WHEN ANDREW DENHAM first saw the letter lying open on the bureau in Evelyn Carstairs'^ flat, he felt that it was confirmation of all the suspicions he had developed in the four months he had been engaged to the girl. There was nothing definitely wrong, of course—no visible sign that another man had come into her life, but—Anyway, the letter was there, open for anybody to read.
Ethically, Andrew had no right to look at the letter at all, but being on familiar terms in Evelyn's flat, he stood looking at it as he waited for her to finish dressing for their theater date. He hesitated, asked his conscience a couple of questions, then picked the letter up and read it—
Thursday
Dearest Evelyn,
I shall be looking forward to our little meeting as
arranged. I have something awfully important to
ask you.
With all my love,
Ernie
Andrew put the letter down slowly and scowled.
"No address even," he muttered. "Must be on very intimate terms, especially to add 'with all my love'..."
He looked about the comfortable room as though expecting to see some signs of Ernie, but there were none. Only that adoring letter left on the bureau so blatantly—
Then Evelyn came bustling out of the bedroom, exquisitely gowned, drawing a fur cape about her shoulders. Andrew studied her absently—the sheen of her blonde hair, the delicately applied make-up on her face. She was definitely a good-looking girl, with a figure as perfect as her vocation of salon mannequin demanded.
"Well, well, Andy, why so serious?" she enquired, smiling. "We're going to the theater, not the dentist's, remember!"
He gave a start. His darkly handsome face broke into a forced smile.
"Sorry. Just something I was thinking about… Come along."
He opened the door for her, then he hesitated outside.
"Got your key? Since you say you've only one you'd better make sure."
She looked in her handbag and while she did so he idly studied the door with its bulbous-curled numbers—129. Two screws in each number, and even they seemed too many. He found himself thinking what trifling details one notices sometimes when waiting—
"Yes, I have it," Evelyn said after a moment, and with a nod he pulled the door shut.
Four doors further along the lengthy, softly-carpeted corridor there were voices raised high in anger—a man's and a woman's.
"All right, all right, if that's how you feel about it!" the woman's voice was shouting. "I'm sick and tired of you and that's the truth! And don't slam the door as you go out. The screws on the numbers are coming out already—!"
"Nice people you live amongst," Andrew murmured, as the girl and he stood side by side in the self-service lift on its journey to the ground floor.
She shrugged. "There have been quite a few complaints bout Mr. and Mrs. Baxter in 126. They fight like cat and dog. It's high time the management did something. Thank heavens I'm four doors removed from them—-but I honestly think the tenants of all the flats on our floor must hear the rows."
The lift came to a stop. Andrew pushed back the grille-gates and followed the girl out to the taxi he had ordered. He said nothing during the journey to the theater, and even when they got there he remained with his lips firm, looking at the gleam of the satin-faced curtains across the stage.
"Is anything the matter, Andy?" Evelyn asked at length. "You seem to have very little to say for yourself."
"This isn't perhaps the time to say that I'm thinking—just before the show starts," he said; "but tell me something! What's come between us during the last few weeks?"
"Between us?" she repeated, surprised.
"Oh, I know it's nothing obvious—nothing you can nail down as an absolute fact, but I've had the feeling that… Well, that perhaps I'm not the all-in-all fiance I used to be."
"But, Andy, how absurd! Whatever gave you that idea?"
"For one thing you cancelled three of our evening dates on the run, and gave no logical explanation; for another you asked that the date of our wedding be postponed indefinitely—"
"But Andy, I told you—purely for business reasons!"
"For business reasons, eh? And I was mug enough to believe it—then! Suppose you tell me who Ernie is?"
Evelyn stared at the challenging dark eyes. She seemed about to answer when the orchestra struck up the overture. She had to wait for a moment or two and during that time a change of expression came to her face. Her mouth hardened and her eyes lost their light of cheerful interest.
"How do you know about Ernie?" she asked briefly, during quieter piece in the music. "From that letter I left on the bureau?"
