Séance on a Wet Afternoon

by Mark McShane

  Bill nodded. After a moment he said, ‘Do you think they might be watching the house? Is that why you said I should go the back way?’

  ‘I think it is a possibility. One we can not afford to overlook.’

  They were sitting side by side on the bottom step of the staircase, their eyes on the door. It was dusk now, and it was cold. Myra was wearing her overcoat, and Bill his raincoat and scarf.

  There came the familiar sound of a whistled tune, and they both tensed. A moment later there was a clang as the paper boy’s bicycle was let fall against the wall. A short blur appeared on the glass, and the newspaper thudded half-way through the slot.

  When the boy’s whistle had died away, Bill went to the door and bent down. He paused, and looked back at his wife. ‘You don’t suppose they’ll be watching very close and see me pull the paper in?’

  She shook her head. ‘Anyway, the wall hides it.’

  He jerked the paper through quickly, and flapped it out of its folds as he straightened. His wife came to his side and they stood with their backs to the door to get the benefit of the light, and looked at the front page. The main headline was political. To one side of it and slightly below was the heading Abduction in Barnet. Underneath was a blurred photo of a girl’s face.

  Myra said, ‘Look for the personal column first.’

  Bill turned the pages to the classified advertisements. They saw at once the item that concerned them; it was at the head of the column. It said, Longfellow. Am ready to oblige. Charles.

  Peering close, they read the item through several times before Bill turned back to the front page. Myra said, ‘You read it out. The poor light hurts my eyes.’ She returned to the stairs and sat down.

  Bill cleared his throat, and read: ‘It was officially announced today by Mr. Charles Clayton of … et cetera … um … that his only child, Adriana, aged six, a pupil at … um … was abducted from outside the school yesterday afternoon as she was leaving for home. It is believed she is being held for ransom. The Clayton chauffeur, Henry Webster, aged forty-six, said that he called for the child as usual and put her in the back of the car. A stranger approached him and said the principal had a letter for Mr. Clayton. The chauffeur went into the school. He returned a minute later and found that the car and child were gone. The car, a black Bentley saloon, has not yet been found. The stranger is described as being of medium height, middle-age, and with black hair and the features of a boxer. Police are anxious to interview the owner of a green van which was seen in the vicinity of the school before and after the abduction. The mother of the girl was the former … er … Adriana is described as being small for her age. She has black hair with a fringe. Four upper front teeth are missing. When last seen she was wearing a green beret, green coat and brown stockings.’ He lowered the paper and looked at his wife.

  She asked, ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Yes. Not much, is it?’

  ‘Just the bare details. It was, after all, given to the papers at short notice. There will be more later.’

  ‘It doesn’t mention the ransom letter.’

  ‘No. I think Clayton will keep quiet about that till after, after he has paid. He will not wish to endanger the child’s life, as per the threat in the letter.’

  Bill said, frowning at the ceiling, ‘I wonder if they’re planning to try and catch the man who’ll collect the money.’

  ‘Hardly. I am sure Clayton would not stand for that. He thinks more of his child than he does of the money. In any case, they would be unsuccessful, the way you have it planned.’

  Bill looked at the paper again and read the description of himself. It rather pleased him. He said, ‘D’you think anyone would recognize me from this?’

  ‘Not a hope.’ She glanced at the feeble light behind the glass of the door. ‘It will be dark soon. We will wait another ten minutes.’

  They waited twenty minutes, to be sure. They sat on the stairs, huddled together for warmth, and talked in low voices. When the hat-stand became merely a black patch, Myra said, ‘All right.’ They rose and fumbled their way into the kitchen.

  Bill unlocked the door and slipped out, and Myra put her head out beside him. They listened. All was quiet.

  She hissed, ‘Think you will be able to see?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You know what to say?’

  He patted his pocket. ‘I’ve got it all written down.’

  ‘Right. I will wait up for you.’ She withdrew her head and closed the door softly.

  Bill began to move slowly forward along the earth path that stood out vaguely from its surrounds. It was a moonless night, and there were few stars. On his left and ahead was only blackness, with nothing to show the division of earth and sky. Over to the right was a scattering of lighted windows, and above them rooftops were faintly silhouetted against the pale glow of street lamps.

  The path ended, and he was by the rotting fence that separated his garden from the wasteland. By bending down and peering he found a place where several pales had fallen away, and he put his fingertips to the ground to crawl through. He straightened and began to edge slowly over the lumpy ground, his hands held in front, trying to avoid stumbling, but stumbling anyway, on the closely set, dense tufts of grass, heading straight forward into the darkness. He knew it would be far simpler to follow the fence, backing as it did the other gardens, but he might be seen, and assumed to be up to no good, lurking quietly in the dark, and be the object of a phone call to the police.

  He put thirty slowly covered yards between himself and his house before turning right and heading for the lighted windows. As he drew closer he made an open street-end his goal, and began to move faster. He was pleased with himself for managing so well, and the depression that had come with the police visit lifted a little.

  He was within a stone’s throw of his goal when a car suddenly swung into the well-lit street and came racing down toward him.

