End of Chapter

by Nicholas Blake

‘That’s another reason why I’d like to reprint a few of the novels,’ Ryle continued. ‘It might help to set up her morale. And, as I say, with that leech Cyprian around, she needs money.’

  ‘But the other partners are against it?’

  ‘Geraldine doesn’t object. Liz Wenham is pretty lukewarm, I admit. But Protheroe’s the real obstacle.’

  ‘Surely he doesn’t have all that say in what you publish?’

  Getting up, Basil Ryle poked the fire viciously, then leant on the mantelpiece, staring without enthusiasm at an advertisement of a naked young woman offering the public a bottle of sparkling cider.

  ‘Protheroe’s been the firm’s literary adviser for twenty-five years,’ he said at last. ‘And it’s true he’s never turned down a book which some other firm then accepted and had a success with. I give him that. But he’s getting a bit fusty now; won’t look at anything that isn’t what he calls ‘written’—not in the fiction line. Well, fine writing’s on its way out. Anyway, the answer is that the partners wouldn’t take on anything he was dead against, unless they were both enthusiastic about it.’

  ‘They were enthusiastic about Miss Miles’s autobiography, then?’

  ‘Not wildly. But I’d given her a contract to write it while I still had my own business, so Wenham & Geraldine more or less had to take it over.’

  ‘Over Protheroe’s dead body?’

  ‘No. He didn’t create about that, I believe—only about the novels. But he does seem to have a down on Millicent.’

  ‘Something out of the past? Perhaps they knew each other—’

  ‘No. I asked Millicent, and she said she’d never met him till last summer. Dried-up little runt. What’s he ever produced? One slim vol. of verse.’

  ‘A great one, possibly.’

  ‘Do you think so? I’ve read it. All lust and disgust. Venus and vinegar.’ Basil Ryle slowly applied the lighted end of his cigarette to the belly of the girl on the advertisement. ‘Sex!’ he muttered. ‘Why can’t they keep it for the dark?’

  Chapter 5

  Run On

  NEXT MORNING, THURSDAY, Nigel Strangeways entered Angel Street a little before half-past nine. It was another of those grey days, the skyline a dirty dish-cloth, houses and trees, the river and its bridges all looking as if they had been smeared over with a film of grease. A metallic cold in the air outside; and a nip in Miss Sanders’s voice as she returned his ‘good morning’. Mr. Gleed, she bleakly announced, wished to see him, and was coming at 11 o’clock for that purpose.

  ‘Good. That’ll save me a lot of trouble. Ask him to leave his knuckle-dusters with you for safe-keeping.’

  Miss Sanders frowned at this flippancy. One could imagine the disapproving look she might have cast upon a don who had let slip some frivolous remark on a serious subject during a tutorial. How very stern the young are, thought Nigel as he went upstairs: one keeps forgetting it. Basil Ryle last night with his censorious line about sex: but that’s the old-fashioned working-class puritanism; and anyway he can’t be much over thirty: but emotionally undeveloped?—time will show.

  Stephen Protheroe was already at work, nosing his way through a bulky typescript, and returned Nigel’s salutation absently. A word caught his attention. His long nose dipped at the page like a woodpecker’s beak.

  ‘Another fellow who says “disinterested” when he means “uninterested,”’ he snarled. ‘This debasing of the language is intolerable.’

  ‘Words have changed their meanings in the past.’

  ‘That’s not the point. The point is, there’s no synonym for “disinterested.” We can’t afford to lose the word.’

  ‘Perhaps we’ve lost what the word means.’

  ‘Lost disinterestedness? As an ideal? I wonder.’ The little man’s face was suddenly sad—ravaged by a sadness Nigel had rarely seen: the black eyes, the downturned corners of the mouth changed it into a tragic mask. It was scarred with deep furrows—river-beds grooved out by emotional torrents long ago run dry.

  ‘You haven’t got a Who’s Who, have you?’ Nigel asked.

  Stephen dragged himself out of whatever pit of sorrow, regret, remorse, he had been plunged in. ‘The last room down the passage has a reference library,’ he said.

  Nigel went out, passed Miss Miles’s door (the typewriter within was silent), and entered the large room beyond it. A young, dishevelled but attractive blonde, considerably less scholarly-looking than most of the firm’s female employees, was combing her hair at a pocket mirror.

