The Players And The Game

by Julian Symons

  ‘This isn’t theory. I’ve taken it over to the lab and they’ve checked it out. I happened to notice it going through the file.’ He tried to speak with becoming modesty. He put on the table the note typed to the postman Rogers and its accompanying envelope, then put beside it the estate agent’s typed particulars of Planter’s Place. The particulars had been issued by Borrowdale and Trapney. The lab had made a note of the similar characteristics between them. There could be no doubt that they had been typed on the same machine.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Last Extracts from a Journal

  Monday

  Bonnie. I can think about nothing else, write about nothing else. She has planted herself on me, this revolting pudding made in the shape of a woman. She says that we are together, that I must look after her. I have offered her the money from the magazine, not because I fear her but because she must go away. Take it, I said. She will not go. She wants us to go together, talks about assuming fresh identities, what she calls ‘starting up again’. She wants to find more girls.

  I reject her utterly. I despise her. She is the flesh, I am the spirit.

  I reject her. But she is in my home, her snout is stuck into my books, she giggles and snuffles and shows her body to me, asking for what I shall not give her. She talks about the past, which I refuse to remember. I belong to the future.

  This miserable swine-snout has a revolver. Apparently she bought it through one of the boys in Dulwich, after a man came in and threatened her. That may be true. Anyway, she has a revolver and says she knows how to use it.

  She sits in my room, filthy, sluttish, brooding on my books like a spider. I have taken this notebook away in case she sees it. She would give her meaningless fat laugh when she read it, would say it showed I was crazy.

  She is under the impression that she is sane.

  I can no longer tolerate her.

  Comments and Reflections. The man who started to keep this notebook no longer exists. That man wrote letters signed Abel, which was the mask of Bela, he was Count Dracula and played always a game of masks. His life was all a pretence, but I have turned pretence into reality, I have experienced in my own body and soul what the Master called the Transvaluation of All Values. When my troubles run deepest, and they are now very deep, I read his words and am comforted. I set down three quotations.

  ‘Morality is a way of turning one’s back on the will to existence.’

  ‘None of you has the courage to kill a man, or even to whip him.’

  ‘We resist the idea that all great human beings have been criminals (only in the grand and not in a miserable style), that crime belongs to greatness.’

  I take all these words for my own. Such words were my deeds. ‘Pain is something different from pleasure – I mean it is not its opposite,’ He said. Yet pleasure, and the will to power over others, is inextricably mixed with pain.

  Because I say these things, and have fulfilled my words, should I be called mad? I can face the name.

  He also became at last what the world calls mad. To Strindberg He signed himself Nietzsche Caesar, said that He had summoned a Council of Princes at Rome and would have the young Kaiser shot. He said that He had had Calaphas put in chains, and had abolished Bismarck and all anti-Semites. Or He believed himself to be the Godhead and promised to arrange good weather. These dream imaginings were possible only to a man who had abandoned all worldly masks.

  From this moment I abandon them too. The Game and the Players belong to the past. I have endured, have suffered, have achieved the Transvaluation of All Values, I am Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche. Everything else in my life was a pretence.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The Right Piece Falls into Place

  ‘Sergeant Plender I have met before, but a Chief Inspector,’ Mr Borrowdale said. ‘Dear me. I take it that you want to see me about the unhappy affair at Planter’s Place. Although what is unhappy for one may be happy for others. Do you know that I have sold the property? And that I had the pleasure of turning down two offers before accepting this one? Morbid curiosity is a wonderful thing. But how can I help you?’

  He flexed his large hands, and his walnut-sized knuckles cracked. It struck Plender that he was uneasy, but he knew that many people are made uneasy by the presence of the police. Plender had spent a busy half-hour on the telephone finding out something about the estate agent. He was a widower, was looked after by a housekeeper, and had been for some years a member of the town council. There was no longer a Trapney, and his business was not flourishing. The general opinion was that he needed a partner.

  Hazleton had decided on a direct, although not impolite approach. ‘Mr Borrowdale, I believe your firm uses or has used an Adler typewriter.’

