by Andrew Garve
I wondered if there was any chance that experts might be able to draw more helpful conclusions than I’d done from the clogged letters in the photostat and in my bit of typing. I’d had a good look at both exhibits through Mary’s magnifying glass, but all I’d been able to see was that the letters looked similar. Perhaps, I thought, a microscopic examination might prove that Blundell’s letter to Shaw had been typed on Blundell’s typewriter since Blundell’s death. I wasn’t very sanguine, but it seemed worth looking into—and if I was going to look into it, it ought to be done quickly, while Blundell’s typewriter was still available as evidence if necessary. I decided that I’d talk to Forbes, our crime man, that evening and see if he could put me in touch unofficially with one of the Yard’s experts.
I got to the office just before two. The place was very quiet and the Reporters’ Room was empty. I went into the News Room to see what Jones, the Deputy News Editor, had for me, and he handed me a snippet from an evening paper about a man named Crawford who lived at Acton and had had the good fortune to buy a sheet of unperforated stamps at a post office. Would I go and interview him, Jones said. It wasn’t much of a job, but at least it would get me out of the office. I stood chatting for a moment or two, and then a boy brought me a parcel that had come for me that morning and I returned to the Reporters’ Room to see what was in it. I didn’t know the handwriting, but the postmark was Croydon. I opened it, and it was from Mrs. Green. There was a note inside saying she was sending me a few more things of her brother’s that she’d overlooked—he’d left them at the library and the library had sent them on to her some months ago and she’d put them in a cupboard and forgotten about them. She hoped they’d be useful to me. I hoped so, too. This was a moment when I badly needed a fresh lead, and the smallest thing might be enough to set me off on some promising track. I tore off the inner covering and spread out the contents. There were a few books and papers, some newspaper cuttings, and some sheets of typed manuscript. I picked up one of the books and glanced at the title. It gave me a sudden, highly unpleasant jolt. The title was A Manual of Underwater Diving, and it had Shaw’s name and a date nearly two years old on the fly leaf.
That was only the beginning. With mounting consternation I examined the other things. There were three books about underwater diving, each with Shaw’s name inside. All of them had passages marked and underlined, with marginal comments and cross references, as though they’d been much used and studied. There were four newspaper cuttings on the same subject, clipped from papers published nearly two years before. There was a notebook, half filled with notes relating to the plot of The Great Adventure, including ideas for character names—some of which I remembered as having been used in Shaw’s story—and chapter headings, and jottings about plot development. There was also a typed chapter of the story, with some penciled alterations. It was slightly different from the version I’d read in the finished manuscript and was evidently a draft. Unless all this stuff was part of some very elaborate deception, the conclusion was inescapable. Shaw had indeed built up the disputed plot from his own sources, as he’d said, and long before Galloway had ever thought of it.
There was worse to come. At the bottom of the pile I found a letter from another thriller writer, commenting on Shaw’s story. This time it was from a man named Richard Dancy, an author whose name was moderately well known to me. It was from an address in Elford Square, off Baker Street, and it said:
Dear Mr. Shaw,
Many thanks for your kind remarks about my books and for letting me see your own manuscript. I’ve now read it and I’m returning it to you under separate cover. I think the plot is jolly good, but since you ask me to be quite frank I’m bound to add that in my view the story lacks the professional touch and badly needs an expert overhaul if it’s to have any chance of finding a publisher.
With all good wishes,
Yours sincerely,
Richard Dancy
The letter was dated March 10 of the previous year, a month earlier than Blundell’s.
I put it down on the desk, feeling pretty sick. It was only too clear now that all the stuff Mary and I had thought up about Shaw had been sheer wishful thinking. My earlier skepticism had been right. Blundell’s letter was genuine—that was confirmed now. Galloway had copied Shaw’s plot. I’d been a fool ever to doubt it. I ought to have remembered that Shaw had told Galloway he’d shown his story to other people as well. I ought to have realized that fresh evidence might turn up. I ought to have been more wary. As it was, my intervention had been a disaster. First I’d gone along with Mary, tacitly accepting her theory; then I’d produced the facts that had destroyed it. Now I had the prospect of breaking the bitter news to her. What had happened was disappointing enough for me—it would be sheer tragedy for her. Yet I’d got to tell her. If I didn’t, she’d expect me to go on making inquiries on the basis of her theory. In any case, it was no good trying to keep the truth from her—she would have to face it. And this time there’d be no way out; even Mary couldn’t explain this letter away. It was conclusive.
… Or was it? I picked up the letter again and had another look at it. Actually, it wasn’t conclusive as it stood, for I saw now that it didn’t mention Shaw’s manuscript by name or refer to any specific point that would have identified it. The manuscript could have been some other one that Shaw had submitted to him. I didn’t believe it for a moment, in view of the other contents of the parcel, but Mary would probably raise the point. I’d better check it. I could call in at Dancy’s on my way to Acton and if he was home I could settle it once and for all.
