by MARY HOCKING
In the morning, the fear had gone. It must be the last desolation when morning failed to bring relief. She made a note of this thought, which seemed suddenly to have a new truth, on the grocery bill and stuffed it into the drawer where she kept scraps for the novel which she intended to write one day. She felt rather ashamed of her panic during the night. Nevertheless, for the sake of the insurance company, she went into the ironmonger’s while she was out shopping.
‘You’re worried by the burglary at Mr. Saneck’s shop, I expect?’ the man said eagerly.
‘No. I’m not worried, but . . .’
‘It makes you think, doesn’t it?’
‘I simply want . . .’
‘What you want is a builder. No use trying to do a make-shift job on an old house like that. You need all the doors and windows refitted . . .’
Eventually, she managed to persuade him to sell her a couple of rather frail-looking bolts to serve temporarily.
‘You’re wasting your time,’ he called after her.
It continued gusty throughout the day; the wind was spiteful, petulant, occasionally it had a wild upsurge which promised a grander climax only to subside, spiteful, petulant again. In the evening it began to rain. Superintendent Harper looked disgustedly from his window across at County Hall dissolving in thin, grey mist. The day drew in as though life itself were petering out. Harper frowned, rather startled by this capricious flight of his imagination. He had been working particularly hard lately; an early night, he decided, would do no harm. And so, at ten past six he drove out of the Yard and headed towards Hammersmith, unaware that the last random violence of the day would soon cause him to return.
In the city, rain swished down the narrow streets, flooded the gutters; a few late stragglers lurched along St. Martin’s Street, fighting to keep umbrellas aloft. A newspaper seller on the corner collected up a sodden bundle and said to the constable who was passing at that moment:
‘I’ll get home to me nice warm bed.’
The constable went on, an expression of stoic resignation on his big, wet face. When he disappeared into the alley that led to Aldgate, St. Martin’s Street was empty.
The proprietor of the small Greek café looked out at the rain bouncing up from a pool in the gutter and wondered whether it was worth his while to stay open after the young man and the girl left. To his surprise, however, more customers arrived. Soon after half-past seven two men came in and took a table in the far corner, well away from the window; a few minutes later a wizened little man appeared, blown like a dead leaf across the threshold. He, too, went over to the corner furthest from the window and took the table next to the two men. No one wanted to sit by the window on a night like this, the proprietor thought; understandable, of course, but it would have been better for trade if some of the customers could have been seen from the street.
The two men had taken off their overcoats and were examining the menu in a leisurely way which suggested that they intended to linger over their meal. The wizened little man was doing a crossword puzzle.
Although the café was an unpretentious place, the food was good. The proprietor was glad to see that this was particularly appreciated by the older of the two men who concentrated on his food to the exclusion of all else. At first, this amused his companion.
‘You must have starved as a child, Desmond.’
The voice was not loud, but it had an odd, off-pitch tone which shrilled on the nerves; the young couple were just rising from their table and the girl shivered; the proprietor, too, winced and glanced across at the dim corner where the two men sat. The wizened little man went on with his crossword.
‘I did starve as a child, George,’ the man addressed as Desmond replied. He gave a chuckle and phlegm crackled in his throat. ‘I was one of the have-nots.’ He chased a small portion of stuffed vine leaf remorselessly round his plate. ‘The world owes a debt to the deprived, don’t you agree?’
He did not look deprived now; an enormous, flabby bulk with a white face, heavy as lard. A trickle of oil ran down his chin and he dabbed at it with a napkin. His companion turned away. He glanced round the café, his eyes resting in turn on the proprietor, the couple just leaving, the man at the next table crouched over his crossword. He studied them all with calm insolence. He had very brilliant eyes of a blue so dark as to be almost violet, and his stare was unblinking, giving a quality of astonishment to his gaze. How strange, he seemed to be saying to himself, all these little people . . . it was almost as though their existence represented an amusing affront to his personal prestige. His face was long and thin, fair-skinned, and the hair was ash-blond, very fine and inclined to fall forward across his forehead. Had it not been for the eyes, he might have been the type chosen for the R.A.F. posters during the war: but the eyes knew of other dangers than those the fighter pilot meets.
