Dead to the World

by Francis Durbridge

  This was an occasion when Ruth even went so far as to approve of Holt smoking. He lit a cigarette and squinted through a haze at a man chalking up runners’ names and their odds on a greasy blackboard which ran the width of the far wall. Now and again Holt jotted down figures, and his head jerked with interest whenever the loudspeaker crackled and news from the track was announced. His performance was masterly and for a moment Ruth almost believed her boss had developed a genuine interest in betting.

  Then he nudged her carelessly and tapped his paper. ‘Seen anything you like?’

  ‘Not really. Have you?’

  ‘Yes, I reckon so!’

  ‘Which race?’

  He pointed at the newspaper with his pencil.

  He had drawn some kind of diagram, Ruth realised. She took the paper from him. ‘I just hope you’re right, that’s all,’ she said woodenly. ‘We’ve wasted enough time as it is.’

  ‘Not any more, we haven’t!’ Holt ground out his cigarette on the filthy floor and strolled towards the blackboard as if for a closer look at the columns of odds.

  Though outwardly calm, Ruth’s heart was beating rapidly. The diagram indicated that the man they were looking for, Curly the ex-convict, was seated less than two yards away. Holt had sketched a bird’s-eye plan of the betting parlour and marked a bench on which sat four men. He had picked out the nearest with an arrow and the letter C.

  Ruth did not dare to look directly at the bench. For a moment she pretended to search for Holt, now realising that he had gone to the blackboard in order to get a better view of their quarry as he made his return. Then, with her back to the bench, she took out her compact and peered into it, dabbling crudely at her face with the powder puff. Presently, Curly came into view through the mirror.

  He wore no hat, and his huge head was shaped like a bladder of lard, utterly devoid of hair. The great dome of skin did not gleam; it had a curious, unhealthy colour resembling putty. The rest of the features were on a scale commensurate: staring eyes, flaring nostrils, and large ears lying like flaps close to the skull. A pair of deathly-pale hands the size of North Sea haddock hung listlessly over his knee-caps. They were the biggest hands Ruth had ever seen in her life. Despite his attitude of placid disinterest, she sensed a tense watchfulness just beneath the surface. The total effect of the man was frightening, and she knew that if she had bumped into him under a lamp-post on a dark night she would have screamed and run.

  Holt wandered back, a fresh cigarette in his mouth; it flapped crudely up and down as he spoke. ‘Well, girl, what you think?’

  ‘Could be. Shall we take a risk?’

  ‘I reckon we can’t lose.’

  ‘I hope you’re right.’

  ‘Don’t worry, girl! It’s a dead cert!’

  At the precise moment when Holt turned and was making a determined move towards Curly a taxi-driver in a voluminous coat barged past and the two collided.

  ‘Ain’t yer got no eyes, mate?’ the driver bawled.

  ‘Oh – I’m dreadfully sorry, I’m afraid I was—’ Holt began, then checked himself.

  The cab-driver swore, Holt bent to pick up the newspaper that had been knocked out of his hand, and when he straightened up Curly was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Quick!’ Holt directed, and thrust his way out, Ruth hard on his heels.

  They were just in time to see Curly’s bulk spring with astonishing agility onto a passing bus. For a matter of two or three seconds, until his view was blocked by another vehicle, Curly stood on the conductor’s platform, looking back at them with pale, piercing eyes. Then he was gone.

  Holt stood at the pavement edge and swore quietly.

  ‘What on earth do you suppose frightened him off?’ Ruth asked.

  ‘God knows,’ Holt muttered through his teeth, ‘but we certainly muffed that one, didn’t we!’

  ‘Where will he head for, do you think?’

  ‘Out of Town, I imagine. Hyde said he takes off like a space rocket when he smells trouble. Obviously he smelt trouble. Hey, where are you going?’

  Ruth gave no answer, but herself took off like a space rocket and disappeared into the betting shop once more. Holt hesitated, then decided not to follow her; she was obviously following a hunch of her own.

  A few moments later she came out, radiant, and swung off towards Oxford Street. He hurried to join her.

  ‘Don’t call a cab!’ she commanded airily. ‘We might be followed! Let’s take the Tube.’

