by John Bingham
Bartels thought: Brutus enjoyed his run along the hedgerows; she’s enjoyed her breakfast. Aloud, he said:
“Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we may die. Or today, if it comes to that. You never know.”
Beatrice said: “Don’t be so gloomy, Barty.”
“Well, you never know, do you?”
He hated himself for his grisly humour, and was at a loss to understand why he had made the remark.
After breakfast he went to his typewriter to type a letter to his bank manager. When he had finished, he sat listening.
Beatrice was in the kitchen, washing up. He stamped his letter, put it in his pocket, and went into the bedroom and took the bottle of digestive powder, and went along to the kitchen. He put his head round the door.
“As a matter of fact, my own stomach feels a bit upset this morning. I’m going to steal a dose of your powder, if you don’t mind. I’ve got that dam’ dinner tonight.”
“Use one of these cups,” said Beatrice. “It makes the glass so hard to polish.”
“It’s all right. I’ll use the tooth-mug in the bathroom.” He went into the kitchen, picked up a teaspoon, and went into the bathroom, and closed the door. He locked the door, but before he did so, he opened the window; such was his fear of confined spaces.
He felt curiously aloof and detached, as though he were watching from close at hand the actions of somebody else called Philip Bartels.
It did not seem possible that it was really he who extracted two teaspoonsful of Beatrice’s medicine, and threw it into the basin, and carefully rinsed away the scattered grains from the side. That represented the amount he was supposed to have taken.
He examined the amount which remained: as he had guessed, there was enough left for about one dose. Some of this, too, he extracted, to leave room for the altrapeine.
He unscrewed the top of the little bottle holding the altrapeine powder, and poured the whole amount into the palm of his left hand. Then he tipped up the medicine bottle, and added the remains of the digestive powder.
With the handle of the teaspoon, he stirred the two powders together; round and round, occasionally lifting some of the mixture from the bottom and sprinkling it on top. He stood for about two minutes, stirring and lifting, and stirring again.
Purposely, he had added considerably more altrapeine than the maximum fatal dose. He had to allow for the possibility that Beatrice would not entirely empty the bottle. Finally, again using the narrow handle of the spoon, he carefully ladled the mixture into the medicine bottle, and replaced the screw top.
He rinsed out the little aspirin bottle and put it in his trousers pocket, and filled the tooth-mug with water and emptied it, to make it seem as though it had been used. He wetted the appropriate end of the teaspoon, and washed his hands.
It was done now.
The stuff was in the bottle. There was little more to do, at least at the flat. He took the bottle and spoon into the kitchen, wiped the spoon on a teacloth, and replaced it in its proper place. Beatrice was still at the sink.
“Where shall I put the medicine?” he asked.
“Put it by my bed, will you?”
He went into the bedroom and placed it by her bedside, and looked slowly round the room. Then he went into the sitting room and glanced round there, too. He might as well remember it. It would never be the same again.
He might spend part of one more night there, but that was all. After that he would leave, and stay in a hotel; or go away. That would be better. He would ask for a week or two off, and go away; anywhere, so long as it was not near the flat. Or near Lorna.
He would have to keep away from Lorna for at least a month; possibly more. She would understand, except that, not knowing the circumstances, she would put it down to his delicacy of feelings.
He would not be able to marry her for at least a year. It would be unwise to show any indecent haste. There again, chaps were inclined to go wrong: indecent haste; tongues wagging; malicious gossip; tales reaching the police; all inaccurate, of course, but perhaps enough to make the police start making inquiries.
Not that they would be likely to get far, at that late date. Still, you couldn’t be too careful.
He went into the hall and put on his overcoat and gloves, and picked up his soft brown hat. It was time to be off.
So that was that.
All that remained now was to say goodbye to Beatrice.
He walked down the passage to the kitchen, and went in, and kissed her on the lips, showing neither more nor less warmth than he normally did.
“Bye-bye, darling,” Beatrice said, and turned back to some cutlery she was polishing.
“Bye-bye,” said Bartels, “take care of yourself.”
“I will,” said Beatrice. “You, too.”
He turned and walked out of the kitchen, and down the passage, and out of the front door. He closed the front door behind him, and walked down the stairs.
At that moment, what worried him more than anything else was the complete lack of emotion which he felt. Again he seemed to be watching himself, rather than taking part in the scene.
He had expected a wave of emotion to flood him when he said goodbye to Beatrice for the last time. But it didn’t happen. He felt unmoved. As though that morning were the same as any other morning. As though, when he returned that evening, Beatrice, as she often was, might still be awake; sitting up in bed reading, waiting for him, waiting to greet him with a cheerful word, and ask him if he wanted a cup of tea.
It didn’t seem right to feel as he did: cold, unexcited.
He began to wonder whether, in fact, he was the abnormal, callous brute history would make him out to be if things went wrong.
Up to now, he had told himself that he was actuated by pity. But even though his philosophy about death was genuinely felt, should he not have experienced a tinge of the same pity when he said goodbye to Beatrice?
Maybe he was indeed abnormal, in some way. Maybe the secret thrill of defeating the police system, of raising himself in his own esteem, played a bigger part in the matter than he had realized.
