“What?”
“Dust.” The great bald head was slowly shaken. “You’re letting things go, Mr Anderson. This room looks altogether different from the way it did when I first saw it. That was three weeks ago. Your wife kept it very nice, if I may say so. Not my own taste, of course, but –” The great flat hand moved embracingly to include carpet, curtains, chairs, lamps, everything. “Very nice. And now look.” One great finger moved on the red table, sketched a face in dust, skirted the bowler hat and picked up the pot. “Preparation Number One,” he read as slowly as a peasant. “Preparation for what, if it’s not a rude question?”
Anderson leaned forward again, pleased that the conversation had moved away from his wife. “That little pot, Inspector, contains a cream designed to eliminate shaving from our lives forever. It is a small part of the twentieth-century revolution.”
“And what might that be, when it’s at home?”
“Hygiene, asepsis, artificial insemination.”
The lines on the great blue-white face deepened as the Inspector laughed. “You’re in favour of modernity, though, Mr Anderson. How about the refrigerator in the kitchen? And” – his hand moved embracingly again – “all this.”
Anderson said stiffly: “My wife furnished this flat.”
“Ah, she was a modern,” the Inspector said sepulchrally. “I’m old-fashioned. But hygiene and asepsis – I’m modern enough to believe in them.”
“But don’t you see that they’re unimportant?” Anderson cried. He was moved suddenly by the need for explanation.
“Unimportant?”
“When a doctor saves human lives he is committed to the belief that they are valuable. But be may be quite wrong. It’s only during the past few hundred years that we’ve come to assume that there is something intrinsically important about the fact of life itself, and now soil conservers are telling us that the world’s population is too large for the amount of food available, that we are slowly starving to death. Improved maternity statistics and better dental treatment have no importance in themselves. The important thing to find out about any man or woman is whether he’s preserved his soul alive.”
The Inspector looked at Anderson. Anderson looked at the Inspector. “Have you got a match?” the Inspector asked vacantly. Anderson gave him a box of Swan Vestas, and the Inspector lighted a cigarette. “Matches,” he said absently. “That’s what I was going to say.”
“What?”
“Nothing.” The vacant eyes rested on Anderson. “Have you got any enemies?”
“Enemies?”
“We have received a letter – in fact, we have received two letters.” Suddenly two pieces of paper were in the great hand. “We don’t pay much attention to such things in general, but just in this case we’d like to know who sent them.” Anderson read the letters. The first suggested that he hated his wife and made her life miserable for years. It asked why Anderson’s statement at the inquest that his married life had been “normally happy” had been left uncorroborated. The second said that Anderson had been persistently unfaithful to his wife. “And then he insured her life for £5,000. And then she fell downstairs. Cui Bono?” Anderson read the letters and returned them without comment.
“Typed on a Remington 12 machine, posted in Central London, no fingerprints,” the Inspector said. The clownishness had dropped from him, the heavy face was alert, the eyes’ vacancy might be interpreted as alertness. “The first of them came a week ago, the second three days after it. Nothing since. You’ve no idea who wrote them, I suppose?”
“No.”
“Stuff like this now – in one way it’s beneath contempt. And yet in another it’s interesting. It’s the sort of thing that sets us thinking.” With a return to clownishness, the Inspector ran a hand over his great bald head; the humorous action was somehow more menacing than a threat could have been. “A clever chap like you now, you’re thinking all the time. But a policeman only thinks when he needs to, and that’s not very often. A bit of low cunning’s enough for our purposes usually, when we’re dealing with the uneducated classes. But with a gentleman like yourself—”
“I went to a grammar school,” Anderson said sharply, to check this ponderous humour.
The Inspector was unperturbed. “That’s just what I mean. You’re a well-read man, an intellectual. A policeman’s got to be clever to keep up with you. When we got these letters we thought back over the case, and you know what we discovered? We hadn’t been clever enough. But that won’t be any surprise to somebody like yourself.” The Inspector slapped his knee with a meaty hand, and laughed.
“Not clever enough?”
“We had failed to read our Sherlock Holmes. The curious incident of the matches. Although, of course, in a way the reverse of Silver Blaze. You have read that, of course.”
