Off the Record

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  ‘Is he young and clean-shaven?’

  ‘No. Middle-aged and bearded. The beard’s important.’

  ‘Damn! Never mind. We must have an illustration of a bearded bloke somewhere in stock. Use that. One chap in a beard looks much like any other and they all look like Methuselah. The pictures can mean anything. It’s the words around them that are important. Get Radcliffe to work on it and give him instructions for the cover. We’ll have to run your story as the lead. Can you let me have it, complete with pictures, by five o’clock?’

  ‘I’ll try. Although what my readers would say if they knew I was writing stories to fit the pictures rather than the other way round, I don’t know.’

  ‘They’ll love it. This isn’t art, it’s business.’ Archie Keyne made an impatient noise as the telephone on his desk rang. ‘Yes?’ he barked down the phone. He glanced at Jack. ‘Yes, he’s here.’ He covered the mouthpiece with his hand. ‘It’s a Hector Ferguson. Don’t even think of leaving the building.’

  ‘Relax,’ said Jack, taking the phone. ‘Ferguson?’

  ‘Thank God!’ said Ferguson. ‘I rang you at home but your landlady said you were at work. I need to talk to you.’

  Talk? Ferguson’s voice was cracked with worry. Bill said he was going to approach the Shanghai and Oriental again. It sounded as if Ferguson had realized something was in the air. If Ferguson wanted to talk then he wanted to listen but he couldn’t – simply couldn’t – let Archie down.

  ‘Can we,’ said Ferguson, ‘meet for lunch?’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Jack, performing a complicated manoeuvre as he shrugged off his coat whilst continuing to hold the telephone. He heard Archie’s sigh of relief. ‘I’m going to be here until at least five, probably later.’

  ‘Can you come to the house, then?’ begged Ferguson. ‘I’ll be alone. I . . . I could do with talking things over. I think I might have made a fool of myself.’

  ELEVEN

  Ferguson, thought Jack, was in a state. The ashtray beside him was overflowing and, even though the window was open, the room stank of cigarette smoke. He’d downed a whisky and soda that was obviously not his first of the afternoon in record time and was working his way through another. Jack couldn’t help wondering what Mrs Dunbar, who was attending a matinée with Mr Bryce, would say when she got home. He hoped, because it had been a very long day, he wouldn’t be around to hear it.

  Jack glanced at his watch, that particular hope fading fast. The man simply wouldn’t get to the point. ‘Ferguson,’ he demanded, interrupting a rambling narrative about jazz, New York and mothers, ‘why did you want to see me? You said you’d made a fool of yourself. How?’

  Ferguson cut off mid sentence, baulked visibly. ‘It’s the police,’ he said at last. ‘I know they’ve been digging away about me. Tommy Paxton, who works at the Shanghai and Oriental, says they’ve been round again. If they ask him, I know he’ll tell them what I did. He’s . . . he’s a good sort, Tommy, but he can’t tell lies. Not to the police.’ He broke off. ‘I don’t know what to do, Jack.’

  His mouth trembled in ineffectual anger. ‘Bloody Dunbar! I’ve always hated him.’ He looked at Jack in bewilderment. ‘What was I supposed to do? I was only a kid when my mother married him but I knew he was a swine. He loved finding fault with me. Spare the rod and spoil the child. That’s what he would say. Then he’d take me into his study and beat seven bells out of me. I . . . I used to imagine killing him.’

  Jack chilled. ‘Did you?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I used to comfort myself with it. Horrible, isn’t it? True, though.’

  ‘What on earth did your mother say?’

  ‘Most kids get a tanning occasionally, don’t they? I imagine I deserved some of them but he really loved walloping hell out of me. When my mother realized that, she left him.’ He nearly laughed. ‘Most people couldn’t understand it, you know? You know how grown-ups talk over your head when you’re a kid? If you keep quiet you hear all sorts of things you’re not meant to. He was thought to be a good husband. He didn’t have affairs or get drunk.’ Ferguson broke off and took another gulp of whisky. ‘No one seemed to notice how cold hearted he was, how money-grubbing. He was an elder of the church and so respected but if he worshipped anything, it was money. I hate churches, especially those Scottish ones.’ He finished his whisky. ‘My mother wanted a divorce.’

  ‘Did she?’

  Ferguson raised his head at the question. ‘You didn’t know that. I shouldn’t have told you, should I? We’ve been trying to keep it quiet.’ He looked at the empty glass in his hand. ‘Perhaps I’ve had a couple too many, but what does it matter? You’d have found out sooner or later.’