The young couple had left. Desmond Ames had ordered kebab, and he was now exploring it gently with a fork, making sure that no essential ingredient had been omitted. The proprietor had gone into the kitchen; the wizened little man was so quiet as to be scarcely noticeable. The kitchen hatch opened straight into the café and in time the unventilated room became very hot; moisture blurred the windows; the wet clothes gave out an unpleasant, heavy smell.
Through the smeared windows George Vickers could see the canvas awning at the front of the café moving in the wind; the movement was gentle, rather exhausted. The storm was dying down. England was the country of anti-climax, he thought bitterly; even the weather could not bring off anything really spectacular. In the war, it had been different, the crescendo had exploded in a kind of ecstasy; now, the urgent physical demand was never satisfied, there was nothing to assuage the ache in the muscles, the drum beat in the pulse, the rage in the brain. The days withered into grey evenings spent in dreary little cafés. He looked across at Desmond Ames.
Ames was eating with lascivious slowness, his pale face bent over his plate. Vickers stirred uneasily in his chair; he had finished his steak and now he pushed the plate to one side and lit a cigarette. The frustration of the day and now this! Ames went on savouring each mouthful with relish, rolling it round on his tongue.
‘You eat too much,’ Vickers said.
He spoke quite softly, so that Ames was unaware of any tension.
‘But I eat slowly,’ he pointed out, pulling at a piece of bread and smearing it round the edge of his plate.
A few minutes passed, then Vickers said:
‘I find something rather indecent about having to sit and watch you satisfy your lust.’
Ames reached for the wine bottle. Vickers brought his fist crashing down on the table; the wine spilt and Vickers laughed very loudly.
‘Good gracious, what is the matter with your nerves, Desmond? I was merely trying to attract service. You have nearly finished, haven’t you? I may order my cheese and biscuits now?’
Ames ordered banane flambé. Vickers leant forward and gave the proprietor a smile that was hard and challenging.
‘You don’t do banane flambé, do you? No, of course not! You leave that kind of frippery for . . .’
‘Most certainly we do the banane flambé,’ the proprietor answered.
The muscles bunched around Vickers’s jaw. The proprietor turned to Ames.
‘But there are no bananas. So you have the pineapple flambé, yes?’
And, determined to redeem his honour, he made a lengthy business of his preparations. Ames watched every movement anxiously as though following some kind of pagan rite. Vickers sat back, his face in shadow; every so often he moved his head uneasily as though his collar were too tight for him. When the proprietor had gone, Vickers leant forward and began to speak; he spoke softly, but with savage emphasis. Ames mumbled in reply, but once he raised his voice petulantly:
‘What is the use of the money if I can’t indulge myself?’
A nerve in Vickers’s cheek jerked.
‘You can indulge your cravings a little less ostentatiously. Particula
rly at the present time . . .’
His voice became very low again. The proprietor was counting the money in the till; the man at the next table appeared to be doing an anagram. Ames looked up suddenly, his spoon half-way to his mouth.
‘My God! What did they find?’
‘Nothing of value.’
‘But my stuff . . .’
‘I said nothing of value.’
They finished their meal in silence. Ames had the last of the wine. The other sat very still, watching him. Ames looked drowsy, his face vacuous, the deep jowls heavy on either side of his jaw; Ames was satiated. How nice to be Ames. Vickers held his empty glass in his hand, the fingers tight round the thin stem; the nerve in his head throbbed and a vein knotted at his temple. Ames was ordering coffee. When it came, he would put six lumps of sugar in the cup, slowly . . . Vickers got up, paid the bill and went out into the street. He crossed to the car. His face was taut and his body was rigid, the pressure in his head was intolerable. As he sat in the car, he felt that something in his head was clawing for release, threatening to slash aside the thin casing of bone, to rip through the tight-stretched skin . . . Someone was stumbling across the street; it couldn’t be Ames, he would hardly have taken his first sip of coffee. A hand fumbled with the door and Ames’s face peered through the window, green, shining with sweat. When he fell into the seat beside him, Vickers could smell his fear.