“I’m afraid not, no.”
“Detective fiction,” the Inspector said with a sigh. “But the box of matches worries me, I must confess. You don’t understand me?” Anderson shook his head. In his thick voice the Inspector said: “Your wife left the sitting room—”
“The kitchen. She was cooking the supper.”
“Left the kitchen, passed through the sitting room, went out into the passage, to the head of the cellar stairs, turned on the switch and found that the light had fused. Unhappy that the light should have fused, is it not, just at that particular moment? Tragic, even. Then she struck a match, began to descend the stairs, slipped–” The Inspector paused delicately, and then looked up. “But did she strike a match? Where did the box of matches come from that was found by her body?” The question was asked in a gentle voice. Anderson goggled at him. “She would hardly have taken matches from the kitchen when she supposed that the cellar light would be on? Of course she wouldn’t. She would not find matches in the passage. She didn’t come back or call to you when she found that the cellar light was out of order. And yet – a box of matches was found by the side of her body.”
“Her frock,” Anderson said. His voice was hoarse.
“Woollen. No pockets.”
“They must have been there for days.”
“No, you’d had the cellar cleaned out the day before, don’t you remember? Your charwoman gave evidence. She’s quite certain there was no box of matches down there then. It’s a problem. I don’t see where the box of matches could have come from, do you?” The Inspector’s voice rumbled softly; it was ridiculous to think that his eyes could ever have been vacant. “What the anonymous letter said about the five thousand pounds insurance – that was right, wasn’t it?”
Like a man emerging from water, Anderson shook himself. “Inspector Cresse, are you insinuating that I killed my wife?”
The Inspector looked astonished. “Why, what a question to ask! I came here about those anonymous letters.”
“Then why did you ask about the insurance? You know perfectly well that we each had an insurance on the other’s life. I am not short of money, Inspector.”
“Now now, Mr Anderson.” The meaty hand was raised, soothingly. “Nobody said you were. You don’t get the point. Nothing was mentioned about that insurance at the inquest. The person who sent that letter must know you pretty well. You might think it over and see if you can identify him or her. But the whole affair, that unfortunate business about the light that fused, and so on, raises what you might call a moral problem.”
“Oh yes, a moral problem.” Shall I say it? Anderson wondered, and then gripped the arm of his chair and spoke earnestly. “Tell me, Inspector, if I told you that I killed my wife, would you arrest me?”
“Ah ah.” Like gigantic scissors the Inspector’s legs shifted and were crossed from right to left instead of from left to right. “Precisely the moral problem.” Anderson poured out fresh drinks for both of them. When he passed the Inspector’s glass, however, some of the whisky splashed on to the hard, fleshy thigh. Anderson exclaimed in dismay, drew out his handkerchief and rubbed the offending spot. The Inspector, apparently unconscio
us of these ministrations, stared ahead of him at the pentagonal looking glass fixed over the fireplace. “Precisely the moral problem. You killed your wife, Mr Anderson.” Anderson sat perfectly still, holding his own glass, staring. “You killed her, I mean, in the sense that had you pursued some other course of action she would not now be dead. You might have taken her out to dinner. You might have gone down into the cellar in her place, might you not? And then perhaps when you found it in darkness, you might have mended the fuse – you are a handy enough electrician for that? Or perhaps you might have accompanied her to the head of the cellar stairs instead of reading the paper in the sitting room. Then you would have cautioned her, doubtless – you would have said: ‘Be careful of that slippery step halfway down.’ And then, who knows – perhaps she wouldn’t have slipped.”
“You attach blame to me? You think me guilty?”
“Ah ah,” the Inspector said again. He drank three quarters of the whisky in his glass. “That question is not for an ignorant policeman, but for an intellectual. A man like yourself. It is a problem of morals.” He spoke with gravity to which Anderson, his partner in this curious verbal knockabout, responded with restrained jocosity.
“So you will not arrest me?”
“Arrest you?”
“Even though I said ‘Mea culpa, I confess my guilt.’”
