Vera shuddered. “I call that cruel!”
Tom laughed. “Why? They’re only vermin, aren’t they? I tell you it’s good sport! They’re that artful!” He winked at her and, half lifting his hand in farewell, went on his way to the street entrance. The patter of the mice was so loud that it might have been the shuffling of feet.
Vera stood for a moment looking after him and indulged in a meaningless sigh before climbing the half flight and returning to her bedroom. She was perfectly familiar with its appearance, but automatically she glanced around to see if everything was as it should be. The tall screen which cut off the wash basin in the corner, which he had not used, the chest of drawers, the wide rumpled bed, her dressing table with its triple mirror, the stool, and a large rather battered Panda doll completed the furnishings. Locking the door, she threw off her kimona and crossed to tidy up the litter of bottles and cardboard boxes that were scattered on the plate-glass top of her dressing table.
As she did so she saw the glint of gold. Among the clutter of spilled powder, tissues and manicure requisites lay three crumpled pound notes and Tom’s large hunter watch and chain. She picked it up, fingering the massive links. Lovely, it was, a proper gentleman’s possession. Snatching up her kimona again she ran to the window and peered down. There he was, oddly squat and fore-shortened from this height, pausing to relight his cigarette. She flung up the sash and called to him. “Tom!” Without waiting for an answer she withdrew the key from the keyhole and threw it down. He had started to walk away.
“Tom! You’ve forgotten your watch and chain,” she called. “Come back and get it. I can’t come down like this. Come on back up, dear.”
Apparently he had not heard her. She looked after his retreating back. The key lay unnoticed on the kerb.
Vera was greatly nettled. “A fine thing!” she said aloud. “The stupid bull-necked bum! Who does he think he is, I’d like to know! And now I’ve gone and put myself in purdah! It would be just my luck if the house should catch on fire. A fine thing, I must say! A nice way for a gentleman to behave!”
Tom decided to walk home. The dawn was paling the sky above the roof tops. It would, he calculated, take him the best part of half an hour, and the walk would do him good; and, in any case, he hadn’t to report for duty until ten. Overhead he heard a window being raised and his name called. He would not listen to her. He grinned as he began to walk away. Wanted more money he supposed. His jaw jutted sullenly. He’d be damned if he’d give her any more. These women were all alike. Did not seem capable of appreciating generosity. He’d left three quid, which was generous really as there hadn’t been anything fancy. He rubbed his chin, his fingers rasping against the dark wiry stubble of his beard for he hadn’t had a chance to shave since early morning. When he’d been abroad in the army he’d had a dozen better at a quarter of the price who’d really known their job! It was all rather a waste of time, but you couldn’t eat the same pudding every day. You needed variety in the sex game as in other things. Something tinkled on the asphalt behind him. His powerful body swung along through the fresh morning stillness as he drew deep contented breaths into his lungs.
It was not until he reached the house where he was staying that he discovered that his watch and chain were missing, for on one end of it he always carried his latchkey, in the lower right-hand pocket of his waistcoat, together with his penknife.
He stopped in his tracks. Hell take the little slut! Fortunately he remembered the address, so she wasn’t going to get away with it this time. Belonged to his father that watch had, and the chain must be worth a tidy bit too, gold being the price it was. The barman at the Warrington had said only tonight that he wished that he had had one like it. All of three ounces it weighed and every link was marked. His loss made him feel inadequately dressed, almost as if he’d come out without his tie. He remembered seeing it on the dressing-table when he’d been pressing the bone stud through his starched collar and while he had been adjusting his tie knot in the leprous-looking glass. He’d go right back and find a copper and they’d force their way in together if that little tramp tried any funny business. His face flushed with pardonable anger, hot in righteous and surly outrage at having been robbed by a cheap little whore who hadn’t even been good at her work.
What had been the name of that girl who had called him “Mr. Atlas” and who had said that he could have it for free? Maisie? Daisy? Something of the kind. It was so long ago that he could no longer recall. She’d been a bit of all right, that one, reminded him of Betty Grable. Quite a dish!
He wondered what she’d think of him now. He’d always been a heavyweight, and in his Army days, during his twenties, he’d known how to use the gloves. Been rather a glamour boy too, or so they used to tell him, although with the passing of the years he had to admit that he had thickened out and was becoming all belly and arse. So far as women were concerned he was none the worse for that, for they appreciated something substantial fore and aft. It made a nice change from all those wasp-waisted sissies.
It was daylight when he got back to the turning which led to Hanover Mansions. A bored young patrolman was standing yawning at the corner of the street. Tom Hutton crossed over to him and related his grievance. Rocking gently from toe to heel the man listened to him attentively.
“Isn’t that too bad!” he said, grinning, when the story was finished. Then he smiled. “O.K. I’ll come along. The girl sounds like our Vera—although it’s the first time I’ve had a complaint about her. She must be slipping!”
They walked off together, their footsteps echoing on the deserted pavements. As they neared the house the policeman’s foot struck something which clinked softly. He bent down and saw it was a key. Mechanically he dropped it into a pocket. Without speaking they climbed the hollowed wooden stairs.