  ‘Okay, Ruth – whatever you say!’ Holt’s tense features relaxed into a smile. ‘I can see you’ve achieved something by going back into that revolting place. What is it?’

  ‘Yes, they are depressing, aren’t they?’ she said loftily, deliberately ignoring his question. ‘Fancy calling it “the Sport of Kings”. I’ve never seen anything less royal or sporting in my life! Give me a real live horse race any day, but betting by remote control – well, it’s simply—’

  ‘Ruth! You’re holding out on me!’

  She relented and grew serious. She said quietly, ‘Curly will be at the Brighton Races tomorrow. I’m willing to stake a month’s salary on it.’

  ‘How on earth do you know that?’ he asked, astounded.

  Ruth grinned, and adopting an appalling accent said, ‘I just went in and yelled, “Anyone ’ere know where that swine Curly’s got to? I’ll boil ’im in oil when I find ’im!” – Men like those deadbeats in there are quite used to the sight of a screaming shrew hunting for her bloke. – “Try the Brighton track tomorrow, darlin’. ’E’s bound to be there.” And look, Philip, just to clinch matters, I found this betting sheet on the bench where he was sitting. It lists the runners at Brighton tomorrow. Curly seems to have marked some of his favourites. So, it’s a fair bet, don’t you think?’

  ‘My word! You really are rather bright at times, Miss Sanders,’ said Holt with amusement.

  ‘I try to please,’ she answered with an impudent grin.

  The rest of the day was devoted to hard work at the Studio in Westminster; Holt in the dark-room, Ruth retouching black and white prints under a powerful desk lamp. It was getting late when they decided to pack up.

  ‘Get your coat and I’ll drive you home,’ Holt said.

  ‘No, don’t bother. I can easily get a bus.’

  The ringing of the street door bell forestalled any further argument.

  ‘Who the heck can that be at this time?’ Holt sighed.

  Ruth ran down the steep stairs and opened the door to the street. A dapper little man with a neat moustache and a flashing smile whipped off his bowler hat and said with studied politeness, ‘My name is Wade. Jimmy Wade. I must apologise for calling so late, but I wonder if Mr Holt is at home?’

  ‘Well …’ Ruth hesitated. ‘Is it about a portrait?’

  ‘No. Oh, no. Perhaps I may be so blunt as to say straight out that it has to do with Vance Scranton.’

  There was a pregnant pause, then Holt’s voice came crisply from the top of the stairs. ‘Ruth, please show Mr Wade up.’

  A brief pantomine took place in which Ruth tried to persuade Mr Wade to enter so that she could shut the door behind him, whilst he insisted with a series of gallant bows that ladies should go first.

  When the visitor finally reached the head of the stairs Holt greeted him a little coolly. He did not offer to shake hands but asked bluntly, ‘Are you a friend of Vance Scranton’s, Mr Wade?’

  ‘Well, no, not really. But I knew him quite well, in a manner of speaking, and—’

  ‘Well I never met the boy, so perhaps you’d tell me how you happened to connect him with me?’

  Jimmy Wade gave a quick, nervous smile and darted a hand into his breast pocket for his wallet. ‘It’s very simple, Mr Holt. This postcard came to my flat this morning and I took it at once to the Scrantons, whom I knew were staying at the Savoy. They suggested I showed it at once to you. If I may say so, it seemed at the time rather a sensible suggestion.’

  ‘I see.’

&n
bsp; Holt took the proffered postcard. It was addressed to Julie Benson, but was in all other respects similar to the card which Inspector Hyde had shown him the day before, and the message was identical:

  HAVING A WONDERFUL TIME.

  REGARDS FROM CHRISTOPHER.

  The postmark was Harrogate, and it had been stamped on the previous day.

  ‘Who is this Christopher?’ Holt asked casually.

  Mr Wade’s rubicund features creased into an apologetic smile. ‘I only wish I could tell you. Nobody seems to know. The police have given poor Julie a dreadful time, hammering away at her about that wretched name.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ Holt asked.

