The Passenger

by Francis Durbridge

  “Okay, darling,” Roy said, trying to hide his frustration. She banged the door. He gave her a wave and started the engine.

  Evelyn watched the tail lights disappear through the gate as she felt in her handbag for her keys. It had been daylight when she left the house and so it was in complete darkness. She felt no apprehension as she opened the door and entered the dark hall. She knew exactly where to find the switches. Her movements were decisive as she turned on the hall lights, shrugged off her fur coat and threw it over a chair. She moved on to the drawing-room, pausing at the door to snap down all the switches and flood the room with light. She crossed quickly to the windows and pulled the cords that drew the curtains across.

  In the short space of time since she had parted from Roy her manner had completely changed. The girlish petulance and teasing playfulness had vanished. She had already completely dismissed her admirer from her mind and looked more like the female director of a business school than a driving instructor’s mistress.

  For a moment she stood still in the middle of the room, her face hard as she concentrated her thoughts. She glanced at her watch and then moved purposefully over to the sofa drawn up at right angles to the fireplace. The telephone was on the small table beside it. She picked up the instrument, dialled three digits, and waited impatiently till the operator answered.

  “International Service, please,” she said crisply. “United States.”

  This time the delay was shorter before the international operator answered.

  “International Service. What country, please?”

  “I want to send a cable to New York . . . My number’s Guildfleet 701 . . . The subscriber’s name is Walker . . . The cable’s for a Mr. Jack Stenhouse . . . Yes, that’s right, Stenhouse . . . Waldorf Astoria Hotel, Park Avenue, New York . . . Please telephone me ten o’clock tomorrow night. Must talk to you. All my love. Evelyn . . . That’s right . . . EVELYN.”

  It was as she stood listening to the operator reading the message back to her that she became really aware of a shiny object which lay on the small table. It was David’s cigarette case and it was open, as if he had been surprised while filling it from the large silver cigarette box.

  When the message ended she thanked the operator tersely, put the receiver down and thoughtfully picked up the case. Suddenly she spun round, as if she half expected to find David coming through the door, as he had done that day when Inspector Denson had been here.

  The house was very quiet as she went out into the hall. Somewhere a board creaked and the big grandfather clock tickered as it always did a few seconds before striking. She went to the foot of the stairs and called softly: “David?”

  There was no light on upstairs. Her throat had tightened and she knew her voice had been faint. She tried again, more loudly.

  “David, are you upstairs?”

  The grandfather clock gathered its strength and struck eleven solemn notes. They echoed eerily through the house. As she turned to re-enter the drawing-room she noticed that the door of David’s study was half open. It had been closed when she went out; in fact that door had not been opened since David had gone to live at The Crown.

  She went to the door and pushed it wide. David hated overhead lights. All the table lamps, including the one on his desk, were wired to switch on at the door. The switch she found first was the desk lamp.

  She drew in her breath so quickly that the air hissed between her lips and she instinctively closed her eyes. It took her perhaps ten seconds to recover from the shock and regain control of herself. Then she pressed down the remaining switches and walked slowly into the room, circling the desk till she was standing behind it.

  There was no question that he was dead. It must have been instantaneous the moment the bullet from the small-calibre automatic entered his temple. His head had crashed forward onto the desk, splattering blood over the papers. The hand gripping the gun in the spasm of death splayed across the green leather top. Mercifully his face was hidden.

  Her eyes scanned the desk rapidly, noting and memorising the letters and documents, the tray for pens and pencils, the pipe-rack, a silver cigarette lighter and the portable typewriter — this last had been pushed to one side. A single sheet of paper, neatly and carefully typed, had been laid on top of it.

  She looked at it for a moment then picked it up and held it under the lamp. The half-dozen lines in the middle of the page caught her immediate attention.

  “ . . . I killed Judy Clayton and in the end I had no alternative but to kill myself. For some time now I’ve been having an affair with Judy. One night, about six months ago, she started to blackmail me . . .”

  She glanced at the dead body of her husband. Her expression was one of annoyance, almost frustration. Then she straightened up, listening. She was almost certain that she had heard a car turning in and stopping at the front of the house. She was still holding the paper in her hand. On a sudden impulse she picked up the lighter and flipped the bevelled cylinder to ignite the flame. It failed to light. She tried again and as the flame spurted up a sharp double knock sounded on the front door.

  There was something urgent and commanding about that knock echoing through the empty house. The knocker must have been wielded by an authoritative hand. She froze, uncertain what to do, the flame held a few inches from the corner of the suicide note. Then she snapped the lighter shut, put it back on the desk and replaced the sheet on top of the typewriter where she had found it.

  Totally in command of herself, she moved at an unhurried pace towards the door of the study.

  Chapter Two

  “Perhaps she’s gone to bed,” Kennedy suggested. “Shall I try the knocker?”

  “The hall lights are on,” Martin pointed out. “And anyway, it’s only just gone eleven o’clock.”

  After Christine Bodley had left him, Martin dug Detective-Sergeant Kennedy from his digs and told him that they were going to interview David Walker. To their surprise the Manager of The Crown told them that David had settled his bill earlier that evening and moved out. Martin had decided to try Gameswood House on the off-chance that he had gone home to try and patch things up with his wife. It was astonishing how often married couples, after an apparently final break, will fall into each other’s arms again.

