The Gigantic Shadow

by Julian Symons

  Was this what Mrs Williams had meant? Evidently it was. She stood now with her hands clasped together, eyes looking modestly at the floor.

  When they were outside Hunter said, ‘So now we know that he was a homosexual, as well as taking drugs. Nice chap. But how does it help?’

  ‘You’re forgetting those heel marks, if that’s what they were. The ones you thought meant there’d been a struggle.’

  ‘The police won’t have missed them. They’re not fools. And what can we do about them anyway?’

  ‘We can see what Miss Tanya Broderick thinks.’

  ‘Who’s Miss Tanya Broderick?’

  They had crossed the road. Charlie spat out his toothpick and pushed open the door to the entrance hall of the narrow building. ‘She calls herself a fashion model. And she’s the witness who saw Bond jump out of the window.’

  Chapter Nine

  The flat was on the third floor. Charlie began to talk as soon as the blonde girl opened the door. ‘My name’s Rogers, Miss Broderick, I’m with the Daily Banner on features. This is my colleague, Jack Hunt. We wondered if you’d be interested in giving us a story.’

  ‘A story about me? For your paper?’ She had the small, precise voice of a little girl. ‘Come in.’

  For a moment Hunter had the disconcerting impression that he was in Bond’s flat again. The same bookcases with the same book club editions, the same, or very similar furniture. But there were some differences, a telephone covered by the dress of a large French doll, several other dolls in various dresses around the room, a number of tiny glass animals on a table. Miss Broderick herself was tiny, with blonde hair cut in a fringe, a smooth-skinned babyish face, and hard blue eyes.

  ‘I know newspapermen like beer,’ she said in that curious, quite artificial little voice. ‘But beer always makes me want to keep on spending pennies. There’s gin or whisky. But why ever should your newspaper want to do a feature story about me?’

  Charlie took out a notebook. ‘Tell me now, I haven’t got it wrong, you are the Miss Broderick who gave evidence in the case of Melville Bond, aren’t you?’

  She was pouring whisky, and had her back turned to them. ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’re doing a series called “The Vital Witness,”’ Charlie said. ‘People who actually saw what happened during a vital moment in a crime–’

  ‘But there wasn’t any crime.’

  ‘Of course not, I didn’t mean that. It’s just that some of the other cases are of witnesses who actually saw crimes being committed, and without them the evidence would have been incomplete. Or there’d have been no case.’

  She brought over the whisky to them. Her fingernails, Hunter saw as she put down the glass by his side, were enamelled bright green to match her dress. ‘I see what you mean. But then there wasn’t any case, was there? He just jumped out of the window, that’s all. I mean, it isn’t interesting.’

  ‘There’s only your word for it,’ Charlie Cash said. He’s pushing it too hard, Hunter thought, that was a silly thing to say. But there was no change in her baby face. ‘The whole thing might be a bit of a mystery if you hadn’t just happened to be at your window at the time.’

  Hunter walked across to her window and looked out. It was certainly possible to see what was going on opposite. A man climbing out would have been visible, not only from these flats but from the street. Voicing his thought he said, ‘Funny that nobody in the street saw him.’

  ‘People don’t look up when they’re in the street. Not unless it starts raining, and then they look up to make sure it really is rain and not birds doing their business. People call that luck, but I never could see it.’ Her laugh tinkled, tinny as an aluminium bell.

  ‘But you were looking up.’

  ‘Why, it’s not just eye level here, but I didn’t have to look up much. I was at the window, you see, because it had come over a bit dark and I wondered if it was going to rain.’ Her laugh tinkled again. ‘Let’s not talk about all that, shall we, till we’ve talked about money. What would the Banner pay me for this story?’

  ‘You’d get a lot of publicity,’ Charlie said. ‘Good for a model. Who do you model for, by the way?’

  ‘I’m a freelance. I don’t know whether this is the sort of publicity that does a girl any good. Come on now, Mr Rogers, how much?’

  Charlie took out a toothpick, put it in his mouth. ‘Fifty is what they told me, but they might spring a hundred.’

  ‘For an exclusive story like that.’ Hunter thought he heard mockery in her voice. ‘Why, Mr Rogers, I’m disappointed.’