  Almost before he’d told himself to drop flat, he’d done it. His stomach and elbows hit the ground with a painful thud.

  The car’s headlights whited the air above him, and he clung close to the ground, grabbing grass in either hand. He could feel a pulse beating strongly under his Adam’s apple; but he felt drearily unhappy more than frightened.

  There was a squeal of brakes, followed by silence. A moment later the headlights went out. He waited for the sound of opening doors. When none came he slowly lifted his head. The car was close, its front wheels standing on the edge of the tarmac, and inside were the silhouettes of two people.

  Only when he lowered his head did he realize it was possible the car had no connexion at all with the police. It was just his guilt that made him assume it had. He spent five minutes debating whether or not the police would park right there and if they’d put their lights off. He looked up again, and saw that the two heads in the car were welded together, and that one was definitely female.

  He rose to his feet, grinning with rue, and brushed himself off. His knees felt damp, and he told himself he was in for it if he didn’t remember to give them a good rub with embrocation.

  He reached the roadway and passed the car, and its occupants didn’t move a fraction out of their clinch. Walking smartly he came to the end of the street, and went along another identical with it. He turned on to a main road and headed for a bench where several people were standing. A bus roared by him to pull up squealing at the bench, and he had to run to get it. He went upstairs and darted a quick look around the other half dozen passengers; but none of them were known to him. At the eighth stop he got off, in a small shopping district, and walked around a corner to a shelter, where he stood and waited, turning his back to the two women also waiting. A trolley-bus came and he boarded it, and fifteen minutes later arrived at a tube station.

  In the station he stopped long enough to buy an evening paper, different from the one delivered to the house, and quickly got his ticket and went to the platform. In this newspaper the abduction had displaced the political ne
ws, and the picture of the girl was twice as large, but the story was almost identical with the other. Bill supposed it must have been given to the Press in the form of a written statement. He re-read the description of himself, then, when he thought he was unobserved, dropped the paper on to the tracks.

  A train came. He got in and sat at one end, where he faced only an empty seat and a wall of wood. Usually the warm compartments of the Underground cheered him, but now he was unaffected. He brought a piece of paper from his pocket and read the long-hand on it, practising what he would say to Charles Clayton on the telephone, mumbling to himself and timing the speech with his wrist-watch. He thought it would be easily short enough to eliminate the danger of the call being traced.

  At the Bank he changed to the Northern Line. When the train drew in at the Elephant and Castle he joined up with a small group of people who had also left the train and stayed with them till he was out of the station. He began to walk quickly along a main road. The district was unknown to him, but to him this was unimportant. He passed one empty telephone kiosk, thinking it best to put a little distance between himself and the station, and stopped at another farther along. He put a handful of change on the shelf and, using a handkerchief, lifted the receiver. The number he knew by heart. He put coins in the slot and dialled.

  His call was answered so quickly that it startled him. A voice said, ‘Yes? Charles Clayton here.’

  Bill, speaking from the back of his throat, said, ‘This is Longfellow.’

  There was a sound that might have been a gasp, then, ‘Where’s my little girl? What have you done with her?’ The voice was steady to start with, but on the last words it trembled and rose to a higher key.

  Bill closed his eyes, wilting at the anguish that came over the wires. He would have given anything to be able to tell the man that the child was well and not to worry. But he couldn’t do that.

  He asked, as sternly as he could, ‘You want her back, don’t you?’

  A pause, pregnant in its silence, then, hoarsely, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you got the money ready?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In the bag with the B.O.A.C. initials?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then listen carefully. Tomorrow morning come into town. Carry the bag openly, not wrapped. Just before twelve o’clock noon go into Leicester Square. In the top left corner—the north-west corner—of the inside part of the square, you’ll find a row of telephone booths. The last one on the row, the last one west, is the one you want. Go inside it at twelve o’clock and wait there. Don’t do anything, don’t use the phone, just wait there. Got all that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘North-west corner, last booth west. And listen, if there’s any cops with you, you’ll be sorry. Understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good night.’

  ‘Wait,’ the voice said quickly, ‘I want …’

  Bill lowered the receiver and set it back in its cradle. He took the change off the shelf and put it in his pocket, and wiped the shelf with his handkerchief. Leaning his back against the door he pushed his way out, and used the handkerchief again on the outside handle.

  He began to walk briskly, away from the station. He’d just decided not to go back by the same route; it was possible that someone could have noticed him leave the station, and see him return five minutes later. He would cross the river and get the tube from there.

  The street was brightly lit, from both lamps and shop windows, but there were few people about. He signalled to the first taxi that came along. It was engaged, and so were the next two. He felt a slight panic, and walked faster, and glanced back at the telephone kiosk.

  Then a vacant cab came from the other direction, and at his whistle swung across the road. He jumped in and said, ‘St. Paul’s.’

  Three

  It was still dark when Myra got up. She had told herself repeatedly the night before that she must not sleep later than five o’clock, and it was at five exactly that she awoke. She dressed quickly, adding the white frock—glad of it now for the extra warmth—and the white head covering, and went in to rouse the child.

