Giant's Bread

by Christie, writing as Mary Westmacott, Agatha

  She spoke curtly, but very confidently.

  He stared at her very hard, then nodded.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said.

  Jane spoke quietly and composedly.

  ‘There’s an American here, a Mr Bleibner. I met him out in Serbia. We recognized each other in the street. He told me he was staying at the County Hotel and asked me to lunch today. I went. Afterwards it was raining. He wouldn’t hear of my walking back. His car was there and would take me. His car did take me. Sebastian, the chauffeur was Vernon – and he didn’t know me.’

  Sebastian considered the matter. ‘You’re sure you weren’t deceived by some strong resemblance?’

  ‘Perfectly sure.’

  ‘Then why didn’t Vernon recognize you? He was pretending, I suppose.’

  ‘No, I don’t think so – in fact, I’m sure he wasn’t. He would be bound to give some sign – a start – something. He couldn’t have been expecting to see me. He couldn’t have controlled his first surprise. Besides, he looked – different.’

  ‘How different?’

  Jane considered.

  ‘It’s hard to explain. Rather happy and jolly and – just faintly – like his mother.’

  ‘Extraordinary,’ said Sebastian. ‘I’m glad you sent for me. If it is Vernon – well, it’s going to be the devil of a business. Nell having married again and everything. We don’t want reporters coming down like wolves on the fold. I suppose there’ll have to be some publicity.’ He got up, walked up and down. ‘The first thing is to get hold of Bleibner.’

  ‘I telephoned to him, asking him to be here at six-thirty. I didn’t dare leave it, though I was afraid you wouldn’t be able to get here so soon. Bleibner will be here any minute.’

  ‘Good for you, Jane. We must hear what he’s got to say.’

  There was a knock at the door and Mr Bleibner was announced. Jane rose to meet him.

  ‘It’s very good of you to come, Mr Bleibner,’ she began.

  ‘Not at all,’ said the American. ‘Always delighted to oblige a lady. And you said that the matter you wanted to see me about was urgent.’

  ‘It is. This is Mr Sebastian Levinne.’

  ‘The Mr Sebastian Levinne? I’m very pleased to meet you, sir.’

  The two men shook hands.

  ‘And now, Mr Bleibner,’ said Jane. ‘I’ll come straight to what I want to talk to you about. How long have you had your chauffeur, and what can you tell us about him?’

  Mr Bleibner was plainly surprised and showed it.

  ‘Green? You want to know about Green?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well –’ The American reflected. ‘I’ve no objections to telling you what I know. I guess you wouldn’t ask without a good reason. I know you well enough for that, Miss Harding. I picked up Green in Holland not long after the armistice. He was working in a local garage. I discovered he was an Englishman and began to take an interest in him. I asked him his history and he was pretty vague about it. I thought at first he had something to conceal, but I soon convinced myself that he was genuine enough. The man was in a kind of mental fog. He knew his name and where he came from but very little else.’

  ‘Lost memory,’ said Sebastian softly. ‘I see.’

  ‘His father was killed in the South African war, he told me. He remembered his father singing in the village choir, and he remembered a brother whom he used to call Squirrel.’

  ‘And he was quite sure about his own name?’

  ‘Oh, yes. As a matter of fact he’d got it written down in a small pocket book. There was an accident, you know. He was knocked down by a lorry. That’s how they knew who he was. They asked him if his name was Green and he said Yes – George. He was very popular at the garage, he was so sunny and lighthearted. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen Green out of temper.

  ‘Well – I took a fancy to the young chap. I’ve seen a few shell-shocked cases, and his state wasn’t any mystery to me. He showed me the entry in his pocket book, and I made a few inquiries. I soon found the reason – there always is a reason, you know – for his loss of memory. Corporal George Green, London Fusiliers, was a deserter.

  ‘There you have it. He’d funked things – and being a decent young fellow really, he couldn’t face the fact. I explained it all to him. He said – rather wonderingly: “I shouldn’t have thought I could ever desert – not desert.” I explained to him that that point of view was just the reason he couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember because he didn’t want to remember.

