The Players And The Game

by Julian Symons

  Wherever she looked the images were of blood. The rust-coloured curtains looked like blood after it had dried, when she had put her tongue to it and found it merely salt. Many of the books round the wall seemed to be bound in blood, so that she had only to run her fingers over their redness and saliva came into her mouth. The blotting-paper on the desk might have been soaked in blood, it was in the Turkey carpet on the floor, in lampshades and in the loose covers on the armchairs.

  There was real blood in the room too. The wooden structure at one end of the room had blood on it, in spots or in long ribbons, there were spots of blood on the surrounding floor, crude daubs of genitals on the wall behind had been made with a finger dipped in blood. All the images were of blood, and all excited her. They were images like those of the time when Bonnie and Clyde had been caught in the double brick cabin at the Red Crown Cabin Camp. ‘They wouldn’t give up till they died,’ Bonnie had written. She would not give up now.

  There was a time when things had not been like this, a time belonging to a different person. That person had read the Bible with belief and passion. There were stories in it that made her shiver with terror and delight, and other stories of people who had the intense purity of white. She remembered saying, when asked what she had wanted to be, ‘I want to be a white person.’ People had laughed because they did not understand. She had ceased to be white, and become a grey person. Then Bonnie had met Dracula, Joan Brown had become Bert Norman. Now she was a red person and nobody laughed. This red person was shut up. Bonnie was shut up with Dracula as that other Bonnie had been with Clyde.

  And like Clyde, Dracula was useless. Not only for sex, but in every way. He sat now in a chair at the desk looking through the diamond panes of the window at the unnaturally dark July day only occasionally illuminated by a streak of lightning, his head hunched into his narrow shoulders like a hibernating bird. She had been here three days now. He had brought over food and drink, he had arranged that she should go across to the house and wash after his sister had gone to bed, but he had hardly spoken to her otherwise, and what he did say sounded to her like gibberish. When Bonnie and Clyde were in trouble they simply moved, and she had expected that they would do just that. If Joan Brown could change into Bert Norman, Bert Norman could change too. As for him, he could easily become a different person. They had all the money they needed. But he did not answer her arguments, hardly seemed to hear them. He kept on talking about somebody called Frederick, and about a change that was taking place in him. At first she had been rather in awe of his high-flown talk. She had been frightened also of what they had done, as she had been frightened as a girl after doing things to dogs and cats, but she was not frightened now. Now she felt only impatience and contempt in relation to him. Yet she knew that without him she was in some way incomplete, that she would be a grey woman again. That must not happen. ‘They wouldn’t give up till they died’ – she had quoted that line to him, but still he paid no attention.

  So she talked at him, and screamed abuse, and took off her clothes and walked about in front of him, and then put them on again and tried to coax him into saying what they should do. She even threatened him with the shiny blue revolver that she kept under the cushion pillow of the sofa where she slept, putting it to her head and then to his, saying bang bang, flopping on the carpet, kicking up her legs. He took no notice. On this dark day he had come back from the office where she had worked for him after that first meeting at the film exhibition, bringing some sandwiches. She was hungry, and stuffed them down eagerly. When he left in the morning she had asked what they were going to do, and he said that when he came back he would decide. But since his return, more than an hour ago, he had sat and watched the day darken, heard the thunder sound, seen the rain fall, and had said nothing meaningful.

  Now the thunder was passing over, but rain still fell out of a leaden sky. She went and stood beside him to look out.

  ‘Keep away. You disgust me.’

  ‘And you disgust me.’ She went across to the door and turned on the light. ‘Don’t you even want to talk about what we’re going to do?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ll clear off. I’ll go on my own.’ She knew that she would never do it.

  Now he did turn to look at her. He said in his usual quiet, prissy voice, ‘What you do is not of the slightest interest to me.’

  Through the rainy windows the lights of cars could be seen in the road. He sighed.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It is the beginning of my new life.’