A worried frown creased his forehead as he left the house.
For the first time, he had grave doubts about his actions. He tried to brush them aside.
He was working at head office that day; checking his sales record, answering letters, sending out other letters to say that he would be in such-and-such a town on such-and-such a date, and would like to call and present his compliments to this buyer and that. Mapping out itineraries. Writing to hotels booking rooms.
At lunch time, he took an Underground train to Victoria station, and went up into the mainline station, and paused outside the Boots chemist shop which is near to the station hotel.
He looked through the door.
Several people were standing at the counter waiting to be served. He went in.
Trade was suitably brisk, the assistants serving one customer and passing to the next with hardly a glance at them. Cough drops. Cold mixtures. Purges. Toothpaste. Soap. Goods and money changed hands quickly. He asked for a bottle of the digestive powder.
“Small bottle or large?” asked the assistant.
Bartels thought furiously.
Which? Which size was the correct one? Which? He didn’t know. He just had no idea. This was it. Or could be it. The unforeseen. The unexpected thing which drew attention to you. The thing you couldn’t guard against.
He pretended not to have heard. “I beg your pardon?”
“Small bottle or large, sir?”
“Oh. Small, please.”
He would recognize it when he saw it. If it were the wrong size, he would go elsewhere and buy the right size. She took a bottle from a shelf, and he at once saw it was the right size.
“Don’t bother to wrap it up.”
He gave her the exact money, and she turned to the till, and to the next customer. He was just one of the many; a nondescript-looking little man in a grey coat and brown hat, wearin
g spectacles. Nothing there to excite the interest of a young and romantic chemist’s assistant.
He took a bus back to Hyde Park Corner, and walked down Piccadilly to the office. Before going in, he had a sandwich and a large whisky in a public house.
The day wore slowly on.
From time to time, he thought: Perhaps she has not waited till this evening. Perhaps she has had an unexpected attack of indigestion and has already taken the dose.
You couldn’t tell. She might already be dead.
His heart began to beat faster as he contemplated the possibility: that would be finality, and he, Philip Bartels, traveller in wines, would be a murderer.
Shortly after four o’clock he could stand the suspense no longer. He dialled the number of the flat.
Instead of the ringing tone, he obtained a high-pitched whining tone. He dialled a second time with the same result.
With a sick feeling at the back of his throat he dialled O and spoke to the operator.
The cold, impersonal little voice at the other end of the line asked him to hold on. He heard her test the number herself, and then say:
“I’m sorry, caller, the line is out of order.”
“Can you have it put right at once?” He hesitated. “It’s important,” he began and then stopped. He couldn’t afford to make a fuss, to draw attention to himself.
“I’ll report it to the engineers’ department,” said the girl in her cool voice.
“Thank you,” said Bartels humbly. “Thank you.”
He replaced the receiver, and sat staring at the instrument. Then he lifted the receiver again and dialled the number of Mrs Doris Stevenson, who lived in the flat opposite. He heard Doris Stevenson’s thick treacly voice, and said:
“Mrs Stevenson? This is Philip Bartels. I wonder if you would do me a favour? I’ve been trying to ring Beatrice, but the line is out of order. I wonder-”
“I’ll see if she’s in,” interrupted Mrs Stevenson. “Hold on a minute.”
He pictured her bulky form waddling across to his flat door; ringing; waiting.
After a while she came back.
“I think she must be out, Mr Bartels. Can I give her a message?”
“Could you ask her to ring me? The fact is,” he added carefully, “I seem to have lost my cheque book. I want to see if it’s at home by any chance.”
“She can ring from here,” said Mrs Stevenson. “I’ll certainly let her know.”
Bartels thanked her and rang off.
A secretary called Miss Latimer came into his room to collect some pamphlets. She looked at him, picked up the pamphlets, and said:
“Are you feeling all right, Mr Bartels?”
“Of course I’m feeling all right. Why shouldn’t I be?”
“I thought you looked a little pale, that’s all.”
God, did he look as bad as that?
“Oh, nonsense,” he said irritably, and instantly regretted it. This was it, this was one of those unforeseeable things against which you could take no precautions.
He felt the blood flushing into his face. He shouldn’t have shown irritation, he shouldn’t have answered like that. Now she would remember. He had created an incident out of a normal question. Now she would tell the others about it. He felt more blood coming into his face, and put his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands. All he could think of was the phrase: this is it. Apart from that, his brain seemed to have ceased to work properly.
Miss Latimer said nothing, but he knew that she was standing at the door watching him curiously. Finally, when his face was no longer flushed, he looked up at her and smiled.
“I’m sorry I snapped at you, Miss Latimer. The fact is, I feel all right, that is, I haven’t got a headache or anything, but I think I’m getting a cold. I keep feeling cold and then hot and sticky.”
“That’s a cold all right.”
He smiled again. “I suppose it must be. I’ll take some hot whisky tonight.”
“I’ll give you some of my cold pills, Mr Bartels. I’ve got some in my desk. They’re wonderful. Really, they are.”
“Oh, don’t bother, though it’s very nice of you.”
