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 wristwatch. 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 Copthome.
“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 hack. 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 briefcase 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 flat 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 fingerprints 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 the 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 hack 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 coupe 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 holiday.
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 he 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?
George hacked away, his mouth open in an idiotic grimace of terror.
He couldn’t even run away. He stood paralyzed, waiting. Nothing happened.
He fought down the panic that had seized him, conquered it and returned to the door. He rapped again.
There was no one in the bungalow except Crispin: and Crispin was dead.
George put an unsteady hand on the door-latch, lifted it and pushed upon the door. He braced himself and peered into the room. Then breath whistled between his clenched teeth, and blackness dropped like a curtain before his eyes.
He clung to the doorpost and waited. Evil-tasting bile rose in his mouth; he wanted to be sick.
Except for the furniture, the room was empty. George’s heart began slowly to pump blood back to his brain. It was some minutes before he could move again. Then he stepped into the room and stared with unbelieving eyes at the carpet where Crispin had fallen. There was no sign of murder in the room. Fearfully, George looked for the red mess on the wall. That was not there either. Was he going out of his mind? Had all the fantasies of violence that he had created in the past brought him to this? Were Sydney, Cora, Crispin and all the other nightmare people mere figments of a deranged imagination? Was it possible that the murder had happened only in his mind? He looked wildly round the room, and then he stiffened.
On the sideboard lay the whip.
There was no question about it. It was there, leather and whalebone, and the little white price ticket on the handle.
He edged forward and picked it up. He stood for several minutes gazing at it, aware that it was the symbol of his sanity.
Then, in the hush of the lonely room, above the drone of the bees and the rustle of the hollyhocks against the window, he heard voices.
Still grasping the whip, he stepped to the door and listened. A man was speaking some way off in the garden behind the bungalow.
Moving silently, in blind panic, George slipped out of the house, crossed the path and sank down on his knees under the overhanging hedge. He found a dry ditch that ran along the side of the garden, and cautiously lowered himself into it. He adjusted the leaves of the hedge so that they formed a screen over him.
He found that he had a good view of the bungalow, and he was confident that he could not be seen. He waited, his hand gripping the whip, his heart fluttering against his side. He heard the sound of feet moving through the long grass. Then round the corner of the bungalow came four people: the Hebrew barman, the two Greeks and the woman with the blonde, untidy hair.
They looked odd and somehow sinister against the background of the peace and fertility of the garden.
The Hebrew wore a double-breasted, navy-blue suit, shiny at the elbows and knees; on his head was a howler hat. The woman had on a shapeless cotton dress; its pattern of flowers had faded with constant washing. Her thick legs were hare, and blue-black veins crawled up the backs of her calves. Her feet were squeezed into a pair of high-heeled court shoes. The two Greeks were in their black suits and cloth caps. They carried spades on their shoulders, and their boots were heavy with yellow clay.
A cigarette dangled from the blonde woman’s lips. Her fat, loose face was expressionless, but the Hebrew was weeping. He did not make a fuss about his grief. Tears welled out of his eyes and ran down the wrinkles in his leathery skin. He made no attempt to wipe them away.
The woman looked at the bungalow, her eyes bleak. “Was he expecting anyone?” she asked.
The Hebrew lifted his shoulders in despair. “I know nothing,” he said. “He didn’t confide in me. I told him it was dangerous to have a lonely place like this. I told him many times.”
The woman sat down abruptly on the grass. She was only a few yards from where George was hiding. She plucked a long piece of coarse grass and began to chew it.
“Sit down. The sun will do you good.”
The Hebrew and the two Greeks sat down near her. They looked self-conscious, worried. The Hebrew still wept.
“The way you go on!” the woman said impatiently. “I’m his mother. Shouldn’t I be the one to weep?”
The Hebrew took out a handkerchief and wiped his eyes.
“You’re hard, Emily,” he said. “What a burial to give a son!”