  ‘It’s the bloody police.’ She saw clearly that last ambush, the treacherous friend, Bonnie and Clyde shooting it out together to the end. Bonnie had reached for her gun when the lawmen shot her. ‘Come on, let’s give it to them.’ She was holding the shiny revolver.

  They were in two cars, Paling and Hazleton in the first, Brill and Plender in the other. The first car drove in, the second stopped at the gate as arranged.

  ‘You’ve met Darling, and his sister too. You do the honours,’ Paling had said, and Hazleton had nodded his thanks. Now the DCS stepped out straight into a puddle, and swore. He had no taste for this kind of thing, but felt it obligatory to be here. They had tried to get hold of the Chief Constable, but happily he had not returned from a horse show.

  Hazleton had been prepared for Isabel Darling to open the door, but not for the smile of welcome. ‘Inspector. You’ve come to look at my phlox. But I’m afraid you’ve chosen the wrong day and time for it. Do come in, and your friend too, you’ll be soaked.’

  They had seen a light in the barn, but Plender and Brill were out there, and it was possible that Darling might be in the house. His sister sat them down in the tidy drawing-room, sat down herself, and smiled at them again.

  ‘It’s Jonathan you want to see, I know, that was only a little joke about the phlox. That tiresome case again, I suppose.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘He’s in his study, and he doesn’t like to be disturbed. Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘His study? You mean the barn?’

  ‘Yes. He likes to be alone there, you know. I never disturb him, not even to take over a cup of tea. It’s his sanctum.’

  Hazleton was on his feet saying thank you, when Paling spoke. ‘There is just one thing you might help with, Miss Darling. The matter of a date. Do you by any chance keep a diary?’

  He had to repeat the question. She blushed delicately. ‘How did you know, Superintendent – it is Superintendent, isn’t it? I’ve kept one since I was fifteen. I remember, because the year I started it was tragic. Jonathan’s brother Clayton was killed. He fell off a cliff, trying to help Jonathan up. My parents blamed Jonathan afterwards, for quite a long time they sent him to Coventry. I thought it was very unjust, I wrote reams about it.’

  ‘It was a date this year I wondered about. Monday, June the twentieth. I wondered whether anything particular happened that day.’

  ‘I can soon tell you.’ She went out of the room.

  Hazleton stirred uneasily. It was like the Toff to say You do the honours,’ and then take things over himself.

  Plender and Brill had walked up the drive. They stood in the lee of the other car, looking at the barn. There was a light in it, but they could see nothing inside. They did not speak to each other, but just stood staring at the barn and getting wet.

  She was across to the door and had turned the key in the lock, almost before he knew what she was doing.

  ‘Give it to me.’

  She dropped the key down the neck of her sack-like dress. ‘You won’t try to take it by force, I know that.’

  He stood motionless, looking at her. ‘Useless. You can’t resist reality.’

  She waved the revolver. ‘We’ll see about that. No stinking copper takes Bonnie, I can tell you.’

  The diary was covered in green velvet, and opened with a key which she took from a chain round her neck. As she turned the pages, Paling saw that they were filled with round femi
nine handwriting. He wondered what she found to write in it.

  ‘Monday, June twentieth.’ She read what she had written, then looked up. ‘I’m afraid there’s nothing to interest you. Jonathan’s name isn’t even mentioned.’

  ‘Perhaps he was out?’

  ‘Oh yes, he was. You see, it was the Church Study Group night.’

  ‘The Church Study Group?’

  ‘What did you say?’

  Feeling like a fool, he repeated loudly, ‘The Church Study Group.’

  ‘That’s right. We meet here always on the third Monday of each month. For discussion and refreshment. Jonathan is always out. I am afraid he is not a believer.’

  Paling looked at Hazleton. This was the reason why Louise Allbright had not been brought to the barn. Isabel was deaf, but the other members of the Church Study Group were not. Theory had been justified. This time, when Hazleton rose Paling got up too. Isabel looked at them in surprise.

  ‘We had a very good discussion about juvenile delinquency among those who attend church compared–’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Darling,’ Hazleton said. ‘Now we’ll talk to your brother in the barn.’

