My Name is Michael Sibley

by John Bingham

  “Ireland,” he replied casually, “as usual.”

  “Do you always go to Ireland?”

  He nodded. “Always. It’s a hell of a nuisance, really, but there it is.”

  “Why go, if you don’t want to?”

  He fidgeted with his bathing wrap.

  “Oh, well, the guv’nor looks forward to it, you know. My young brother is out in Canada, and my sister is married to a chap in the Indian Army, so I’m the only one he sees at the moment. He’s rather immobile, you know.”

  “How do you mean—immobile?”

  “He had polio a few years ago. Infantile paralysis to you. There was terrific wind-up in case my young brother got it, too. He was only a kid at the time.”

  I stared at him without speaking. Finally, I said, “Is he completely bedridden?”

  “Oh, no. He gets around in a wheelchair a bit, in the garden and so on, like Roosevelt, only he’s not quite so active.”

  “And you go home every year?”

  “Yes. As a matter of fact, I’m taking my holiday in a week or two.”

  “Quite early,” I said. Prosset nodded.

  “I had a letter yesterday from the Mater.” Irritably, I wished Prosset wouldn’t stick to these schoolboy terms.

  “The news wasn’t so hot. The old boy is in a pretty bad way. Heart, or something. He wants me to go over as soon as I can.” He hesitated. “I suppose I ought to go. It’s not very convenient. Still, one would feel a bit of a swine if anything happened.”

  What a strange contradiction was his character! So much that was ruthless, so much that was heartless; and here and there, struggling for existence, like garden flowers choked by weeds, were the occasional streaks of sensitivity and the rare flashes of humanity.

  I stood staring out of the window, watching the sun sink towards the sea. A gull was perched on the gate at the end of the garden: now and again it placed its beak under a wing, exploring vigorously and ruffling its feathers. Prosset was saying something about sailing, but I was not listening. Why should I worry about Prosset’s father? For all I knew, he was like Prosset. What concern was it of mine? Each man had to look to his own affairs in the modern world. I knew that while Prosset lived, wherever he might be in the world, I should not be entirely happy, and the chances were that I should be very miserable. Let Prosset’s father face his troubles as best he could. There was Kate, too. Would she agree not to see Prosset again if he were alive? Or would she leave me and hasten with Prosset to a private torment of her own making? In the balance, must the happiness of Kate be jeopardized for an old, dying man?

  “Don’t stand dreaming all day or we’ll never get down,” said Prosset.

  But I was visualizing an elderly man looking for the letter which should say that his son was arriving soon; and receiving instead a telegram which would drain the blood from his face.

  I sighed. I knew that once again in the battle between Sibley and Prosset I had lost. A terrible feeling of depression descended on me as the tension within me relaxed. In this ultimate test I had lacked the necessary resolution, and Prosset had won. Poor old Mike. I had a feeling that I would never again be able to screw myself up to the same murderous decision.

  “I think I will change my mind,” I said abruptly. “I don’t think I’ll bathe this evening. It’s getting cold.”

  Prosset laughed delightedly. “I thought as much! This’ll amuse Kate. Well, anyway, come down to the beach with me.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t want to.”

  “The exercise will do you good. You’re getting fat as it is. Come on.”

  “No. You go alone.”

  “You always were a lazy swine,” said Prosset disapprovingly.

  “Yes,” I said, and turned away.

  In the event, of course, the telegram would still come to the house in Ireland, but at least I was not to be the willing cause of its arrival.

  Yet I had my big moment. I tackled him that night just before we went to bed. I am glad I did so. I am pleased that the last time I saw him alive I fought him to a standstill, beginning in my own time and ending when I wished, and leaving him surprised and even, I hope, a little hurt. Malicious? Certainly. I am very malicious about Prosset. Even though he is dead, and thus for some obscure reason entitled with other dead men to have his virtues extolled and his vices forgotten, I still hate him. I will always hate him.