  ‘Ooh,’ she uttered, in a sort of refined yelp. ‘You quite took me by surprise.’

  ‘Please don’t get up. My name’s Strangeways, and I’m working in Mr. Protheroe’s room. I came to look for a Who’s Who.’

  The girl appeared to be dazed by this request.

  ‘Well, I don’t know if—You see, I’m not reelly here.’

  ‘You mean, you’re a ghost?’

  The girl’s blue eyes opened incredibly wide. ‘Ooh, no, I assure you. I’m reelly downstairs.’

  ‘You amaze me.’

  ‘I work in the invoice. But Jean’s sick, so I’m here instead. What was it you would be wanting?’

  ‘Who’s Who.’

  ‘Pardon? Whose Zoo?’

  ‘It’s a reference book, called Who’s Who.’

  ‘Oh, a book.’ The girl’s eyes went desperately round the room, which was lined with books from floor to ceiling. ‘We don’t have anything to do with the books here.’ She sought for inspiration in the ceiling. ‘Now Mr. Protheroe—he knows about the books. Why don’t you try him?’

  ‘But Mr. Protheroe sent me here.’

  ‘Well, isn’t that funny?’

  ‘Perhaps if I looked round the shelves—’

  ‘You’re welcome, I’m sure.’

  ‘It’s got a fat red back.’

  The girl giggled. ‘You are naughty.’

  Nigel glanced over the shelves. File copies of the Wenham & Geraldine publications, going back over a hundred years. In the far corner, by the window, two shelves of reference books. Taking out the one he wanted, Nigel turned to the name of Millicent Miles, and began jotting down notes. The blonde leant over his shoulder, enthralled.

  ‘Would Johnnie Ray be there?’

  ‘I don’t know. Who’s he?’

  The blue eyes opened so wide that Nigel felt in imminent danger of being engulfed. ‘Who’s Johnnie Ray? He’s—go on! You’re sending me up!’

  ‘Go on yourself.’

  ‘He’s a singer. He’s my heart-throb.’

  ‘Lucky chap!’

  The blonde, temporarily unfaithful to her heart-throb, pressed more heavily against Nigel’s shoulder, as he turned to another name in Who’s Who.

  ‘You know, you remind me of a film star—in one of those corny old films—my boyfriend took me to it—he’s a highbrow, my boyfriend I mean. Now, what was his name? Burgess Meredith.’

  ‘Don’t tell anyone,’ whispered Nigel into her shell-like ear, ‘but I am Burgess Meredith. Who are you?’

  ‘Don’t be silly! Oh, I see. Susan—Susan Jones. But honestly, you’re not reelly—?’

  ‘Ssh!’ hissed Nigel. ‘I’m actually a famous detective, a private eye disguised as Nigel Strangeways disguised as Burgess Meredith.’

  The girl laughed merrily, shaking her white-gold hair against his cheek. ‘A detective! That’s one thing you aren’t—anybody could see.’

  When he had finished taking notes and replaced the volume, Nigel said, ‘You must be lonely here all by yourself all day. Still, you’ve got plenty to read.’

  ‘I hate books. You can have the lot, for me. Now my boyfriend—he’s a great reader: always got his head stuck in a book. It fair gives me the creeps sometimes.’

  ‘Waste of time, when he’s got a girl like you.’

  ‘That’s what I tell him. We’re only young once, aren’t we? Meaning nothing personal, I’m sure, Mr. Mer—Mr. Strangeways.’ She gave him a languishing glance. ‘I like the mature typ
e, myself.’

  ‘You be careful, young Susan. I’m at the dangerous age. And all these books around us rouse the passions.’

  ‘Ooh, you are rude!’ cried the delighted girl.

  After a little more of this sort of thing, Nigel inquired if she had come into contact with Miss Miles at all.

  ‘That stuck-up cow? Give me air! Ooh, she’s not a friend of yours, is she?’

  ‘No. Doesn’t anyone here like her?’

  ‘Between you and I, they say Mr. Ryle’s a bit—you know. Shocking, I call it. Old enough to be his mother.’

  ‘And what about Mr. Protheroe?’

  ‘Oh, he can’t stick her. Everyone knows that. Soon after she started camping here, they had words.’

  ‘Did they? What sort of words?’

