Benton was not a violent man. There was no primitive spark in him that could be flamed to murder. His hatred was spiteful and vindictive but not violent, and as he sat in this dirty little public house he perfected a plan of revenge. It didn’t cross his mind to wreak a physical revenge on Wesley. A blind man would be easy to injure or even to murder, but it would only afford a momentary satisfaction. He wanted something more subtle than that. He wanted Wesley to suffer as he was suffer-ing.
He flicked away a speck of dust on his black overcoat. The gesture was unconscious, but revealed he had at last made up his mind. He could now think of something else besides Wesley, and the speck of dust had caught his eyes as his mind was released from its problem. Although he had been living in ratty little hotels with only a change of clothing he still managed to maintain his finicky elegance, and each morning he lowered his shivering body into a cold bath. His misfortunes had not undermined that traditional habit.
He finished his whisky and walked a little unsteadily across the bar to order another. A girl in a red hat and a dirty mackintosh caught his eye and smiled. She was tall, big-hipped and robust, and for a moment Benton’s mind wavered and he felt a flicker of desire run through him. Then he noticed her grimy hands and a line of dirt round her neck and a faint sour smell that came from her hair as he stood close to her, and he inwardly shivered to think that such a creature could raise in him even for a moment a feeling of desire.
He returned to his table and sat down again, and drank half the whisky, setting the glass carefully on one of the wet rings. He took a cigarette from his case.
“I’ll have one if you can spare it,” the girl in the red hat said, coming over to him.
He rose to his feet. A gentleman, his father had told him, behaved like a gentleman even to a whore.
“I’m afraid you are wasting your time,” he said in his pale voice. “Please excuse me.”
“I’m in no hurry, cheri. I’ll give you a good time. You can stay an hour if you like.”
Again he felt a flicker of desire like pain run through him, and he thought of Blanche. He was alone now; he didn’t have to keep faith with anyone except himself. He looked again at the girl, appraising her with his pale, lonely eyes and was again horrified with himself for even contemplating going with her.
“I’m afraid not,” he said, still courteous. “You must excuse me.”
“You look sort of fed up. I’d make you forget.”
“I’m afraid not.” His grimacing smile came and went. “Well, buy me a drink. You wouldn’t begrudge me a drink, would you?”
He fingered his loose change in his pocket. He did begrudge her the drink. He needed every penny now, but he felt on him the jeering eyes of three men who were standing at the bar and he was afraid she would make a scene.
“I’m in a hurry. Here, buy one on me. I really must be going.” She looked at the half-crown he held out to her and her full lips curled scornfully.
“You can stick that on the wall. If you didn’t want me why did you make faces at me? Oh, hop it, you mean little rat.”
He left the bar hurriedly, the jeering laughter of the men following him. It was only when he got into the fresh night air that he realized he was drunk and he had to walk carefully. As it was he lurched against an old woman who was walking towards Charing Cross station. She was very old and bent and shabby and she thudded against the wall from the impact of his shoulder.
He stared at her in stupefied horror, raising his hat and muttering apologies. He had never knocked into a woman in his life. A gentleman, no matter how drunk, didn’t fall against a woman. He was crimson with shame.
He saw her old eyes were full of weak rage as she said : “You’re drunk, that’s wot you are. Tight as a bloody lord.”
He was fumbling in his pocket for the half-crown that had already been scorned when the old woman recovered her balance and shuffled on, leaving him to gaze after her, a pale spark of anger flaming up in him like the first twinge of tooth-ache. And as he walked to the Strand he muttered to himself, his head down, his shoulders hunched, a bitter, angry figure to interest the curious eyes of the people who passed him.
Wesley ! He wouldn’t wait any longer. He couldn’t go on like this. First he must settle with Wesley, then his mind could grapple with his own problems; but so long as Wesley occupied his thoughts he would never get himself in hand.
He quickened his pace. In the distance Big Ben struck nine o’clock. The Strand was still crowded. The crowds were coming out of the Tivoli and he could hear their shuffling feet and their cheerful voices behind him. He cut across Trafalgar Square and stopped suddenly by one of the fountains.
There were three watchmen at the factory, he was thinking. He knew their routine well. They had supper together at eleven o’clock. He had once caught them at it. It was against the rules, and although they had been warned he knew they continued to meet at eleven. For half an hour the research laboratory was unguarded. He still had the key. It shouldn’t be difficult.
His shadow lay across the dark water of the fountain and he stared at it, his mind groping back into the past. He re-membered for no reason at all the first time he met Blanche, and recaptured the feeling that had come over him as he looked into her wide, blue eyes. That was something that would never happen again; a precious moment, not valued then, but treasured now. He had nothing to look forward to, only memories to look back on; memories and revenge.