  I have tried to portray some of his better points, but not even the fact that he lies in his grave will make me forget his bad points, or how he tried ruthlessly to steal Kate from me for reasons of his own.

  “Prosset, I saw Kate last night, when she came home,” I said.

  He was drinking some beer and reading. He lowered his pewter mug and book and glanced curiously at me. He did not look guilty, but rather amused. He seemed to be more intrigued to see the line I would take than to fear anything I might be going to say.

  “Did you? What am I supposed to say?”

  “You’re not supposed to say anything, if you don’t want to. You can listen.”

  He took a pull at his beer. “It’s not my fault that she can’t hold her drink properly. She just got a bit pickled. It was hardly my fault.”

  “Why the hell couldn’t you leave her alone?”

  “You’re not married to her, are you? What’s the matter with you tonight?”

  I went over and sat on the shabby window seat.

  “I suppose you know I am in love with her?”

  “What about it?”

  “Are you?”

  He laughed. He put down his mug and came over and stood in front of me. “Of course I’m not. She’s not my type.”

  “Well, she’s mine. And because we were engaged you thought it would be rather fun to see if you could take her away from me.”

  “You must be off your head, man. Have you been overworking?” He laughed again in his old, hectoring way. “For God’s sake pull yourself together man, and talk sense. Have a drink or something?”

  “I don’t want a drink.”

  “Well, go to bed and sleep it off. You’ll be better in the morning.”

  “I am perfectly well.”

  “Well, do you mind if I go to bed?” He moved back to his chair, shaking his head and muttering, “Poor old Mike!”

  “That’s always been your attitude,” I continued doggedly. “Poor old Mike! Poor old Mike! Ever since I’ve known you, you’ve despised me. Ever since schooldays. You were more crude at school, of course. You dominated and bullied and sneered and jeered and took from me all you wished.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Mike, take an aspirin or go and get your head examined. You make me ill.”

  “You thought I was amused at your so-called jokes against me. And I let you think that, because it was the easiest way out. You thought I liked you, didn’t you?”

  “And didn’t you?”

  “You thought I enjoyed being your tame fool, your court jester, whom you mocked one moment and protected the next. You even thought I was grateful to you for your friendship. Well, you may as well know now that I hated you.”

  I paused. I had spoken firmly and fast; a voice inside me was saying: You’ve done it, you’re fighting back and you’re holding your own at last. For a fraction of a second I had a mental picture of Aunt Nell by the car door telling me to fight and go on fighting.

  Prosset got up from his chair and walked across to the fireplace. He said, “Well, well. This is a side of your character which is certainly rather a surprise. I didn’t know you were a two-faced hypocrite. Thanks for the information.”

  “You thought I was sorry when you left school, didn’t you? Well, I was never more pleased about anything than when I saw the cab carrying you away from the front door of Buckley’s. When you had gone I went into your study and gloated over the fact that you would never come back to it. I revelled in the muck you had left, because it meant I should never see you at school again. That sur
prises you, doesn’t it? I wish I had never seen you since.”

  “Have you finished, Sibley?”

  “No; I haven’t. I will now refer to Kate Marsden. Just because she was my fiancée, you thought it would be amusing to flirt with her, and I use the word ‘flirt’ in its broadest sense.”

  “What the hell do you mean?”

  “What I say. You thought it would be rather amusing to demonstrate to yourself and to me, once again, that I was just dirt in your eyes. You also thought it would be good sport to show Kate that you could even steal my fiancée without a protest from me.”

  “For heaven’s sake stop talking about stealing your fiancée. I am not interested in stealing the bloody girl.”

  He smiled and looked at me, hands in his trouser pockets.

  “Have you finished now, old man?”

  “I only want to add that as far as you and I and Kate are concerned, this is the end. Last night was the end. I shall never see you again after tonight. Neither will Kate.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. ‘Oh.’”

  “Perhaps you had better speak for yourself only.”

  “I am also speaking for Kate.”

