in salary at the same time as Mr Campbell himself was pocketing more than a hundred times as much.

  But there was one person to whom this success was a source of irritation, and that, of course, was Morris. He threw himself heart and soul into the work of the scheme, as was his wont, but the more it succeeded (and it soon reached a pitch when it ran itself and it would have taken a clever man to stop it) the more, in a cross-grained kind of way, it annoyed him. For one thing, he was infuriated by every single remark (and they were frequent enough) made by the staff about Oldroyd’s brilliance in thinking of the plan. For another, Mr Braithwaite began to discover that Oldroyd was by no means a genius, and this although his work showed some signs of improvement now that he was not in the same room as Morris. Braithwaite, of course, was intensely jealous of both Morris and Oldroyd. As a man of forty who had been writing advertising copy for twenty-four years, he was jealous of Morris as his senior, although ten years his junior in age; and he was jealous of Oldroyd because he had thought of the biggest idea of the advertising century, and because that fact gave him a privileged position in the copy room, of which Oldroyd for the life of him could hardly help but take advantage. Soon that became a chronic grievance of Braithwaite’s. He harped upon Oldroyd’s inefficiency at every possible moment, to Oldroyd himself, to Morris, and to Mr Campbell. For one thing, he thought that it displayed the independence of his character not to be overawed by the prestige of the man who thought of the Ultra-violet Bonus Scheme. The unfortunate Oldroyd found that he had gained nothing at all by changing from under Morris’s supervision to Braithwaite’s.

  All the same that young man had drawn moral as well as material benefit from his apparent invention of the scheme. The respect and awe with which the others on the staff regarded him somehow did him good; although he felt that he did not deserve their homage on the grounds on which it was offered, he somehow could not help coming to feel that he deserved it for some reason or other not so apparent. A pound a week rise in salary and a substantial bonus made a difference to him. He could afford slightly better clothes and better food, and a balance of twenty pounds in his newly opened bank account gave him a solid feeling of security. Moreover, without particularly trying to do so, he had gained a substantial victory over Morris, the man whom he most feared and hated in all the world. Oldroyd really began to feel that he was somebody, and, quite curiously, his walk and gait began to display a jaunty swagger a little reminiscent of Morris’s.

  And more than that: a little consideration led him to decide to take the offensive against Morris. In accordance with the best tactical theory (although Oldroyd did not think of it like that), having repulsed Morris’s attack upon his solid position, he prepared to sally out from his entrenchments and put him utterly to rout, picking up what booty was to be gained during the process. So accustomed had he become to a life of strenuous action and excitement that he felt quite a pleasant anticipatory thrill one day, when he walked across the landing in the office buildings and passed through the door which led into the den of the lion he was about to beard.

  In the first room sat Morris’s new typist, to whom he nodded familiarly. She could barely afford the time to nod back to him, so hard was she at work for a taskmaster who knew all about the ways of a staff. In the next room was Clarence, in his usual happy position with his legs on his table on each side of his drawing board, contriving even in that impossible attitude to produce neat lettering for Morris’s latest ideas for promoting the Bonus Scheme.

  ‘Hullo!’ said Clarence.

  ‘Hullo!’ said Oldroyd. ‘Morris in?’

  Clarence wagged his head towards the adjoining room, with its door of frosted glass.

  ‘His lordship’s in there,’ he said. ‘Likewise her ladyship.’

  ‘Miss Campbell, d’you mean?’

  ‘I do, my son. It’s quite a usual place for her nowadays.’

  ‘Do you mean to say that—’

  ‘I don’t mean to say anything. I’m too clever.’

  Oldroyd sat down on Miss Campbell’s vacant desk and swung his legs.

  ‘I’ll wait then. I don’t want to interrupt.’

  ‘I don’t know what you want with his lordship, but you stand much more chance of getting it if you don’t interrupt, I can tell you,’ said Clarence.

  Oldroyd did not have to wait long. It was only a short time before the glass door opened and Miss Campbell emerged, papers in hand. She smiled welcomingly on Oldroyd.

  ‘Why, Mr Oldroyd, how are you? I don’t get a chance of seeing much of you nowadays, after the move.’

  Oldroyd regarded her with an eye which recent experiences had sharpened amazingly, but even his keen glance could detect no sign of guilty innocence in her attitude or demeanour. Nor was there anything for it to detect. Miss Campbell still regarded Morris as no more than her departmental chief. Even if Morris were a much more distinct personality to her than the elegant young men she met socially, he was ages older than her (as she would have said), and he was a married man, and he had manners and an accent which made him quite impossible to her mind. Morris did not realize this in the least. He thought he was making progress.

  And he, who had set out to conquer, was fast becoming the conquered. He was finding more and more pleasure in Miss Campbell’s company; so much so that that young lady was being called upon to spend much more time at the second table in Morris’s private room than at her own in the outer one.

  When Oldroyd had exchanged a few casual remarks with Miss Campbell, he rose in leisurely fashion and strolled over to Morris’s door.

  Although he did not know it, his attitude of imperturbable sang-froid was modelled on what he had seen of Morris’s behaviour at other crises. He knocked at the door and entered.