Anderson beat his breast in mock despair. “What do you propose to do about it? Supposing I said that – just supposing!” With a revival of his earlier gadfly spirit, Anderson walked mincingly across the room to straighten a picture.
“What do you propose to do?” The Inspector’s features had lost altogether their joviality. The strong lines threw into prominence the great blunt nose; the loose lips were joined in an appearance of resolution. “We can do nothing without you.” He stood up and clapped the bowler hat on to his bald head. It was like the curtain coming down on a play.
“Nothing!” Anderson echoed triumphantly.
“Nothing.”
The 26th of February
The sickly light of morning, filtering through pink curtains, illuminated Anderson asleep in a double bed. He slept in a position curiously contorted, one arm thrust over his head like a signal, the other holding a pillow tightly to his chest. His knees were drawn up like those of a man making a jack-knife dive. His yellow face looked younger in repose. The top of his pyjamas, opened, revealed a body surprisingly white.
An alarm clock rang by the side of the bed. Anderson opened his eyes. They stared at his wife’s photograph, which stood beside the alarm. While a hand silenced the alarm clock, Anderson continued to stare. His wife, head slightly to one side, eyes melting, lips bent upward to a smile, seemed joyfully to meet his gaze. Anderson’s stare shifted from the photograph to the pink curtains, to the pink quilt on the bed, to the china knick-knacks on the mantelpiece, to the pink ribbons tied round the top of the dressing table, back to the photograph. A slight film seemed to be spread over the glass. He touched it gingerly, and exclaimed: “Dust,” remembering the Inspector. The flat had not been dusted or cleaned since his wife’s death. Groaning slightly, Anderson got out of bed, ran a bath and put two slices of bread in the electric toaster. Plates and dishes with small pieces of food in them stood in the sink. He bathed quickly and looked at his face in the shaving glass. Magnification made the pits of removed blackheads look like craters of the moon, but he stared particularly at the blue growth on and underneath the chin. Each hard bristly hair was plainly distinguishable; the total effect was exceedingly unattractive.
Anderson put his watch in front of him and then, like a nervous bather, dipped a finger in the pot of Preparation Number 1. Gingerly he smeared the stuff onto his face. He felt at first nothing at all, then a prickling and burning that was not unpleasant, then again nothing. Obviously, the stuff had failed to work. He checked by his watch, waited another half minute to give the preparation a chance, then damped a washcloth and wiped his face. He looked to see the blue stubble. It had gone. His face was absolutely clean to the eye, and to the touch of fingertips felt babyishly soft. The preparation, in fact, did exactly what had been claimed for it; Anderson, an advertising man accustomed to publicizing goods that did perhaps a quarter of what was claimed for them, gasped with astonishment at such a consummation.
2
The swing doors hissed behind Anderson. Miss Detranter was reading from notes, ticking off each item as she read. “Flowers,” she said to Jean Lightley. “Flowers for the directors’ rooms. Flowers for Mr Anderson’s room. Flowers for each department. Secretaries’ typewriters neat and tidy. Tell the Studio they must get straightened up. All of them working, but everything bright and clean. Tell the production boys to get blocks stacked one side of them and proofs the other. Tell Miss O’Rourke—”
Anderson stared and listened. The black book with marbled corners, the Inspector’s visit, belonged to another time and world; within these doors he was an advertising executive, a man with a purpose in life. “Hey,” he said, “that’s my secretary.”
“VV’s orders,” said Miss Detranter sweetly. “He rang up in a flap and said get all the girls to work on it. I can’t leave Reception. Jean won’t be half an hour, will you, Jean?” Jean looked startled.
“Flowers in February. What’s it in aid of?”
“Mr Divenga’s coming round.”
“And who’s Mr Divenga?”
“I simply haven’t a clue,” said Miss Detranter. Anderson made his way down the corridor. As he turned the corner, he heard: “– Tell Miss O’Rourke she must have some vital statistics on hand. Charts and graph on the wall—”
Anderson went into his room! Figures scurried past in the corridor. Reverton’s secretary, Miss Flack, came in with a duster. “Just dusting,” she said with a smile and flicked rapidly at cupboard, chair back, hatstand and desk. “Mr Divenga’s flown over,” she added with a bright smile, and went out. The telephone rang. “Oh, Mr Anderson,” the operator said,” Mr Vincent said to tell you that Mr Divenga’s coming in this morning.”