He set off quickly towards Pall Mall, passing his club with a furtive glance at the lighted windows. He would have liked to have gone in for a drink and a last look round, but his courage quailed at the thought of meeting the hall porter, an aged man who knew every member by name, knew what their businesses were and how much money they had. He did pause to look through the window of the smoking-room. The big arm-chairs standing in pairs about the room, the soft lighting, the vast Adam’s ceiling, the two fireplaces in which great logs cheerfully blazed, the sedate movements of the old waiter as he carried a tray of drinks to a group of members sitting hunched up in a circle round one of the fires formed a picture that he took away with him : a poisoned barb in his mind.
That room had been a part of his life a week or so ago. Wesley had taken it from him. There was a feverish look in his eyes as he ran into the road, waving his arms at a taxi that had just set down a fare and was pulling slowly away from the kerb.
At first the driver was unwilling to go out as far as Northholt, but when Benton thrust a pound note into his hand he grumblingly agreed.
Benton stared out of the window as the taxi rattled and banged along Bayswater Road. There was a light, airy feeling inside his head and his mouth was dry. He wanted another drink, and as the taxi passed Shepherd’s Bush underground he leaned forward and told the driver to stop at the next public house.
He bought the driver a pint of beer while he swallowed greedily two double whiskies. The driver, a thick-set, elderly man, drank the beer grudgingly. Benton could see from his surly expression he had taken a dislike to him. But Benton was used to that. Neither of them said anything except the customary, “Good health,” and neither of them meant it.
It was now a few minutes to ten o’clock. Plenty of time, Benton thought and he paid for the drinks and went back with the driver to the taxi.
As the taxi passed Wood Green underground station, Benton suddenly recollected coming this way to the Kensal Green crematorium for Blanche’s funeral. He hadn’t gone into the little chapel. Wesley had been the only mourner and he hadn’t been able to bring himself to share his grief with Wesley. There had been a big crowd of morbid sightseers and he had mingled with them, nursing his grief as a man nurses a mortal pain. And when everyone had left he had gone to the grave and laid on it a bunch of violets. He had derived a little comfort and happiness to know that his were the only flowers on the wet, raised earth. He stopped the taxi a quarter of a mile from the factory and without looking at the driver walked rapidly into the darkness. The broad two-way road
was still busy with home-going traffic and he kept to the grass verge, his head bent against the blinding headlights of the oncoming cars.
The gates of the factory were closed and locked, but he had expected that. He knew of a loose plank in the fence further along the road; a secret exit used by some of the workers who slipped out in working hours to buy fruit from the lorries drawn up near the airfield. He pushed the plank aside, stooped and passed his thin body through the opening, then set off quickly towards the research laboratory.
The factory was in darkness. Even the control room and the hangars were shut down for the night. He walked on the grass, his pale eyes alert, his hands deep in his overcoat pockets.
The research laboratory, a one-storey building of brick and tile, was hidden behind the main office block, three or four hundred yards from the main entrance. Coming upon it suddenly, Benton was startled to see a solitary light in one of the windows. The moon, riding high, cast a cold, white light over the building, picking out the mortar between the bricks. Benton remembered how proud he had been of the building when it had been erected. All his careful organization had gone into it. He remembered the hundreds of forms he had to fill up to obtain the necessary building material, the plaintive bickering of the authorities who had tried to persuade him that prefabricated concrete sheds would do as well. But he had persisted, argued and cajoled, until they had given way in grudging despair.
And now he was going to set fire to the place. It would finish Wesley as Wesley had finished him. All Wesley’s money was tied up in the mass of intricate and delicate machinery housed in the building. In a little while it would be an inferno of flames. There was a drum of petrol in one of the outside sheds. He would drag it to the building. A match would do the rest.
He stood looking at the lighted window, wondering if Wesley were still in the building, and as he watched the light went out. He waited, hidden in the shadows, and after a few minutes a man came out of the building. He recognized the limping walk. It was the senior watchman. He was going to supper.
IV
Anyone looking into the room could easily have mistaken the scene to have been one of domestic bliss. Wesley sat in an arm-chair. From time to time he selected a paper from a table by his side and studied it, making neat notes in the margin. Opposite him sat Julie. She was knitting a complicated pattern in blue and white. The two coloured balls of wool rested in her lap and her knitting needles clicked and flashed as she fashioned the pattern with expert speed.
Except for the click of the needles and the rustle of papers silence had hung over the room for a long time. Julie had wanted to go out that evening but Wesley had refused. Rather than go alone she had brought her knitting into his room and, without his permission, had sat by the fire. After one surprised glance he had continued to work, and now she was sure he had forgotten her.
She had been alone all day and yearned for company. Even Wesley’s silent company was better than being on her own, and now as she knitted, the warmth of the fire against her legs, she felt herself relaxing, and for the first time for many weeks she experienced an isolated peace of mind.
Then, suddenly, she was startled out of her blank, comfortable mood by the shrill ringing of the telephone. The sharp sound of the urgent bell brought into the quiet room an atmosphere of alarm. Even Wesley started, his mind jerked away from his calculations.