  ‘I knew she couldn’t be happily married. She was separated, after all.’

  ‘Yes, but a divorce is different, isn’t it?’ said Ferguson, walking to the sideboard and pouring himself another drink. ‘He didn’t want one. Dunbar, I mean. He’d have to make her a settlement and he didn’t want that. It’s true, you know, what she told you the other day. It really is all her money. It isn’t fair.’ He leaned against the sideboard. ‘And then there’s that poor beggar, Bryce. He thinks the world of her. You’d guessed, hadn’t you?’ Jack nodded. ‘I knew you had. My stepfather guessed as well. I ask you, what would any normal man do? If they knew, I mean.’

  ‘I imagine they’d be angry,’ said Jack cautiously.

  Ferguson laughed harshly. ‘I would. You would. Not him. Not holier-than-thou Dunbar. He kept Bryce close to him for the sheer pleasure of seeing him squirm. It’s damned hard to get a job at his age and poor old Bryce had to put up with it or starve. My stepfather loved getting one over on someone. I like old Bryce. He’s a decent sort. And it was all so painfully innocent, you know? There wasn’t anything dodgy going on, I’ll swear to it.’

  ‘Ferguson,’ said Jack awkwardly. ‘Should you really be telling me all this?’

  ‘Why not? You knew already. Most of it, anyway. Besides, you’re a pal.’ He took another drink. ‘S’right, isn’t it? I know what’s bothering you,’ he added with bleary insight. ‘You’re trying to work out who killed that swine. You think I’ve said too much.’

  ‘It might be difficult for your mother, you know. To say nothing of Mr Bryce.’

  Ferguson raised his head. ‘It’s all right. There’s no way on God’s earth she would have laid a finger on him. She’s too soft. So’s Bryce. Nice bloke. I like him.’

  ‘Even so . . .’

  ‘For God’s sake, Haldean, they didn’t do it! I know they didn’t do it. Look, I can prove it!’

  He put a hand in his pocket, took out a key with a fob, and threw it on to the table.

  Jack gazed at the key. He could see a number on the fob. 206. The number of Andrew Dunbar’s room. He stared at Ferguson. His face was pale, his eyes unnaturally bright. ‘How did you get hold of that?’

  ‘I was there! Don’t you understand? I was there.’ He buried his head in his hands. ‘I can’t stand it. I know the police are getting closer and closer, but I didn’t do it.’ He looked at Jack helplessly. ‘I wanted to tell you. I know I’m going to be found out. The police are after me, aren’t they?’

  Jack didn’t see anything for it but to agree. ‘They’re checking your alibi.’

  Ferguson made a sound between a laugh and a sob. ‘Alibi? Oh my God, I haven’t got an alibi. I lied. It wasn’t meant to be an alibi, just an arrangement between me and Tommy Paxton.’

  ‘This chap you used to work with?’

  ‘Yes. We junior clerks were supposed to be there until five o’clock but you know how it is. Everyone wants to slope off early at some time. The senior, Old Wallace, was dead easy to fool. We’ve all done it. If you wanted to go early, you got someone to initial the register for you. Wallace never noticed and, if he asked where Mr so-and-so was, someone would say they’d been called to Dispatch or Advance Orders or somewhere. It didn’t happen very often. We were never found out.’

  ‘You asked Tommy Paxton to ini
tial the register for you?’ Ferguson nodded. ‘Why?’

  Ferguson put his hand to his forehead. ‘Bryce wrote to my mother saying my stepfather was in London. We knew he’d be at the Marchmont. He always stayed there. I tell you, Haldean, I was worried. I knew my mother had just about reached the end of her tether with Dunbar and this divorce business.’ His face twisted. ‘She was going to cause a scene. She can’t help it, you know. She loves a good performance and every so often she lets rip. I didn’t want her to have a blazing row with him. It wouldn’t do any good and would make things even more beastly for Bryce. She wouldn’t listen, though. Bryce said in his letter that my stepfather was meeting Lewis and Carrington and she guessed the meeting would go on all afternoon. She planned to ring the hotel, make an appointment for afternoon tea while he was stuck with Lewis, and nab him before he could vanish. She was stupidly pleased with herself. I tried to argue, but she wouldn’t listen. She always thought she was going to win. She never did. Dunbar always came out best. I thought if I was there, I could calm things down, stop her getting out of hand, so I asked Tommy Paxton to sign me out.’

  ‘What time did you get to the hotel?’