  Kennedy’s hand was already on the knocker when Martin put a hand on his arm. Through the door he had heard the tap of a woman’s heels on the parquet flooring inside. A second later the door was opened. Evelyn Walker stood there, the light behind her so that her face was in shadow. Even so, something about the droop of her shoulders and the limp way her arms hung at her sides warned Martin.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Walker. Is your husband here by any —”

  She had put one hand against her brow and with the other was groping for support against the door frame.

  “What is it?” Martin shot a quick glance at Kennedy, who moved forward. “What’s happened?”

  “My husband’s — dead.” She spoke in the flat voice of someone who is still in shock. “He’s — he’s committed suicide —”

  Abruptly her arms dropped limply again and her knees began to buckle. Kennedy, already on the move, was in time to catch her and prevent her inert body from slumping onto the stone steps. He swept her off her feet and held her in his arms, one hand hanging and her head drooping over his forearm.

  “Take her into the house,” Martin told him. He followed Kennedy in and closed the door. “The drawing-room will do.”

  The Inspector had noted that the lights in the drawing-room were full on. He entered before the laden Kennedy and his eyes quickly surveyed the room, his keen sense of smell picking up the tang of a recently-smoked cigarette. The cigarette case lying open on the table by the telephone caught his attention. He went over and looked down at it without touching it.

  “You’d better stay with her,” he told Kennedy, who had deposited Evelyn on the sofa.

  He went out into the hall, mentally bracing himself to face whatever he wa
s going to find. Suicides seldom made as clean a job of killing themselves as they hoped. The lights burning in the study opposite told him that he would not have to look far.

  Three minutes later Kennedy found him standing behind the body slumped over the desk, the suicide note held in his hand. The eyes of the two men met, but they said nothing. Even for a policeman it always took a little while to adjust to the spectacle of violent death. Kennedy walked into the room slowly, taking care not to move or disturb any object till the photographers had recorded the scene.

  After a minute Martin looked up, his face bleak.

  “How is she?”

  “Not too bad, considering. It must have been a hell of a shock finding him like this.” Kennedy nodded at the body. “How long do you think he’s been dead?”

  “Not long, I should say. But that’s only a guess. We’ll see what the doctor says.”

  “Apparently she didn’t even know he was in the house.” Kennedy noted Martin’s sceptical expression. He went on: “She suddenly saw his cigarette case on the table in the lounge and went to look for him.”

  “I see,” Martin commented in a non-commital voice. “Right, Harry. Get the station to lay things on. Oh, and ask them to call The Grapevine and tell Andy Mason what’s happened. I expect he’ll want to be with his sister.”

  “Right.” Kennedy moved towards the door. “I’ll use the ‘phone in the hall.”

  Martin read the note through once more. Then he took an envelope from his pocket, folded the note and placed it inside. He put the envelope in his pocket and with another quick glance round the study went across to the drawing-room.

  Evelyn was sitting up on the settee, bent forward with her head in her hands. She seemed unaware of Martin’s presence as he stood before her looking down on to her dishevelled blonde hair. He was on the verge of saying something, then changed his mind. His eyes had located the drinks cupboard on his first visit to the house. He crossed towards it, found a bottle of whisky, poured a small measure into a glass and added a little water.

  When he turned back he found that she was looking at him, her lips working and tears misting her eyes. He handed her the glass.

  “You’d better drink this, Mrs. Walker.”

  “Thank you.” She took the glass gingerly. He stood watching her as she sipped the drink.

  “I’m sorry to worry you at a time like this, but I’m afraid there are one or two questions I’ve got to ask you.”

  She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, and seemed to make an effort to put a brave face on it.

  “I’d — I’d rather tell you now anyway, and get it over with.”

  “Tell me what, Mrs. Walker?”

  “My husband committed suicide because he . . .” She broke off, closed her eyes tight in mental pain, then continued with evident distress and difficulty. “ . . .found out . . . I’ve been having an affair with Roy Norton. David came home early from the office one afternoon and we . . . Roy and I . . . were upstairs and . . .” She put a hand to her brow again and her mouth trembled.

  “I don’t think it’s quite as simple as that, Mrs. Walker,” Martin said, very reasonably and quietly.

  She looked up sharply, a sudden alertness in her eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “Your husband left a note . . .”

  “A note?”

  “It was addressed to his partner, Arthur Eastwood. The note said he’d been friendly with Judy Clayton — the girl I spoke to you about — and that she’d been blackmailing him.”

  “David?” She shook her head emphatically. “I can’t believe that!”

  “I’m only telling you what’s in the note. It said she’d been blackmailing him and because of that . . . he killed her.”

  “He . . .” Evelyn appeared to be stunned by the statement. “I don’t believe it! I — I just don’t believe it!”

  “Why don’t you believe it?”

  “Because David wasn’t like that,” she told him indignantly, “and if he’d been friendly with anyone I’d have known about it.”

  “Would you, Mrs. Walker?” Martin paused before putting the question. “When did you last see your husband?”