  Mr Wade blinked, somewhat taken aback. But in a moment he was all smiles again. ‘Oh, I must apologise – I should have explained. Julie Benson is my sister-in-law. I really should have begun there, I suppose.’ He glanced from Holt to Ruth and back again. He had liquid dark eyes like a thrush and all his movements were bird-like – a quick peck at some tasty morsel, a rapid glance to left and right. ‘I married Julie’s sister – or you could say her sister married me. They say it’s generally the lady who really makes the decisions, don’t they?’

  Ruth gave him a cosy smile and offered him a chair. ‘May I ask you, Mr Wade,’ she said, at the same time taking his raincoat and hat, ‘is it common knowledge that your sister-in-law is staying with you? Or is this only known to a limited number of people?’

  For some curious reason this question, which Ruth had intended quite harmlessly, seemed to throw Wade into a mild state of consternation. His complexion turned even redder, the wallet he was holding slipped to the floor, and he muttered a series of incoherent phrases which totally failed to make a sentence.

  Holt came to the rescue. ‘My secretary has a point there, Mr Wade; I can see what she’s aiming at. From what I’ve been given to understand, Julie lives in Deanfriston and works for a Professor at the College there. How did Christopher know she was to be reached at your London address?’

  ‘Ah! Ah, yes – yes, indeed! Well, you see, whenever Julie’s in Town she stays with me – I mean with us, at Honor Oak.’

  ‘Where is Honor Oak, exactly?’

  ‘Just next door to Lewisham – a very different class of locality, if I may say so.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Holt soothed in an attempt to dismiss the matter of the area’s prestige. ‘Now, if we can narrow the field down to those people who know Miss Benson stays with you at Honor Oak, then it might help us to run the elusive Christopher to earth.’

  Wade blinked rapidly. His hand dived into his pocket and whipped out a silver cigarette case. Everything was done at top speed, and accompanied by a bewildering variety of ingratiating smiles. ‘I follow you, Mr Holt, indeed I do! Oh yes, I’m with you all the way. I only wish I could be more helpful. But the trouble is, if I may say so, that literally scores of people know that Julie is to be found with her sister when she’s not at Deanfriston. Just about everyone at the College, for a start. I’m afraid there’s nothing much to help us there.’

  Mr Wade offered his cigarette case. Ruth refused with a smile and, as he turned to Holt, she added sternly, ‘Mr Holt is trying to give it up – aren’t you, Mr Holt?’

  Holt gave a brief acknowledgement to Wade and went on, ‘Tell me: what does your sister-in-law make of this postcard from Harrogate?’

  ‘Julie? Well – er – I trust you’ll pardon my somewhat high-handed action, but as a matter of fact I haven’t shown it to her.’

  ‘You haven’t shown it to her? But it’s addressed to her!’

  ‘No, well, you see … Julie wasn’t there this morning when … Yes, well – I saw the mail before anyone else and … if I may say so, there’s no point in causing additional worry, is there?’

  Holt frowned. ‘I don’t quite understand you. What were your reasons for not showing Miss Benson the card?’

  ‘If you’ll pardon the expression, Julie’s had enough!’

  Both Holt and Ruth stiffened. There was a perceptible change in Wade’s manner; he had grown firm and even a little pompous.

  ‘She’s really been through the mill!’ he went on. ‘The police gave her a dreadful time on Tuesday, trying to trip her up over her alibi. If you ask me, they’re a lot of blundering idiots, throwing their weight around and trying to scare an innocent girl into saying something foolish!… It’s quite ridiculous – Julie wouldn’t hurt a fly! The police ought to have the decency to see that and leave her alone!’ Wade’s face was now brick-red with anger and he puffed at his cigarette in short, aggressive bursts.

  Ruth spoke to him soothingly. ‘I’m sure you’re right, Mr Wade. I don’t suppose the police really meant to cause her any distress.’

  Mr Wade was not listening. ‘… As if she’d go and shoot the chap she was once in love with!’

  ‘It has been known,’ Holt commented quietly.

  Wade turned to protest and Ruth slipped in quickly, ‘I agree with Mr Wade – the idea’s unthinkable. But the police have to do their job, you know. It’s their duty to check everyone’s alibi.’

