‘That’s all very well, but how do you account for Robertson—his hair was black?’ Hemmingway asked a trifle impatiently.
‘If my theory is correct I shall be able to account for that when we arrive.’
On entering the flat they went straight into the bathroom. ‘Look at the door of this linen-cupboard,’ Orsen said. ‘It is firmly shut and I am prepared to swear that it was shut last night when we rushed in here; yet in the photograph it is standing wide open. I’m convinced that this cupboard holds the key to the mystery,’ and opening the door he began to remove the shelves.
‘I rather think this cupboard has a false back,’ he murmured a moment later. ‘Yes, I was right. Look!’
Hemmingway peered inside as Orsen pulled forwards a hinged sheet of three-ply that formed a second door. Behind it, a small dark stairway led up towards the fiat above.
‘This is the way the Thing comes,’ Orsen continued softly, ‘and in this case we have to deal not with an Ab-human, but with an earth-bound. Now that we’ve found the root of the evil we can exorcise it. I will perform a ritual purification and the poor soul will be released from the chains that still bind it to the physical. Its time is up or the Great Ones who adjust the balances in the lives of us all would never have sent me here. Afterwards, your young friends will have nothing more to fear.’
‘But—’ Hemmingway broke in—’ I still don’t see how everything ties up. I understand what you said about only the emanations from red hair giving the Thing power to materialise physically and that being the reason why the other women were not attacked, but that does not explain the death of old Robertson.’
Orsen smiled. ‘My friend, haven’t you realised that the first woman, Victorine Daubert, didn’t commit suicide at all? This stairway between the two flats is the key to the whole business. She was Robertson’s mistress. He was jealous perhaps—in any case, he came down these stairs one night, caught her in the bathroom and murdered her by throwing her out of the window. Then, her personality preying on his mind, he took over the flat himself, lived there in misery for three months and eventually committed suicide by the same means as those by which he had killed her.
‘Two such occurrences are quite sufficient to explain his haunting the scenes of these terrible moments at certain phases of the moon. He has become a blind, seeking force which no longer recognises persons in this life and is compelled to repeat his murderous act whenever he has an opportunity.
‘Each time he suffers all the agony of remorse he felt after the murder of Victorine Daubert until he can find a new victim; yet only the emanations of red hair give him the power to do so, then the wheel of his terrible penance starts to turn again.’
‘It sounds extremely plausible, but how can you be certain?’ Hemmingway asked with all a legal man’s reluctance to admit anything, but cold hard facts.
‘Compare these two photographs,’ Orsen held them out. ‘The first which I got from Scotland Yard is of Robertson after he committed suicide. The second is the one of Pauline being thrown towards the window last night. Behind her you will see the outlines of a face which is quite sufficiently materialised to be recognised as Robertson’s.’
‘By Jove, you’re right! But what prevented her from being hurled to her death?’
‘The flashlight of my camera going off as the window opened and operated the leads I had fixed. The Powers of Darkness can always be driven back by the Powers of Light.’
STORY XI
Here is another five-minute story of the Second World War which appeared in the Evening Standard.
As it brings in our ill-fated expedition to Norway in April 1940, it must be the last that I wrote in that period. In early May of that year Churchill succeeded Chamberlain and, while the fate of France was still in the balance, the nation was roused to a new consciousness of its peril. All kinds of emergency measures were taken and red tape was cut, right, left, and centre; as a result many thousands of people were absorbed into our war effort with—or even without—the barest formality. I had the good fortune to be one amongst those thousands and from then on I was working double shifts, writing papers on various aspects of the war for the Joint Planning Staff, and, between whiles, plugging away at my novels up to the early hours of the morning. There was no time left to write short stories.
The Born Actor
‘Isn’t the life of a dance hostess pretty dreary sometimes?’
Rather awkwardly Charlie Carson, an ensign of the Irish Guards, opened the conversation with a shy glance in the direction of his companion.
She did not answer at once. Her attention was apparently held by the couples jigging up and down in time to a black band on the dance-floor of the Golney Hatch Night Club. She turned her head, her lips smiling but her eyes expressionless. ‘Sometimes.’
Valiantly Charlie persisted. ‘Of course, it’s all right with chaps like—well, I was going to say myself, but that sounds conceited—I meant young men. The old sugar-daddies—they’re a bit trying, aren’t they?’
‘Yes.’ The girl grimaced. ‘They’re terrible.’
‘Why d’you stick it, then?’
‘I’ve got to earn my living.’
‘Couldn’t you do something else?’
Venetia shrugged her shoulders ironically. ‘What? I can’t type, sew or act, and I’m not tall enough to be a mannequin.’
Charlie stared at the lovely clear-cut profile and dark, shining hair. ‘A pretty girl like you could always marry.’
‘I’m married already.’
‘You are? Well, I’m hanged if I’d let my wife do this sort of thing. Is your husband out of work?’
‘I haven’t seen him for nearly two years.’
Charlie was shocked. ‘Why don’t you divorce him?’
‘Because I love him,’ Venetia replied quietly.