‘That man,’ Ames was muttering. ‘That man at the next table. I could see him better after you moved . . .’ He went on, something about a crushed thumbnail. ‘That sort of thing revolts me, so I noticed it particularly.’ He plucked at Vickers’s sleeve. ‘He’s been following me. Why didn’t I realize it? God! What were we saying?’
Rain splashed in from the side windows and the wind whipped across Vickers’s cheeks. He eased himself back in the driving seat; his hands on the driving wheel relaxed and his face became smooth. Through the rain-spattered windows he could just see the café. Soon the door opened and the man came out, small, bent against the wind. Vickers smiled and started the car.
‘George!’ Sudden panic made Ames’s voice shrill. ‘George, I don’t really know . . . I’m not even sure . . .?’
The man was walking down St. Martin’s Street, away from Aldgate towards an area where there were big, dark warehouses. Vickers heard Ames’s voice, but the words were muffled, irrelevant. The warehouses loomed on either side now. Vickers put his foot on the accelerator, and suddenly the pressure inside his head was gone.
II
When Vickers woke the next morning he felt refreshed and very alert. Birds were singing, and the sun was shining from a clear blue sky with a bland assurance which seemed to deny any knowledge of the vagaries of wind and rain. It was an attitude which Vickers admired: he himself felt much the same. He remembered what had happened the night before, but in a detached way, as though he had been a spectator. He got up quickly and began to dress. From his window he could see the gardens in Cedar Crescent. They looked green and quite peaceful, in a lean, unkempt way, but somehow different; it was as though, during the storm yesterday, something had moved out of place so that the pattern would never be quite the same again. He amused himself as he dressed by trying to decide what it was that was different; but his only discovery was a minor one – the ladder which usually lay across the roof of the shed in Number 8 was now placed against the back wall of Number 10.
He went into the hall and picked up the telephone.
‘Are you repairing the roof?’ he asked, when Edward Saneck lifted the receiver.
‘No.’ Edward sounded cross. ‘I’m shaving.’
‘You have got your car back, haven’t you?’
‘I fetched it last night.’
‘Good. Because you will have to go down to Cambridge for me to buy those glasses.’
There was a pause – perhaps for thought, or perhaps Edward was simply removing lather. Then:
‘But you always go to Cambridge.’
‘I can’t this time. I think it is just possible that I may have visitors and it would be better if they found me here.’
Another pause, and then, without enthusiasm:
‘But I have to see that superintendent about the burglary.’
‘Haven’t you seen him yet?’
‘We seem to have missed one another.’
‘Then you will have to miss one another again. My dear Edward, I am terribly sorry; but it will be all the more exciting for you when you finally meet.’
Edward was not amused. He sounded very stiff and foreign as he said:
‘If you insist.’
‘I’m rather afraid I do insist. You’ll need to start soon, but I would like you to come in here on your way to the garage.’
By the time that Edward arrived he had found another objection to the proposed trip; he put it forward tentatively as though he expected to be overruled.
‘I arranged a small party at my place. You remember? Jessica is annoyed because I won’t be there.’
Jessica was the least of Vickers’s worries, but this was not a thing it would be wise to say to Edward. He flashed his charming smile and laid a hand on Edward’s shoulder.
‘I’ll go along and make myself useful to Jessica. But you really must do the Cambridge trip. It is important that I should stay here.’
‘Is anything wrong?’ Edward enquired politely, but rather as though, if there were, he hoped that he would not be told.
‘Something tiresome, that’s all.’
Vickers let Edward out of the flat at half-past eight, and at nine o’clock he let Inspector MacLeish in. Inspector MacLeish was angry; he tried to conceal it but it showed in his eyes and Vickers realized that the interview might, after all, be quite entertaining.