  He began to cool down and tossed a thankful smile in her direction. ‘I must say, I wish you were the one who had carried out the police interrogation, my dear. I can see you wouldn’t have upset her. As it is, the poor girl’s just a bundle of nerves. First Vance breaks off the engagement, then he gets himself killed, and then the police practically put her through the third degree. She’s absolutely innocent, she was nowhere near Vance’s study when he was shot.’

  ‘But how do you know that?’ Holt asked again.

  ‘How do I know? Well, because she said so, that’s enough for me! A pretty little thing like that doesn’t go around telling lies, that I can assure you.’ His smile flashed on and off like a neon sign.

  ‘I see.’ Holt’s tone was thin. ‘And so, to save her further worry, you intercepted her post and took it straight to the Scrantons?’

  ‘Yes. I thought they ought to see it. Also, in that way no one could accuse me of trying to conceal evidence, or anything like that. I’ve always been very careful where the law’s concerned. You have to be, in my profession.’

  ‘What is your profession, if I may ask?’

  ‘I’m a representative.’

  ‘For whom?’

  Mr Wade coughed and two or three conflicting expressions fought for pride of place on his cherubic face. ‘I represent one of the largest firms of funeral directors in the country. We arrange everything, from floral tributes to a wide choice of tasteful gravestones and suitable inscriptions. Here’s my card.’ His hand sped to his wallet and a visiting card appeared at conjuror’s speed. ‘Well, I think I’ll be running along.’ He stood up. ‘Perhaps you’d care to take possession of the postcard, Mr Holt?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll look after it. Just let me ask you a couple of questions before you go, Mr Wade. You mentioned that Vance Scranton broke off his engagement with Miss Benson. What happened – was there a quarrel?’

  ‘It’s perfectly simple. Vance was a pleasant enough lad until he met Antoinette Sheen. He and Julie always got on well together. But this sophisticated painter-woman soon changed all that. She’s ten years older, for one thing. He became harsh and cynical – a sort of worldly cynicism that just didn’t sit well on a twenty-year-old boy.’

  ‘And you put down this change to Miss Sheen’s influence?’

  ‘There’s no doubt about it! From the moment he met her Vance was a changed person. In a very short time he’d broken off his engagement to Julie and after that you just couldn’t talk to him. He’d always been, if you’ll pardon the expression, rather a self-opinionated young man. Of course, one expects a certain amount of that in undergraduates, and they generally get away with it because they have the natural charm of youth at the same time. But Vance wasn’t in the least charming once he came under Antoinette Sheen’s spell.’

  Ruth held Wade’s coat ready for him to slip into and another pantomime followed before he cou
ld be persuaded to accept this simple courtesy from a lady; and a subsequent polite argument as to who should be allowed to open the street door took all of three or four minutes.

  ‘What an extraordinary little man!’ observed Ruth as she climbed the stairs after seeing him off the premises. ‘I almost expected him to drive away in a hearse, but he runs a Volkswagen of a particularly nauseating shade of blue.’

  ‘If I may say so, and if you’ll pardon the expression, I should have thought black would be more suitable,’ Holt said in fair mimicry of their visitor’s ingratiating tones.

  ‘And if I may say so,’ Ruth imitated, ‘isn’t it a pity that Mr Jimmy Wade is such a terrible liar!’

  The smile left Holt’s face abruptly. ‘Go on, Ruth …’

  ‘Well, I don’t know if he’s lying about the Christopher postcard – he could quite easily have written it himself – but I’m sure he hasn’t told a fraction of the truth about his sister-in-law’s alibi.’

  ‘My, you’re on form tonight, aren’t you? I spotted that myself. It’s much too glib to say that because she’s a sweet little thing and the police are a lot of boorish oafs, Julie always tells the truth. For my money, Jimmy Wade knows where she was at the time of Vance Scranton’s death.’

  ‘Then why the dickens doesn’t he tell Hyde and clear the girl?’

  ‘That, if I may use the expression, is the sixty-four thousand dollar question! And who is this Christopher fellow? Come to that – who killed Vance Scranton?’

  ‘All of which we’re determined to find out!’

  ‘Yes. Yes, indeed.’

  ‘Well, what’s the first move?’

  ‘I’m not sure. We’ll start by asking Curly at Brighton tomorrow.’