  ‘Look,’ Charlie said. ‘If the story’s good enough, the money will be all right. We’re just here to make preliminary inquiries.’

  ‘But I told the police the story. I was getting ready to go out with my boyfriend and I crossed over to the window to see if it was raining and there was this man opposite who’d just pushed his window open and was getting out on to the ledge. I just stood there with my mouth open all ready to scream, but I was simply petrified and the scream just wouldn’t come. And then he jumped. And I screamed.’

  A faint, subdued buzzing could be heard. She crossed with small steps to the French doll, and lifted it to disclose a telephone of the same green as her nails. She lifted the receiver in a tiny fist.

  ‘Hallo. Why, hallo, darling. No, I can’t quite manage that, I’m all in a dither here with two men just now. Oh, I didn’t mean that at all. Why, they’re reporters.’ She went on talking. A pencil in her fingers made patterns on the engagement pad in front of her. From a yard away Hunter read upside down a name written on the pad. The letters said y-d-d-a-P. She looked up, turned one page of the pad and began another pattern.

  ‘What’s that you say? Why, what a suspicious mind you’ve got, honeypie. In half an hour then.’ She put down the receiver, replaced the doll and said, ‘That was my boyfriend then, I expect you guessed. He says I should ring the Banner to see if you really come from it. He says that’s just a story you’ve been telling me, you’re probably just trying to make me say something that will get me into trouble. I do hope that isn’t right.’

  ‘We’re not from the police, if that’s what he means,’ Charlie said. ‘Nothing to do with them.’

  ‘You see. I told him he had a suspicious mind. But I don’t think I’d better say any more, do you? I don’t want to get into any trouble. After all, a girl’s got her living to earn.’

  ‘Just one question, Miss Broderick,’ Hunter said. ‘If you don’t mind answering it. How long have you been here?’

  ‘Why should I mind?’ She looked down at her green nails. ‘I’ve been here nearly three weeks.’

  When they were outside Charlie said, ‘Three weeks. She’d been there three weeks. It could have been a plant.’

  ‘She had the name Paddy written down on her pad. When she saw me looking at it she turned the sheet.’

  Charlie bit on his toothpick and it broke. He threw it away. ‘These things aren’t what they were. They don’t make ’em tough now. This is how it could have been worked. Mekles or his agent, this Paddy of yours, puts this girl in the flat specially to give false evidence. Bond gets pushed out of the window, and she says he jumped. Simple as that. Tell you what, why don’t I tail her when she goes out, find out who her boyfriend is?’ Hunter shook his head.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘She never believed a word you said from the start.’

  ‘You don’t think so?’ Charlie looked indignant. ‘She’s not a fool, not by any means. She was stringing us along for the fun of it, or to find out who we were. She’s smart enough to know you’re tailing her and to give you the slip. And if you did find out she was mixed up with Mekles, what are you going to do then? Don’t you suppose the police know it already?’

  Charlie looked at him, his thin head on one side. ‘Bill, if I ever used long words, I should call you a defeatist.’

  How was it possible to make Charlie understand? ‘It’s no use, Charlie, don’t you see that? It’s pa
st history. Or at least, it is for me. It just doesn’t mean anything any more.’

  Chapter Ten

  That was Thursday. On Monday of the following week he met Anthea Moorhouse for the first time.

  It was boredom that took him to the Victoria Dance Rooms. Until he received the promised cheque it was impossible for him to go abroad, and a strange inertia overcame him. He was reluctant to get in touch with his former employers. To do so, it seemed to him, would be somehow a betrayal of his plans for the future. And now he began to have doubts about that future itself and to ask whether he would really know any kind of happiness alone in a foreign country. The weather remained extremely fine. It was intolerably hot in his bedroom, yet he lacked the energy to move from the Cosmos. Ought he to get in touch with Crambo, say what he knew about Paddy Brannigan? Somehow he lacked the energy for that too.

  On Saturday he spent the day at Roehampton Swimming Pool, on Sunday he went to Brighton. The newspapers had dropped the story, and he remained unrecognised. But life after Saturday and Sunday stretched before him, an endless ribbon on which something had to be written. It was to inscribe something on the ribbon, however trivial, that he went to the Victoria Dance Rooms.

