Rain beat in through the open window, and the curtains ballooned into the room as waves of hot air disturbed them. Thunder crackled.
George stood still, listening. He heard a motor-car start up. It seemed to be moving at a great speed, and its sound quickly died away.
He found himself looking at the table and noting with stupefied fascination that the brief-case full of money was no longer there.
thirteen
George opened his eyes. The room was shadowy, but comfortingly familiar. The faint dawn-light edged round the blind. It was early.
Although his body ached, and there was a feeling of lassitude in his limbs, his brain was clear and awake. He raised his head and glanced at his wrist-watch. It was half-past five. He lay back again and stared up at the ceiling, his mind crawling with alarm. He must avoid panic. He must relax and go over the whole business carefully and calmly. If he thought enough about it, got it into its right perspective, there must be a way out. The trouble was that he wasn’t very good at thinking, nor was he very good at keeping calm, nor, of course, had he killed a man before.
He sat up in bed and deliberately turned the pillow, patted it and lay down again. By this simple act—something that anyone would do—he hoped that he would recapture a feeling of security. He adjusted the sheet under his chin and moved his legs. The bed felt warm and comfortable. The little black cloud of panic that had begun to edge over his brain receded. It would be all right, he told himself, if he kept calm.
He closed his eyes, and immediately Crispin’s crumpled body in the bloodstained dressing-gown swam into his mind. He started up, his fists gripping the sheet. This wouldn’t do, he thought, and forced himself to lie down again.
It took some time before he could trust himself to think. But he knew that he could not for long avoid facing the facts. He had killed a man. Now he must make plans. He had no idea what plans he had to make, but he couldn’t lie in bed for the rest of his days. He had to decide what he was going to do. The easiest way, of course, would be to go to the police and tell them everything. That would shift the responsibility from him to them. They couldn’t do anything to him. It had been an accident. He could prove that it had been an accident. The cartridge must have been in the breech for a long time. George frowned. No, that couldn’t be right, because he had pulled the trigger many times, liking the sound of the sharp snap of the hammer. If the cartridge had been in the breech it would have been fired long ago. Then how did the cartridge get into the breech? He had twenty-five cartridges, but he had never put one of them into the magazine. He had been most careful about that. He was so sure about this that he began to consider whether it was his gun that had fired the fatal shot. Perhaps someone lurking outside had fired through the open window. Then he remembered how the gun had smelt of gunpowder, and his mind again began to crawl with alarm.
Someone must have put a cartridge into the gun. That could be the only explanation. Someone had also fixed the trigger mechanism. He would tell the police. It wasn’t his business to say who did it. All he had to do was to show them the box of cartridges, and they could see at a glance that none of them was missing. Surely that would prove his innocence?
He looked at the dressing-table across the room and then got out of bed. He opened the drawer and took out the small wooden box of cartridges; then he got back into bed again, holding the box tightly in his hand. He mustn’t lose this box, he told himself. His life depended on it. That seemed an exaggerated statement to make, but it was true. His life did depend on it.
He’d go to the police and explain. He would open the box and show them the tight-fitting cartridges. He took the lid off the box. One cartridge was missing. He looked at the empty space for a long time and then he put the box very carefully on the table by his bed.
He lay back on his pillow and began to weep, weak with hysterical fear. He had known all along that a cartridge would be missing. It was all part of this ghastly nightmare: this web that was inexorably creeping round him, but he had tried to make himself believe that there was still a loophole of escape.
It was some time before he began to think again. Now his brain moved in quick darts, snatching at anything that could sustain hope.
He didn’t arrive at any conclusion, and he knew he wouldn’t arrive at any conclusion until he had controlled the panic that was gripping his heart and his mind.
Somehow one of the cartridges that belonged to him had got into the gun. How? Who did it.
His mind darted to Sydney.
Sydney . . . Well, yes, he could have taken a cartridge from the box when he had sneaked the Luger from George’s drawer while George had been shaving. It was just the sort of sly thing that Sydney would do. Then, while Cora and he had been at the movies, Sydney could have fixed the trigger mechanism and put the cartridge in the breech. Cora knew, of course. It was obvious. That was why she had insisted that George should leave the gun on the mantelpiece when they went to the movies. It was there for Sydney, who was waiting for them to go. It also explained why Cora had insisted on carrying the gun when they set off for Copthorne.
“I’m your gun moll,” she had said, and she had kissed him. He thought of Judas, and remembered how shocked he had been when, as a child, he had read of the betrayal. The same sense of shock returned.
Well, he was getting on. He now knew how the cartridge had been put in the gun and how the trigger mechanism had been fixed. Cora had put the finishing touch to the trap. Just before she had given him the gun she had deliberately slipped back the safety-catch. He remembered distinctly hearing the soft little click as the catch snapped back. It was almost as if she and Sydney had planned the murder of Crispin.
His mind shied away from this idea. He remembered Cora’s look of loathing.
“We don’t touch murder. That’s something we don’t stand for. We didn’t tell you to shoot him. We only wanted you to frighten him.”
Then why had they fixed the gun like that?