  Morris was seated at his desk in the room of which he was so proud. It was furnished as nicely as was Mr Campbell’s, with two padded armchairs and an enamelled steel desk, a steel table for a stenographer, a dictaphone and all the other refinements which could give balm to his soul. He frowned when he saw Oldroyd.

  ‘What do you want?’ he asked sharply, and that very sharpness in his tone told Oldroyd that Morris was rendered a little anxious at sight of him.

  Oldroyd maintained his impassive
demeanour. He sat down in one of the padded chairs and crossed his legs.

  ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’ he asked – but he asked the question after he had put a cigarette into his mouth and struck a match. The cigarette was alight before Morris could reply.

  The two then stared at each other again across the room. Oldroyd was enjoying himself hugely, despite the fact that his impassivity was only a disguise for a fast-beating heart and a lurking nervousness. He could see that Morris was disquietened by his untoward appearance.

  ‘What do you want?’ demanded Morris again.

  ‘Lots of things,’ said Oldroyd, blowing a cloud of smoke.

  ‘Well, what?’

  ‘I want a quieter life. I want Braithwaite to leave off hazing me. And I want another pound a week.’

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve said what I mean.’

  ‘If you want to get on the right side of Braithwaite, try doing a bit of work. That’s the quickest way. And I’m not the man to come to about a rise in salary. You ought to go to Braithwaite, or Mac – I mean Mr Campbell – if you feel like it. But you’re being paid twice what you’re worth already.’

  ‘Maybe so. But a word from you to Mac would get me a rise quicker than anything else. And you can arrange something so that Braithwaite can’t bother me. I wouldn’t mind being transferred here – even although I might intrude sometimes on you and Miss Campbell.’

  ‘What – what—?’ stammered Morris.

  Oldroyd might have been almost moved to pity for the man if he had not hated him so. The heavy coarse jaw had dropped; there were lines showing obviously about the mouth and eyes. Morris, in fact, was paying heavily for his recent successes. He had more to lose now, and he had begun to worry. This incredible revolt of Oldroyd’s left him weak with surprise. He was too astonished at the moment to be angry. Oldroyd’s broad hint about Miss Campbell touched him on his weakest spot.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said at last. It was only with a fierce effort that he was able to pull himself together to say even that.

  ‘Well, anyway, you know what I want. That’s all I wanted to tell you,’ said Oldroyd. ‘Now you can see that I get it.’

  ‘But you can’t do anything to me,’ protested Morris. The protest in his tone revealed the fact that he was not too sure of his ground.

  ‘Can’t I!’ said Oldroyd. ‘Don’t you think I can? Well, try me, if you like, and see.’

  Oldroyd felt quite pleased with himself as he withdrew at that psychological moment. He had not the least idea of what he could do if Morris challenged him to do his worst. But he knew that Morris was anxious about him. And he knew that a man who has committed two murders, and a married man at that, with designs on his employer’s daughter, can afford to run no risks whatever. In Oldroyd’s shrewd opinion, the time was now past when Morris would dare greatly when a safer and weaker course was open to him.

  The man he left behind him in the room behind the glass door may have been of the same opinion at first. Morris, at his desk, sat utterly stunned for a while. It was several minutes before his flamboyant courage came to his rescue. He had faced worse crises than this; he had come through worse dangers. For a moment he was tempted to flout Oldroyd and his threats; to tell the little whipper-snapper to do his very worst and be damned to him. But that was not a course which, on further consideration, made any special appeal to Morris. As Oldroyd had foreseen, a threat from an individual possessed of so much knowledge was very efficacious even if it apparently had nothing special to back it up. Morris had heard something about blackmailers. He knew that their demands were ceaseless and increasing. He did not want to dare Oldroyd’s threat, but he knew that if he yielded on this occasion he would return shortly with some more impudent demand still. ‘Impudent’ was the exact word. Morris felt the old working of his rage within him as he thought of Oldroyd’s impudence. He hated the fellow, hated him on many more counts than one: for the way he had usurped the credit for Morris’s own scheme, for the knowledge he possessed, for the way in which he had foiled Morris’s attempt upon him, for this last insolence – even for his wispy moustache and pug nose. A quarter of an hour’s meditation brought Morris back to his old condition of furious rage. His fingers, as he sat with his hands on the desk in front of him, writhed and twisted with the thought of brutal physical violence towards Oldroyd. They itched for murder. Morris began to make new plans – plans within plans – for already a new scheme of his which has not yet been mentioned had begun to develop. His imaginative powers had sufficient stimulus now, surely.

  19

  Although Mr Morris now had a room and a department to himself, it was not at all unusual for him to appear in the old copy room. He had plenty of reasons for coming there, if only (as was the case on this occasion) while waiting for Mr Campbell to finish an interview with a visitor before entering his room to consult with him on some fresh point or other which had arisen. So on that afternoon there was nothing surprising about Morris’s entrance into the copy room; no one noticed how keenly he looked about him when he entered, and, as he returned there after the copy room staff had left, no one knew that the first visit had been one in search of something, nor that on the second he had taken away a length of rope, strong and supple, which had come into the office bound round a bundle of samples and had continued to lie for some days under Oldroyd’s desk. The natural assumption of anyone in the office, should attention be called to the fact that the rope was missing, would be that Oldroyd had taken it away.

