Five Roundabouts to Heaven

by John Bingham

  Far ahead, he could see the lights of the fifth roundabout, and glanced at the clock and saw that he was now making good time.

  He reverted to the consideration of lust, because it was something to do, something to keep his mind off what he might find when he got home.

  Expressed in its simplest form the position was that he, Bartels, wanted a certain woman. To get her, he was prepared to kill. That was it, there you had it: you had to put from your mind the excuses, the consoling thoughts of doing things for Lorna’s good. You were not conscious of lust, of any overwhelming carnal desires, but the mere fact that you were prepared to kill to get her indicated that they were there in your subconscious.

  But what of the much-extolled virtues of pity and mercy? If it were not for pity and mercy, he thought bitterly, I could have walked out on Beatrice like millions of other husbands have done in the past, and will do in the future.

  The scandal would be short-lived, and you don’t go to prison for it. They don’t hang you for it. But they hang you if you kill your wife just because you have so much pity in you that you cannot leave her in loneliness.

  If things went wrong, he would be ranked with Crippen. He would be portrayed as a callous monster in the eyes of posterity. But who knows what went on in the mind of the little man called Crippen? Who knows? thought Bartels again.

  He was drawing near to the fifth roundabout when he thought of how he would feel if he were put in prison, perhaps not even hanged, just put in prison, for years, behind locked doors.

  Shut in, in a tiny cell, for hours on end each day and night. So that the walls pressed in on you, and the ceiling pressed down upon you, nearer and nearer, and closer and closer, and you could bang on the door and break the skin on your hands, and scream yourself hoarse, and it did not avail. And when the lights went out, there was the darkness, thick and cloying, and that suffocated you; and what with the darkness and the walls, you knew you were not really in a prison at all.

  You were buried alive.

  You were in your coffin, deep under the earth, slowly suffocating to death, in the darkness and the loneliness and the silence of the earth. Nobody would release you because nobody could hear you, and everybody thought you were dead, and nobody knew the doctor had made a mistake, and you had merely been in a cataleptic trance; feeling yourself being put in a shroud, and hearing the coffin lid come down, and feeling the swaying motion of the coffin-bearers, and the sound of the earth falling remorse-lessly above your head; falling, and falling, and falling, more and ever more of it, till the sounds grew fainter and only the silence remained.

  He was shivering again now, fighting against the old, the dark shocking terrors, his hands wet upon the wheel.

  He was near to the roundabout, when the black cat, emblem of good luck, but young and inexperienced, ran swiftly across the road before his car. Its ears were laid back, its tail arched like a squirrel’s.

  For a second he had glimpsed the young cat’s eyes, green fire in the light of his headlamps, and then it was in front of him.

  Bartels didn’t run it over.

  He might have done so, had he had time to think it all out, but he acted instinctively, as he was bound to do, in the only way in which he, Philip Bartels, could have been expected to act.

  Bartels braked.

  If there had not been any snow, it might have been all right. If the coach, approaching from the right, with its lighted interior, had been a few minutes earlier, or later, it might not have been so bad, either.

  As the car swung in a circle, darted sideways, hit the TURN LEFT sign, he heard the screaming of the coach brakes, and saw it swerve ineffectually, and crash with its fender into his own car, and felt the stab of pain in his side. It was only then that he felt afraid.

  Even then it was only for a second.

  He saw it looming over him, and heard the crash, and felt the pain, and hazily noted the strange stillness which followed for a brief moment the noise of the impact.

  Before he lost consciousness he heard himself murmur: “Beatrice,” and was faintly surprised.

  Extract from a police report prepared by Inspector Macdonald, of the Metropolitan Police Force, and shown to me, Peter Harding, in confidence, at a later date:

  On 26 February, at about 10.40 p.m., as a result of a telephone message to the effect that Beatrice Bartels, a married woman, of 34 Alvington Court, W8, was in danger of unknowingly taking a draught of medicine containing some poisonous substance, namely altrapeine, or that she may already have taken such medicine, I proceeded to the address in question, accompanied by Sergeant Wellings of this station, where I observed through a glass panel in the front door that a light appeared to be burning in the flat.