  ‘He listened but I don’t think he was very convinced. I felt, and still feel, extremely sorry for him. I didn’t think there was any obligation on my part to report his existence to the military authorities. I took him into my service and offered him a chance to make good. I’ve never had cause to regret it. He’s an excellent chauffeur – punctual, intelligent, a good mechanic, and always sunny tempered and obliging.’

  Mr Bleibner paused and looked inquiringly at Jane and Sebastian. Their pale serious faces impressed him.

  ‘It’s frightening,’ said Jane in her low voice. ‘It’s one of the most frightening things that could happen.’

  Sebastian took her hand and squeezed it.

  ‘It’s all right, Jane.’

  Jane roused herself with a slight shiver and spoke to the American.

  ‘I think it’s our turn to explain. You see, Mr Bleibner, in your chauffeur I recognized an old friend – and he didn’t recognize me.’

  ‘In – deed!’

  ‘But his name wasn’t Green,’ said Sebastian.

  ‘No? You mean he enlisted under another name?’

  ‘No. There’s something there that seems incomprehensible. I suppose we shall get at it some day. In the meantime, I will ask you, Mr Bleibner, not to repeat this conversation to anyone. There’s a wife in the matter – and – oh! many other considerations.’

  ‘My dear sir,’ said Mr Bleibner. ‘You can trust me to be absolutely silent. But what next? Do you want to see Green?’

  Sebastian looked at Jane and she bowed her head.

  ‘Yes,’ said Sebastian slowly. ‘I think perhaps that would be the best plan.’

  The American rose.

  ‘He’s below now. He brought me here. I’ll send him up right away.’

  2

  George Green mounted the stairs with his usual buoyant step. As he did so he wondered what had happened to upset the old josser – by that term meaning his employer. Very queer the old buffer had looked.

  ‘The door at the top of the stairs,’ Mr Bleibner had said.

  George Green rapped on it sharply with his knuckles and waited. A voice called ‘Come in’ and he obeyed.

  There were two people in the room – the lady he had driven home yesterday (whom he thought of in his own mind as a tip-topper) and a big rather fat man with a very yellow face and projecting ears. His face seemed vaguely familiar to the chauffeur. For a moment he stood there while they both stared at him. He thought: ‘What’s the matter with everybody this evening?’

  He said, ‘Yes, sir?’ in a respectful voice to the yellow gentleman. He went on: ‘Mr Bleibner told me to come up –’

  The yellow gentleman seemed to recover himself.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he said. ‘That’s right. Sit down – er – Green. That’s your name, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, sir. George Green.’

  He sat down, respectfully, in the chair indicated. The yellow gentleman handed him a cigarette case and said, ‘Help yourself.’ And all the time, his eyes, small piercing eyes, never left Green’s face. That intent burning gaze made the chauffeur uneasy. What was up with everyone tonight?

  ‘I wanted to ask you a few questions. To begin with, have you ever seen me before?’

  Green shook his head.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Sure?’ persisted the other.

  A faint trace of uncertainty crept into Green’s voice.

  ‘I – I don’t think so,’ he said doubtfully.

>   ‘My name is Sebastian Levinne.’

  The chauffeur’s face cleared.

  ‘Of course, sir, I’ve seen your picture in the papers. I thought it seemed familiar somehow.’

  There was a pause and then Sebastian Levinne asked casually:

  ‘Have you ever heard the name of Vernon Deyre?’

  ‘Vernon Deyre,’ Green repeated the name thoughtfully. He frowned perplexedly. ‘The name seems somehow familiar to me, sir, but I can’t quite place it.’ He paused, the frown deepening. ‘I think I’ve heard it.’ And then added, ‘The gentleman’s dead, isn’t he?’

  ‘So that’s your impression, is it? That the gentleman is dead.’

  ‘Yes, sir, and a good –’

  He stopped suddenly, crimsoning.