“I’ve grasped that.”
“If you have an outside appointment, will you please postpone it if possible. If it can’t be postponed, please let me know. Otherwise will you please be available.”
“I’ll please be available.” The operator giggled. “Who’s Mr Divenga?”
“I don’t know him from Adam, I’m afraid, Mr Anderson.” The operator giggled again.
Anderson sat down in his chair. As he did so he noticed that Miss Flack, when she dusted the desk, had shifted a letter at the bottom of his pile of mail, so that it was out of place. His hand moved to replace it, and then he noticed the handwriting. It was a letter from Val.
Anderson sat quite still. His head seemed to be the centre of a whirlpool, going round and round and round and round. He closed his eyes, and in the whirlpool there were faces – the round bland face of Lessing, the square dependable face of Reverton, the triangle of VV’s great forehead and small pointed chin, the long chalky nose of Molly O’Rourke. Anderson opened his eyes again, and gripped the sides of the chair to stop himself from falling. When he felt better he picked up the letter and read the hastily scribbled lines “My darling. I love you so much, and it seems so long since I held you in my arms.” Somebody has stolen the letters she wrote to me, Anderson thought with a bitter anger that surprised himself. And then, as he turned the page and read the unfamiliar words, he realized suddenly why this letter had been put on his desk. This was not a letter Val had written to him; it was a letter she had written to somebody else. “I love you dearly” were the last words, and then came the scrawled signature “Val.” Val had loved Anderson – or so he had always thought; but she had never ended a letter “I love you dearly.” And yet this letter, written in the light blue ink she used, on dark blue paper, was unmistakably in her writing.
Anderson sat looking at the letter for a period that might have been seconds or minutes. Then he pushed it clumsily into his pocket, and almost ran out
of the room. As he slammed the door the telephone rang. With blundering emphasis Anderson moved along the corridor, head down. His swinging arm struck something soft, and a voice said “Good morning.” Anderson looked up to find Mr Pile regarding him severely through his rimless pince-nez. “Is anything the matter?” Anderson muttered. ‘You don’t look well, Anderson. Perhaps you had better go home.” Mr Pile’s tone made it clear that he did not care for executives who were unwell and went home.
“Mr Divenga,” Anderson said.
A withered smile passed over Mr Pile’s face. “Ah yes, he is coming round this morning. But he won’t expect to see our senior men rushing about head down. Are you quite sure you feel all right?” Anderson nodded. Mr Pile stood still, fumbling for the true and appropriate phrase. At last he found it. “Well, more haste less speed.” He passed on.
Anderson went into the Copy Room. The neat brown-suited figure of Greatorex rose to receive him. “I put that list of names on your desk—”
“Where’s Lessing?”
“I haven’t seen him this morning, Mr Anderson.” Greatorex was apologetic. “Shall I ask him—”
“Doesn’t matter.” Greatorex looked at him in surprise. Outside the door of the Copy Room, Anderson stood and wiped his hand over his forehead. Anger and urgency drained away, and his body felt simply weak. He walked along slowly and aimlessly, turning right and left, until he came to a door marked RESEARCH DEPARTMENT. Molly O’Rourke’s head popped out. “Oh, it’s you,” she said. “Come in.” He went in. “You can lend a hand with this chart. Just pass it up to me, will you.” She stood on a chair, and he passed up to her an enormous chart made up of different blocks of colour. Above each colour block, on the left-hand side of the chart, was a percentage figure. The centre part of the chart was divided into geographical areas. The blocks on the right-hand side were split into months of the year and had cash figures over them. “Take this,” she said. He held one end of the chart while she pinned it to the wall. They both stood looking at it. “In case you wonder what it all means, it tells you the percentage of cakes of Happiday Soap sold in England in comparison with all competitors. It gives you an area breakdown. It relates advertising cost to sales returns in all districts. It tells you—”
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