  ‘Have we really? I didn’t know that. I’ll just ask Mrs Stephenson.’ He began to get up. Plender rose at the same moment.

  ‘I’ll do it if you don’t mind.’

  A middle-aged woman and a young girl sat in the outer office. The woman was using a Remington typewriter, the girl was doing filing. Plender closed the door of Borrowdale’s office behind him. ‘Mrs Stephenson, I wonder if you’d mind answering one or two questions.’

  Mrs Stephenson had a bosom like a shelf, and a militant look. She said to the girl, ‘Rose, you can have half an hour off for shopping.’

  ‘How do you mean? I don’t want any shopping.’

  ‘Go out, and don’t come back for half an hour.’

  ‘But it’s raining.’

  ‘Then go and stand in a doorway and watch the rain.’

  ‘Oh, I see. You don’t want me here.’ She put on her coat and went out.

  Mrs Stephenson sighed. ‘Girls aren’t what they used to be, and the change is for the worse. Now, Sergeant, if you are going to ask questions about Mr Borrowdale’s affairs, I should prefer him to be present.’

  ‘I’ve asked him this same question, and he referred me to you. It’s very simple. Do you use an Adler typewriter, or have you had one in the past?’

  ‘No.’

  Plender was taken aback. Mrs Stephenson looked the incarnation of the President of every Mothers’ Union. His surprise was obvious, and she took matronly pity on him.

  ‘I have worked for ten years in this office, and I have never used any machine except that one.’

  He ran a hand through his hair. ‘There is another type-writer. Or there was. There must have been.’

  ‘Young man, are you calling me a liar?’ The thought was terrible. You may take my word for it that no other typewriter has been used here except this one. I call it Old Faithful.’

  He gulped, and then produced the particulars of Planter’s Place. ‘Then where did this come from? It was issued by your firm, and typed on an Adler.’

  She looked at the sheet as though it were unclean. ‘That was not typed in this office. Of course the property has been sold now, but these are the details we sent out.’ She crossed to the girl’s table, and brought back a sheet which she handed to him. The wording was almost identical, but the typewriter used was obviously a different one.

  He ran a hand through his hair again. ‘Mr Borrowdale himself gave me that one. It’s got your letterhead at the top.’

  The great plateau of Mrs Stephenson’s bosom almost touched him. ‘So it has. But it was not typed here. I can only suggest that you ask him where it came from.’ With motherly amusement she said, You might run a comb through your hair first. It’s standing on end.’

  He returned to Borrowdale’s office in a slightly dazed condition, and gave the two sheets to Hazleton. ‘Mrs Stephenson says they’ve never had any typewriter but her Remington, which typed this one but not the other.’

  Hazleton tapped the one typed on the Adler. ‘You say Mr Borrowdale gave you this one himself.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  The DCI addressed Borrowdale. ‘Where did it come from?’

  The estate agent flexed and cracked again. Then he grinned politely, showing yellow horse teeth. ‘U
pon my word, I’m afraid I have no idea.’

  Hazleton’s eyes popped dangerously. ‘You gave it to Sergeant Plender yourself.’

  ‘I did? Does it matter very much?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Borrowdale. Very much.’

  ‘It came from the cabinet behind you,’ Plender said. ‘Perhaps there are some more copies in there.’

  ‘I usually keep just one or two copies of particulars in here.’ He went to the cabinet. Plender stood behind him. ‘Yes, here we are. I gave you one, and here’s another. That’s the lot, I’m afraid.’

  Plender looked at it. ‘But this is typed on your own Remington.’

  ‘I’ve had enough of this, Mr Borrowdale,’ Hazleton said. ‘I don’t think you’re being frank with us.’

  Borrowdale now looked very nervous indeed. ‘Oh dear. May I have Mrs Stephenson in? I do rely on her a great deal, I’m afraid.’

  Hazleton nodded. Mrs Stephenson entered the room, massive and imperturbable. Borrowdale’s voice had a distinct quaver. ‘Mrs Stephenson, these gentlemen want to know where these particulars came from, and I simply have no idea. Please do try to help.’