  Adriana was cross at being dragged from warm sleep, and grumbled, even though told it was midday, and tried to hide under the bedding and get back to sleep again. But she was made to sit up and stay awake.

  Myra spent the next two hours in her own room, a blanket around her, but going at regular intervals to look in on the child; she wanted her awake now and tired later.

  At seven o’clock she went down to the lounge. Giving her husband a shake, she said, ‘Come on. There is a lot to do.’ He nodded, blinking, and began to get up. She hurried him along. When he was almost finished dressing she went back upstairs, wrapped the girl in a blanket and carried her into the bathroom.

  After having a brief wash in the kitchen, Bill got a screwdriver and went up to the back bedroom. The plywood was fitted right inside the frame of the window and held by eight screws. He removed it swiftly and lowered it to the floor. The table and chair were taken aside and the carpet pulled from under the head legs of the bed and rolled down to the feet. He slid the sheet of plywood beneath the bed, and when the carpet was rolled back over it the ridge it made was negligible, and unseen anyway from a standing position. He replaced the table and chair, switched off the light and opened the window, and was finished. He tapped on the bathroom door and went downstairs.

  Myra had supervised the child’s toilet and was now combing her hair. Adriana had proved tiredly malleable, standing meekly with one foot on top of the other, and now, when Myra said, ‘Sit on the stool,’ she sat.

  Myra opened the medicine cabinet and brought out the bottle of chloroform. With her back to the girl she poured a little of the fluid on a corner of the towel, and turned. ‘Close your eyes a moment.’ Adriana’s eyelids sank. Myra put the towel gently to the girl’s face, and with the other hand held her firmly by the shoulders. She said, ‘Breathe deeply.’

  Bill had put on his coat, scarf, helmet and goggles, and was pulling on his gloves as he walked down the hall. He opened the front door and stepped outside, and began to stretch his arms in an imitation yawn, his head moving around slowly. He was thankful to see that there were no signs of life anywhere.

  Unlocking the garage he swung open the right-hand half of the door, and left it at an angle to the house, where it screened off the garage and the side path from the rest of the street. After starting the motor-cycle engine and laying the side-car cover right back he walked round to the back and in by the kitchen door.

  On the table was a carrier bag, a blue cap, and a blue plastic pack the size and shape of a small book. The carrier bag he folded and slid inside the breast of his coat, and the cap and pack he put in his pockets.

  He went into the hall just as his wife was coming down the stairs. Myra had the blanket-swathed child in her arms and was clutching the chloroform bottle in one hand.

  Bill asked, ‘Is she away?’

  ‘Yes. Sound as a bell.’

  ‘How much did you give her?’

  ‘I simply poured a drop on the towel. I know as little about it as you do.’

  He held out his arms as she reached the bottom step, but she said, ‘I might as well take her. Get the bottle.’

  He took the chloroform and led the way to the kitchen, and outside and round to the front. In the garage Myra put the girl into the side-car and stretched her out full-length. Bill tested the cork of the bottle before wedging it safely in a pocket of the side-car. He pulled the waterproof tight and snapped it down.

  Myra asked, ‘You have got everything?’

  ‘Yes. You can manage the bathroom?’

  ‘Yes. You will not forget the fruit?’

  ‘No. And you won’t forget the sheet?’

  ‘No. I will do it now.’

  ‘Right.’ He swung on to the saddle, tucked his coat tails under him and gently opened the throttle.

  Myra went outside, looked up the street, and glanc
ed back and nodded.

  Bill moved the machine forward and steered it slowly out and eased it down on to the dirt road. He pulled the goggles over his eyes and set off, keeping the speed down so there would be no bouncing.

  Myra closed and locked the garage and went back inside the house, going straight up to the bathroom. The sheet of plywood was smaller than the other and was not screwed in, merely wedged against the frame—it hadn’t to withstand any possible batterings. She took it down and carried it to the bed in the back room. With some difficulty she slid it under the mattress, well under, and put the bedding back in its previous disorder. She examined the pillow closely, and found three long black hairs, which she carried to the window and blew outside. Downstairs again she folded the blankets on the couch, leaving aside a sheet, ready to be taken to the washing line.

  Bill came out of the housing estate and turned on to the main road. The traffic was light and fast. He steered in close to the kerb and drove along beside it, the side-car wheel almost in the gutter, driving at a steady twenty. He had a lot of time to spend, and he hoped the lack of speed would help grade the girl’s artificial sleep into a natural one.

  After travelling five miles he came to a gentle stop in front of a transport café, into which, with several bikeward glances, he went. He never felt quite real till he’d had his morning tea, and he needed it now more than usual.

  He’d passed the café a thousand times, but this was the first time he’d been inside. It was small and dirty, not a bit like its gaudily painted exterior. There were no other customers; but two cats were asleep in the centre of one of the tables. Behind the counter was a heavy-eyed youth, who said, as Bill approached, ‘Cook’s not’ere yet, if you wanted breakfast.’

  ‘No. Just tea, please.’

  ‘Right you are.’

  Bill put the money on the counter, and asked, ‘Have you got the morning paper?’