by Heron Carvic
Delphick demurred. “You’re asking a lot of her. There’s never been two cases in one district, Chris. And anyway I didn’t know you had such faith in her.”
“I haven’t,” retorted Brinton, “but you can’t get away from it, Oracle, there was that nasty drawing of the Goffer girl and then that Lily business. All right, so it may not mean a thing, but it makes you think. We can’t afford to miss a trick. The school’s only small; we don’t want oil paintings, just a rough idea. She’d probably run through the whole lot cheap for an all-in fee.”
The superintendent rang Scotland Yard. Sir Hubert Everleigh agreed; remarking sourly that at the rate they were going it would be more economical to put Miss Seeton on the force.
The newspapers elected to harmonize on the theme of Public Indignation. The public were indignant, they declared. This was the sixth child murder, and still no arrest. It was outrageous, they asserted, that the killings should take place under the very noses of the police. Under the very nose of Superintendent Delphick of Scotland Yard, who was the officer in charge, and even staying in the actual village where the atrocity had been committed. In stressing the fact that the police were on the spot at the precise moment of the crime, the obvious implication, that they were beginning to close on their quarry, was ignored. Privately, Fleet Street’s genuine indignation was reserved for the Negative and Mel. Mel’s warning of murder in her piece, coming out the day before, must have been inspired. What was the dope? How had she got on to it? Why hadn’t they all known that the Oracle was down at Plummergen? How had the Negative got the beat? And why hadn’t the Forby used it in her stuff?
The plan which the editor of the Daily Negative had evolved had worked precisely as he had hoped it would. The Forby Pieces on the Battling Brolly had been dismissed by the Negative’s rivals as an attempt to flog a dead horse and her treatment of it had been laughed out of print as more suited to a woman’s magazine than to a daily newspaper. Not for a moment had it occurred to any of them that in spite of her odd and individual treatment she was on to one of the major stories of the year where treatment mattered little while fact and an inside track were all-important.
Mel had rung her paper at intervals through the night with the news of Effie Goffer’s disappearance; of the all-out police hunt; the fears for the child’s safety; the use of dogs; and finally, with Delphick’s consent, the belief that the child strangler was involved. This tidbit, too late for the front page, had been just in time to make the fudge. The discovery of the body, missing the Dailies, was blazoned in the Evenings. But Mel had got her beat and she was satisfied. The Negative too. She’d kept Miss Seeton and the Brolly out of it. To the uninitiated Miss S wasn’t patently involved, and news-wise this stuff didn’t fit the Pieces. She’d go on running those her own way and splash any headline stuff straight as it came in.
For the rubbernecks, the Indignant Public, their attitudes and feelings in the main were determined by their individual points of view.
“No, Gertie, not from there—the sun’s full on your lens. The view from this side’s better.” “I really don’t see the point in coming here if we don’t know the exact spot.” “Well, my view is it’s a swizz—no point in it, no blood nor nothing.”
Miss Seeton did as she was asked. She fulfilled her commission, sitting in the classrooms at the school almost opposite Dr. Knight’s nursing home. She sketched some fifty little faces. The results, though they might be depressing from the artistic standpoint, were heartening for the police in a disproved fashion. However indifferently drawn, at least all the faces were complete.
Delphick was studying the sketches with care in the lounge of the George and Dragon when Mel came in for lunch. She asked if she could look them over. The superintendent was severe.
“Certainly not, Miss Forby. These are a police matter. It would be most improper. And would you mind,” he added, “moving round behind me where you won’t be in my light?”
Mel’s face crinkled. She leaned over the back of his chair while he laid out the sketches for her benefit. There were five sheets in all; several faces to each sheet. She gave them a cursory glance, reached over his shoulder, gathered them together and slapped them face downward on his lap.
“Don’t waste your time, boy, haven’t you got wise to it yet? Miss S may be a good teacher, I wouldn’t know, but I do know she’s one hell of a bad artist. Every so often, when something strikes her and her hand takes over, then she’s really got something, some quality—I don’t know, it’s not my field, but I do know it’s there. At a guess I’d say she’s inhibited.”
Delphick laughed. Anyone less inhibited than Miss Seeton was difficult to imagine. “No, not inhibited; just diffident. Miss Seeton’s a great believer in freedom of expression—for the really clever. Or,” he grinned, “the highly trained. It’s never occurred to her, and never will, that she is really clever—or could’ve been.”
“Seems a waste. A few cartoons by her when she’s in form would light things up some. Come on, boy. A drink. On me. Expense account.” Mel led the way to the bar.
Delphick put the papers away and followed her. “It’s not a waste, you know,’ he said, “to be a contented being.”
“Me, marry a crook? You must be off your head.”
“Maryse . . .”
“What d’you take me for?” Maryse Palstead plucked a cigarette from the pack in her handbag. “D’you think I’m going to spend the rest of my life wondering when the police are going to catch up with you? D’you think I’m going to start having heart attacks every time I meet a policeman on the street?” She stuck it between her lips. “D’you think,” the cigarette waggled as she spoke, “every time I get a parking ticket, I’m going to start worrying whether it’s a trick and if the next move’s going to be the police coming to the house asking questions? About you?”