George rubbed his sweating face with his hand. There was something wrong. He had had a feeling all along that there was something wrong, but he had been so besotted with Cora that he had not heeded his own uneasiness.
Begin at the beginning, he said to himself. The telephone-booth at Joe’s. That started it.
“It’s a club in Mortimer Street, not far from you. They’re not on the blower, otherwise I’d’ve rung ‘em,” Sydney had said.
But they had been on the blower. He had seen for himself the telephone-booth in the Club.
Sydney must have known that. But if he hadn’t lied about the telephone, there would have been no reason for George to go to Joe’s and leave a message for Cora. And that would have meant that he would never have met her, never have fallen in love with her, never have been a besotted fool and never have allowed himself to be persuaded to commit murder.
The more he thought about it, the plainer it became. The story about the key and Cora not being able to get into the flat had been part of the plot. It was so simple that it had never crossed his mind that he was walking into a trap.
What devils these two were! The trouble they had taken to trap him into murder. He remembered the brief-case full of money. There must have been five or six hundred pounds in that case. That was the motive, of course! They had trapped him into killing Crispin so that they could steal the money! He sat up in bed, his eyes wild. Then the scene in the restaurant had been part of the plot. Cora had deliberately staged that business to fool him into believing they had no other motive in visiting Crispin but for revenge. And they had fooled him. Was it possible that she had allowed herself to be flogged like that just to fool him? There was no doubt that she had been flogged. He had heard her shrieks and had seen the marks. The red, bruised, broken skin was something you couldn’t fake. Had she really accepted such a beating in order to provide a false motive just to fool him?
He floundered in a pit of doubt, turning the facts over in his mind. Then he remembered something she had said to Sydney
when they had returned to the flat, just before he had fainted, “You said he wouldn’t touch me!” He remembered, too, how nervous she had been, and that after she had thrown the wine in Crispin’s face she had begged him not to let Crispin touch her. It looked as if Sydney had also double-crossed Cora. He had trapped her into picking a fight with Crispin, assuring her that she would come to no harm.
The more George thought about it, the calmer he became.
It was an utterly fantastic story, but he felt confident that if he kept his head and explained everything very carefully, and in its proper sequence, the police would believe him.
The face of Little Ernie suddenly swam into his mind, blotting out the vision of hope he had so carefully constructed.
Cora had practically told Little Ernie that George was going to get even with Crispin.
“I had a little fun,” she had said. “Crispin’s share is on ice at the moment, isn’t it, George?”
And Little Ernie had looked uneasy. He would remember the conversation, and when he heard about Crispin’s death, he would go to the police, George began to sweat again. What would the police say after they had listened to Little Ernie? And then he thought of the whip. What had happened to the whip? Cora had been diabolically clever in the way she had persuaded him to buy the whip. So much for her promises. Well, he would know another time— if there was another time. If the police found the whip, they would trace it to him. The old Jew would remember him. He had been so anxious to get Cora back to the fiat that he had behaved like a madman. He put his hand to the strips of plaster on his face. The Jew would remember those strips. How easy it would be for the police to spot him! The Jew would give the police a full description of him. It would tally with the description that Little Ernie would give them. No one had seen Cora. She had kept away from the shop. The whip had been left in the bungalow. It was an obvious clue. He hadn’t even removed the price-ticket. It wouldn’t take them more than a few hours to trace it, and then his description would be in the newspapers.
He lay back in bed, his throat dry and his heart pounding. He felt he could explain everything except the whip. It proved that he was planning revenge. Without the whip it would be Little Ernie’s word against his.
What a fool he had been! Why hadn’t he taken the whip with him? Why had he run out of the bungalow and pounded down the lane without making sure that he had left no finger-prints or anything that could incriminate him?
He stumbled out of bed and stood trembling on the cold linoleum. This wouldn’t do, he thought, wringing his hands, and he crushed down his fear. It was twenty minutes to seven. Ella would be in with his tea in a little while. He mustn’t let her suspect that there was anything wrong. She must find him as she always found him, sleepy and in bed. When she had gone he would get dressed and take a train to Three Bridges, which was the nearest station to Copthorne. It wasn’t likely that anyone would discover Crispin’s body for some time. With luck, no one ever went to the bungalow except Crispin. He would have to be very careful, of course. He thought of die Child’s Self-Educator. He could pretend that he thought there was a child in the bungalow, and he would go up to the door and ring the bell. If no one answered, he would break in and get the whip.
He became calm again. It was all right so long as you kept your head and used your brain. Once he had the whip he could go to the police and explain everything, but it wouldn’t be safe until he had it.
A soft scratching at the door startled him; then his face softened. He opened the door and let Leo in. He got back into bed, and the cat jumped up and settled down close to him. It began to purr.
George stroked its long hair. “You’re all I’ve got, Leo,” he said softly. “There’s no one else, and even you can’t help me.”
The regular, contented noise the cat made soothed him. Very gently, he stroked the top of its head, and it stretched out a paw and touched his face, as if understanding that he was alone, in need of affection and sympathy.
Later, Ella came in. She put down the cup of tea and walked across the room to pull up the blind.