  I rang the bell and knocked, but received no answer.

  In view of the nature of the message which had been received, I instructed Sergeant Wellings to force an entry. This was effected by breaking a portion of the glass panel, and releasing the latch from inside.

  An inspection of the flat showed that it was empty.

  At 10.55 p.m. a woman who subsequently proved to be Mrs Bartels entered the flat, stating that she had been to the cinema and had left the light burning to discourage burglars.

  I said to her: “A man called Philip Bartels, who states that he is your husband, has been involved in a motor-car accident and is lying seriously injured in Richmond Hospital. This man has caused a message to be sent to the police to the effect that a poisonous substance, namely altrapeine, has been introduced into some medicine which he anticipated you would take before retiring to bed this evening.”

  Mrs Bartels replied: “There must be some mistake. I do not understand.”

  I then said to her: “Did you, in fact, intend to take some medicine before retiring this evening?”

  She replied: “Yes.”

  I asked her where this medicine was to be found, and she replied: “It is beside my bed.”

  I went with her into a bedroom, and on a table by the side of the bed I saw a bottle containing a small amount of white powder. I informed Mrs Bartels that it would be necessary for me to remove the bottle and contents for examination, and she replied: “Is that really necessary?”

  I informed her again that it was necessary, and she made no reply. I then asked Mrs Bartels if she wanted to visit her husband in hospital, in view of his condition, and she replied: “Later, perhaps. Not just now.” She was in a distressed state.

  I left Sergeant Wellings with Mrs Bartels, and returned to this station, where, in view of the verbal statement already made by the husband, Philip Bartels, I made arrangements for police officers to attend Richmond Hospital with a view to taking any further statement from Bartels which he might care to make, and should he be in a position to make one.

  Bartels lapsed into unconsciousness again during the night, but at 6.30 a.m., approximately, he recovered consciousness and made the statement which is attached to this report, but which he was not in a fit enough condition to sign.

  Thus far, the police report was accurate. But the rest of it was inaccurate, on one particular, at least, which is why I said, at the beginning of this record of the affair, that one other person thought he knew all about the case, whereas in fact he didn’t. Inspector Macdonald thought he had it all tidied up in his file, in view of Bartels’ statement.

  He was wrong.

  Chapter 18

  There was no daylight left now, but beyond the chateau a round harvest moon hung above the horizon, immense and golden, its rays dappling the path in the wood, the silent wood, where I had walked and laughed and loved in my youth.

  I no longer wished to be alone.

  I wanted company now, and lights, and talk, and maybe some hard liquor; not wine, with its gentle, mellowing effect, but something that worked fast, that would remove the gooseflesh that races over a man’s skin when he is alone in a wood with thoughts like mine, when the shadows and the trees merge into shapes that are not the shapes of men but of things to whi
ch one cannot easily put a name.

  The fact is, I did not wish to look again at the end of the affair. I wished that I did not have to amend the end of the Inspector’s report. I would have liked the end of that report to have been the whole truth, instead of only part of the truth.

  So far, I could raise arguments to prove that I had acted no worse than Bartels. Bartels had betrayed Beatrice, and I, in my turn, had betrayed Bartels. I had succeeded, and Bartels had failed, as he did all his life.

  I could at least argue that, but for me, Lorna would not have changed her mind, Beatrice would have died and Bartels might have been hanged.

  Chapter 19

  Had Bartels been a normally strong-looking fellow, I do not think I would have acted as I did, but he looked pathetic in that hospital bed, with the big, healthy detective sitting by the bedside. They had pulled the bed somewhat away from the wall, so that the detective sat discreetly behind the line of Bartels’ vision.

  They had put a screen round his bed, too, and he lay there with his head and chest and left arm swathed in bandages.