  ‘I didn’t hear it myself. But my friend Jean, she happened to go into Mr. Protheroe’s room for a moment, and they were at it hammer and tongs next door. She was being ever so offensive to Mr. Protheroe.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Well, Jeanie hadn’t time to catch on what it was all about. But she heard Miss Miles calling him Goggles. Ever so cold and nasty: like Bette Davis. Well, I mean, he’s no Marlon Brando, but—’

  ‘Was Jean sure she was calling him that?’

  ‘She heard Miss Miles say “Goggles.” Twice. Extra loud. She didn’t catch the rest. Except they were both steamed up. But, with those gig-lamp spectacles Mr. Protheroe wears—well, it stands to reason she was passing a personal remark, doesn’t it?’

  ‘It’s not his nickname here?’

  ‘Oh no. Some call him the Prawn, I believe.’

  ‘Goggles. Who wears goggles?’

  ‘Well, motor-cyclists. And—’

  ‘You’ll be all agoggled to hear, Susan, that Miss Miles’s second husband was a racing motorist.’

  On this satisfactory exit-line, Nigel departed, leaving Susan Jones with her eyes as big and blue as a Hollywood star’s swimming-pool.

  Nigel spent the next quarter of an hour in a conducted tour of the building. He wanted to fix its layout clearly in his mind, and Stephen Protheroe professed himself happy to get away from his MSS. for a while. Starting on the third floor—the editorial department, which included the reference library and a studio, they descended to the second, occupied by the partners, their secretaries, and the advertising department. The first floor housed the strictly business side of the firm, the Production Manager’s office, the Accounts department, the Invoice room, and so on. Finally, on the ground floor, there was the reception room, the Trade department, the very large room where, under neon lighting and to the strains of music from the Light Programme, the packers worked, and an even larger storeroom beyond it.

  ‘So there it is,’ said Stephen, when they had returned. ‘Simple but symbolic. On the third floor Enlightenment, on the first floor Mammon; and the partners sandwiched between the two.’

  Nigel had noticed that his guide was received everywhere with the deference which might have been given only to a partner; but also, that there was no kow-towing in this deference—Stephen was evidently popular with the staff; and as far as Nigel could tell, the staff seemed on good terms amongst themselves. Stephen had affected a certain vagueness as to what went on in other departments, but answered Nigel’s specific questions without difficulty.

  For the next half-hour Nigel examined the folder on his table. It contained the data he had asked for yesterday: a list of the staff, their periods of service and their duties; and a sheaf of pension forms, on which each employee had written his name in block capitals, and his signature beneath it. Nigel had never expected to get a lead from this, and he did not. He had asked for the data mainly to give an impression of efficiency. He put the pension forms in a large envelope: his friend at Scotland Yard might be able to make something of them, though to Nigel one man’s block capitals were indistinguishable from another’s.

  ‘Can graphologists identify block capitals?’ asked Stephen Protheroe, who had looked up from his work at this moment.

  ‘Almost impossible, I should think, on a single short word like “STET.” Of course, if you’ve got some eccentricity, like crossing your T’s from right to left, or forming a letter with an up-stroke which is normally done with a down-stroke—they’d be on to that.’

  ‘I thought so. How can you set about an investigation like this, then?’

  ‘Look for motive. And opportunity. That narrows it down a bit. Which reminds me—Cyprian Gleed is coming to see me shortly. Where can I—?’

  Protheroe jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘In there, if you like. The Medusa seems to be exercising her charms elsewhere this morning. What does he want?’

  ‘We shall see. Did you ever come across her second husband?’

  ‘Young Gleed’s her son by her first.’

  ‘I know. I mean the racing motorist.’

  ‘No. I’m not a habitué of the pits.’

  ‘Shot himself, I’m told.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised.’ Stephen Protheroe’s mouth made its nibbling, fish-like movement. ‘Some commit suicide, others have suicide thrust upon them.’

  The telephone rang. Mr. Gleed was here to see Mr. Strangeways. ‘Send him to the room where Miss Miles works,’ said Protheroe.

  The figure that entered was far from prepossessing: a young man, not more than 5-foot tall, in stove-pipe trousers and a stained duffel coat, his pasty complexion rendered still whiter by a straggle of black beard and a black sombrero hat.