When she saw his face, she gave a little scream. “Why, Mr. George,” she said in horror. “What have you done to your poor face?”
“I got into a razor fight,” George said after a moment’s hesitation. “That’s why I stayed out last night. They’re only scratches, Ella. Don’t look so frightened.”
She continued to gape at him. “A razor fight?” she repeated. “Oh, Mr. George!”
Just to see the admiration and awe in her eyes was like a tonic to George’s crushed, frightened ego.
“It’s nothing,” he said carelessly. “I’ve been in tighter jams before. Mark you, I did have an anxious moment, but I taught the fellow a lesson.”
“How did it happen?” Ella asked. “Who was he?”
“Be a good girl and don’t ask questions,” George returned, suddenly cautious. “Promise me you won’t tell anyone. The fellow got hurt, and I don’t want to get into trouble. Mind you, he started it, but I did give him a terrific hiding. Now don’t ask any more questions, and if anyone asks if I was in last night, will you say I was?”
Ella, her eyes like marbles, promised.
“You’re a good sort, Ella,” George said. “I think I’ll go out and get something for my head. It aches like mad. The chemist will be open by the time I get dressed.”
Obviously Ella wanted to hear more details, but George seemed so ill and worried that she felt a sudden pity for him.
“Shall I put on your bath, Mr. George?” she asked.
“No, I won’t wait,” he said quickly. “I want to fix this head.”
As soon as she had gone, he got up and had a quick, uncertain shave. It was difficult, with the plaster in the way, but he managed somehow. He dressed and gave Leo some milk.
“I’ll have to get you some food tonight, old chap,” he said, rubbing the cat’s head. “I’ve been pretty busy, but I’ll bring you something nice tonight.”
He picked up his book specimens, slipped them into his pocket, and was ready to go.
He reached Victoria Station a few minutes past eight-thirty. There was a local train that stopped at Three Bridges, due out at eight-forty. He had just time to buy a paper and his ticket before the train left.
He got a corner seat facing the engine, lit a cigarette, and glanced quickly at the other two occupants of the carriage. They did not even glance at him as they settled in their corners.
He searched the newspaper for any hint that Crispin’s body had been found, but he found nothing to alarm him. A tiny paragraph tucked away at the back of the paper gave him pause. A green Ford coup£ had been stolen from outside a doctor’s house the previous afternoon and so far had not been traced.
So the car had been stolen. Was there no end to the wickedness of these two? They were so callous and calm about everything. Why, driving down to Copthorne, they might easily have been arrested for being in possession of a stolen car, and the loaded gun would have been found. George gritted his teeth. They would all have gone to prison.
He folded the newspaper and put it in his pocket. As he did so, he wondered what Sydney and Cora were doing at this precise moment. They were probably in bed and asleep, secure in mind that they had safely fastened the murder on to him. Or perhaps they had decided to pack up and leave London. With all that money they could go anywhere. Whatever happened to him, George thought grimly, they wouldn’t get away with this. If they were still at the flat, he would go and see them. He would have it out with them: threaten them with the police.
The train began to slow down, and finally pulled into Three Bridges station. He began the long walk to Copthorne. It was a perfect summer morning, the sun was not too hot, the country looked fresh and green.
One or two cars passed him, but he was nervous of asking for a lift. He didn’t want anyone to remember him. He had been careful to put on a pair of flannel slacks, a sports shirt and an old tweed jacket. He looked like a City clerk on holid
ay.
Eventually he arrived at the turning that led to the bungalow. He paused at the top of the lane, listening and watching. Nothing aroused his suspicions. Taking out his book specimens and holding them in his hand, he walked down the lane.
As he approached the bungalow he became nervous and on edge. It was lonely in this country lane. The bungalow seemed to be the only building within sight. The only sounds that came to him were the rustling of leaves in the wind and the twittering of the birds. It was not an atmosphere that should have created fear, but by the time he had reached the wooden gate that led to the bungalow he was terrified.
He paused outside the gate and looked up and down the lane, screwing up his courage to go on.
Suppose the police were waiting for him? Suppose this silent, overgrown garden concealed a trap?
He struggled with his fears. He had to get the whip. It was worth any risk. He would be all right if he kept his head and showed them his book specimens. He would say that he had wanted a day in the country and was canvassing to make his expenses. That was a straightforward story. They would believe him. It wasn’t as if he looked like a murderer.
He drew a deep breath and pushed open the gate. It squeaked sharply, setting his teeth on edge. Again he had a powerful urge to turn back, but he forced himself on.
Cautiously, he moved up the overgrown path. In the shelter of the trees and high hedges, the garden was silent and close. The scent of clover and wallflowers was heavy in the still air.
He reached the bungalow and rapped on the door. Sweat ran down his face as he stood in the hot, sheltered porch, listening, his nerves slowly tightening.
And as he stood there, a thought crept into his mind that drove the blood from his heart. Suppose Crispin answered the door? Suppose he got up from the floor and opened the door and stood before George with blood on his dressing-gown?
1946 - More Deadly than the Male Page 17