Half an hour later, MacLeish was walking along Cedar Crescent. His mouth was shut very tight and his cheeks were unnaturally hollowed. As he passed Number 10, Jessica Holt was standing at the door taking in the milk bottles. She looked startled as she met his searing gaze and said:
‘I’ve put new bolts on the front door. And the back door, too.’
She sounded aggrieved, as though he were a demon who had been exorcized but had obstinately reappeared.
‘Is Mr. Saneck in?’ MacLeish asked.
‘Mr. Saneck has gone to Cambridge for the day.’ She, too, sounded angry.
A pity, MacLeish thought; it would have been a relief to have hit out at someone. The urge to do violence was still strong when he reached Scotland Yard. As he stood in Harper’s room waiting while Harper and Sergeant Norris went over some notes together, he felt the edge of his anger sharpening. Harper was talking to the sergeant with an easy familiarity which was quite lacking in his relationship with MacLeish. MacLeish, who had no desire to be on familiar terms with Harper, was annoyed nevertheless. He looked impatiently at the two men. Facts, he thought angrily; facts, facts, facts, all this nonsense about facts! It made him sick in the stomach.
‘I wish I had joined M.I.5,’ he said suddenly. ‘All we get is the drudgery.’
Harper, who was giving instructions to the sergeant, merely said:
‘At least you’re still here, instead of being laid out on a slab in the mortuary.’
‘We have to fight these people their way,’ MacLeish fumed. Neither Harper nor the sergeant took much notice, and he went on: ‘Ginger up the facts, get them along here and . . .’
Harper clicked his tongue. ‘Counsel for the defence would love to hear you talk.’
The sergeant, MacLeish noticed, looked scandalized. Silly old owl, no wonder he had got no further in thirty years. He walked across to the window. Better try to control himself; Harper was not the man to tolerate dramatics. He could see the traffic moving along the Embankment, and the river, a pale slate blue, very calm. And then, with sickening suddenness, the scene was transformed; he could see that other road, dark, the small figure scurrying along, bowed against the rain; the car’s headlights, the sudden leap for safety that was made too la
te. He could see the face of the driver of the car very clearly. He would have liked half an hour with the man in a dark cell . . .
‘I gather your interview with Mr. Vickers wasn’t a success?’ Harper asked.
The sergeant had gone and Harper was sitting at the desk skimming through a report; he needed a shave and the lines beneath his eyes were heavy, but his expression was about as unemotional as if his face had been carved in stone.
‘He thinks he’s untouchable,’ MacLeish said angrily. And that makes two of you, he thought. ‘He behaved as though I were a terrier snapping round his ankles that he could shake off whenever he liked to kick out.’
Harper put the report to one side and sat back in his chair.
‘What did you tell him?’
‘I said that a man had been knocked down outside Beaconsfield some time after half-past eleven last night. I didn’t say we thought that the body had been dumped there. I told him that a lorry driver had reported seeing a red Rover parked at the side of the road. He said was I interviewing all the owners of red Rovers? And then I said that the letters on the number plate had been either BXH or BYH.’
‘You did, did you?’
‘I wanted to wipe the smile off his face.’
‘And did you succeed?’
‘No. He just laughed louder in that inane way of his, with his eyes starting out of his head. But a few minutes later he hinted at an alibi. He said that he and the man Ames were in his flat from ten o’clock onwards, and that there was someone else there as well. He refused to give any more information at present.’
‘His partner around?’
‘He’s gone to Cambridge.’
‘Elusive, isn’t he?’
‘What do we do now, sir?’ MacLeish asked impatiently.
‘We’ve done all we can with Mr. Vickers and gone a damn sight further than we ought. We’ll leave the next move to him – or to those bright lads in M.L5 who seem to have made such a muck of that burglary.’ Harper picked up a photograph from his desk. ‘I suppose we shall have to try to trace Donovan’s movements for the evening. He telephoned from somewhere in Tottenham Court Road – but that was early on. The trouble is, no one will remember him; after all, that’s why he was picked for the job.’ He looked down at the thin, wispy face. ‘How much do you suppose he knew? It’s hard to believe that anything very vital can have blown up in that one evening.’