“I sometimes wish telephones had never been invented,” he said, laying down his papers. “Would you answer it, Julie? Say I’m busy.”
Julie put down her knitting and, with ill grace, went to the telephone. A man’s voice asked for Wesley.
“It’s very urgent,” he said. “I am calling from the factory.” There was an excited note in his voice and he spoke loudly.
“It’s the factory,” she said to Wesley and held out the receiver. He took it from her and their fingers touched. Julie snatched her hand away and moved back to the fire.
She could hear the man shouting; his voice, although loud, was indistinct. She caught the word “fire” and looked quickly at Wesley, sensing immediately that something was wrong. Wesley had stiffened and his face had gone a whitish grey.
“I’ll come out.”
The man went on shouting.
“All right, all right,” Wesley said quietly. “Yes, keep him there until I come. I’m coming now.” He set down the receiver and stood for a moment looking at Julie. There was a dead expression in his eyes that frightened her.
“What is it?”
“Benton has set fire to the lab. I’ve got to go out there at once.”
“Benton? But why?”
“Does it matter?” He shook his head and pressed his palms to his temples, like a boxer trying to shake off the effects of a damaging punch.
“Do you want me to come with you?” She made the offer without thinking.
He pulled himself together with an effort.
“I suppose so. I may as well keep up the pretence a little longer, anyway until I see the extent of the damage. It’d look odd if I didn’t have someone to lead me about, wouldn’t it? Besides, the fire might amuse you. It should be an awe-inspiring sight.”
The cold, flat note in his voice sent a shiver through her. “Is it bad then?”
“It seems so. Come on; with luck we’ll find a taxi.”
They picked up a taxi in Piccadilly.
For some time Wesley stared through the window in silence as the taxi weaved a way through the last of the evening’s traffic, then he said abruptly : “It’s strange how things work out, isn’t it, Julie? I thought I had been so thorough and nothing could go wrong. The laboratory was, of course, the key to everything, and yet I never gave it a thought. It doesn’t look as if your friend Gleb will stand trial now.”
Julie stared searchingly at his white face.
“I don’t understand.”
“If the lab. is burned out there’s no point in my working any more. It puts a full stop to everything.”
“You mean you wouldn’t have the time?”
“Or the money.”
Julie recoiled from him as if he had hit her.
“What has money to do with it?”
“To equip the lab. I borrowed money. To borrow money I gave securities. If the lab’s gone my securities have gone with it.”
Julie suddenly felt as if she were going to be sick.
“You mean you won’t have any money? Then what’s to become of me? You promised to settle money on me!”
“I know. I’m sorry, Julie, but I couldn’t foresee this, could I? There won’t be anything left of my money. Everything I owned went into the lab. But you’ll have the furs and the jewellery. They are worth a good bit. If you’re careful you’ll be all right.”
“You’ve cheated me!” she cried furiously. “After all I’ve been through; after all your rotten promises! Damn you! I might have known this would happen. All right, you won’t get any more time. I’m going to the police. I’ll make you pay for this.”
“I’m sorry, Julie. You don’t really deserve anything, but a promise is a promise. I would have kept my word. I want you to believe that.”
“You talk! That’s all you’re any good at—talking! You talked me into this ! You and your rotten promises!” Tears of rage ran down her face and she sat huddled up in the corner of the taxi, her hands clenched in her lap.
“You’ll have the furs. I hope they’ll give you some happiness. You’re due for a little happiness, but somehow I don’t think you’ll get it. What will you do, Julie? Will you wait for Gleb to come out of prison? You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” she said fiercely. “He’s worth six of you. I’ll wait for him. You can think of us while they’re hanging you!”
The taxi rattled past the White City. For a moment or so the inside of the taxi was lit up by the battery of arc lamps that had blazed up for the last race. And in the hard, glaring light they looked at each other.
“Try not to be bitter about it,
Julie. I have lost much more than you. But then, I suppose I’m a lot older than you and I’ve learned to accept disappointments. If I had more time I would begin again, but that is impossible now. It looks as if Blanche has had the last laugh after all. It was a mistake to have killed her. You see, it hasn’t done me any good.”
Julie didn’t say anything; her mind was seething with dismay and fury. After all she had endured from him and now no money!
“I would never have believed Benton had the nerve to do such a thing,” Wesley went on. The swiftly passing street lamps lit up his white face. He looked tired and sad. “They say he’s badly burned.”
“Oh, shut up!” Julie exclaimed, beating her fists together. She was beside herself with disappointment. “That’s all you’re any good at, talking and making rotten promises.” She swung round to face him. “And how do I know you’ll give me the furs after all this? How do I know you won’t cheat me again?”
“Go to my bank in the morning. They’ll have a letter for you. There’s a statement, too, for the police. I’ve put everything in order.”
The Paw in The Bottle Page 22