  ‘Time?’ Ferguson thought for a moment. ‘It must have been twenty to five or so. My mother didn’t know I was coming. She didn’t exactly jump through hoops when I arrived. However, I was there and there wasn’t anything she could do about it. She’d sent a message saying she’d meet Dunbar at quarter to five, but quarter to five came and went and he didn’t show up. We hung about for a while, waiting, and my mother’s temper got worse and worse. She knew what room he was in and was on the verge of going upstairs. If she’d had clapped eyes on him at that moment, there’d have been fireworks, so I said I’d go. She was a bit iffy about it, but her ankle was giving her jip and she agreed.’ He broke off and lit another cigarette with shaking fingers.

  ‘What happened?’ prompted Jack.

  ‘I found him! My God, yes, I found him. His door was ajar and I pushed it open.’ He sucked deeply on his cigarette. ‘There he was. I can’t tell you how long I was there. Not long. I couldn’t believe he was dead until I touched him. It was as if a bomb went off in my head. He was dead. I couldn’t bring myself to touch him again but I knew he was dead. I backed out of the room and just stood there. I realized I had the key in my hand. It had been on the desk but I can’t really remember picking it up. I locked the room. I don’t know why. I think I wanted to hide it all. I was in a hell of state. I could hardly breath.’

  ‘Did you think he’d shot himself ?’

  ‘I didn’t think anything. All I knew was that he was dead. And then . . .’ He looked at Jack with wide eyes. ‘I hated seeing him, but somewhere, underneath it all, I was pleased. Nasty, isn’t it?’

  ‘Understandable, perhaps.’

  ‘Yes? It made me feel wrong. I felt as if I’d killed him. It was horrible. A chambermaid came along the corridor. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t have spoken to save my life but I knew she’d seen me and I knew I had to get away. I got back to the lobby and there was my mother, still waiting for him to show up. It was a nightmare. She took control, told me to go home, to act as if nothing had happened, and she’d cover my tracks. I did what she said – it was good to have someone tell me what to do – and it wasn’t until I was nearly home that it struck me that she thought I’d killed him. And you know what? I couldn’t get rid of the idea that maybe I had. I wondered if I could have acted in a blind rage, then forgotten what I’d done. I was pleased he was dead.’

  Ferguson’s voice trembled. ‘He’d gone. Everyone could be happy again. I found the key in my pocket and imagined killing him. It felt good. I could have done, so very easily.’

  He crushed out his cigarette and lit another one. ‘My mother won’t talk about it properly. When Gerry Carrington was arrested, she never thought he’d done it. She thought it was me. She likes Carrington. She felt sorry for him. He might have done it, you know? I wouldn’t blame him if he had. When you and that policeman said Carrington was free, she panicked. Ever since, she’s tried to make me go to New York. She’s convinced it’s only a matter of time before I’m arrested and . . . and she’s right, isn’t she?’

  Jack looked at Hector Ferguson. His mouth was trembling, he was twitching with nerves, and there were dark shadows under his eyes. ‘Why don’t we talk to Bill Rackham?’ he asked, his voice deliberately calm.

  ‘The police?’

  ‘Bill’s a policeman, Ferguson, but he’s also a good bloke.’

  ‘I’ve told you! You can sort it out, can’t you?’

  ‘Not by myself. You’ll have to come clean sometime.’

  He was interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell. Ferguson raised his head slowly. His skin seemed oddly mottled, then Jack worked out it was his freckles standing out against his unnaturally white face. He levered himself up from his chair and, walking very slowly, went to the window to see who was at the door. He shrank back, then stood, rigidly poised, the knuckles on his fists showing white.

  There were footsteps in the hall as the parlourmaid went to answer the door. Bill Rackham. Jack recognized his voice.

  ‘It’s him,’ Ferguson muttered. Like someone who had forgotten how to walk, he stumbled into the hall.

  Bill, who was standing on the doorstep, raised his hat as Ferguson appeared. ‘Ah, Mr Ferguson. If I could just have a word . . .’

  With an explosion of movement, Ferguson hurtled forward. He thrust a hand on to Rackham’s chest, pushed him away, and shot down the steps. Taken completely by surprise, Bill staggered, missing his footing and fell to one side.

  ‘Ferguson!’ yelled Jack. ‘Come back!’ He shot after the running man seeing, as if in a blur, the startled faces of Bill and the parlourmaid. He took the steps in a single jump, his leg howling a protest.

  Ferguson, running hard, nearly cannoned into a couple who were rounding the corner into Essex Gardens. It was Mrs Dunbar and Mr Bryce, arm in arm and heads together. Jack saw Mrs Dunbar’s mouth circle as Ferguson skidded to a halt before dodging round them. Behind him, Jack heard the thud of Rackham’s feet on the pavement. He ran forward desperately as the shrill note of Rackham’s police whistle bit through the air.

