She found she did not want to pursue this thought. Quite suddenly and for the first time she found she was bored with the whole idea of Simon. Not bored mentally as she had known she was in France. Bored emotionally, as well. Totally bored. The word came into her mind, in capital letters, repeating itself again and again. BORED. Simon bored her. She had suffered on his account as no one else had ever made her suffer in the whole course of her life. But the thing had evaporated. And now, quite suddenly, the idea of her love, that great passion, bored her.
She stood still when she reached Trafalgar Square. Her anxiety remained, especially the worry over the statement. That was still growing. She decided she must get advice from someone. Not her father. The estrangement there had grown. Besides, as a lawyer, he would be profoundly shocked by what she had done. He would simply think her more depraved than ever: definitely delinquent.
John? No, not John. It wouldn’t be fair and anyway he was back at Portsmouth. Diana, she decided. Yes, Diana was just the person. She would not feel the slightest embarrassment now in telling Diana everything. In fact, Diana ought to know. Simon had mentioned blackmail in connection with the torn cheque. It opened up an abyss of hidden threat for Diana, as well as for herself. For Diana, particularly, on account of Bill. Poor Bill. She felt old and wise and detached, considering poor Bill and – yes – poor old Diana.
Diana was far from pleased to see Penelope. For one thing it was nearly lunch time. She had planned to eat bread and cheese at home, since Bill was at one of his hospitals. Now she supposed she would have to do something about feeding the girl. It would be the simplest to take her out, but what a bind. And then, Simon had rung up. He would be coming round during the afternoon. That meant she must get rid of Penelope as soon as possible. What a bind. What an infernal nuisance.
Penelope did not expect a very cordial welcome, so she was not surprised to find Diana both cold and preoccupied. She had not seen either of the Allinghams since old Mrs. Allingham had gone home. Before that they had asked her to dinner twice which had surprised her at the time. Perhaps she thought now, as silence fell between them, it had been the old lady who wanted to see her, or to be kind to her, or in some way influence her in her relationship with Simon. Not that she had ever preached to her. How strange that all this had never once occurred to her at the time. How very deep in love she must have been. Was it always to be like this?
“Well,” said Diana, when Penelope had sat looking at her for some time without speaking. “How did you enjoy your trip?”
“France? It was lovely.”
Penelope’s voice held no enthusiasm, even some small surprise that an event so long past could be expected still to have any importance for her.
Diana looked at her watch.
“I’m afraid I’ve nothing in the house,” she said “We’d better find some lunch out.”
“No.” Penelope roused herself. “No, Di, I don’t want you to give me lunch – or anything. I’ve come to tell you something. You ought to be warned.”
“Warned?”
Penelope told her. About the cleaner’s death, that it was murder, that the police were asking questions of all the tenants at the flats, that they had found her cheque in the dead woman’s handbag.
“My God!” whispered Diana. A cheque with Simon’s name on it, even if it was signed by Penny. A cheque that linked him to the old bitch that did his rooms. He had told her a good deal about Mrs. Morris and her threats. But always as if he had frightened her off.
“If only he wasn’t so careless,” Penelope said. “He must have torn up my cheque and thrown it away and she found and kept it.”
“Why did he tear it up?”
Penelope told her, quite frankly. Diana stared.
“Did Simon tell you why he wanted you to lend him thirty pounds?” she asked, sharply.
“No. Oh, was it to pay that woman blackmail? Did she know … ?” It was Penelope’s turn to stare, horrified. The abyss was growing all the time.
“About me? He thinks she guessed. Not that I ever went there. But I agree with you, he’s so careless sometimes. So careful and so bloody careless. You never know what he’ll do. Why didn’t he borrow from me? There’d have been none of your – complications.”
“How could he? He’d left you, hadn’t he?”
“Left me? My poor child, you don’t think your silly little affair with him made any difference to us?”
Pity her revenge came too late, Penelope thought, as she smiled into the angry face before her.
“I wouldn’t know,” she said, quietly. “I expect it would have made a difference to me if I had. But I suppose you’re used to sharing.”