  ‘You’re Strangeways, are you?’ he aggressively remarked, teeth flashing white behind the beard. ‘What the devil do you mean by insulting Miss Sanders?’

  ‘Sit down and I’ll tell you. Have a cigarette.’

  Cyprian Gleed’s hand went out automatically to the proffered case, then withdrew.

  ‘Thank you, no. I don’t like soft soap.’

  Nigel reflected that, judging from his appearance, Gleed did not like soap of any kind. The young man had flung himself into the armchair: he was trembling violently, and furious with himself for trembling, and therefore trembling all the more.

  ‘By what right did you bully Miriam—Miss Sanders—into telling you—’

  ‘No bullying. She told me a lie and I exposed it. I’ve every right to do so. The firm has called me in to investigate the recent trouble here.’

  ‘What trouble?’

  ‘Surely your mother told you about the libel case—’

  ‘Oh, that. So you think your Gestapo methods are justified by—But how am I supposed to come into it?’

  Cyprian Gleed was the type of moral weakling, Nigel judged, who must always be whipping himself up into aggressiveness to conceal from others his own lack of self-assurance.

  ‘You come into it,’ Nigel equably replied, ‘because you were in this building at a time when the proof copy could have been tampered with, and because a project of yours had been turned down by the firm a couple of days before.’

  Cyprian’s voice was contemptuous. ‘I suppose a private detective, or whatever you call yourself, is bound to have the keyhole mentality. Do you really think I care a damn if some tinpot general gets himself into trouble?’

  ‘Why did you come back here, after your project had been turned down?’

  ‘I came to see Miriam.’

  ‘But then you went upstairs.’

  Nigel made it sound like a statement, though he had no proof of it as yet.

  ‘What if I did? I’m allowed to see my own mother, aren’t I?’ Annoyed with his weakness in replying, Cyprian gave another spurt of anger. ‘And why the bloody hell should I answer your questions?’

  ‘You’re not compelled to. Why, for that matter, shouldn’t you co-operate? Or have you got a vindictive feeling against Wenham & Geraldine?’

  The young man’s eyes rolled, a trick recalling his mother.

  ‘If you really think a writer has nothing better to do than go about feeling vindictive over his rejection slips—’

  ‘
I’m sure I should.’

  Gleed was taken aback, but then responded to Nigel’s sincerity, launching into a tirade about what he called ‘the Establishment.’ This, it seemed, was a formidable, reactionary, cunning and cryptic body of people—editors, publishers and writers—who operated like a Black Hand in the world of literature, promoting their own interests and blocking the efforts of anyone outside the circle. It was men like Stephen Protheroe, he declared, who were the kingpins of this racket—éminences grises controlling literary policy, directing trends, giving the jobs to the boys, assassinating the outsiders. The Establishment was based upon London, but had its agents in the Provinces too: it controlled not only publishing, the literary pages of the metropolitan newspapers and weeklies, but also the B.B.C., the Arts Council, the British Council and the older Universities. It was all the more of a menace because its members were, or professed themselves to be, unaware of its existence. A self-elected oligarchy, they subtly extended their influence or ruthlessly protected their own interests, but with no greater individual consciousness of their corporate aims than is possessed by coral insects or particles of smog. It was to expose and combat this sinister, if amorphous, body that Cyprian Gleed had proposed to start a literary magazine.

  He spoke with genuine conviction; but Nigel found his views none the less tedious, and finally broke in:

  ‘Well, that may be so. But it’s outside my present job. I’m faced with a question of elimination.’

  ‘I’m not interested in your bowel problems,’ snapped Cyprian, annoyed at being cut off short.

  ‘You had opportunity, and motive.’

  ‘Motive? I don’t even know this bone-headed General of yours.’

  ‘No. But as a leader of the guerillas—’

  ‘What on earth—?’

  ‘As a fighter in this holy war against the Establishment, you would naturally want to pick off its most influential members. You’ve just told me that Stephen Protheroe is one of them.’ Nigel had noticed that the sliding window was open: he hoped Stephen was getting an earful. ‘Mr. Protheroe was in charge of the proof copy. He had far the best opportunity to do the dirty work, and was bound to be under the gravest suspicion. By stetting the libellous passages, Mr. Gleed, you knew you had a good chance of losing him his job. Down goes one of the pillars of the Establishment.’