  They were down a side street, five minutes’ walk from the Cosmos. Two teddy boys lounged by the entrance. They wore long draped jackets and narrow trousers beneath which bright pink socks showed. As Hunter turned the corner of the street a long low car pulled up and two couples got out, young men and women in evening clothes. The teddy boys whistled appreciatively and said something as the couples went in. One of the young men, short, dark and sullen, turned back as if to speak to them, but the girl with him pulled him on. Hunter gave the boys a savage scowl as he passed.

  Inside the hall was hot, crowded, dingy. At one end of it Billy Bell and his Boys, six of them, were playing. There was an MC wearing a dinner jacket. Almost all of the couples on the floor were young, and danced locked together. A few unattached girls – would they be hostesses? – sat in the corner chewing gum. The lighting was dim.

  He sat out one dance, then moved towards the hostesses. He had hoped to pick up a friendly girl here, a girl with whom he could sit afterwards and talk for half an hour, but that seemed unlikely. One dance and I’ll go, he told himself. Then he noticed in the gloom a girl sitting by herself. He stopped and said, ‘Will you dance?’

  She was, he saw now, one of the girls who had got out of the car.

  ‘That would be fun.’ Her voice was light and musical. ‘Roger’s gone off and left me alone in this den of vice.’

  ‘Is it a den of vice?’

  ‘Didn’t you know? That’s why we came along, thought it might be fun.’ When they were on the floor she nodded at a couple who swayed past them in a clinch. ‘You don’t expect me to dance like that?’

  ‘I don’t expect anything.’

  For a moment her body pressed against him, breasts, stomach, thighs. Then she withdrew. ‘Why did you do that?’ he asked.

  ‘I wanted to see what it was like.’

  ‘And what was it like?’

  ‘Pretty much as I expected.’ She threw back her head as she laughed, so that he saw white teeth, pink throat, strong white neck. Her hair was black and long, her mouth well shaped, her head came above his shoulder. ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘I was thinking that Roger’s foolish to leave you out of his sight.’

  She laughed, and called across to what Hunter recognised as the other couple, ‘I’ve been picked up. Where’s Roger? He’ll be mad when he comes back.’

  The other girl was an insipid blonde. ‘He went thataway.’

  When they had moved apart from the others he said, ‘I’m not sure I like being talked about as if I weren’t there.’

  ‘Don’t be so sensitive. Oh, my God, Roger’s at it again. He really is a bore.’

  Turning, he saw that the dark, sullen young man was standing in the entrance to the room and that the two teddy boys were with him. They were talking, it seemed, quietly and earnestly in low voices. ‘I don’t see anything wrong.’

  ‘You will. Roger’s a ju-jitsu expert. He loves trouble.’

  As she spoke, one of the teddy boys reached into his hip pocket and came out with a knife. His hand with the knife in it moved upwards. In the same moment Roger took hold of him, quite lightly, by the arm. Then the teddy boy was on the floor, the knife rattled against the wall. Somebody screamed.

  ‘Showing off,’ the girl said. She sounded pleased.

  The screams did not stop. They got louder, and suddenly he saw the reason. There were two, half a dozen, a dozen policemen in the doorway, now in the room, shouting something unintelligible. At the other end of the room Billy Bell and his Boys were also shouting. Hunter saw the drummer from the band open a door at the side of the stage.

  ‘Come on,’ he said to the girl, and she followed him. He pushed open the door and they found themselves in a little changing room. The drummer, a skinny blond boy with big spectacles, looked up. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘What do you want?’

  There was a small window, almost a skylight, high up in the wall. Hunter stood on a table under it, reached up and pushed. The window stuck at first, then opened so suddenly that he almost put his hand through it. Hunter levered himself up, squeezed through with difficulty, and saw that the drop was no more than a few feet. There was no policeman in sight. He looked back and down, and spoke to the girl. ‘After me. Not much of a drop. I’ll catch you.’

  ‘Come on, mate,’ the drummer called. ‘Haven’t got all day.’