Before Diana had time to strike again she went on to tell her about the interview with the Chief-inspector and its outcome.
“That’s what I came here to tell you,” she said. “I told Simon at once, so that he’d use the same explanation.”
“When did you see him?”
“I didn’t. I don’t see him now. It’s finished. I thought you realised that.” Penelope spoke calmly, quite decisively. She saw disbelief in Diana’s face. She could not resist one more thrust at her former more successful rival. “I expect it was the difference in our ages as much as anything. He and I don’t belong to the same generation. Ideas about things have changed since he was young.”
Diana laughed harshly.
“I don’t think you know what you’re talking about,” she said. “But I’m glad you’ve got over it. Simon will be glad, too.”
“Hasn’t he told you, then? I’d have thought from what you say that he would, seeing you are a sort of father – or should I say – mother – confessor.”
They stood glaring at each other, both striving to invent more hurtful words to fling. Diana gave it up first. She had never ceased to expect this outcome. Penelope was not the sort of girl to hold more than a passing attraction for Simon. She was not capable of dealing with his difficult, complex nature. Above all, she had not really loved him, or not with the abiding passion that filled her own life.
So now Diana felt forgiving, indulgent. She said, more quietly, “There’s no point in our scrapping like a pair of alley cats. I’ll remember what you said. I think you should warn anyone else who’s likely to get involved.”
“Who could be?”
“I don’t know. Look, why don’t you get John to advise you.”
“John! I couldn’t possibly ask him …”
“Yes, you ought to. I remember now Simon said John had called and been offensive to him.”
“Then he did go! I told him not to.”
“What d’ you mean?”
“The evening we got back. When I reached our flat he was there with Caroline. I was – rather upset. John shot off though I told him not to. He was mad at Simon for – because – I wouldn’t say what had happened.”
“Then you must see John. If the police find out he was there that evening after you left and that there was a row over you, then your story about the cheque will look pretty silly, won’t it?”
Penelope nodded. It was what she had feared. They would all be drawn in, unless they could all be warned and hold to the same story.
Diana moved across the room to the telephone.
“Shall I try to get him for you? His aunt ringing up will sound better, won’t it?”
She made a face as she said ‘aunt’ and Penelope, who never could remain angry for long and did not enjoy fighting, particularly with anyone as well equipped for retaliation as Diana, smiled at her and nodded. Their quarrel was over, since the cause of it had vanished.
John Allingham had his own reasons for considering it urgent to see Penelope, more this time on Simon’s account than on hers. He listened to her account of the cheque and then said, abruptly, “Was he ever violent when you were with him?”
“Violent? Simon? Of course not.”
As he did not answer she said, “Why? Why do you ask that, John? Was he violent with you?”
<
br /> He told her then of Simon’s attack on him and the outcome. She was appalled.
“It’s so utterly unlike everything he stands for – or seems to stand for. I simply don’t understand – I can’t believe …”
“You believe that I’m speaking the truth?”
“I must – as it’s you, John.”
“Thank you.”
They sat, looking at each other, afraid to say what was in both their minds.
“Do you think there’s anything wrong with him?” John asked at last. “I mean, when he didn’t get up and was obviously not hurt it occurred to me he might be basically – well – a bit queer.”
“You mean mental, don’t you? Mad?”
“It isn’t always obvious, is it? I mean, it comes on slowly. We had a chap went crackers all of a sudden while I was at Gib. this August. I didn’t tell you, did I? Not much in touch, were we?”
She shook her head, sadly.
“I think we ought to tell your father about this,” he said. “I’m prepared to back your statement about the cheque. If I’m ever asked, which doesn’t seem likely. But, don’t you see, the cops are almost certain to ask your father to confirm when he sent you your allowance and so on. We don’t want him letting off about Simon. I don’t say he’s very likely to. But he took it extremely hard, didn’t he?” She nodded, sadly.
“I think I’ll have a word with him before I go back. Will he be at his club this evening?”
“I expect so.”
Before he left her Penelope said, “That evening finished it, John. I simply don’t care any longer.”