  I got up to go to bed, and picked up the magazine I had been reading.

  Prosset said, “Half a minute. Just one thing before you go. You are right in some ways. I did despise you at school. I thought you were a poor sort of fish. So you were. I have had no reason since to change my views. I still think you are, you know. You were quite fun to take a rise out of. David and I used to agree on that. You still are, in many ways. Fundamentally, you are not a bad-natured sort of chap, I suppose. But that’s all I can say for you. On the other hand, you are weak and dull. Dreadfully dull, Sibley. You are lacking in all wit, you know. No wonder poor Kate was getting bored. A worthy, plodding lump of suet, that’s you.”

  “At least I didn’t stay for years behind a bank counter getting nowhere, and then go into some seedy business in the East End.”

  “You’re just a hack journalist. I see nothing particularly to admire in hack journalists.”

  Neither of us said anything further. I was quite content that he should have a last word of this kind. I was more than satisfied with my own blows. I had stood up to Prosset at last. I had given rather more than I had taken. I had seen from the look in his eyes that he had been startled and that his vanity had been wounded. Perhaps he was even more deeply hurt than I think. I hope so.

  Hate is a terrible thing.

  I left early the following morning and never saw him again.

  CHAPTER 12

  That was the story, then, of Kate, Prosset and me. At first I had been anxious that it should remain unknown, for Kate’s sake. Hence my evasions with the police. But now that they knew I had lied, I was particularly anxious that they should believe the story that my dispute with Prosset had been of a political nature rather than anything to do with a woman.

  The Inspector knew nothing of the background story, and there was no reason for him to think that Prosset and I were not on the friendliest general terms.

  I trusted the Inspector was now satisfied. I had been interviewed on two occasions, and had made a signed statement. I hoped that was that, but I could not disguise the fact that I was nervous about the whole case. However you may try to explain things away, it looks bad, first, to omit to mention having been on the scene a few hours before a murder is committed, and then for it to be discovered that you had had some sort of dispute with the dead man. It is all very fine and dandy to say that an innocent man has nothing to fear, I reflected, but the fact remained that an innocent man can be put to a great deal of harassing inconvenience. Admittedly, Kate could say I was with her at the time of the crime, but I wondered whether the word of a man’s fiancée would necessarily cut much ice with the Inspector.

  I had naturally given a good deal of thought to the problem of who had killed Prosset. I had one advantage over the Inspector in that I knew I had not done it, whereas the Inspector had still to include me among the possibles. As I finally began to undress after the second visit of the police, on the evening I had made the signed statement, a vague theory was beginning to form in my mind, which was, however, interrupted in an unexpected and unpleasant manner.

  My landlord was a bald-headed man in his fifties, a bad-tempered fellow whose thick, bushy black eyebrows contrasted strongly with his thick, greying hair. I have completely forgotten this horrible individual’s name, and will refer to him as Thompson.

  I had hardly got my pyjamas on when there was a knock at the door. It was Mr. Thompson. He was red in the face, and seemed to be in a furious temper. Without waiting for an invitation, he thrust his way past me and shut the door.

  “My wife has just told me the police came again tonight,” he said. “This is the second time they have called on you. It won’t do.”

  “I can’t help it if police officers call on me. It’s their job,” I pointed out.

  “Yes. Well, it won’t do,” said Thompson, breathing heavily. “It simply won’t do. This is a respectable house. It’s the sort of thing which upsets people.”

  “They wanted to know if I could give them any information about a case they are working on. I can’t very well forbid them to call, can I?”

  “It simply won’t do,” repeated Thompson monotonously. “I can’t have it. Mr. Sibley, I have been contemplating redecorating this room for some time. I think this is a good time to start. I shall start a week today. No doubt you will have little difficulty in finding alternative accommodation in the meanwhile.”

  “You mean you are kicking me out? Are you aware that it is every citizen’s duty to assist the police?” I am inclined to get pompous when I am annoyed. He turned towards the door.