Leonard heard their approach and, straightening up, padded back to his hiding place.
The young policeman knocked on the door. There was no answer. He threw Tom a questioning look.
“Number 18,” Tom said. “Yes, that’s the flat right enough.”
“Come on, Vera,” said the patrolman loudly. “Open up. It’s Dick Casey here.” His voice was slow and gruff. “Want a word with you to clear up a misunderstanding.”
There was no reply from within although they could see a streak of light struggling with the day through a slit in the warped panel.
“If you don’t open the door I’ll have to break in,” Casey said reasonably. “I’m afraid you’re in trouble, ducks.” There was a certain kindly tolerance in the way he said the words. “A gentleman here says he has been robbed.”
Silence was the only answer. The two big men looked at each other in the early morning light. Casey shrugged. Again and more insistently he knocked on the panel. “As you like, Vera,” he called, “but we’re coming in!” He seemed worried by the lack of response and glanced at Tom questioningly. Of course she might have gone out again, but it was unlikely at this hour. There was a quality in the silence that seemed to bode no good. He rapped peremptorily on the wood once more.
Then he put his shoulder to it. The door swung open with surprising ease, for the woodwork was rotten and worm-eaten and, caught unawares, he stumbled forward into the room. Beyond him Tom saw Vera lying across the bed. She was naked, and her throat was torn and her thighs deeply gouged, as if she had been savaged by a mad dog. Nearby, on the threadbare carpet, lay the gold watch and chain.
Casey twisted his head and looked at Tom Hutton grimly. At first glance the room appeared to be empty, until from behind the screen there started the sound of an exhausted panting and whimpering as if from an animal in distress, a desperate cornered beast.
THE INTERLOPER
Gillian Woodstock had lived on Saint Dominique for most of her life, since, indeed, she had been eighteen months old. The island was tiny and remote, a pinpoint on the larger scale maps,
and it was midway between Saint Vincent and Saint Lucia.
Saint Dominique had been purchased by Lavinia Mason shortly before the outbreak of war for what would now be considered as having been “a song.” Lavinia had returned to England for the war years, in the process of which she had collected several outstanding decorations for her services with the Maquis and in other parts of Europe where she had done much invaluable work in liaison with the Résistances.
Hermione, Gillian’s mother, had met Lavinia Mason during the last year of the hostilities. Hermione had been recently widowed, for her husband, Mervyn Woodstock, had been a casualty in Normandy while landing on D-Day, leaving her with very little money with which to bring up and educate their daughter. Hermione should have been heartbroken by his death but, in fact, the only sensation that she had felt was one of relief, tempered by worry about her financial future.
She had never really loved Mervyn. She had endured his amorous advances with concealed distaste and had married him solely for the prospect of a modicum of security when peace might finally come. After he had been killed she had no income of her own, apart from her pension and what she made, and she was bored with her job in the typists’ pool in a hush-hush Government department. She was as pretty and flaxen as a china doll, and possessed a streak of hardness combined with an ability for self-preservation which were denied by her appealingly fragile looks.
Mervyn had been in the Commandos, a tough and uncomplicated character who had revelled in the cloak-and-dagger activities to which he had sometimes been assigned. He was thickset and dark, and was inclined to drink far more than he could carry, when he invariably became aggressive, which Hermione had found a great trial. In civilian life he had been, oddly enough, a minor executive in a leading cosmetics firm. He had been hardworking and a thruster, and upon his enlisting it had been understood that his position would be kept open for him, so although he had no capital his prospects had been good. He was, as Hermione had realized at once, rather common; and had looked better in his uniform, with the glamour of its green beret than he would have done when he returned to “Civvy Street”.
Hermione had encountered Lavinia Mason at a cocktail party given by Mike Bland, who was her boss and who had labored with considerable success in the network of M.I.5, although the work which Hermione performed for him was at a distance, since it filtered through to her by way of the alert and elderly Miss Duncan, who herself attended to all confidential matters. Major Bland’s manner was deceptive, for behind his lackadaisical effeminacy there was a keen brain and iron determination.
The gathering had been held in Mike’s flat in Albany, and had been what Miss Duncan had described as “high powered”. Miss Duncan had not been best pleased by Hermione’s inclusion on the guest list, and had rightly put her invitation down to her baby face and emphatically feminine personality which, when off duty, her officers were likely to appreciate. Lavinia Mason had arrived in England only that same afternoon and her attendance at the function had been in the nature of a surprise.
Lavinia was elegant and poised and as detached and self-sufficient as a Harper’s model. She was also extremely talented, speaking perfect French and German, and was imbued with the courage of a lion, without which she could not have carried out her tasks. Unexpected though her arrival had been, she assumed immediately the role of Major Bland’s guest of honor, and he was somewhat taken aback when for most of the evening she devoted herself almost exclusively to Hermione Woodstock. Following that first meeting Lavinia had spent the bulk of her time with her during the short periods when she had been recalled from France for the delivery of reports and further briefings. Miss Duncan had confided that she had already become something of a legend.