  He had, they told me, a fractured base of the skull, together with two broken ribs and considerable bruising and laceration of the head and right side.

  There was a risk of haemorrhage of blood to the brain with fatal results, and he would be in danger for some days.

  “He would not normally be allowed visitors,” said the ward sister, in a cool, tinny voice. “However, he seemed to be unable to settle down until he had seen you.” She looked at me disapprovingly and added: “You mustn’t stay more than a few minutes.”

  I nodded, and walked down the ward to the bed where he lay.

  He opened his eyes when I placed my hand on his, and smiled his wide, thin-lipped smile.

  “This is a pretty pickle,” he whispered, and I saw the police officer lean forward, notebook in hand, to catch his words.

  “Get better,” I said. “Then we’ll sort things out.”

  “It’ll take some sorting out.”

  His spectacles had been smashed in the accident, and he gazed up at me short-sightedly. For lack of anything better to say, I repeated: “Get better, first, Barty.”

  He closed his eyes for a few seconds, and I wondered if he had fallen asleep. But he opened them after a while and said:

  “I wonder if Beatrice will ever understand. I don’t suppose so. Poor Beatrice.”

  I sought round desperately for something to say to distract his thoughts from Beatrice.

  “I’m afraid your car’s a bit of a mess,” I said inanely.

  He smiled faintly. “So am I.”

  “You’ll be all right,” I said.

  He closed his eyes again, and his mind reverted to Beatrice, and when he spoke his voice was so low that I joined the police officer in bending down to catch his words.

  “Tell her, try to explain to her, that I only acted out of pity. Didn’t want her to suffer, you know.” He sighed and added: “Pity. Bad thing, pity. Much better to be normal, like you, Pete.”

  “I’ll tell her,” I answered. “I’ll tell her, Barty. She’ll understand. She’s a very intelligent girl.”

  He nodded, almost imperceptibly. “Very intelligent girl, Pete. Tell her what I said.”

  He remained quiet for fully half a minute, then sighed again, and added: “But I doubt if she will understand. It’s a bit too much to ask.”

  I saw the police officer scribbling in his notebook.

  A nurse put her head round the door, and made signs that I would have to leave. I put my hand on his again.

  “I must go now, Barty. You’ve got to have plenty of rest.”

  He suddenly opened his eyes, then, and stared at me.

  To my horror I realized that they were filled with fear, and his pallor had been transformed by a sudden rush of blood to his face. I had seen him look like that before.

  There was the same wild look as I had seen when they threw the rug over his head at the picnic at the chateau; the same terrified look which Mary, the American girl, must have seen the evening when we had locked them both into a bedroom; and the same piteous, frightened expression as I had seen, in those almost forgotten schooldays, when we had pushed him under the vaulting horse in the gymnasium during the singing lessons.

  But I didn’t think of all that then. I only saw the terror. I didn’t know what was the matter. I didn’t think he was afraid of dying, and I was right, but I couldn’t guess what was in his mind. I increased my pressure on his hand.

  “What’s up, Barty?” I asked, softly.

  “Locked doors,” he whispered.

  I looked round. There were no locked doors, as far as I could see. There was only a screen round the bed, and even then there was a wide gap between the screen and the wall.

  “They won’t understand,” he murmured.

  “Who won’t?”

  He shook his head, while the fear burned and blazed in his eyes, and I felt his hand grow damp and hot in mine.

  “They’ll put me in prison, Pete.”

  I saw the police officer begin to scribble again in his notebook. “Locked doors, and pitch darkness at night. I can’t stand it, Pete. I’d rather die than that.”

  I saw the police officer bending nearer, anxious not to miss a word. I felt Bartels’ hand beneath my own begin to clench and twist and pull at the bedclothes. I gripped it harder still, and stared at him groping for something to say.