  At the sound of the whistle, Ferguson stopped and glanced back in horror. Jack had nearly caught him when Bryce’s stick entangled in his legs, sending him sprawling. He scrambled furiously to his feet and lunged after Ferguson.

  A police constable appeared at the end of the road in answer to the whistle. Ferguson swerved and ducked under the policeman’s arm as Jack reached out and grabbed his shoulder. Panic-stricken, Ferguson jabbed first his elbow then his fist into Jack’s face. In a blaze of pain, Jack fell back, as Bill, overtaking him, stuck his foot out, bringing Ferguson crashing to the ground. The constable’s hand descended, none too gently, on Ferguson’s collar, hauling him to his feet.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ he demanded. ‘Who blew that whistle?’

  ‘I did,’ said Rackham crisply. ‘Inspector Rackham of Scotland Yard. Well done, Constable.’ He turned to Jack who was holding a handkerchief to his face. ‘Are you all right? Good grief, you’re bleeding.’

  ‘He caught me a juicy one,’ said Jack in a muffled voice. ‘Strewth, it hurts.’ Ferguson, safe in the constable’s clutches, looked ashamed. ‘I’m sorry, Haldean,’ he said sullenly. ‘I didn’t mean to lash out, but when you grabbed hold of me I couldn’t help myself. What were you chasing me for?’

  ‘Because you were running away, you idiot.’

  Mrs Dunbar and Mr Bryce arrived. ‘Why are you hounding my son?’ wailed Mrs Dunbar, hysterically. ‘This is persecution. Absolute persecution.’ She clutched at Mr Bryce’s arm again. ‘You tried to save him, Robert. Do something!’

  Mr Bryce, swelling visibly, faced Rackham. ‘What is the meaning of this, sir!’

  The constable majestically interposed, his hand still on Ferguson’s collar. ‘Do you wish to charge this man, sir?’ he said, addressing
Rackham.

  ‘I wish to ask this man a few questions,’ said Rackham. ‘Questions appertaining to the making of a false statement.’ He glared at Mrs Dunbar who was muttering persecution in an undertone. ‘However, there very well could be another charge pending. I was subject to an unprovoked attack and as for you,’ he said, rounding on Bryce, ‘I saw you deliberately trip up Major Haldean while he was aiding the police in the execution of their duties. That, sir, is assault.’

  There was a yelp from Mrs Dunbar. ‘No! Not you as well, Robert. I can’t bear it!’ She clutched at Mr Bryce. ‘You saved him, Robert! You saved my son.’

  ‘I think not, Madam,’ said Rackham coolly. ‘Mr Ferguson, I was going to ask you a few questions in your own house. I must now ask you to accompany me to Scotland Yard.’

  Jack cut through Mrs Dunbar’s agonized wail of protest. ‘You need to go back to the house, Bill.’ He nodded towards Ferguson. ‘He’s got the key of Dunbar’s hotel room. It’s on the table in the drawing room.’

  ‘No’ shrieked Mrs Dunbar. ‘No! It isn’t true! You can’t have it! I won’t let you!’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Mother, shut up!’ said Hector Ferguson wearily. Putting his hand to his mouth, he swayed momentarily. ‘Let’s get it over with, shall we? Oh, God, I feel sick. It’s been hell and I’ve been a fool. Mother, please, be quiet! I’ve been expecting this for ages.’

  The constable dropped his hand and took out his notebook. ‘When apprehended, the suspect remarked, “I’ve been expecting this for ages,”’ he noted with grim satisfaction.

  ‘Oh, blimey,’ said Ferguson. He buried his head in his hands. ‘Go and get the key. It can’t make things any worse.’ He turned to Mrs Dunbar wearily. ‘I’m sorry, mother. I’m for it.’

  ‘It’s looking a bit grim for your pal, Ferguson,’ said Bill Rackham, smothering a yawn. He rubbed his eyes and, picking up his whisky, drank it appreciatively. ‘I’ve earned that. It’s been a long evening. For both of us, I’d say,’ he added. He had promised he would call in for a nightcap and bring Jack up to date and, although the clock was nudging half eleven, had been true to his word. ‘He’s safely tucked up for the night. It was a relief when he stopped talking. He rambled on and on about how much he hated Dunbar. At one point he seemed to be saying he did kill him but he finally decided he hadn’t. I’ll have to go through the case with the Chief tomorrow but I think he’ll be charged, all right.’