  She folded massive arms. Not from this office.’

  Hazleton’s voice rose slightly. ‘But it’s your letter-heading, woman, it was in your file.’

  ‘There is no need to shout.’ Plender was interested to see that her glance quelled the DCI. ‘Shouting will not help. This was not done while I was here.’ She put a hand to her chest. ‘My pneumonia.’

  Plender dared not look to see Hazleton’s reaction.

  ‘Two years ago I had pneumonia. It was just about that time we became joint agents for Planter’s Place. These will be the old particulars.’

  Mr Borrowdale tapped his bald forehead. ‘Foolish of me. Your pneumonia, of course, that’s the answer.’

  The DC I’s voice throbbed like an engine being kept forcibly under control. ‘I may be foolish myself, but I don’t understand. What’s the answer? Do you mean that another agent handled Planter’s Place too?’

  ‘Certainly. It’s quite common. They had had the sole agency but hadn’t sold it, so Mr Medina decided to try us as well. It’s customary to share the commission in the event of a sale.’

  Plender interrupted. ‘When I saw you before, you never told me that you were only joint agents.’

  Mr Borrowdale stared at him, and then said simply, ‘You never asked me.’

  ‘So that this other agent would also have had keys, and access to Planter’s Place.’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘I still don’t see what Mrs Stephenson’s pneumonia had to do with it,’ Hazleton said.

  ‘I was away, so we got a temp in, but she wasn’t much good. The younger generation don’t like work. So to save some typing, the existing sheet was just put in the copying machine and a few copies made under our letterhead. Later on, after I returned, I typed out the particulars properly. Mr Borrowdale just happened to give you one of the old ones.’

  ‘So that the Adler typewriter belongs to the other firm, the joint agents. And who are they?’

  Mr Borrowdale’s hands flexed, his knuckles cracked. ‘Darling’s, in Bishopsgate.’

  Monday. Sixteen-hundred hours. Alice Vane put down the telephone. Her mother hovered like a kite-hawk.

  ‘That was the police. They telephoned instead of calling because they weren’t sure where to find me.’

  ‘He’s been arrested.’ Mrs Parkinson spoke as though she had been compelled to swallow some particularly nasty medicine.

  ‘Paul has hanged himself. It seems the police wanted to talk to him, and he thought – I don’t know what he thought. He was in Hampshire, taking a course of some kind.’

  ‘At least it was not at home.’ Alice looked hard at her mother. ‘I don’t want to sound unsympathetic, but I can’t be a hypocrite. It’s a blessing in disguise. I always said he was no good.’

  ‘So you did, Mother. But do you have to say it again now?’ She took a piece of paper and began to make notes. They ran: Tell Jennifer. Tell office. Inquest? Ask police. Her mother was still standing there. ‘I shan’t need any help.’

  She made her telephone calls, then went up to her room. She had brought away a photograph of Paul when she had first known him, eager, gay, to her eyes almost intolerably handsome. She turned over the frame. Then she began to cry. Outside rain drove on to the windows.

  Monday. Sixteen-thirty hours. Bob Lowson had said the proper things to Alice, who sounded remarkably composed. Then he spent, as he afterwards told Valerie, a bad ten minutes while he wondered whether Paul’s death was in some degree his responsibility, whether he really had killed those girls, and whether the suicide would affect Timbals. After deciding that his conscience was clear and that serious repercussions were unlikely, he gave Brian Hartford the news.

  Brian was silent. Then he said, ‘I should like to see Esther Malendine get the job. Would you have any objection?’

  For a moment Lowson was disconcerted by this reaction. ‘I don’t think so.’

  Hartford’s even tones came down the office telephone. ‘I had nothing against Vane, you know. He thought I had, but he was wrong. He was just out of date in dealing with personnel problems, that was all.’

  These words, and Alice’s quickly-dried tears, were the nearest anybody got to an epitaph for Paul Vane.