  ‘Go on,’ said Levinne. ‘What were you going to say?’ He added shrewdly, perceiving where the trouble lay, ‘You need not mince your words. Mr Deyre was no relation of mine.’

  The chauffeur accepted the implication.

  ‘I was going to say a good job too – but I don’t know that I ought to say it, since I can’t remember anything about him. But I’ve got a kind of impression that – well, that he was best out of the way, so to speak. Made rather a mess of things, hadn’t he?’

  ‘You knew him?’

  The frown deepened in an agony of attempted recollection.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ the chauffeur apologized. ‘Since the war things seemed to have got a bit mixed up. I can’t always recollect things clearly. I don’t know where I came across Mr Deyre, and why I disliked him, but I do know that I’m thankful to hear that he’s dead. He was no good – you can take my word for that.’

  There was a silence – only broken by something like a smothered sob from the other occupant of the room. Levinne turned to her.

  ‘Telephone to the theatre, Jane,’ he said. ‘You can’t appear tonight.’

  She nodded and left the room. Levinne looked after her and then said abruptly:

  ‘You’ve seen Miss Harding before?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I drove her home today.’

  Levinne sighed. Green looked at him inquiringly.

  ‘Is – is that all, sir? I’m sorry to have been so little use. I know I’ve been a bit – well, queer since the war. My own fault. Perhaps Mr Bleibner told you – I – I didn’t do my duty as I should have done.’

  His face flushed but he brought out the words resolutely. Had the old josser told them or not? Better to say that anyway. At the same time, a pang of shame pierced him keenly. He was a deserter – a man who had run away! A rotten business.

  Jane Harding came back into the room and resumed her place behind the table. She looked paler than when she had gone out, Green thought. Curious eyes she had – so deep and tragic. He wondered what she was thinking about. Perhaps she had been engaged to this Mr Deyre. No, Mr Levinne wouldn’t have urged him to speak out if that had been the case. It was probably all to do with money. A will or something like that.

  Mr Levinne began questioning him again. He made no reference to the last sentence.

  ‘Your father was killed in the Boer War, I believe?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You remember him?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  Green smiled. The memory was pleasant to him.

  ‘A burly sort of chap. Mutton chop whiskers. Very bright blue eyes. I remember him as well as anything singing in the choir. Baritone voice he had.’

  He smiled happily.

  ‘And he was killed in the Boer War?’

  A sudden look of doubt crept into Green’s face. He seemed worried – distressed. His eyes looked pathetically across the table like a dog at fault.

  ‘It’s queer,’ he said. ‘I never thought of that. He’d be too old. He – and yet I’d swear – I’m sure …’

  The look of distress in his eyes was so acute that the other said, ‘Never mind,’ and went on: ‘Are you married, Green?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  The answer came with prompt assurance.

  ‘You seem very certain about that,’ said Mr Levinne smiling.

  ‘I am, sir. It leads to nothing but trouble – mixing yourself up with women.’ He stopped abruptly and said to Jane, ‘I beg your pardon.’

  She smiled faintly and said: ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  There was a pause. Levinne turned to her and said something so quickly that Green could not catch it. It sounded like:

  ‘Extraordinary likeness to Sydney Bent. Never imagined it was there.’

  Then they both stared at him again.

  And suddenly he was afraid – definitely childishly afraid – in the same way that he remembered being afraid of the dark when he was a baby. There was something up – that was how he put it to himself – and these two knew it. Something about him.

  He leant forward – acutely apprehensive.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he said sharply. ‘There’s something …’

  They didn’t deny it – just continued to look at him.

  And his terror grew. Why couldn’t they tell a chap? They knew something that he didn’t. Something dreadful … He said again, and this time his voice was high and shrill:

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  The lady got up – he noticed in the background of his mind as it were how splendidly she moved. She was like a statue he’d seen somewhere – she came round the table and laid a hand on his shoulder. She said comfortingly and reassuringly: ‘It’s all right. You mustn’t be frightened.’

  But Green’s eyes continued to question Levinne. This man knew – this man was going to tell him. What was this horrible thing that they knew and he didn’t?