I picked up the car outside the office and twenty minutes later I was turning into Elford Square. It was a place of gracious Georgian houses, three stories high and terraced and mostly divided into flats. Dancy lived at number 8. I parked behind a dilapidated station wagon with a lot of country mud on it and climbed the steps. Dancy’s was the top flat. I rang the bell and waited and in a few seconds Dancy himself came down. He was a pink, plump, jolly-looking man, with a pink bald head as smooth as an egg, and blue eyes. I guessed he was about forty-five, though his baldness made him look older. I told him my name and that I was a reporter on the Post and asked him if he could spare me a moment or two.
“Well, you’ve caught me at a bad moment,’’ he said. “I’m just going to drive my fiancée down to Eastbourne. Still, if you don’t mind making it snappy.… Come on up.’’
I followed him to the top floor. At the entrance to his flat three black Scotties made a simultaneous rush at me, barking gruffly, and I heard a woman’s voice inside calling them to heel. “Don’t take any notice of them,’’ Dancy said. “Oh, darling, this is Mr. Rennie from the Post.… My fiancée, Lavinia Hewitt.’’
I said “How d’you do?’’ to Miss Hewitt. She was a tall, thin, angular woman of about thirty-five, with a face of almost incredible plainness. The clothes she was wearing—a dun-colored cardigan, a shapeless tweed skirt, and heavy, flat-heeled shoes—did nothing to improve the effect. I decided she must be very intelligent or very goodhearted. She was still trying to call off the Scotties, not very effectually. She said “I do hope you like dogs, Mr. Rennie,’’ in a rather gushing voice. I said I did. She said she could tell I did or they wouldn’t like me so much. Before I could get even a word with Dancy, she was telling me that she had twenty-three dogs at her boarding establishment near Lewes, as well as nine cats, five budgerigars and a tortoise, and if ever I wanted any interesting little bits about animals for my paper she’d be delighted to give them to me. I thanked her, and at last Dancy managed to shepherd me into his study. “We shan’t be more than a few minutes, darling,’’ he said, and shut the door on the dogs with a look of relief. “Well, now, what is it, Mr. Rennie?’’
I told him, briefly. I said I was planning to write up the Shaw murder case in my private capacity and that I’d come across a letter from him among Robert Shaw’s effects and that was why I’d called. I showed him the letter.
“That�
��s right,’’ he said, after a moment. “Shaw sent me his manuscript to read. Bit of a nerve, of course, making demands like that on a complete stranger, but I thought I might as well have a look at it—I like to treat young writers civilly when I can. Not that I did him much good, poor devil.’’
“What was the manuscript about?’’ I said—and waited for the knife to fall.
“Why—it was the story there was such a fuss about at John Galloway’s trial. The two liners and the diving—the plot that Galloway said was his.’’
So there it was!
“Well—thank you,’’ I said. “That’s really all I wanted to know.’’ He looked a bit puzzled and I added, “I was interested in whether Shaw had written any other books, that’s all. Trying to fill in his literary background, if any.’’
“I see.… Well, I should think he might have done others, but he didn’t send any more to me, thank heaven. The poor chap hadn’t a clue when it came to putting his ideas down.… So you’re planning to tell the whole story again, are you?’’
“I thought I would,’’ I said. “It’s a fascinating case.’’
“Amazing case!’’ Dancy said. “I didn’t know Galloway well myself—I always avoid fellow writers if possible—but he had the reputation of being a pretty stout chap. Wonderful storyteller, too—he must have been off his head to do what he did. I’ll never believe it was really necessary.…’’ He moved toward the door. “Well, if I’m going to drive my fiancée’s battlewagon into Sussex today I suppose I’d better get cracking.…’’
“I hope I haven’t held you up too much,’’ I said. “It was decent of you to see me.’’
“Not a bit.’’ He grinned. “Come again, and interview me about my books. I could do with a bit of free publicity in the Post!’’
He opened the door, and the Scotties at once launched a fresh offensive. We plowed our way through them and Dancy shook hands with me and said would I mind letting myself out. I patted the dogs, said good-by to Miss Hewitt, and made my way downstairs. There was a telephone box on the other side of the square and I went slowly across to phone Mary.
Chapter Ten
At half past ten that night I drove over to Kew again. I’d told Mary that I’d call round after work and bring the new Shaw exhibits along for her to see, and she was waiting for me. She said “Hullo’’ in a noncommittal voice and I followed her upstairs to the sitting room. Her face, as she turned, wore its former look of careful indifference. She had herself so well in hand it wasn’t human. We were right back where we’d started.
I showed her Dancy’s letter, which I’d already read to her over the phone, and opened up Shaw’s things. She examined everything very carefully, without commenting. Then she got herself a cigarette and lit it and sat down.
“Well,’’ she said, “I still don’t accept it. I’’ ll never accept it.’’
I think, in the back of my mind, it was the reaction I’d expected—and feared.
“But, Mary,’’ I said, “you’ve got to, now—there’s no way out at all. Surely you can see that? You’ve got to, for your own sake. You’ll make your life a misery if you go on kicking against the facts as they are.’’
