“Well?’’ said Don.
“Yes, good,’’ said Charmian absently. She couldn’t take her eyes off it.
He left her for a while and wandered off. Then he came back. “Come on. More to see.’’ Obediently she rose.
“They were masters of the world, those men, when that picture was painted,’’ he said. “And they knew it. You can see it in their faces.’’
He led her into a smaller room. “ You can take your pick here, not a miss among them.’’
She walked slowly round the room responding to the warmth and composure of each picture. Hobbema, Vermeer and Pieter de Hooch displayed their world. She came to rest before a picture of a house in the evening sun, a house of old red brick, which had been an old building when Vermeer painted it. An elderly lady sat before the house, a maidservant was washing down the side entry.
“You see, we do admire the same things,’’ said Don in her ear. “That’s the one I choose. I was willing you to choose it too.’’
The closing bell sounded and they walked towards the entrance. “Why did you bring me here?’’ asked Charmian.
“They’re great pictures. I like them. I wanted you to like them too.’’
“I suppose that’s an answer,’’ said Charmian slowly.
“Know your adversary,’’ said Don with a grin. “Don’t shoot till you see the whites of his eyes.’’
They ate a meal in a restaurant called The Five Flies.
“Dutch to the last drop, isn’t it?’’ said Don, looking round him. “Have some more Dutch gin. Ginevra. It came from Geneva at first, you know.’’
“You’ve already had plenty,’’ said Charmian austerely.
“But you haven’t.’’
He leaned towards her.
“If you were a really good policewoman, you’d get me drunk to see what I said.’’
“You’ve already said plenty.’’
“But I haven’t told you the brightest and most original thing of all.’’
“No?’’
He leaned forward. “ I’m not called Gordon Goldsworthy. I’m called Joseph Gratz.’’
“And is that so original?’’
“Yes, but you see I didn’t know about it until today.’’ His voice was a little out of control. “ You’re really Joseph Gratz,’’ his voice faltered, “ from Warsaw, a little Jew boy from Poland and the Goldsworthys from Hampstead adopted you when you were four, and you have kinsfolk still living in Poland, and that’s why we’ve enlisted you.’’
“It’s not so bad being Joseph Gratz,’’ said Charmian awkwardly. Had he really not known?
“But enlisted, that’s it,’’ he said, opening his eyes wide. He was outraged. “ I thought it was all voluntary. I was dedicated, not recruited.’’
On the homeward plane, still hostile but still together, they sat side by side.
Presently, Don dropped asleep. Eyes closed, he looked not younger, as people you are interested in are always supposed to do in sleep, but older and tireder. He still looked puzzled as though he knew the answers all right and they weren’t easy ones. One hand had fallen forward, dangling awkwardly. Charmian picked it up and placed it across his breast; he did not stir.
“All this talk about loving the world,’’ she thought, as she looked down at him. “And he seems to have no close relationships at all himself. Love has to be directed at some person or place. Love in general is nothing. That’s what Don and his friends don’t grasp. They don’t see it takes a saint or a god to love in general, and even then it’s tricky. And because this lot haven’t got a saint or a god among them, they’re trying to do it all themselves. ‘A Make Yourself God Kit’, that’s what they’ve bought themselves. And we gave them the money.’’
Don moved his hand again. The fingers were deeply stained with chemicals and a small burn had raised a blister on the thumb. The marked hands of a bomb maker. Charmian hoped very much that the Dutchman was right and that the bombs wouldn’t go off.
I haven’t really understood you, she thought, looking away from the hands. Between you and me there is a difference; we are different kinds of people. Perhaps that’s it, and you are a different species. Maybe all this time a different kind of hominid, not homo sapiens, but another breed, has been quietly appearing all over the world, and you are one of them.
And if this is so, then I have to be ready to admit that you killed Alda in pursuance of your own aims and might kill me. For it is perfectly natural for one kind of animal to kill another kind. Only within the species do we call it murder and cannibalism.
Don opened one eye and, cold and placid, looked at her and then went back to sleep.