“Maryse . . .”
“What d’you think I am?” she sneered. “Some gangster’s moll?” She flicked the gold lighter he had given her and studied him over the flame. “D’you think I mean to throw away a respectable life?” She inhaled, blew smoke at him. “D’you really think,” she demanded, “I’m going to live on tenterhooks for the sake of your blue eyes and curly hair?” Looking at him—the dark eyes, the straight black hair, the thin mustache—she laughed. “You must be mad, my friend. Think again.”
“But, Maryse, you said . . .”
“I said nothing.” She was definite. She dropped the lighter onto the low table beside her, lay back, and slung her feet up on the sofa. “You have money. You want to spend it, cut a figure, play cops and robbers, disguise yourself, and build yourself up a new identity. Why not?” she mocked him. “Go ahead. That’s your affair. You wanted an affair with me.” Her mouth hardened. “Very well, that’s mine. Where your money comes from doesn’t affect me. I don’t want to know about it.” She flicked ash. “As far as I’m concerned you wanted to chuck your money around. Who am I to stop you? It’s not my business to ask questions.” He started to protest again, viciously she overspoke him. “If you want to spill your silly little soul out, telling me all you’re doing, all you mean to do, all your—God save us—plans for the future, that’s your lookout. But, my friend, be very sure it’s not, and never will be, mine.”
Dazed, the cashier dropped into the armchair facing her. His briefcase, with the money taken from the bank, lay on the floor beside an evening paper; no mention yet of him. He lifted his head to look around in wonder: at her flat; at the expensive furniture; at the ornaments; mostly bought by him; bought for the future; their future.
She watched him coldly. “You thought you’d been so clever.” Her voice, reflective, almost gentle, began to sting him. “Clever?” she questioned. “The police’ve probably been on to you for months. Why else should they send some old harpy to the bank to start you panicking? You thought she’d given herself away. Don’t make me laugh. What else d’you think she went there for? They’re not fools. They wanted to get you on the run. An
d they have. So now you’re dropping out of sight, to come popping up as someone else. You,” she scoffed, “with your colored contact lenses, dyed hair, and all the rest of it. Well,” with finality, “I’m dropping out too. For us, my friend, this is the end of the road.”
The bank cashier was silent. The end of the road? So this was Maryse. He waited, numbed still, for the realization to penetrate. To have been so loving, so gentle, so affectionate, a gay companion, interested, encouraging him; until all his plans had included her. The jewelry he’d given her to be a safeguard, a part of their joint capital in their new life—together. All this while there was money with safety. At least, safety for her. Now that the critical moment had arrived, that the time for the change had come, time for him to throw off his old self and bury it—or rather let others bury it for him—literally: now that real danger was close, she was “dropping out.” Besides, there wasn’t any danger. The plan was too simple, too carefully thought out, too long worked on, for danger.
Taking money from the bank had been dead easy. All you needed was ability and nerve. He had both. But, better, he had brains. Small fiddles they were on the watch for, and would be found out quick enough. But decent amounts, once you’d been there long enough to be trusted . . . Forging the odd receipt of the fools who gave the bank discretionary powers on their deposit accounts. If people had so much money that they could leave it lying about idle and giving the bank charge of it while they went gallivanting abroad, sometimes for years on end, they were asking for it to be lifted by someone with sense and a little courage. It wouldn’t even hurt them. The bank would have to make it up. Well, he’d had a good run for their money and had got it past the accountants three years running. He’d no complaints. A house bought and paid for, Maryse’s jewelry, the furniture and the Rover, and more than thirty-five thousand in cash and securities, which with his knowledge he should be able to double within a couple of years. And once you’d got proper capital, money made itself.
The “simple plan” was simply: to build a new identity in Brettenden as a man of some substance; to kill his old identity by having his charred remains found in the burned-out wreck of his old car; then, with the absconding bank cashier’s body identified and the hunt over, to settle down in Brettenden with a new name, his house, a car, and finally Maryse.
His one outstanding feature was the curious light blue of his eyes. Three years before, during his holiday, he had flown to Munich to be fitted with colored microlenses. By wearing them for lengthening periods at night he had become so accustomed to them that he could wear them indefinitely without discomfort. The deep brown, almost black, eyes changed the whole effect of his personality. His fair wavy hair darkened and straightened with a washable dye and wearing a pencil-thin mustache, he was unrecognizable. This he had proved, after a year’s practice, by going to the bank where he was employed, during his next yearly holiday, and opening an account there under his chosen alias. If any suspicion had been aroused it was to have been a semi-serious joke: a man keen on his work, testing security and possibilities of fraud; trying to anticipate experience. The experiment worked and the account was accepted without question. With growing confidence in his new guise he bought a house on the outskirts of Brettenden, a Rover automatic, passed tests and acquired a driving license for this second self. To neighbors he gave out that business would keep him on the move for a short time yet, after which he hoped to settle down. It seemed natural therefore that the rather foreign-looking gentleman who had taken Ivy Manse was only glimpsed briefly at infrequent weekends. It was unlikely in the extreme that this gentleman of means would ever be connected with the bank cashier of none who drove from his Ashford lodgings to his work at Brettenden in a dilapidated fourth-hand car.