"Exactly—that dear loving letter! He has something 'awfully important to ask you' and he signs himself 'With all my love'—That explains everything! The reason for canceling our dates, the reason for postponing our wedding… Business reasons indeed! He's somebody else you've taken on, isn't he? I'm just a nuisance and you want to be rid of me!"
The girl was silent as the music thundered. She was obviously thinking hard. Then she said coldly:
"I always had the feeling that you were the suspicious, insanely jealous type, Andy, and now I'm sure of it. When you'll even descend to reading my correspondence…" She got to her feet suddenly and looked down at him. "Allow me to pass, please."
"But—but what about the show?"
"I prefer not to see it, thank you!"
Andrew got up awkwardly. He could not make a scene there and then with the audience packed in around him and casting curious glances. Muttering under his breath he followed the girl up the gangway and caught her arm as they entered the foyer.
"Look here, Evelyn, at least explain yourself—!"
"Explain myself indeed!" Her gray eyes blazed scorn at him. "It seems to me that that's all on your side. Let go of my arm, and don' t ever speak to me again!"
She tugged herself free, and he stood watching her stalking sway amongst the late theater-comers. He did not attempt to follow her. Lighting a cigarette, he stood thinking.
"Probably just what she wanted, anyway," he muttered finally. "A clear chance to break with me—-and did she seize it!"
He turned aside and went into the bar, spent perhaps half an hour consuming drinks more for the sake of something to do than aught else. As he drank, his suspicions deepened, reformed, and took on diverse shapes.
She had cancelled three evening dates in a row. What other reason than for another man—for Ernie? Couldn't be because of her work when the salon closed at 5.30. And she had said they must postpone their wedding for a while. Business reasons! The only reason was that she wanted to be rid of him before the walk to the altar. The whole thing was now perfectly clear.
And how—Ernie! Evelyn had made a fatal mistake in leaving that letter lying about, unless she had been femininely clever and had left it on purpose to build up to the final break.
"Women!" Andrew muttered, staring at his empty glass. "Tricky as cats! Give 'em half a chance and they'll get their claws into you—But who does she think she is to treat me like this?"
He got to his feet, swayed a little, and stared round the smoke-hazed saloon. He suddenly realized that he had taken it all lying down. She had treated him like a tiresome schoolboy—It had not seemed to matter much then, but it did now. The number of drinks he had consumed insisted that he demand an explanation.
Unsteadily he left the bar, went through the foyer and to the outdoors. The fresh air cleared his head somewhat. He began to walk briskly, arrived at the big building containing Evelyn's flat some fifteen minutes later.
Sullenly he walked across to the service lift, had some difficulty in dragging over the grille-gates and finding the right button—then he pressed it and glided slowly up the shaft. He was nearing the top when the blur in his mind was pierced by a woman's voice—
"Good-bye, Ernie—best of luck!"
Andrew started and dragged himself erect. He wished his head were not quite so confused,
that he had been listening properly to the voice, But Ernie—?
His eyes narrowed as the lift came to a halt at the floor he wanted. A big, broad-shouldered man, well dressed and in the early thirties was standing waiting for it. He gave Andrew a glance and stepped into the lift, then as Andrew remained standing looking at him he made a motion.
"Going down, sir?" he enquired.
Andrew drew the grille into place and fumbled for the 'Ground Floor' button.
"Yes," he whispered. "I'm going down… with you!"
"Oh! Well, that's all right, then."
"So you think it's all right, do you?" Andrew's voice was still low; then he suddenly stabbed at the 'Stop' button and brought the lift to a halt between floors. He gave a crooked smile.
"What in thunder's the matter with you?" the man demanded. "Are you drunk, or what?"
"You're Ernie, aren't you?" Andrew asked bitterly; then as the other nodded in vague surprise Andrew added, "We're in just the right place to thrash this out! The lift's stopped between floors and nobody can open the gates or reach us until we get to a floor-level again… So you are Ernie!"
The man looked at him for a long moment, his eyes narrowing.
