Five Roundabouts to Heaven

by John Bingham

  I told him a great deal about Bartels, but nothing about Lorna Dickson. I guessed Bartels would not have mentioned her. I saw no reason why I should. Beatrice had not died. There was no call for society to revenge itself for a murder which never took place, or for Lorna to be involved.

  Maybe, I was wrong, but that is the way I thought.

  I saw the Inspector inching nearer to the subject of a mistress as a motive, and mentally stood back and admired his technique.

  First, he asked what particular friends might help to throw any light on the affair. I told him that I did not think any of Bartels’ friends could.

  Then he said that doubtless there would be one or two broken hearts in the province if Bartels died, and when I looked at him and pretended to seem puzzled, he said slyly: “Well, you know what they say about commercial travellers, sir. Not that I’d be one to frown on a little innocent larking now and again.”

  When that failed, he asked point blank if Bartels had any liaison outside the bonds of marriage. But I was ready for him by then.

  “None, as far as I know,” I said, looking him full in the face. “None at all. I always considered him to be devoted to his wife.”

  So after my visit to the hospital I stood gazing at the altrapeine bottle in the darkroom, pondering that which Bartels had planned. Although some time had elapsed, I still felt numbed by the shock of events. As yet they made little sense, because I had not yet understood the fatal weakness which was his downfall.

  I saw a gentle, kindly little man who had plotted a ruthless, diabolical murder, and the apparent and appalling contradiction bewildered me.

  Only later was I able to realize that, in fact, there was no contradiction at all; that it was pity, kindness, and humanity which drove Bartels to his doom. Without those three virtues, without their unbalancing effect upon a sensitive and delicate mind, there would have been no attempted murder.

  At that time, however, it all seemed so unnecessary.

  I could see no reason why he could not just leave Beatrice; those of us who are in the hotel business are inclined to regard such actions as unfortunate, perhaps, but commonplace enough.

  I had not had time, either, to look back over the years and see how the lack of love in his youth had made him so crave it in later years that he was prepared to kill to win it.

  After a while, I went out of the darkroom, but I did not take the poison bottle with me. I went out of my flat, and along to the reference room of the public library, and there made certain researches among the medical books.

  In the end, I came to the same conclusion about altrapeine as that at which Bartels had arrived. I went back to the flat, and heated up some of the coffee left over from breakfast, and took it into the drawing room.

  I drank three cups of coffee, black and very sweet, one after the other, sipping them slowly, and trying to erase certain pictures from my mind, but at the end of the third cup, I knew that I would not succeed.

  I told myself that even in prison a man could receive expert psychological treatment. But cold reason could not efface the actualities I had seen. It could not wipe from the heart the distress caused by the wild, pitiful appeal which had flamed in the eyes of Bartels as he lay in the hospital bed, with the red-faced detective sitting by his side: the trapped bird, caught in the legal net, broadcasting, without any attempt at concealment, the waves of its fear, beating against the net, hopelessly and monstrously stripped of all dignity and pride.

  What fears were these, and how incomprehensible to the normal person, that they should cause a man to lose his self-respect, cause his eyes to dilate wildly, and his face to flush, and his hand to crush and twist a counterpane!

  I, who have been blessed by nature with a more stolid temperament, who have known but little fear in my life, tried in vain to capture a hint of such terrors.

  I only knew they existed, because I had seen the look on Bartels’ face. I had seen some such look upon the face of a gravely wounded soldier before the doctor arrived with the merciful dose of morphine.

  I saw no such release for Bartels.

  Indeed, I saw no mercy for him at all, but only the seas of panic, and the long dark years in the long grey corridors; and the sense of the loss of Lorna Dickson; and the burden of the knowledge of failure.

  I lit a cigarette and considered the practical side of the matter. I told myself that Bartels was a fool, and I was even more of a fool to risk disgrace and punishment for his sake.

  Nevertheless, I fetched the altrapeine bottle and made my plans. They were simple enough.

  I went to the hospital in the late afternoon of the following day, as the light was fading. The sister in charge informed me that Bartels had had a restless night, but that failing a sudden relapse his chance of recovery was reasonable.

  The same detective was on duty, and he greeted me with a curt nod. I knew that this man was an antagonist, that I had to be careful of him, but I felt cool enough, and I held, in my left hand, the small flat paper packet, open at one end, so that its contents would slide forth easily.

  I would like to be able to record that my last talk with Philip Bartels had a hidden drama unperceived by the detective with his mackintosh and his horrible notebook, and chewed pencil, and his hard, alert eyes, and his slightly protruding ears; that it contained obscure phrases of significance to both of us.

  Such was not the case.

  I sat by the side of his bed, on a hard chair.

  “How are you feeling?” I asked.

  He nodded and smiled. “I’ve felt worse.”

  “Is there anything you want, Barty? Fruit? Can you eat fruit?”

  “Not yet,” he murmured. “No fruit yet.”

  “Are they treating you well?”

  “Quite well,” he murmured.

  “It’s still bitterly cold outside,” I said. He nodded.

  “And Beatrice?” he asked softly.

  “I’ve not seen Beatrice yet. Her mother has come up.”

  “Have any of the others heard?”

  “Nobody,” I said. “Nobody at all.”

  He seemed content, and closed his eyes for a while. The detective put his notebook down and relaxed. A gust of wind blew against the windows and rattled them, and the sound caused Bartels to open his eyes.