  They left her with her hands on the green velvet. How much did she know or suspect?

  Outside, Hazleton resumed authority. The two sergeants, with two detective-constables, were by the car.

  ‘He’s in that barn. The woman too, probably. Brill, come with me. Smith and Vesey, over by the gate in case there’s another way out and he tries to use it. Plender, stay here.’

  It was twenty yards from the car to the barn. Hazleton and Brill had covered ten of them when one of the leaded light windows opened. There was the sound of a shot, then two more. Brill cried out, dropped to the ground. Hazleton moved to one side, out of range of the window. Brill lay groaning. Before Paling could give an order, Plender ran forward, bent almost double, and began to half-lift, half-drag Brill to the safety of the car. Smith ran from the gate to help him. Paling beckoned to Hazleton to come back, and the DCI ran round beside the house to rejoin them. Two more shots were fired before they had Brill back behind the car.

  ‘Got me in the leg.’ He grinned up at Plender. ‘Thanks, mate. Good job I’m not wearing my best suit, dragging me through the mud like that.’

  ‘Get him in the car.’ Hazleton ripped the trouser leg, dabbed at blood with a handkerchief. ‘Flesh wound. You’ll live.’ He turned back to Paling. ‘Question is, what do we do about chummy?’

  They heard a voice from the barn, half-shout, half-shriek, another shot, then silence.

  ‘I could go round, stay out of range and try the door,’ Plender suggested.

  ‘I don’t want anyone else hurt,’ Paling said. ‘The door may be locked.’

  ‘Six shots.’ Hazleton wiped water off his nose. ‘Reloading. Or could be just six shots.’

  They stood there for another minute. There was no sound from the barn. Paling could feel damp coming through what had been sold to him as a showerproof coat. Hazleton and Plender were looking at him. Some decision had to be taken.

  ‘All right. Hazleton, you, Smith and Vesey take the left side. Plender, you and I take the right. Meet by the door. If it’s locked we charge it. If they start shooting, get back and take cover. Ten seconds.’ He drew out his watch. ‘Now.’

  Paling and Plender made good targets as they ran across to the right-hand side of the barn, but there was no firing. The other three were more under cover, and reached the barn door first. Hazleton turned the handle, pushed, then said, ‘Break it down.’

  They ran back half a dozen steps, charged. The door splintered, broke. They burst into the room, Paling and Plender just behind them.

  The barn had been turned into a handsome study, carpeted, with a comfortable sofa and two armchairs, several bookshelves. Round the walls were pinned film stills. There was one showing a stake being driven through the heart of a vampire, and in others a man-headed bat bent over to bite a woman’s throat, a dummy woman was being made into flesh, a woman in the grip of the Iron Maiden was being squeezed to death, a naked man hung upside down while another man prepared to cut out his heart. In the midst of these stills was a large framed portrait of a man with a bushy moustache and a weak chin. None of the policemen recognised him as Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche.

  But they did not look at these things. They stared, all of them, at one end of the room. There a roughly-made wooden crucifix had been nailed to the wall. The white wood of which it was made was liberally stained with red. Above they saw a finger painting of male genitals done in the same red. Just at the foot of the crucifix was a stool.

  ‘They tied them to it standing on the stool with a rope round the neck,’ Paling said. ‘When they’d had their fun they just took away the stool.’

  Plender bent over the body that lay near the foot of the crucifix. It was that of a dumpy woman with frizzy golden hair showing dark at the roots. There was a small hole at one side of her forehead, and just a little blood. The revolver was still clasped in one podgy hand. Plender straightened up.

  ‘Joan Brown.’

  Hazleton had already turned to the other end of the barn, and the rest of them turned with him. Little Mr Darling had been sitting in one of the chairs, but now he got up and moved towards the policemen. His grey suit was uncreased, his blue tie discreet. He looked what he was, respectable. The smile on his lips was both nervous and wistful.