Well, that wasn’t a human look, thought Charmian, that was a look from outer space. I’m the old human race, he’s the new, that’s the way it is. You could explain a lot that way. It tied up with some of her deep preoccupations with young criminals and young murderers. A new kind of murderer and a new kind of man.
Don came fully awake and stared at her. “ Why are you looking at me like that?’’
“I was just wondering if in another life and in another town you were called Eddie,’’ said Charmian truthfully.
“No. No, of course not. How could that be?’’ He turned his head away and looked out of the window.
When their plane touched down at the small airport which served Midport, Charmian saw that they had a welcoming party. She doubted if the welcome was for her. Lulie was there and Van. No, they wouldn’t come to see her home. For the first time she wondered why Van hadn’t gone to his homeland with Don. Perhaps he preferred to be a background figure.
Lulie and Van gave Don a brisk professional greeting. Don seemed less certain of himself with them.
Lulie drove the car, a small Fiat, and politely offered a lift to Charmian as well. Charmian sat beside her as she drove, which she did with speed and skill.
“Good trip?’’ she said over her shoulder to Don.
“Yes.’’
It seemed to be all the answer she wanted and she smiled slightly. Charmian felt she’d like to wipe that little smile away. Or, at the very least, knock it slightly sideways.
“It was very interesting,’’ said Charmian. “I learnt a lot.’’
“Oh?’’ Lulie gave her a sideways look. “A good conference then?’’
“She loved it,’’ said Don from behind. “ Yes, it was love at first sight.’’
“Oh really?’’ said Lulie, as if marking down the tone of his voice, the words he had used and assessing them. The upshot wasn’t satisfactory, and she frowned. “ Oh really?’’ She spun the wheel expertly, judging the distance very neatly. “ Which particular aspect of it did you love so much?’’
Something about those dexterous little paws decided Charmian.
“It was all deeply interesting,’’ said Charmian. “And I learnt a lot.’’ She added modestly, “ Of course I had a lot to learn. About the pictures, about the architecture, and about the history of Amsterdam. That specially interested me. I always like learning about people.’’
“You missed a big demonstration while you were away,’’ said Lulie smugly. “ It went very well. One or two policemen got hurt.’’ She spoke with prim satisfaction.
“More than policemen,’’ said Van. “Maybe it went too far.’’
“No’’ cried Lulie. Charmian hated her at that moment
They parted as soon as they were back in the University precincts. Charmian went at once to the telephone to call the number that contacted the man who had sent her to Amsterdam. He was a policeman, of course, but he had rather special interests, and belonged to a rather special branch of it. Although he had a very English name, Charmian thought he wasn’t entirely English. As it happened they had never met, he was just a voice on the telephone, and she based her belief entirely on his voice. But without Charmian being aware of it, he had seen her. He had come down to Deerham Hills one day and silently vetted her for the part she was to play which was, alth
ough she did not know it, a kind of promotion. “She’ll do,’’ he had said. “A bit edgy, but she’ll do.’’
She sounded edgy now as she spoke to him.
“Yes, I got a list of names from the Amsterdam police of all students who were likely to come over here to cause trouble. With photographs. Not very good photographs, incidentally, but I suppose they’ll do.’’
She listened to the other voice and then said: “ No, I didn’t recognise any of them.’’ There was another question from the other end. “ Yes, the Dutch police confirm the bomb story and add some details. I have it all ready for you.’’
Sounds of approval came across the line, but Charmian was not listening or even interested. She had something more urgent on her mind.
“Listen: the girl, Lulie. I’ve decided: she’s the professional, she’s the one. Get her out of here. Get rid of her. She’s the one.’’
“Can do,’’ said the man at the other end, thoughtfully. “Yes, I think I know Lulie. There’s a way to remove her.’’
“I hear you had trouble here while I was away,’’ said Charmian. “What happened?’’
“A big student sit down in University Square. Got violent for a while. They blocked off all the roads round the university district.’’ He sounded grim. “As a result, the fire engine couldn’t get through to where it was needed. Not in time anyway to save a student who was trapped in a burning house.’’