‘After two years’ separation?’
‘Yes. Silly, isn’t it? But I still think he’ll return. I keep my eye on the entrance-door over there-every man that comes in is just another thing in trousers once I’ve realised it isn’t Jimmy.’
‘I am sorry. Why did he leave you—or would you rather not talk about it?’
‘No; I don’t mind—we’ve got to talk about something.’
D’you tell everyone, then?’
‘No. Most men would just say “poor little girl” and offer to look after me—in a brotherly fashion, of course.’ Her tone was bitter.
Charlie reassured her on that point, and when he had lit a cigarette for her, she began: ‘He had dark red hair, was terribly attractive and the most charming person in the world; but just like mercury. He was a born actor and could have been a great success on the stage, yet every time he got into a decent show he’d get drunk, break his contract or do some other fool thing. He adored me, and the year we lived together was something between heaven and hell. Gentleness and consideration could not have been more faithfully portrayed when we were together, but I never knew if he was coming home at night or if I’d have to fish him out of Vine Street with the “drunks” in the morning. I had a little money of my own in those days, but it soon went, and then, I suppose, life in a one-room flat began to lose its glamour for him. He still loved me the night he walked out—he told me so, and insisted that I should be better off without him in a note he left. He said he was a useless fool—no good to anyone—I’m sure he thought he was doing the right thing. It broke my heart. I don’t know where he went or where he is now, but I’m certain that one day he’ll come back, having done something to make me proud of him.’
Charlie was silent; at a loss for the words of sympathy he should pronounce. Realising this, Venetia broke the tension.
‘Just look at all those medals. I wonder how he got them?’
Charlie looked up at the bald-headed little man easing his way past their table. He was in khaki and his broad chest was gay with three broad rows of ribbons. ‘Perhaps he didn’t get them,’ was the sceptical reply.
‘What d’you mea
n?’
‘Oh, there are plenty of people in this war putting medal-ribbons up illegally. Plenty in officers’ uniforms, too, who are not officers at all. An A.P.M. that I know was telling me yesterday that last week they arrested seventeen civilians in officers’ kit. I came upon an extraordinary case myself.’
Venetia leant forward. ‘Tell me about it.’
‘It was when we first landed in Norway. As soon as daylight broke the Germans began bombing us. Our men took shelter in the cellars of the few houses that that little town boasted. I was doing runner to my colonel. We went to the Town Hall. There, among others, was an English captain with a D.S.O., and M.G. and lots of other ribbons up. He didn’t belong to any of the units that had made the landing, so my colonel questioned him. He said that he’d come ashore with an advance party, because he spoke Norwegian, but he didn’t know where the rest of his men had got to. We knew nothing of any troops having arrived ahead of ourselves, but as we had lost several officers in the landing my colonel instructed him to take an advance party up the valley directly the bombing ceased, in order to contact any Norwegian troops, or police.’
Charlie paused and lit himself a cigarette, then he continued: ‘We had him with us for five days. He was extremely efficient, and acting in the capacity of interpreter he saw to all the billeting in the villages we passed through. Then we came up against the Germans. This chap was still with the advance party and he got caught with a handful of men in a farmhouse. He managed to hold it for four hours against tremendous odds. It was a magnificent show; but by the time we reached him he was dying from a dozen bullet wounds. Then we learned from his own lips that he was just a small-time actor, named James Brandon, who’d been touring Norway in some show where he’d played the part of an English Captain. Anyhow …’ Charlie stopped abruptly as Venetia Brandon fell in a faint across the table.
STORY XII
This is another of my early stories dating back to 1932. It’s somewhat facetious ending was based on the idea that it might intrigue an editor who had a sense of humour. But either the editor or the story must have been lacking in something so the story came back to me.
When I wrote it I had not yet discovered that the story medium for me is the adventure yarn. I still had a vague but erroneous belief that, as I was incapable of writing good enough English to produce a serious novel, the only alternative was to write of crime and crooks. Hence the mention of ‘The Limper’ in the present story. This character does not actually appear but it was my intention to build him up as an officer of the 1914-18 war who had been wounded, bankrupted and embittered by it and so turned to crime to be avenged on society while at the same time making an easy if hazardous living.
However, in the past thirty years moral standards have changed greatly, both in real life and light fiction. Time was when no one thought the worse of Sherlock Holmes for stuffing himself full of cocaine, or of A. J. Raffles for abusing the hospitality of his acquaintances during cricket weeks in the country by burgling their houses. But juvenile crime has since increased to such an alarming degree that the encouragement of it, by making heroes of dope addicts and thieves is now rightly frowned upon by all responsible people.
As I count myself one, this embryo character will remain still-born. Anyhow, it would tax even my imagination to interest my female readers in him, as by now he’s probably riddled with arthritis and must be getting on for seventy!
The Deserving Poor
I have always been fond of the Savoy. What can be nicer if you’re lunching in London on a summer day, than a window table in the Restaurant? There is the sun on the plane trees in the gardens, the shipping in the river, and just the suggestion of a gentle breeze.