  He had a glimpse of the girl’s face below him, strained and earnest. Then he dropped, suffering nothing worse than a slight jarring sensation as he landed. He saw the girl above him, and held out his arms. He half caught her, but she landed awkwardly, and there was a splintering noise. She took his hand and they ran.

  As they turned the corner into a narrow road he heard a police whistle. He saw that she was hobbling.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I’ve snapped the heel off my shoe. I can’t run properly.’

  ‘Take them off. I live near here.’

  She slipped off the shoes, and carried them in her hand. They turned left and right, with the police whistles still audible behind them, until he saw in front of them the dim blue sign that said Cosmos. He led the way into the gloomy entrance. The man at the desk barely glanced at him as he led the way up the stairs. Probably he was surprised that Hunter had not brought in a girl before this evening.

  ‘You keep a room in this place?’ she asked as they went up the stairs.

  ‘I live here.’

  ‘You live here.’ She did not speak again until he had opened the door of the room and she saw the mauve wallpaper, the stained ceiling, the pocked mirrors and the cracked washbasin. She looked at all these with eager eyes, and then spoke again. ‘Why, what fun.’

  He said nothing. She sat down on the bed, and said delightedly, ‘It squeaks. Why, it’s just perfect. Are you a man on the run or something?’

  ‘No. Was the drummer caught?’

  ‘Yes. The police pulled him off the table. He struggled with them, but couldn’t get up. It wasn’t my fault.’

  ‘I didn’t say it was.’

  ‘Do you suppose Roger was caught too? Imagine Roger in court.’

  ‘Just imagine.’ He picked up her shoe and looked at it. The heel was snapped off clean. ‘I’ll call a taxi and put you in it.’

  ‘That would be dull. It’s been such an exciting evening so far. Real fun.’ She lay back on the bed and it squeaked again. ‘Real fun. Don’t spoil it.’

  He knew that what he was about to do was wrong and dangerous, not morally, but wrong because for him it was somehow nothing to do with any possible future, but part of the chain of the past that he dragged round with him. But he approached the bed, gripped the bare shoulders above the purplish evening dress, bent his face down over hers. Her hands held him back with unexpected strength. Then she laughed.<
br />
  ‘Don’t look so surprised. You’ll spoil my dress.’ She stood up, and then in a minute she was out of it.

  Afterwards they lay on the bed together. ‘There’s nobody here to introduce us,’ she said. ‘We’ll have to do it ourselves. My name’s Anthea Moorhouse. I expect you know my stepfather.’

  Hunter was looking at the ceiling, but not seeing the crack in it. He felt peace and fulfilment, but something more and less than these, a release of tension, an absence of urgency that had been working in him ever since the evening of the fatal telecast. ‘Should I know him?’

  ‘Lord Moorhouse. Big shot industrialist. I’m the apple of his eye, even though I’ve got a rotten core as you might say. He adopted me legally, gave me his name.’

  Hunter made a non-committal noise. He felt sleepy. When she spoke again she sounded a little annoyed. ‘I keep thinking I know your face. What’s your name?’

  ‘Bill Smith.’

  ‘Oh, come on.’

  ‘You can look in the register downstairs if you don’t believe me.’

  ‘Tell me. Tell me.’

  ‘Bill Smith,’ he repeated sleepily. She pinched him, then leant over him, put her arms round his neck.

  ‘I believe I was right, and you are a criminal. But you can tell me. I can keep a secret. Don’t you see, I wouldn’t mind, I’d like it even. Don’t you see?’

  ‘Bill Hunter.’ His defences, for the moment at least, were down. He was not inclined to doubt her, or to ask questions. ‘I don’t suppose that means anything more to you than your stepfather’s name does to me.’

  ‘No. Yes, it does, though.’ She sat up beside him, and he put up a hand to touch one of her small breasts. She pushed it away. ‘You’re the man on TV who asked a lot of questions he shouldn’t have done, had a row and resigned. And you killed somebody, that’s right?’

  ‘It was a long time ago.’ From his own inertia on the bed he lay and watched her face in profile, eager, passionate and determined. Later, perhaps, the nose would become beaky, the lips thin, the jaw jut too formidably, but at this moment she seemed to him exquisitely beautiful. It seemed to him that she was assessing something, making up her mind about something. Then she spoke.