  Monday. Seventeen-thirty hours. The adenoidal girl in Darling’s office was operating a Royal typewriter, and knew nothing about an Adler. When she said that he had gone for the afternoon, Hazleton replied jovially that he was coming back after all, and had asked them to wait in his office.

  There they found a good deal of correspondence about prospective sales of houses, but no safe, no locked drawers, and nothing relevant to the crimes until Plender, pulling out volumes of the Estate Agent’s Review from a bookcase, noticed that two or three of them were free from dust. Behind them he found a book covered in limp blue leather, of the kind that was once used for standard editions of famous novelists. He looked at one or two pages, then passed it over to Hazleton.

  Monday. Eighteen-thirty hours. ‘Let’s have some light,’ Paling said. The rain had stopped, but the threat of thunder hung in dark clouds outside. Brill turned on the light. Paling finished reading the blue book, put it down, sighed.

  ‘The bugger’s daft,’ Hazleton said. ‘Right round the bend.’

  ‘He impressed you as sane enough when you saw him.’

  ‘And who’s this man he’s on about, this Nitchie?’

  ‘A German philosopher,’ Paling said loftily. He steepled his white fingers. ‘Odd, isn’t it, how when the right piece falls into place – and here it was learning that Darling had at one time been joint agent for Planter’s Place – everything becomes plain. Who is the man who knows where to get rid of a body, knows which houses are empty? An estate agent. And that explains the use of Vane’s typewriter. Darling spotted it at Bay Trees and made use of it. Then, when he and Brown had killed the French girl, he buried her in the cellar.’

  Plender coughed, interrupted. ‘She wasn’t killed at Bay Trees.’

  Hazleton moved restlessly. ‘We ought to be getting after him.’

  Paling smiled pleasantly. ‘Bear with me. This won’t take five minutes, and it does have some point. Brown gets frightened, goes away, comes back, and Darling puts her in charge of his sex magazine. We don’t know anything about that, except that he started it for money, and then used it for murder. She dyes her hair, tarts herself up, puts on a pair of spectacles with clear glass, and there’s Alberta Norman. She’s tasted blood now, and she wants more.’ His fingers touched the limp leather, lingered on it. ‘Did you notice how she becomes the dominant figure after being the minor one at first, so that he’s in rebellion against her. Second murder, done in the empty house, Planter’s Place, body left there.’

  There was a roll of thunder, distant. A fork of yellow light ran down the sky. Paling went on.

  ‘Third murder, the Wilberforce
girl. Body found in Batchsted Farm pond, yet she wasn’t killed there. I can see you’re impatient, Hazleton, but this is the point. The first and third killings were done at some place where it wasn’t convenient to bury the bodies. For some reason the second one took place elsewhere. If we could find the place where those two murders were done, I have the feeling that’s where Alberta Norman is. And him too for that matter. Any suggestions?’ He smiled and looked round. He’s a clever devil when it comes to theory, you can’t deny it, Plender thought. ‘There are a lot of empty houses on Darling’s books, I don’t doubt. Perhaps we should make a list of them. He lives with his sister, so home I presume is out. What is it, Hazleton?’

  ‘The barn. Outside the house there’s a big barn. His sister’s fairly deaf. She wouldn’t hear what went on, no more would the neighbours.’

  Brill thought it was time he said something. ‘Supposing there was something doing at the house the night the Allbright girl was killed, he’d have to take her somewhere else.’

  Paling smiled and nodded, a teacher pleased with his pupil. ‘Precisely.’

  Hazleton was rubbing his chin. ‘He offered to show me that barn on Saturday night.’

  Paling laughed with genuine amusement. ‘That sounds just his line. I think if you’d said you’d like to see it he’d have made some excuse. Let’s get to the barn.’

  Brill began to lay on the transport. Hazleton felt that he had stood a good deal of Paling’s pontification. The DCS had conveniently forgotten that only a few hours ago he had gone off to arrest Vane. ‘What about Vane?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Where does he fit in?’

  ‘He doesn’t. It was stupid to try to get rid of the body. Otherwise he was unlucky, that’s all.’

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Bonnie, Dracula, Friedrich