  “I know all about that. But I am afraid I shall require your room next week. I am sorry. Good night.”

  I thought of several smart replies after the door had closed. For some time my annoyance with Thompson occupied my mind, to the exclusion of the police visit; I kept going over the conversation in my mind, thinking up replies I might have made had I been smart enough. But once in bed the Prosset murder reasserted itself in my mind. I tried to drive it out by reading a humorous novel, but the actions of the characters seemed so unreal as to be stupid, and their words so inane as to be witless. I went over in my mind again the statement I had made. I felt sure there was nothing in it on which they could catch me out. Reviewing the evening visit by the Inspector, the only point that really puzzled me was the inquiry about how many suits I had. I could see no reason for that.

  The line of thought I had been following about the murder was tenuous and unsupported by any evidence, but it was better than nothing. I remembered Prosset’s meeting with a foreign-looking man called Max in the pub in Chelsea, his references to “import” business, his “friends” on the coast whom he visited, but never introduced to me, and his recently improved financial condition, despite the fact that the firm was not outwardly prospering as well as it could.

  Were Prosset and Herbert Day involved in some smuggling racket? Had something gone wrong, some quarrel over profits developed, and because he would not give way and knew too much, had he been liquidated? I recalled that Day’s name had been mentioned in what seemed to be a disagreement between Prosset and the man called Max; and I remembered the odd remark that Prosset had made about Day paying him more money or else finding himself “in difficulties.” Was Prosset putting the pressure on, trying to extract a larger share of the profits under the threat of exposure?

  Theory, all theory and no proof. It got one nowhere. I turned restlessly in bed.

  Yet it did not seem impossible to me, as I lay there, alternately fuming about Thompson’s rudeness and thinking about Prosset. But the next morning I received a further shock, and Ethel, of all unlikely people, was the one to administer it, when she brought in my breakfast on a tray.

  Pointing to a cardboard box standing by the wardrobe, she said, “Your suit cam
e back from the cleaners yesterday, sir.”

  “Yes,” I said, “thank you. I saw it. I shall not be here long, you know. They are throwing me out next week. They don’t like me having policemen visiting me.”

  Ethel sniffed. “Nosey parkers.”

  “Oh, well, it’s their job, you know.”

  “They upset ’im with their questions last night. That’s what did it. I’m sure I’ll be sorry when you go, Mr. Sibley.”

  “Did they question Mr. Thompson?” I asked in surprise.

  “And me.”

  “What on earth about?”

  She pointed at the cardboard box. “About that for one thing. ‘Did you often have your suits cleaned?’ they asked. ‘Not more than most,’ I said. ‘How many had you got?’ ‘Five,’ I said. ‘Though what it’s got to do with—’”

  “But I haven’t got five, Ethel,” I said quickly. “I’ve only got four now. I told the police I only had four last night. I gave one away two or three weeks ago.”

  “Did you sir?” said Ethel indifferently. “Well, I thought you had five. I didn’t know you gave one away, sir. I don’t suppose it matters much. Four or five, what does it matter? Silly nonsense and waste of time, if you ask me. They told me not to tell you they had spoken to me, but who cares? If you ask me, they’d do better to spend their time catching crooks instead of pestering people about suits.”

  “In a case like this, they have to enquire into everybody, you know. They’re only doing their best,” I said in a dull voice, fighting back the wave of apprehension which swept at me. “You can’t blame them.”

  “A case like what, sir?”

  “It’s a murder case, Ethel. Didn’t they tell you?”

  “A murder case, sir?”

  I nodded. I was aware she was staring at me. Then I heard her go out and shut the door.

  I remembered how I had been walking home after an evening with Kate when a figure sitting crouching in the doorway of a house near my digs had whined at me as I went past. I am a mug when it comes to beggars. I always reckon that nine out of ten times they may be rogues, but the tenth time may be a deserving case to whom a shilling may make the difference between life and suicide. I know it is unlikely, but that is the way I think.