  ‘Very odd things have happened in this war,’ began Levinne. ‘People have sometimes forgotten their own names.’

  He paused significantly, but the significance was lost on Green. He said with a momentary return to cheerfulness:

  ‘I’m not as bad as that. I’ve never forgotten my name.’

  ‘But you have.’ He stopped – then went on: ‘Your real name is Vernon Deyre.’

  The announcement ought to have been dramatic, but it wasn’t. The words seemed to Green simply silly. He looked amused.

  ‘I’m Mr Vernon Deyre? You mean I’m his double or something?’

  ‘I mean you are him.’

  Green laughed frankly.

  ‘I can’t monkey about with that stuff, sir. Not even if it means a title or a fortune! Whatever the resemblance I’d be bound to be found out.’

  Sebastian Levinne leant forward over the table and rapped out each word separately with emphasis:

  ‘You – are – Vernon – Deyre …’

  Green stared. The emphasis impressed him.

  ‘You’re kidding me?’

  Levinne slowly shook his head. Green turned suddenly to the woman who stood beside him. Her eyes, very grave and absolutely assured, met his. She said very quietly:

  ‘You are Vernon Deyre. We both know it.’

  There was dead silence in the room. To Green, it seemed as though the whole world was spinning round. It was like a fairy story, fantastic and impossible. And yet something about these two compelled credence. He said uncertainly:

  ‘But – but things don’t happen like that. You couldn’t forget your own name!’

  ‘Evidently – since you have done so.’

  ‘But – but, look here, sir – I know I’m George Green. I – well – I just know it!’

  He looked at them triumphantly, but slowly and remorselessly Sebastian Levinne shook his head.

  ‘I don’t know how that’s come about,’ he said. ‘A doctor would probably be able to tell you. But I do know this – that you are my friend, Vernon Deyre. There is no possible doubt of that.’

  ‘But – but, if that’s true, I ought to know it.’

  He felt bewildered, horribly uncertain. A strange sickening world where you couldn’t be sure of anything. These we
re kindly sane people – he trusted them – what they said must be so – and yet something in him refused to be convinced. They were sorry for him – he felt that. And that frightened him. There was something more yet – something that he hadn’t been told.

  ‘Who is he?’ he said sharply. ‘This Vernon Deyre, I mean.’

  ‘You come from this part of the world. You were born and spent most of your childhood at a place called Abbots Puissants –’

  Green interrupted him in astonishment.

  ‘Abbots Puissants? Why, I drove Mr Bleibner there yesterday. And you say it’s my old home and I never recognized it!’

  He felt suddenly buoyed up and scornful. The whole thing was a pack of lies! Of course it was! He had known it all the time. These people were honest, but they were mistaken. He felt relieved – happier.

  ‘After that you went to live near Birmingham,’ continued Levinne. ‘You went to school at Eton and from there you went on to Cambridge. After that you went to London and studied music. You composed an opera.’

  Green laughed outright.

  ‘There you’re quite wrong, sir. Why, I don’t know one note of music from another.’

  ‘The war broke out. You obtained a commission in the Yeomanry. You were married –’ he paused, but Green gave no sign, ‘and went out to France. In the spring of the following year you were reported “Killed in Action”.’

  Green stared at him incredulously. What sort of a rigmarole was this? He couldn’t remember a thing about any of it.

  ‘There must be some mistake,’ he said confidently. ‘Mr Deyre must have been what they call my “double”.’

  ‘There is no mistake, Vernon,’ said Jane Harding.

  Green looked from her to Sebastian. The confident intimacy of her tone had done more to convince him than anything else. He thought: ‘This is awful. A nightmare. Such things can’t happen.’ He began to shake all over, unable to stop.

  Levinne got up, mixed him a stiff drink from materials that stood on a tray in the corner and brought it back to him.

  ‘Swallow this,’ he said. ‘And you’ll feel better. It’s been a shock.’

  Green gulped down the draught. It steadied him. The trembling ceased.