  “This morning — you were here. He came to collect his things.”

  “Did he say he might possibly be returning for something, later in the day?”

  She finished the drink. Martin bent to take the glass from her. He took it back to the drinks cupboard.

  “No,” she said, watching him with a worried frown. “He simply told me what I already knew. That he was staying at The Crown and if I wanted to get in touch with him I could ring the office.”

  “Have you been in touch with him — since this morning, I mean?”

  “No.” She put the handkerchief to her eyes again and struggled for a moment to control herself. “No, I haven’t.”

  Martin sat down in the armchair on the opposite side of the fireplace. Kennedy had had the good sense to switch on the imitation coal fire.

  “Tell me about this evening, Mrs. Walker. What time was it when you left the house?”

  “It was about six o’clock. Roy — Mr. Norton — picked me up outside his office and drove over to Chertsey to see some friends.”

  “Go on.”

  “We had a few drinks with them and then we drove back to Guildfleet and had dinner at The Bear.”

  “Just the two of you?”

  “Yes.”

  “What time would that be?”

  “It was about half-past seven when we got there.” She had recovered her composure now and was speaking with more assurance. “I don’t know what time it was when we left, probably about ten o’clock.”

  “And Mr. Norton brought you home, presumably?”

  “Yes,” she said and then added quickly: “but he didn’t come in the house —” She stopped, having obviously remembered something. She was sufficiently in control of herself now to give him a weak smile. “Inspector, would you do something for me? Would you telephone my brother and tell him what’s happened?”

  “That’s already been taken care of,” Martin reassured her. He had been observing her performance with interest and not a little admiration. “Just one more question, Mrs. Walker. Was Mr. Norton with you the entire evening from the moment he picked you up until he brought you home?”

  “Why, yes.” Her eyes had widened innocently. “Yes, of course.”

  “Thank you.” Martin stood up and offered her a hand to help her rise. “Now I suggest you go upstairs and lie down for a little while, Mrs. Walker. I’ll let you know the moment your brother gets here.”

  If Martin’s flat had aroused the disapproval of the tidy-minded Christine Bodley, his office at the Guildfeet Police Station would have brought a beam of approval to her generously fleshed face. The morning sunlight slanting through the clear window panes brought reflections from the well-polished desk, filing cabinet and cupboard.

  The most untidy object in the room, in fact, was Martin’s guest. Arthur Eastwood was sitting uncomfortably on the single leather easy-chair, which was so slippery that his bottom kept sliding forward. He looked tired and dejected and his tweed suit was more crumpled than ever. He was staring at the note which had been left on David’s typewriter, holding it at arm’s length to compensate for his long-sightedness.

  “But this note’s typed and the signature could be anybody’s!” he protested.

  Seated behind his desk, Martin leaned forward to retrieve the note which Arthur Eastwood had put on the far edge.

  “That’s not what you said a moment ago when I first showed it to you. You said . . .”

  “I said it like his signature. Well — it does, I suppose. But damn it all, one word — ‘David’. Anybody could copy that! I could do it myself?”

  Arthur put his hands on the arms of the chair to heave himself into a more upright position.

  “So you don’t think he was responsible for the note?”

  “No, I don’t! I don’t think he typed it, I d
on’t think he signed it, and I don’t think he committed suicide! And what’s more, I don’t think you think so either!”

  “Well, one thing we do know, his death certainly wasn’t an accident, so if he didn’t commit suicide there’s only one alternative. Murder.” Martin refolded the note, replaced it in its envelope and put it away in one of his desk drawers. “We have a motive for suicide, but I doubt very much whether we have a motive for murder. Have you any idea why anyone should want to murder him?”

  “No.” Mention of murder had shocked Arthur. Now the Inspector had used the word three times and each time Arthur had reacted with a tremor of the flesh round his eyes. “No, I haven’t. I just can’t imagine why. . . .”

  He broke off as Martin pushed his chair back, moved out from behind his desk and went to lean with one elbow on the filing cabinet.

  “Mr. Eastwood, what happens in your business when you have a hunch about something, yet all the available facts seem to make nonsense of it?”

  “I lose sleep.”

  Martin had to smile at Eastwood’s gloomy admission. “Yes, well — if it’s any consolation to you, I’m losing sleep right now.” “What does that mean, Inspector?”

  “It means that although I sympathise with your feelings, although there’s a doubt in my mind about . . .”

  “About whether he committed suicide?”

  “Yes. The fact speak for themselves. And the facts tell us, quite clearly, that David Walker knew Judy Clayton. That he knew her long before he picked her up in his car last Tuesday morning.”

  Arthur shook his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t go along with that. So far as I’m concerned, that’s just supposition.”

  “Well, if it’s supposition, how do you account for her having the key-ring? Do you really think she stole it? How do you account for the fact that she had photographs of him in a cabinet by the side of her bed? And how do you account for the fact that she actually had an appointment to meet someone that morning — at ten-thirty, at precisely the spot where David Walker picked her up?”

  The battery of questions had reduced Arthur to complete silence. He dropped his eyes to the floor and put his hands on his knees.