  As I searched in my mind for some words of comfort, I heard him murmur to me to bend closer. I put my head down, and he said:

  “Put your ear against my lips, Pete.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the police officer draw as close as he could. But Bartels only said five words: “Altrapeine-please, Pete. Please, Pete.”

  I raised my head, and caught the police officer’s eye, and saw the question forming on his lips.

  “All right,” I said in a normal, loud voice. “All right, I’ll see what I can do.”

  The fear slowly seeped from Bartels’ face. Now there was only a mute, sad appeal in his eyes. I got up, and picked up my hat.

  “Tomorrow?” murmured Bartels.

  “I’ll come and see you tomorrow, if you’re well enough,” I replied in the soothing tones one uses to sick people. “Now get some rest, Barty.”

  I went out, round the screen, and had begun to walk down the ward, when I heard footsteps behind me, and felt a hand on my arm. I looked round and saw it was the police officer.

  “May I have a word with you outside, sir?”

  “If you wish.”

  We walked to the door, and stopped in the passage outside the ward.

  “I must ask you what he said to you, sir.”

  He stood in front of me, tall and solidly built, healthily red in the face. His hair was cut very short above the ears, his brown eyes were alert and restless. They were the eyes of a person who is accustomed to watch the faces of others for reactions, for the telltale flicker of the eyes, the movement of the mouth which indicates dismay; the eyes of a man accustomed to dominate; eyes which did not waver, but nevertheless moved and roamed over the face of the person to whom he was talking. They were not exactly hostile, but neither were they sympathetic or friendly.

  I thought, by way of contrast, of Bartels’ eyes, so full of fear, so filled with silent appeal. I had a swift mental vision of a host of other eyes, hard, implacable eyes gazing at Bartels in the years to come. Police officers’ eyes, warders’ eyes, newspapermen’s eyes in court, warders’ eyes again, fellow convicts’ eyes. Gazing at him as he panicked in his cell, gazing at him in the dock, and again, through the years, in his cell.

  I think it was at that moment that I decided to do as Bartels wished.

  “It was nothing to do with your investigation,” I answered, and made as if to pass him; but he stood solidly in my way.

  “I see, sir.” He tapped his teeth with the chewed end of a pencil.

  He made no move. “Well?” I said.

&nbs
p; “I take it that in that case you would have no objection to telling me what he said, sir.”

  Again I was conscious of his eyes, unbelieving and unyielding, roaming over my face. I react rather brusquely to that sort of thing.

  “Actually, I would,” I said abruptly.

  “May I ask why, sir?” Police officers always seem to call you “sir” a great deal. It doesn’t mean a thing.

  “For personal reasons.” I saw his hard mouth tighten.

  “There is an offence known as obstructing a police officer in the course of his duty.”

  I laughed, then, at this bluff, and saw his eyes flinch.

  “Who is obstructing whom at this moment?” He ignored the question.

  “I take it, sir, that you decline to say what he told you, sir?”

  We looked at each other for a full ten seconds, eye to eye, in silence. I sighed.

  “All right, if you really insist. Do you?”

  “It would be helpful, sir.”

  The expression on his face relaxed. I could read his thoughts as though he had spoken them aloud: firmness, he was thinking, firmness-that’s what counts. They always come clean.

  “He asked me to pray for him,” I said. “He asked me to go into a church and pray for him.”

  I went into my darkroom, and stared at the row of bottles, and in particular at the altrapeine bottle. I knew, of course, little about the case, except that it was known that something of a poisonous nature had been placed in Beatrice’s medicine bottle, and that Bartels had apparently put it there. So much the Inspector had told me, edging round the subject in the way the police do when they are not certain of the reliability of the person they are questioning.

  Now I could guess what the poison was. Later, when I had become very friendly with the Inspector, and read Bartels’ statement, I learnt where and how he bought it.

  It was eight o’clock in the morning when the Inspector had called. He had taken his statement from Beatrice Bartels and he had then come to me. He had asked for the names of any of Bartels’ friends, and mine had headed the list.