The woman, Emily, snapped her thick forgers. “He wouldn’t mind. He didn’t believe in God. Is that what’s worrying you?” She brooded, tearing the blade of grass with her sharp teeth. “What did you expect me to do? Leave him there for the police to find? They would be crawling over us like flies on bad meat in no time. Haven’t they done enough harm?”
When he didn’t say anything, she went on. “Who do you think did it?”
“Vengeance is mine, said the Lord,” the Hebrew said, pulling at his long, straggly moustache.
“You don’t fool me,” Emily said. “I know what you’re thinking, don’t I, Max?”
“Do You?”
The two Greeks had lit cigarettes. They were not listening to this conversation. They lolled back on their elbows, their dark faces raised to the sun, their eyes closed.
But Max listened. He sat bolt upright, his long, thin legs crossed like a working tailor, his bowler hat very straight on his pear-shaped head.
“We don’t have to worry about the police,” Emily went on. “He wouldn’t have liked it. We can find out who did it, and we can settle the score, can’t we?”
Max looked across the garden. “There’s the money,” he said. “He should never have brought it here. Seven hundred pounds!”
“Stop worrying about the money,” Emily said sharply. “Is that what you’re crying about?”
“The gun worries me,” Max said, not listening to her. “A razor, yes, but a gun!… It’s someone we don’t know.”
“Well, we can find out, can’t we?” Emily persisted.
“Does the whip mean anything?”
“It must do. It’s new. Crispin wouldn’t buy a thing like that.”
There was a long pause. A bee droned across the hot garden and lighted on a hollyhock.
“Who was that girl? The one Crispin thrashed?” Emily said, plucking another blade of grass and chewing it.
“I was thinking about her, too,” Max said. “The whip might tie up with her. Do you mean that?”
“It could do. And the big man. Who was he?”
Max shook his head. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen either before. There was something odd about the way that girl behaved. She wasn’t drunk. She was faking.”
“Crispin was a fool to have touched her. She might have complained to the police.”
“Why didn’t she?”
“Yes, why?”
There was another long pause while they brooded.
“Maybe they came down here for revenge; found the money and killed Crispin to steal it,” Emily said at last.
“How could they know Crispin had this place? No one knew that he came here.”
“Sydney Brant knew,” Emily said thoughtfully.
“Brant? He hasn’t been around for months. Besides, after Crispin burnt him, he was too scared to come near the place. This is nothing to do with him; but the girl and the big man maybe, I don’t know…”
“Well, we can’t waste time. We must settle this business. Whoever did it will have to pay.”
“They’ll pay all right.” Max’s harsh voice floated on the still air, and George shivered. These people, so calculating, so ordinary to look at, plotting revenge in the hot sunshine, had a nightmare quality that made his flesh creep. “We’ll have to find out about the big man. We’ll have to find out where the whip came from. Once we know that, it’ll be easy!”
Emily brooded. “Well, trace it. The price ticket will help.” She looked across at the Greek, Nick. “Get the whip,” she went on. “I want to examine it.”
With his blood freezing in his heart, George watched the Greek get up and wander into the bungalow. He was away a few minutes and then he came to the door.
“It is not there,” he called.
“The whip,” Emily said, snapping her fingers impatiently. “Don’t keep me waiting. Bring me the whip.”
“It is not there, I tell you,” Nick said indifferently. Emily and Max exchanged glances.
“Find it for the fool,” she said.
Max got up and walked stiffly into the bungalow. Nick shrugged. He came hack and sat down, a frown of irritation on his flat, ugly face.
“He will not find it,” he said sullenly. “It is gone.”
Emily said nothing, but her fat hands squeezed into fists.
Max called from the window. There was an urgent note in his voice. “Emily!”
The woman got up and stared at the gesticulating figure at the window.
“I told you,” Nick said. “It is gone,” and he lolled hack on his elbows and closed his eyes.