  That evening Morris did not go straight home to his wife and family. Seven o’clock found him striding along the twilit streets three miles or so from his home; quite near Oldroyd’s lodgings, in fact. His mind was working at double its usual pace, stimulated in part by the pleasant exercise of rapid walking. The intense hatred of Oldroyd which was consuming him did not cloud his judgment; it sharpened it. He ran through detail after detail of the plan he was about to put into action, and he could find no flaw. He fingered, as he walked, the coil of rope in his pocket with fierce delight. He felt a surge of joy throughout his being as he realized that in a few minutes he would be at grips with Oldroyd. It would not be a casual, distant affair, not a shooting or a poisoning or a motorcycle accident, but a fierce clutching of body against body, a desperate physical encounter. Morris’s hands opened and shut, and he felt delicious anticipatory thrills at the thought of being at grips with Oldroyd. Although at the same time he must not allow his delight in such an encounter to be over-indulged so as to interfere with the correct arrangement of the circumstantial evidence. Morris might be a madman by now, but he was at least a cunning madman, a daring madman. He was in consequence a hideous menace to society. It is possible that Oldroyd had appreciated this point in a vague sort of way.

  Morris looked at his watch. Oldroyd would have finished his supper and would be alone in his room now. Morris felt the noose in his pocket and strode up to the front door. The little servant girl answered his knock, just as she had done months before on the night when Harrison died.

  ‘All right; I know my way,’ said Morris, and he had the forethought to give the girl the bold smile which endeared him to servant girls and teashop waitresses. She would not be able to testify to any strangeness in his behaviour on admittance. He held the noose clutched in his left hand within his overcoat pocket as he ran lightly up the stairs. For a man of his bulk he moved with remarkable rapidity and noiselessness – he was taking care to do so. He ran up the stairs to the second floor. Without any obvious haste, and yet without delay, he crossed the landing in a single stride. His right hand gripped the door handle as he did so. He pushed open the door, slipped into the room and shut the door instantly behind him, and even as he closed the door he whipped the noose from out of his pocket.

  Oldroyd was sitting beside the gas fire which his rise in salary had procured for him. He was reading the evening paper, and whe
n the door opened suddenly he began to look round to see who was entering so silently and yet so unceremoniously. His eyes lighted upon Morris, huge in his heavy overcoat, and in that instant glance Oldroyd saw upon Morris’s face an expression which was horrible to contemplate. Oldroyd had only a fraction of a second in which to contemplate it, for as the door closed behind him Morris drew something from his pocket and leaped silently upon him across the room. Oldroyd had hardly begun to rise from his chair before the noose was about his neck. One of Morris’s huge arms was round his chest in a grip of steel, holding both his arms like a vice. The other hand pulled at the noose. Oldroyd felt it tighten. He felt a hideous pain in his throat, while at the same moment Morris, with a madman’s display of strength, swung him up from the floor with his single arm and began to bear him across the room – over to the corner where there were hooks screwed to the wall eight feet or more from the floor. Oldroyd’s senses swam. Morris’s fierce gasping breath in his ear seemed to increase in volume, until it swelled into an enormous noise like the rhythmical beating of an organ. Yet at the same time Oldroyd knew that Morris was being deadly silent, that he was carrying his heavy burden across the room on feet as silent as a tiger’s. Oldroyd realized, on the point of unconsciousness, how important was this silence to Morris. Instantly he guessed that his one hope of safety lay in breaking this silence. He struggled in Morris’s grip, and his voluntary struggles became more violent as they merged in the spasmodic involuntary writhings of slow suffocation. Even in his agony of pain and fear Oldroyd retained some of his native wits. He made a huge effort to kick over the dressing-table as they went past it, and his toe missed it in a wild upward kick by no more than three inches. He heaved, writhed and struggled in Morris’s grasp, while, remorseless as death, Morris bore him steadily over towards those hooks. One hand broke from under Morris’s arms and clutched at the bedpost. Morris wrenched and tore to break the grip, but although the bed moved the fingers would not let go. Panting with exertion, Morris tugged and twisted, while Oldroyd’s heels hacked at his knees and shins. The fingers would not let go. Morris released his grip of the end of the rope and reached out towards the fingers. A convulsion stronger than any preceding it distorted Oldroyd’s body. The fingers quitted the bedpost and shot back, summoned by a wild instinct of self-preservation, to the noose about his neck. They loosened it by the merest, tiniest half-inch. Oldroyd was able to take his first breath since Morris’s entrance. It was only a little one, and Oldroyd crowed oddly as he gulped the air, but some went down into his lungs. Then, just as Morris’s arm came back to seize the hand which held the noose, Oldroyd was able to save his own life. He screamed, as well as the noose would permit. At first no sound came, but as he writhed and struggled he was able to make some sort of noise. It was a pitiful squeak, like that of a rabbit which has long been in a trap, but it was a piercing noise, and it was maintained for several seconds before Morris could tug anew at the noose and cut it off again.