But she had gone. In three minutes she was back, carrying two tubes of pills. She was a plump, good-natured girl. Full of kindly actions, thought Bartels bitterly.
“You take a red one in the morning, a green one at lunch time, and another red one before you go to bed.”
“I don’t really think I need-”
But she would not let him finish. “My sister had a shocking cold coming on last week, and she took them, and they kind of nipped it in the bud. Went right away, it did. Never came on at all. And Leslie, in the despatch department, he swears by them now. Go on, Mr Bartels, take them.”
He took the pills and thanked her, and offered to pay for them, but she would not let him.
Red pills and green pills. A fine physic for the soul. One in the morning, and one at midday and one at night.
But he had done right to take them. Better take them and seem thankful, rather than have word go around that “Mr Bartels was looking queer that afternoon. He wouldn’t say anything. Kind of snappish, he was. But ever so queer he looked. I remember now.”
Better anything than that.
At 4.30 his telephone rang. It was Beatrice.
“Why, hello, Barty!” Beatrice said in surprise. “Anything the matter? Mrs Stevenson left a note on the door telling me to ring you.”
“No, nothing. Why should there be?”
“I just wondered. You don’t often ring up during the day, that’s all.”
“I only wanted to ask you how your indigestion was. That’s all. Anything wrong in that?” The relief he felt was showing itself in mild irascibility. “I rang you up earlier, but the phone is out of order. Where are you speaking from?”
Beatrice laughed. She sounded pleased and flattered because he had telephoned. “A callbox, Mrs Stevenson’s gone out herself now.”
“Mrs Stevenson rang the bell, but said you were out.”
“I wasn’t,” she said. “As a matter of fact, I heard the bell ring.”
“Why didn’t you answer it? I thought you were out,” he said again. He was angry now, and repetitive in his anger.
“I was washing my hair. I had my head in a basin of water, and by the time I had got to the door, she had gone. I was wondering who it was.”
“Is my cheque book at home?”
“Yes, it’s in the bureau.”
“Good. How is your tummy, anyway?”
“The tummy? Oh, it’s all right, thank you, darling. I’ll take my usual dose tonight, but I don’t think I’ll take any more. Don’t bother to buy any more, Barty.”
“All right, then. I must be off now.”
“To Colchester? I should have thought you would have been on your way by now. You’ll be late.”
“Not if I step on it. Bye-bye, Beatrice.”
“Bye-bye, darling.”
He sat back in his chair. Bye-bye, Beatrice. Bye-bye, darling, she had said. He would never speak to her again. It was a sad little ending.
When he was clearing up before leaving the office, he remembered something which turned him sick with fear.
It was something he had overlooked, not one of the unforeseeables; and the fear he experienced was caused by the thought of what might have happened if he had not remembered it, and by the feeling that there might be something else which he had overlooked.
It was one of the most obvious of all traps, and he had nearly fallen into it: he, who thought he had planned this business so cleverly. He writhed at his own incompetence.
Fingerprints! The thing which the veriest amateur remembers! On the new bottle, the bottle with which he would replace the poison bottle, there would be his own prints. But there would not be a single print from the fingers of the woman who was supposed to have been taking the medicine: plenty of Philip Bartels’ fingerprints, and none of Beatrice’s.
&nb
sp; He stared unseeingly through the office window.
He could rectify that, but the thought of what he would have to do increased his sick feeling: the thought of taking the dead hands of Beatrice and pressing her fingers to the bottle, the fingers of the right hand on to the top of the bottle, and the fingers of the left hand around the bottle.
“I can’t do it,” he whispered. “I just can’t do it.”
A voice whispered back inside his head: “Beaten by a little thing like that? No wonder you’re a failure.”
Bartels sighed, and knew he would have to do it after all.
Chapter 15
Bartels had no intention of going to Colchester, and no dinner appointment even if he had gone there. But he knew he had to be out of the flat when Beatrice died: he knew some of the limitations of his own character, and faced them.
He knew that, if he stayed, there was that within him which would make him cry out at the last moment: “No! Don’t drink it!” And under some pretext or other snatch the glass from her hand.
He could watch Brutus die. His philosophy, such as it was, had enabled him so far to contemplate the death of Beatrice without undue emotion except in so far as his personal safety was concerned. But there he stopped. The theories and logic broke down. He could justify the act, but he could not watch the results.
Therefore he had to be away from the flat until 11.30 or midnight. He did not wish to be with people to whom he was largely indifferent, but with Lorna, who loved him and who would unknowingly give him the strength to tide over the hour between 10.30 and 11.30.
So he took the road out of London, the Kingston Bypass, and navigated the five traffic roundabouts which led to Thatchley, and recalled how he used to think of them, once, as the Five Roundabouts to Heaven.
He assured himself that he still did, of course, and that the depression which was weighing him down was due to nothing more than the nervous tension which the day, not unnaturally, had produced in him.
He left the office promptly at 5.30. The bitter cold of the previous few days had continued. Occasional flurries of snow were still falling, and the headlights of the continual stream of cars approaching London dazzled him, so that he was compelled to drive slowly and with care.