Most people I know prefer the Grill. Of course our most caustic theatrical critic is always there—Press barons, famous financiers, and movie stars, but these people’s business is to see and to be seen—they scorn the Restaurant with its casual crowd. All the same, I prefer to eat my salmon and strawberries among the birthday parties, if I can get a table in the window.
It’s extraordinary if you come to think of it—as you sit there, you are just half-way between two worlds. A hundred yards away through the walls of the Restaurant is that famous Grill Parisienne with its multi-millionaire patrons and Indian Princes. A hundred yards in the other direction is the sweep of the Embankment, where the starving dregs of London take their fitful sleep at night.
It was through that strange proximity that I nearly lost my life.
The idea was Fiona’s—though of course the darling hadn’t a notion what would come of it. We’d got engaged the night before. You’ve seen Fiona, so you don’t need much imagination to guess what I was feeling. I never, never thought that I’d pull it off, and when I did I was just delirious with joy. You know, too, how when you’re absolutely gaga with happiness you want to rush round and buy up every single thing you see and give it to the girl—well, I was feeling just like that.
I kept my head though, because I thought I’d got a better plan. I sent her flowers, of course, lots of ‘em, and the ring she could choose later, but I didn’t buy her anything—I drew a hundred quid out of my bank and met her at the Savoy for lunch.
Old Busotti led us to a table in the window—I can see him now smiling all over his fat face and calling out, ‘This way, Captan—this way.’ He always calls me ‘Captan’, though Lord knows why; and there was Fiona, all cool and summery in a muslin frock and a big floppy hat—you know how glorious they look when they’re dressed like that—and there was I, bringing up the rear as proud as any peacock, just longing to kiss the little tendrils of hair on her neck.
I ordered everything I could think of, but I hardly touched it when it came—love does take one like that. There seemed so many things to talk about, and I couldn’t take my eyes off her lovely face. Anyhow, when coffee came I produced my little surprise—of course, it was the hundred quid.
All my life I’ve wanted to walk down Bond Street and just waste a hundred pounds. Spend it on any old thing that took my fancy for the moment, silly useless knick-knacks—kid myself for an hour or two that I was really rich. I’d thought of it so often and I was sure it would appeal to Fiona too. We’d stroll down Bond Street that afternoon and she should blow that hundred on any sort of foolishness she liked.
At first she was enchanted, told me she’d often dreamed of doing that, and then—she started to have doubts.
She got all grave and worried about it—she’s Scottish, you know, which doesn’t mean mean, but careful, and she said that even if I could afford it there was something wrong and sinful about chucking money away like that.
‘We’re so terribly happy, Dick,’ she said. ‘Don’t you think we ought to try and make other people happy too?’
I suppose that’s been said dozens of times before by dozens of nice girls in similar circumstances, but somehow, with Fiona’s lovely face all earnest and serious in front of me, I felt there was lots in what she said.
‘The money’s yours, dearest,’ I agreed at once. ‘You shall just spend it any way you like.’
She considered for a bit. ‘Of course, there are thousands of charities that need money awfully badly, and the hospitals too, but it seems so tame to pass it on to them.’ She gave me that lovely smile of hers. ‘I suppose I’m very wrong, but I should like to have some fun out of it—see people surprised and happy, who really need it badly. D’you know what I mean?—not just a silly note from the secretary of some organisation, and then to be pestered for futher donations ever afterwards.’
I nodded, of course I understood, and then she had her brain-wave.
‘I know, Dick,’ she cried, ‘let’s dine here tonight and then walk along the Embankment afterwards. We’ll give it away ten shillings at a time to those poor wretches who sit huddled on the benches—they really are the deserving poor.’
I didn’t particularly relish the expedition. I always feel embarrassed about giving people money anyhow, though I suppose it�
��s absurd, and I knew that I should feel rottenly uncomfortable wandering about in evening dress, but Fiona was so obviously delighted with her plan that I agreed without a murmur.
We spent the afternoon sitting in the Park covertly holding hands under Fiona’s sunshade. If I hadn’t been completely potty I should have taken her for a run in the country in the car and kissed her properly, but as it was we just sat there looking at each other—looking hopelessly idiotic, as people do.
Anyhow, we tore ourselves apart to change for dinner and met again a little after eight at the Savoy. I don’t remember much about the meal except that we did in two bottles of champagne between us, and that’s another funny thing about love—I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed it, but you simply can’t get tight—not that one wants to in the least, but you just can’t, however much you drink. Fiona couldn’t have accounted for more than half a bottle, and when we left the table I was as sober as a judge.
We danced for a bit, and just after midnight Fiona got her coat. Still holding hands like a couple of children we went downstairs and out the back way on to the Embankment.
I had handed the money to her and when we came to the first bench she started to give it away. I don’t think she enjoyed it as much as she thought she would when it came to handing the cash to those poor miserable pieces of humanity, with newspapers and bits of sacking tucked round their legs.
It was silly of me to be self-conscious, I know, because those ten-shilling notes must have been a godsend to them, but I was certain that she was feeling a bit bashful about it too.
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