Later that evening, Charmian heard, not to her surprise, that Lulie was in some trouble over her student’s permit to be in the country, and was packing to go to London. But when it came to Lulie’s going no one was there to say goodbye.
They had crowded into the University Chapel for a short service.
It was the house in which Mrs. Banks had been attacked that had been burnt down. In it had died the girl drama student, Priscilla Duval.
This new tragedy, coming so soon after the death of Mrs. Banks, had shocked Midport. The University, tense and unhappy anyway, was particularly affected. Teaching staff and student body alike mourned Priscilla. Her death seemed to epitomise the violence they had woken up.
By the time Charmian got back everyone had a version of the story. Priscilla had gone back to the house to collect some of her possessions. She had smoked a cigarette and thrown the match into a wastepaper basket on the ground floor. Then she’d gone upstairs. The fire had had a good hold before anyone noticed.
“She didn’t burn to death,’’ said Emily Carter to Charmian. “She died of shock and smoke. She came round enough to say it was her fault for smoking and then her heart gave out.’’ Emily was crying. “ She was such a beauty. And all for a photograph.’’
“A photograph?’’
“Yes. They say that’s what she kept muttering: ‘ I was looking for a photograph.’ ’’
Chapter Ten
Back in Marchbanks Hall, Charmian walked round and round her room, trying to get her bearings. She’d only been away two nights and already she felt a stranger. She was pretty sure someone had been in her room turning it over again. Probably she had to expect this as a routine check.
The building was almost empty. Most of the students had gone to the service in the University Chapel. A good many of them were agnostics and of those that were not, several were not Christians, but there was a lot of sadness about the death of Priscilla Duval and everyone wanted to make a gesture. There was a strange feeling in the air, because as well as the deaths, people had begun to notice the number of birds that flew about the buildings all day. You might almost say they were besieging the University. One student said the birds acted desperate and the word caught on. Other people thought the birds desperate too. It all added to, or perhaps let loose, the emotions in the place.
Three deaths already, thought Charmian, and how many more to come? She wondered how the local police investigation was going, but she knew better than to ask. They would never tell her anything important. To them she was an outsider. A tiresome one too, probably. She knew she had recently won a nickname among them: they called her Greta Garbo. It could have been in reference to the soft way she was wearing her hair, but Charmian thought it probably had a sharper edge to it. She didn’t take it as a compliment.
There were several letters from her husband on the table. He wouldn’t be worried at not hearing from her, he knew where she was and what she was working at. She seemed to hear Don’s ironical laugh and she closed down this subject. The letters she put away in a drawer unread. Then this seemed disloyal, so she got them out again and put them in her coat pocket.
She went to the window and looked out. Why were there so many birds? And why did more keep coming? She drew the curtains. It could all be imagination. Emotion had a lot of ways of clothing itself and there was plenty of hysteria loose on the campus tonight.
Alda had started the talk about the birds, and at that time she must have been close to breaking point herself. Those last two days she’d really been sleepwalking. Without knowing it she had been concussed and was dying.
Alda, Mrs. Banks and Priscilla Duval, that was the procession of the dead. And I went to Amsterdam and made a fool of myself, thought Charmian.
She had left her work open on her desk and when she got back there was a letter waiting for her in an un-addressed envelope. She opened it and then let it fall on to the table before her.
“Shall I tell you something you do not know about your husband?’’ it said in large staggering capitals. No more, but it was enough.
Charmian screwed it up and threw it away. “ Nasty,’’ she said. There was the feel of real malice. Uneasily she was aware that she was the focus of hatred from someone, that she must number herself among those who are capable of provoking the neurotic.
She could still be a student, though, and she replaced her books and settled down to work. When all was said and done, work was a good drug. She heard the building fill up again as people came back from the Chapel. Music started, familiar voices called to one another—only not Don’s, she seemed to have silenced him.
Amsterdam wasn’t all waste, she thought. I’ve probably stopped a bomb being thrown in the face of the Royal Party in a few days’ time. Or if it’s thrown, then it won’t go off. Of course, the Dutch police were stopping it anyway, without my help.