“If Daddy’s going to spend the rest of his days in prison,’’ she said, “my life’s going to be a misery anyway.’’ She said it without self-pity, as though it were a self-evident truth.
“That depends on you,’’ I said. “Look, darling, I know how you feel about your father and I know how dreadfully unhappy you are, but it’s no good fighting this thing any more. Honestly it isn’t. You’ve simply got to adjust yourself to the situation.’’
She shook her head. “That’s what I can’t do. If I thought Daddy had really done what they say, I’d adjust all right. It would be a different problem then. But I don’t think he did. I’ll never think so. I think that somehow or other, in a way I can’t begin to understand or explain, he’s got himself caught up in a ghastly mess that isn’t his fault, and he’s going to spend the rest of his life in a cell for something he hasn‘t done. It’s a terrible, shocking injustice. He’s only fifty—so alive, so vital. And he’s being shut up—for ever! How can I reconcile myself to that when I know he’s done nothing to deserve it?’’
“But the evidence, Mary …’’
“The evidence is wrong!”
There was a little silence.
“All right,’’ I said at last, “if you must believe that, you must. But at least you needn’t stay here alone, brooding over what’s happened. If you can’t adjust, then it’s all the more reason why you should find something to occupy yourself.’’
“Oh, don’t worry about that,’’ she said. “I shall get a job now. I’ll manage.’’
“If only you wouldn’t try to carry the whole thing yourself!’’ I said. “It’s too much of a load for anyone.’’
“I don’t see how I can share it.’’
“You could if you married me,’’ I said.
She gave a short laugh. “And live happily ever after? What a hope!’’
“I’m serious, Mary.’’
“Then you must be out of your mind. You believe my father is a cheat and a liar and a murderer, and you want to marry me?’’
“Yes, I do.’’
“It’s very generous of you!’’
“Oh, Mary, don’t be so bitter. You know it isn’t like that. It’s just that, whatever your father may or may not have done, it doesn’t alter you. I told you before, I love you. I love you just as you are, as I know you, and that’s all I care about.’’
“You’re sorry for me,’’ she said.
“Of course I’m sorry for you—who wouldn’t be? I want to help you—but it isn’t generosity, it’s selfishness. Don’t you realize that from the very first moment we met you’ve meant absolutely everything to me? I did try to forget you, for a little while—but it didn’t work. You’ve become my life. I need you—I need to see you and talk to you. I want you around. Always.’’
She didn’t say anything. She just sat curled up in her chair with her head turned away. It was some time before I realized that she was crying. I’d never seen her cry—I would scarcely have believed she could. Once she’d started she couldn’t stop. I went over to her and put my arms round her and held her close and tried to comfort her, but there wasn’t much I could do except wait.
When at last she spoke to me again, all the hardness had gone from her. “I’m sorry, Peter,’’ she said, “I haven’t really wanted to be so beastly to you. You’ve been so kind and I owe you so much.’’
“You don’t owe me a thing,’’ I said. “Anything I’ve done I’ve done for myself, because I love you.… Marry me, Mary! For both our sakes. I think in the end I could help you to be happy again—and that would make me happy. At least I’d try very hard.’’
She was sitting very close to me, holding my hand, and she went on sitting like that for quite a while. She seemed lost in thought. Presently she gave a little sigh and looked up at me sadly.
“Peter,’’ she said, “I was in love with you—of course I was.… I expect I still am. I wanted us to marry. It was all so wonderful … But now we’ve got to be sensible. It’s no good thinking of marriage any more. You say we could share this thing, but that’s just what we can’t do. We might if we both looked at it in the same way, but we don’t. We’re on opposite sides. Imagine living together, year after year, when you thought my father was a murderer and I knew he wasn’t! What possible sympathy could there be between us? We couldn’t stand it, either of us.’’
“We wouldn’t have to go on discussing it,’’ I said.
“No, but the barrier would always be there—we’d always be conscious of it.… And that’s not all—suppose we had children? According to you, their grandfather would be a murderer. Doesn’t that terrify you?’’
“No. If people stopped having children because their parents had behaved badly, the world wouldn’t last long.’’
“Well,
it terrifies me. I’d always be afraid you were watching for some horrible trait to come out.… You’d probably imagine things, even if they weren’t there. I couldn’t bear it.’’
“I’m sure I wouldn’t do that,’’ I said. “Why don’t I imagine I see horrible traits in you? You have some of your father’s genes, after all—you must be like him in some respects. But when I look at you, all I see is something very lovely and very loyal and very brave. If we had children I should see you in them, not your father.’’
She shook her head. “That’s what you think now, Peter, but it might not work out like that. There’d be dynamite around, always. There’d be no peace of mind for either of us.… Besides, I don’t think it would be fair to have children. What would we tell them? Nothing?—keep it all a dark secret, which they’d be sure to find out in the end? Pretend I was going off to see a friend every time I visited the prison?—that could go on for twenty years, you know. Surely you can see that it’s impossible. If you’ve already got children when a thing like this hits you, you just have to make the best of it—but if you haven’t, you’ve no right to start. That’s how it seems to me, anyhow.’’