Maryse Palstead was the only deviation from his original design. Casually met at a party, he was attracted; she was not. Determined to make an impression, he took her out, spent money on her, a treatment to which she responded. He became infatuated; so, it appeared, did she. He began to drop hints until finally he told her of all he was doing; all he meant to do. She had been helpful with ideas: to invest in jewelry; to open a deposit account in his new character and to milk it in his old. This last delighted him: a perfect method of robbing Peter to pay Paul with the bank as the patsy who, in repaying Peter, would also unwittingly repay Paul. Unwilling to commit herself before their scheme had proved itself safe and successful, Maryse settled that they should not marry until at least three months after his supposed death.
The bank cashier shifted in his chair; his face had grown very pale. So this was the end. Of the road. Of Maryse. How right she was. He must have been mad: telling her all his plans; spilling his silly little soul. She could spill on him. His eyes were fixed unseeing on the newspaper by his feet. The words began to focus. CHILD STRANGLER STRIKES AGAIN, ARE PLUMMERGEN BURGLARIES CONNECTED? Connected? Connected. His mind started to work. It all dropped into place. He noted the time on his wristwatch: twenty past ten. Yes—it all dropped into place; it fitted. But he mustn’t waste time.
He got up. “I’ll get a drink.”
“I don’t want one.”
“I do.”
He went to the kitchenette, clinked some glasses, opened a drawer. A few odd tools, a screwdriver, pliers and—he’d been right—a coil of picture wire. He cut a length. He clinked a glass again, returned to the sitting room.
Maryse heard him behind her. “Finish it. And then get out. For good.” She leaned across the table and ground her cigarette out in an ashtray.
“I will.” From behind the sofa he bent forward and, wrists crossed, dropped the loop of wire over her head as she sat back. He pulled. She reared up open-mouthed and clutching. He pulled until the wire furrowed his hands: let go. The body slumped in an untidy heap.
Precise, an automaton, he took her handbag, hefted the gold lighter, pocketed it, took the notes and loose change, tossed the bag aside, went to the bedroom, found her jewel case, smashed it and threw the jewels, uninsured, unlisted, into his briefcase. He flung open drawers and cupboards, strewed the contents. He picked up his newspaper and coat and left the flat.
The police would be on the watch by now for his old car. Well, they weren’t likely to find it till he meant them to. He’d have to use it tonight, but once he’d collected it he shouldn’t be on a main road for long. It was a slight risk, but one he’d got to take. The only bad moment had been slipping into the Brettenden house unnoticed to change and take the Rover. That had come off: he’d not been seen.
He took the direct route from Ashford to the highway. About two miles short of it he turned off onto a secondary road, off that again into a narrow lane leading past a disused quarry. At the top of the quarry face, to his right, a short grass slope led straight to the edge. To his left there were bushes and scrub backed by a spinney. He maneuvered the car in behind the bushes, careful not to scratch it on the loosely clustered brambles. His old car was there waiting for him, its number plates well muddied. He inspected them with the aid of a flashlight and decided that they were illegible from any distance without being too noticeably obscured. He got in, removed his wristwatch, inscribed with his initials, and laid it on the passenger seat, took a notecase containing his old driving license and insurance certificate and pushed them down into the upholstery behind him. Keeping to side roads, he drove north, cut across to the A.20 and went slowly back toward Maidstone. He’d meant to allow two or three nights for this operation to give himself plenty of choice to pick from, but now that wretched old woman at the bank’d got him on the run he’d have to take potluck and hope for the best.
A hitchhiker thumbed a lift. He slowed the car to a crawl: a kid with a large knapsack strapped to his back. He accelerated. A few minutes later another thumb was raised. One thing you could rely on; hitchhikers were always plentiful. Again he slowed. This one looked better. He stopped the car, leaned across, and opened the door.
“Dover?” the hiker asked. He bent down, his face showing in
the interior light. Thirtyish, carrying a parcel. He’d do.
“Right,” said the bank cashier, “if you don’t mind if we go round a bit. I’ve got something to do on the way. Won’t take a moment or two. Oh, hang on—” as the other was getting in. He picked up his watch from the passenger seat. “Mind holding onto this? Safer still, put it on if you would. Got a burn on my wrist and it rubs it. I don’t want it falling down between the seats.”
The hiker was surprised, shrugged. “Okay.” He strapped on the watch.
Bypassing Maidstone, the bank cashier continued down the highway, then forked left. Two miles later he branched right onto the secondary road, from that turned into the narrow lane. He offered his passenger a cigarette, took one himself, and lit them. The car climbed steeply. He swung it left toward the bushes and scrub, spun the wheel and brought the car round in a half circle, switching off the headlights. He stopped, leaving the gears in neutral, the brake off, and the engine running.
“Hang on. Won’t be a minute.” Dropping his lighted cigarette on the floor, he jumped out and ran to the back of the car.
The hiker turned. “Hey, oughtn’t you to . . .” He felt the movement, panicked for the door handle. “You fool, you didn’t . . .”