It had been Lavinia who had happened to be with Hermione when she had received the news of Mervyn’s death, and it had been Lavinia who had said abruptly to her once her tears, which had been from shock rather than sadness, had dried: “You never loved him, darling, did you? It is unnecessary to pretend with me. You can’t have loved him because . . .” she had hesitated for the space of a few seconds, “because you don’t like men any more than I do.” There had been a moment of tension, and then Lavinia had kissed her very tenderly, and the barriers had been down.
On the next evening, after Hermione had finished work and when they had been out together to dine, they were sitting in the uninspiring surroundings of Hermione’s furnished flat, which was really a bed-sitting room and a bathroom-kitchenette. Gillian had been evacuated to her grandmother in Torquay to escape the bombing. Hermione was darning a stocking. She put it down on her knee and glanced across at Lavinia. “Were you always . . . like you are?”
Lavinia smiled. “I knew almost from childhood . . . what I was. I suppose in that way I was lucky. There was no need to pretend to myself.” She stretched out in her chair and lit a cigarette, her long legs pointing to the gas fire. “It was not until after I was taken by the S.S. that my aversion to the male sex became what I must admit has grown into a phobia.” She narrowed her eyes against the smoke of the cigarette, and when she spoke again her voice sounded impersonal. “I have always hated men if they tried to be close to me in any way. I have never been able to bear one to touch me, even my own father. Then, in the summer of ’forty-two I was pulled in by the Gestapo. They tried their customary routine to extract information, beatings up with truncheons, solitary confinement and starvation—followed by hour upon hour of incessant questioning —and burning with the stubs of their cigars and cigarettes, but they were unable to make me talk.
“A woman named Françoise Melun was the one who betrayed me, and she it was who told them of my . . . character. The men of the Maquis had always respected me. You can well imagine how those bloody thugs of the S.S. enjoyed themselves after they had talked with Madame Melun. Seven of them systematically raped me in turn in a cellar under their Avenue Foch headquarters. Two orderlies stripped me and held me down while the officers stood in a circle in their gleaming jack-boots and tight black breeches, watching and laughing and making jokes.
“The first was of course their senior, a Major Fallada, a big blonde brute of a man whom some, I suppose, might have considered handsome. The last was a lieutenant in his early twenties, a Baron Erik von something, I never heard his surname. He was thin and wiry, and lustful, as vicious as a ferret, and I loathed him the most of all. I hope even now that he was not killed but that he will die of cancer.” Her lips were a tight scarlet line.
“Françoise Melun stood in the background egging them on and offering revolting advice, and screeching throughout like a peahen.” Lavinia crushed out her cigarette with a stab and her eyes hardened. “During the days of the liberation many old scores were paid off, and I found her, the filthy bitch, and had the pleasure of slowly garrotting her with my own hands.”
She fell silent, and then continued: “Those delightful debauches went on every night for a week, but I managed to remain sane. At exactly a quarter past nine, when they had finished their dinner and brandy, they would all of them file into my cell and we would have a repetition—with variations! A few days later I was rescued while I was being transferred to the prison at Fresnes, and in due course I discovered that I was pregnant, which was the final humiliation. I tried unsuccessfully to get rid of the baby. It was a boy, and when it was born I wanted to kill it, but the couple who were hiding me on their farm and to whom I had confided a part of my story were sentimental fools, and too quick, and they took it away from me. They told me afterwards that they had left it on the steps of a church with a label pinned to its coat bearing the name of its probable father. Probable!” Lavinia laughed. “They saw fit to choose that of Fallada in preference to Baron Erik! But then, they were Communists! Perhaps now you will understand why I detest all men. Those officers behaved worse than they would have done had they been in the lowest brothel. It must have been infinitely more fun for them outraging a creature of m
y sort than raping a nun or a cripple, for they were violating not only a body but a soul. I was a taunt to their masculinity because they knew I despised it.”
From under her lashes Hermione looked at the woman who was sitting opposite to her, and who had told her story so calmly. She felt humbled. It was incredible what people could suffer and still survive. “And yet after that you twice went back to occupied France?”
Lavinia shrugged. “I have never hated my country. It was my duty.”
They had gone together to Saint Dominique early in 1946, and apart from Lavinia’s occasional business visits to Saint Lucia or Saint Vincent they had never left it since. Hermione had discovered that Lavinia, or “Larry” as she preferred to be called, was immensely rich, and she had turned the island into a luxurious and forbidden territory, an “Adamless Eden,” as she had herself described it.
In the years immediately after the close of the war a number of women of similar outlook to her own, but of a different class, had been encouraged to join her colony. There were six in all, who acted in various capacities, and who were addressed always by their surnames, a custom which they employed also among themselves. Springfield, Hulze, Paulot, Groves, Dumby and Hibbersley. They occupied three bungalows within sight of the big house. In addition there were twenty or so colored women who tended the banana plantation, looked after the garden and kept up the road to the little jetty.
The Smell of Evil Page 21