  Hazleton coughed. ‘Jonathan Darling, I arrest you–’

  Darling made a gesture in the direction of the portrait on the wall, then held up his hand. His voice, as always, had his own neat small tidiness. ‘My name is Nietzsche Caesar,’ he said. ‘I have effected in my own person the Transvaluation of All Values. I forgive you all.’

  Inspector Bland Titles

  (in order of first publication)

  These titles can be read as a series, or randomly as standalone novels

  1. The Immaterial Murder Case 1945

  2. A Man Called Jones 1947

  3. Bland Beginning 1949

  Inspector Crambo Titles

  (in order of first publication)

  These titles can be read as a series, or randomly as standalone novels

  1. The Narrowing Circle 1954

  2. The Gigantic Shadow also as: The Pipe Dream 1947

  Joan Kahn-Harper Titles

  (in order of first publication)

  These titles can be read as a series, or randomly as standalone novels

  1. The Man Who Killed Himself 1967

  2. The Man Who Lost His Wife 1967

  3. The Man Whose Dreams Came True 1968

  4. The Players & The Game 1972

  5. The Plot Against Roger Rider 1973

  Sheridan Haynes

  1. A Three Pipe Problem 1975

  Novels

  (in order of first publication)

  1. The 31st of February 1950

  2. The Broken Penny 1953

  3. The Paper Chase also as: Bogue’s Fortune 1956

  4. The Colour of Murder 1957

  5. The Progress of a Crime 1960

  6. The Killing of Francie Lake also as: The Plain Man 1962

  7. The End of Solomon Grundy 1964

  8. The Belting Inheritance 1965

  Non-Fiction

  1. Horatio Bottomley 1937

  2. Buller’s Campaign The Boer War & His Career 1974

  3. Thomas Carlyle The Life & Ideas of a Prophet 1954

  4. England’s Pride General Gordon of Khartoum 1954

  5. The General Strike 1987

  6. The Thirties 1954

  7. Tell-Tale Heart The Life & Works of Edgar Allen Poe 1954

  Synopses of Symons’ Titles

  Published by House of Stratus

  The 31st February

  Anderson was a bored, unhappy sales executive longing for something to liven up his monotonous life. But perhaps he wished too hard because it was not long before he found his wife lying dead at the bottom of the cellar stairs. An ac
cident of course - so why wouldn’t the police believe him?

  The Belting Inheritance

  When a stranger arrives at Belting, he is met with a very mixed reception by the occupants of the old house. Claiming his so-called ‘rightful inheritance’ the stranger makes plans to take up residence at once. Such a thing was bound to cause problems amongst the family - but why were so many of them turning up dead?

  Bland Beginning

  A purchase at a second-hand bookshop seems an innocent enough event. Tony Shelton hadn’t expected it to be anything but that - and he certainly hadn’t expected it to throw him head first into the world of violence, blackmail and robbery. For it becomes clear that the book has a rather higher price than he paid for it - a price that was to lead to murder..

  The Broken Penny

  An Eastern-block country, shaped like a broken penny, was being torn apart by warring resistance movements. Only one man could unite the hostile factions - Professor Jacob Arbitzer. Arbitzer, smuggled into the country by Charles Garden during the Second World War, has risen to become president, only to have to be smuggled out again when the communists gained control. Under pressure from the British Government who want him reinstated, Arbitzer agreed to return on one condition; that Charles Garden again escort him. The Broken Penny is a thrilling spy adventure brilliantly recreating the chilling conditions of the Cold War.

  Buller’s Campaign

  A powerful and invaluable reassessment of the life of General Buller and of the part he played in British military history. Beginning with his struggle for the position of Commander-in-Chief of the Army in 1895, it goes on to portray his role in the Boer War, and on its path, reveals many of the Victorian Imperialist attitudes of the day. A man of numerous failures, General Buller has been treated unkindly by history but Symons here seeks to paint a more rounded picture. Whilst never attempting to excuse the General’s mistakes, he portrays Buller as a complex and often misunderstood character and reveals the deep ironies that surrounded so much of what he achieved. An exceptional book and an outstanding contribution to military history.