"Yes, I'm Ernie—and I know who you are too! You're the man who's been in my way! Well, I'm glad to have seen you, anyway—" He tugged out a Yale key and held it up between finger and thumb. "You see? I'm the one who's going to do the talking from now on!"
He broke off as Andrew suddenly lashed out with his fist. It took Ernie on the side of the jaw and sent him reeling against the wall. Simultaneously he caught the back of his head on the button-box control, gasped, then slumped weakly to the floor.
Andrew stood glaring down on him, his lips compressed—then with sudden savagery he snatched the key up from where it had fallen from the man's hand.
"Even got the key to her flat, eh? And the only key, too! More than I ever got! I'll show that two-timing little she-cat!"
Andrew paused, staring at the inside coat pocket of the men. The lapel had fallen aside to reveal the butt of a revolver, sheathed in cellophane. For a moment Andrew hesitated, then he snatched the gun out, tore sway the cellophane, and found it was a .32. Funny for a private citizen to be carrying a gun… must be a reason.
He was too reckless, too inwardly worked up with fury and drinks to care much what he did. He snatched out the man's wallet and went through it quickly. Practically the first thing he encountered was a warrant-card which read—'Criminal Investigation Department. Metropolitan Police. Name, Ernest Billings. Rank, Detective-Sergeant. First Class. Height 5ft 10 ins. Hair black. No distinguishing marks.'
A Detective-Sergeant, of all people! Then why the gun? He knew enough of law to realize that an off-duty policeman would not normally be carrying firearms—
It didn't signify. What did signify was that Evelyn had obviously transferred her affections to him, that she had called "Good-bye" to him, and therefore must be at home—and here was a gun!
Things seemed to link up in Andrew' a mind. Half mechanically he broke the gun-magazine and looked at it. Two spent cartridges were ejected. Four other bullets remained intact, unfired.
He made up his mind. He sent the lift down to the ground floor and looked anxiously into the entrance hall. There was nobody in sight at the moment. Opening the grille he dragged the unconscious man out and dumped him outside the gateway—then he returned into the lift and sent it upwards again.
His pulse throbbing and his feet unsteady he walked out into the corridor, leaving the grille-gate wide open. The hangover from the drink was blurring his vision a little. It seemed to be upsetting his conception of distance too. He had always thought it was further along the corridor to Evelyn's flat—only it wasn't. Right here before him was 129.
He glanced about him once and then tried the key. It fitted exactly, and being a Yale that meant it had to be Evelyn's flat. Softly he turned the key and entered the dimly lighted room beyond. There was only a reading lamp, shining on a blonde head, just visible over the top of the divan. Andrew knew the sheen of that lovely hair.
He stared at it malevolently, wondering why Evelyn had pulled the divan round to the fire instead of leaving it in its usual position by the wall—then he gripped the revolver tightly and fired—four times—straight at the head before him.
It vanished. There was a thud as the woman's body fell to the floor.
"If you don't want me you'll certainly not get Ernie," he muttered; then he backed uncertainly out of the room and closed the door, stood breathing hard and gripping the knob on the outside.
As though from far away he was conscious of the sound of feet plodding up the rubberoid stairs. In fact there were two pairs of feet—He turned stupidly to look. It was quite impossible, of course, but there, supporting the dazed but now fully conscious Detective-Sergeant Billings, stood Evelyn, still with the fur wrap about her shoulders, her expression a mixture between puzzlement and anger.
"Are you all right now?" she asked the Detective-Sergeant.
"Yes, miss—and thanks for your help." Billings looked at the gaping Andrew. "If you'd have shut the gates, sir, this young lady wouldn't have needed to help me upstairs. We could have used the lift… And I'll take that gun if you don't mind! And you might explain why you hit me in the jaw!"
Andrew stared at him. "Gun?" he repeated absently.
"The one in your hand… And you've messed it up beautifully, I see! I had it in a cellophane envelope to preserve fingerprints. It belongs to a case on which I'm working…"
Andrew handed it over mechanically, his eyes moving to Evelyn.