Tomorrow she would see her group of student policewomen. She was thinking particularly of Ann and Nancy.
The two girls sat together over a cup of tea in the restaurant of a big shop. Ann Hooks would really have preferred coffee or even a coke, but she was anxious to be anglicised as soon as possible, so she took tea. Besides, she had noticed that tea really did make the English sweeter tempered, whereas after coffee they were often a little acid. Even her friend Nancy Bennett, whom she admired extremely, was more relaxed after a good, hot cup of tea.
“It’s a mistake,’’ Nancy was saying. “ Don’t you think it’s a mistake?’’
“But it’s a lovely hat. Just lovely.’’
“No one wears hats any more. I was a fool to buy it.’’
Ann looked at her with sympathy; it was all she could manage, enthusiasm was out. They’d been on this subject since the first cup of tea.
“I’m too young to wear a hat,’’ wailed Nancy.
“I know you are, love. Take it back.’’
“They won’t change hats. No, it was a mistake and I’ve got to live with it. You know what it was really, don’t you?’’
“No.’’
“My attempt to put on the feminine and put down the policewoman.’’
“Oh, Nancy!’’
“Yes. Being a policewoman takes the woman out of you.’’
“Charmian Daniels manages.’’
“Does she? Does she? I think she’s split right down the middle. That’s what worries me. I think I shall give it up,’’ she said abruptly.
“Ah don’t.’’
“You’re one to talk,’’ said Nancy, rounding on Ann. “ Look at you. Your work as a policewoman
is cutting into your private life, isn’t it?’’
“You’re right there.’’ Ann sighed. “ It’s all right to fall in love and it’s fine to be loved back, but why does his brother have to be a nasty little fire-raiser and coat-slasher.’’
“You’ve got proof?’’
Ann shook her head. “ He’s been too clever. It’s him, though. I’m almost sure he pushes drugs, too. Oh, I’ll get him in the end, and it won’t be so long either. He knows I’m watching him. I was round there to supper last night and I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Nor him either; he watched me all the time.’’
“The real trouble’s going to come when you get proof,’’ said Nancy.
“You’re telling me. Won’t his Mum love me? She’s already sharpening her knife for me because her clever big boy is in love with a coloured girl. And don’t tell me you don’t know how she feels,’’ she added, “because I know you do.’’
“I’m fond of you, Ann,’’ said Nancy humbly.
“Yes, you’re fond of me.’’ The two girls looked at each other. “Well, so I’m fond of you.’’
“And it took us time to get fond of each other. It comes with time, Ann. Give your boy’s mother time,’’ said Nancy.
“Time,’’ said Ann, “I’m always giving it away. I seem to pour it away like water. Oh well, I suppose time’s something I’ve got plenty of … But don’t you go leaving the police, I’m hanging on and you must too.’’
“Yeah.’’ Nancy let the word sigh through her lips.
There was a mass meeting in the Student’s Union that evening. Charmian went to it and sat quietly at the back. Don was at the front, but not on the platform and not talking. On the platform was a group Charmian hadn’t noticed before. She didn’t stay long. Nothing of interest would come up at this meeting. I’ve done my job on you lot, she thought. I’ve winkled out the professional and she’s been sent away. What’s left won’t be so dangerous. There’s Don, of course. But what he is and how dangerous, no man knows. Certainly no woman, she thought with sardonic mirth. Certainly not this woman. This nitwit. In her pocket was the little bundle of letters from her husband, which she hadn’t yet opened. It would be wrong to say they were burning a hole there, but they were keeping up a good, warm steady pressure. She ought to read them soon. But what would they say, but love, love, love and she wasn’t sure she knew how to handle love any longer. Perhaps she and it had long been strangers, and what she had been entertaining was another passion altogether. Such as desire. It didn’t do to think of that in connection with one’s own husband and she hurriedly closed down on that thought.
A New Kind of Killer, and Old Kind of Death Page 11