  He said nothing, but held my eyes with his own. The detective, now that the conversation had lapsed, sat picking at a button on his mackintosh, inattentive and bored.

  I had to know whether Bartels had changed his mind, and raised my eyebrows in silent question. Because of his short sight, I doubt if he saw, but he smiled slightly and nodded. He looked peaceful and contented, like a child who, after lamentations and protests, is now tucked up in bed and warm and reconciled. Indeed, he looked happier at that moment than I had seen him look for months. It was as though all his personal problems were resolved. Having no future he had no worries. He was about to leave the world, which had proved too much for him, and he was not sorry.

  He raised his hand to his forehead, and then carelessly placed it near the side table, the forefinger pointing, as if by chance, to the plastic tumbler, containing water.

  Now, for the first time, I felt tense and keyed up, I knew that Bartels would make the opening gambit, and that I would have to follow.

  It came quite suddenly:

  “Pete?”

  “Yes,” I said, and saw the detective begin to pay attention again.

  “Could you get me a little more water out of the tap?”

  I got up and took the plastic tumbler. It was still half-full, and although the light in the room was heavily shaded, I placed my hand round the tumbler lest the detective should see the level of the water through the thin material.

  I walked over to the handbasin and ran the water for a moment, keeping my left hand on the tap. I ran a little water into the mug, and tipped my left hand so that the white powder flowed into the mug.

  I turned off the tap, and walked back to the bed.

  �
��Are you sure you want a drink, Barty?”

  He nodded. “If you don’t mind. I’m so sorry to trouble you,” he added. He put out his hand for the mug, but I shook my head.

  “Let me hold it for you,” I said. I raised his head with my left hand, and put the tumbler to his lips. I was conscious of hearing the detective speak. I heard him above the beating of my heart, and was irritated; he said something about Bartels not being supposed to drink too much.

  Bartels emptied the tumbler.

  I said: “I’ll refill it, in case you need some more later.” I rinsed out the receptacle, twice, added some water, and replaced it on the side table.

  “You shouldn’t let him drink all that,” said the detective peevishly.

  “No,” I said. “No, perhaps I was wrong.”

  Bartels looked up at me from his pillow. He said:

  “I think perhaps you had better go, Pete. Thanks for everything. I feel a little tired. I think I’ll sleep.”

  I stood up and looked down at him.

  “Well, so long, Barty,” I said. “Good luck.”

  He said nothing more, but lay with his eyes closed.

  “Visits tire him,” said the detective, pulling a cheap, paperbacked edition of some novel from his mackintosh pocket and beginning to read. I doubt if he even saw Bartels die.

  First I heard the sound of the Americans’ car on the distant Orleans-Blois highway, then the engine noise died away as it slowed to turn into the poplar drive, then the sound increased as it accelerated up the drive.

  I could not see it at first, because the chateau lay between me and the drive, but eventually I saw the light from the headlamps reflected from the trees at the side of the house, and then, once again, there was only the soft moonlight.

  I slipped deeper into the wood, and walked softly along the path which led past the chateau, and past the ruined tennis courts. Behind me I heard men talking and a woman laugh. I walked more quickly, and once, as something stirred in the undergrowth by the side of the path, I felt the gooseflesh again run over my skin.

  I rounded each bend in the path with a conscious effort, each time afraid lest I should see before me a figure on the path. The sweet, nostalgic melancholy of the sunset hours had departed, and loneliness and apprehension had taken its place.

  I wanted no more of the chateau, and knew that I would never visit it again. I had thought that it would hold for me nothing but the tender memories of youthful happiness, that here Bartels and I, and Beatrice, and Ingrid, and all the rest of that cheerful crowd could meet within the compass of my mind, and be reunited for an hour or so, and talk and walk and laugh and love as we had done in the days gone by.

  But it didn’t work out that way.

  Fear became mixed with the joy, and remorse and self-reproach stretched out their long, strong fingers and smeared the images. I suppose there is always that risk if you revisit a place where you think you can regain for a while your earlier rapture.

  Moreover, one small doubt remained unresolved.

  I thought of it as I made my way along the side of the drive, and to where my car stood, its sidelights unlit, a menace to all on the highway.

  I thought of it as I drove back to Orleans, and again later, when they asked me whether I had enjoyed “my sentimental journey,” as they called it.

  I said I had, of course, though the doubt still nagged at me, and they laughed indulgently. Only Lorna, dear Lorna, my wife, did not laugh, did not even smile; for Lorna had advised me not to go.

  My doubt is, I suppose, a case of scruples.

  It is due to the fact that as I held the tumbler to Bartels’ lips, and watched him drink, a thought flashed through my mind which I tried instantly to repress.

  The thought was: He’ll never kiss her with those lips again. She’s safe now, beyond all risk or doubt: she’s mine.

  I wish the thought had never occurred to me. But it cannot be helped now. I am, as I have indicated, a worldly type, little prone to introspection. The memory of that thought will grow fainter.

  I won Lorna, and what I win I hold, and nothing, not even the shades of Philip Bartels, shall ever come between us: I was always a better man than Bartels, better at everything, including murder.

  FB2 document info

  Document ID: fbd-12b937-8a81-5e44-7a91-7aa8-b385-a2312c

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  Document creation date: 03.12.2012

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  Document authors :

  John Bingham

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