"Where—did you come from?" he whispered. "I can understand you helping Ernie here, but—"
"Ernie?" Evelyn repeated blankly. "But—but don't be absurd! When I came in after a walk round after that row we had I found the Sergeant in the entrance hall, holding his head. He said somebody had hit him and asked me to help him upstairs so he could see in this flat here… Now I find the man is you, of all people!"
"Then—this isn't Ernie—?"
"My name's Ernest Billings," the Yard man said, sniffing the gun. "And this gun has been fired!" he added ominously. "By God, if you've shot your wife—!"
"Wife?" Evelyn repeated in bewilderment.
Billings raised his eyes to the Yale lock on the doorway. The key was still in it. Sudden alarm on his face he dashed into the flat and looked about him. When he came out again his face was grim and he clamped a hand on Andrew's arm.
"I think you'd better come along with me—"
"Andy, Andy, what have you done?" Evelyn demanded hoarsely.
'I dunno. I thought this was Ernie—"
"But not my Ernie!" Evelyn interrupted. "'Ernie' is simply the short for 'Ernestine.' She's my best friend. We go lots of places together. I'd have told you tonight only I thought you were so horribly suspicious I decided against it."
"Oh!" Andrew licked his lips. "And—and the nights you wouldn't keep our dates? The postponement of the wedding?"
"I told you—business reasons. On the nights I cancelled the dates I was at the salon trying on some new secret creations for export. I couldn't breathe a word about them. I postponed the wedding because of the possibility that I might be sent abroad to demonstrate…"
"I don't know what all this means, but I do know you've shot Mildred Baxter dead!" Billings said grimly. "I see the mistake now. I mistook you for her husband when you seemed to know all about me. I was in love with her and her husband was making her life a hell. I called in here to night on my way to headquarters to ask how she was getting on with divorce arrangements—"
"But you had the key to Evelyn's flat!" Andrew insisted. "It's still in the door there!"
"My key's here," Evelyn said quickly, pulling it out of her handbag.
"I had the key to Mildred's flat," Billings stated. "She gave me a spare one so I could see her at the times her husband was away. I've never seen him personally, of course—"
"But the n
umber's 129! It says so!"
All three of them stared at it. There was no doubt about it—then they glanced round at an interruption. A janitor wearing overalls was approaching along the corridor. As he came up he looked at the three in puzzlement. Then Billings pulled the door to hastily.
"Evening, folks," the janitor greeted. "Anythin' I c'n do?"
"Er—no," Billings said.
The janitor shrugged, pulled a screwdriver cut of his pocket and went to the door. Deliberately he turned the '9' round to its normal position of '6' and screwed it tight.
"Worst of these darned numbers," he growled. "Only two screws in each of 'em, and not very good screws at that. Always coming out. Same as here now—One screw loose, left in the top of the loop, workin' like a central pivot as you might say. The top screw comes out of the tail and the heavy loop on the tail makes the number turn right over… I should ha' fixed it earlier. Mrs. Carter rang down this morning and said the door numbers screws were comin' loose. Must be through slammin' the door too hard…"
The janitor sighed and put his screwdriver back in his pocket.
"Well, that's that. Never do to 'ave two rooms with the same number. Might be mix-ups, eh?"
Andrew stared after the janitor as he went off whistling.
"Might be!" he whispered. "My God, if only you knew!"
GLASS NEMESIS
I ARRIVED in New York's Hotel Europa in a crate with straw wrapped around me. Once I was yanked into the daylight I took my place amidst hundreds of other short, transparent cylinders like myself.
Then, after a period of being filled with all manner of spirits, after being caressed by the lips of men and women alike, I found myself in Room 402 on the third floor.
One evening, about nine o'clock, a man and woman came in, both in evening dress. I liked the look of the woman; she was young and pretty—but the man was a grim piece of work. Lean face, dark, with a voice like caustic soda.
Anyhow they got around to talking. I figured they were husband and wife. As the man talked he picked me and my fellow up from the tray and started to pour spirit into both of us. But he did something kind of different to me. Turning a little, he poured powder into me and handed me over to the girl.
Liquid Death And Other Stories Page 17