They were standing at the door of Caroline’s flat. He said nothing, but taking her in his arms gave her a long and satisfying kiss. Then he was gone, leaving her with a warm sense of comfort and security she had not felt for many months.
Hubert showed a certain amount of embarrassment as he greeted John. But when he understood that his business had less to do with Penelope than with Simon Fawcett he showed more readiness to listen.
“Isn’t this rather a public place for what you have to say?” he asked. “I can’t guarantee, even if we manage to find a secluded corner or an empty room that we shan’t be disturbed.”
“Well, perhaps. I’ve my car outside.”
“Then I suggest we adjourn to my house,” Hubert said, feeling relieved. “Have you dined?”
“Yes,” John answered, with a gleam of malice provoked by the other’s stiff attitude and speech. “Penny gave me an excellent meal, thank you.”
Hubert made no answer but when he was in his own house he ordered Mrs. Byrne to make coffee and himself got out brandy and glasses, pouring a smallish tot for John and a rather larger one for himself.
“You’re driving back tonight, I take it,” he said, to explain his stinginess.
John laughed and agreed that he had every intention of keeping sober. They talked about his present work at H. M.S. Excellent until the coffee arrived and Mrs. Byrne left them.
“Now, tell me what you have to say about Fawcett,” Hubert prompted him.
John did so, altering the circumstances slightly to make it appear that he had gone to warn Simon of the danger to his position at the college if his affair with Penelope became known there, which was only too likely when the next term began. He did not say that he had warned him about the barrister himself.
“He made light of what I said and I understood from him that it was over. Penny confirms that.”
Her father was silent for a long time.
“I can only be thankful,” he said, “But I don’t pretend to understand the existing code of morals, or lack of it. However, you didn’t come here to listen to my grouse against the modern world. Go on with your story.”
John skated over the matter of the cheque, giving briefly Penelope’s version of it and hurried on to his quarrel with Simon, giving no precise cause for that. But he went into precise detail of the latter’s attack on him. “It wasn’t only the way he suddenly whipped up the knife and came for me. It was more afterwards. I got the knife away and hit him, fairly hard, but he ducked and took it on the side of his head. Nearly broke my knuckles. He went down and stayed down. That was what foxed me. His pulse was all right. His colour was all right. And his breathing. He had his eyes shut. I’m certain he was not unconscious. I was so certain I just went away.”
“Behaving like the coward he is,” said Hubert, with contempt.
“No. He isn’t a coward. I’ll swear he isn’t. I don’t know what it was. All I know is he lost his temper completely in a matter of seconds. If that cheque found on the cleaner indicates any sort of dirty work on her part …”
“You mean blackmail?” said Hubert, for the first time looking really worried.
“Of course.”
“You think Fawcett may have killed her?”
“I want to keep Penny out of it, whatever happens.” John said, firmly. “So in case the police come to you, will you stick to Penny’s story of why she gave him a cheque for thirty pounds.”
“Yes, I will. But I don’t undertake to keep to myself your story of his violence if they ask me what I know of him.”
“As long as you don’t give them my name. I refuse to be pulled into this thing.”
“It wouldn’t be evidence unless you corroborated it.”
“Then it wouldn’t be evidence. What I’ve just told you was in confidence. To make sure you see how important it is to keep Penny out of it.”
“Very well. In any case they may not want to see me at all. I shall not make the first move. I can promise you that.”
Chapter Five
Two days later Chief-inspector Mont paid another visit to Mr. Nelson. As before, he found him at home, but this time he was clearly not expecting another interview with the police. He stood in his doorway, surprised and hesitating, until Mont asked if he might have a few words with him. Then, reluctantly, he made way for the other to pass in.
“I’m sorry to bother you again,” said Mont, insincerely, “but certain information has come in that makes it imperative.”
“Such as?”
Mr. Nelson had stiffened, but he spoke as quietly as ever.
“I won’t beat about the bush,” Mont told him. “You were dismissed from the Health Service seven years ago for obtaining narcotic drugs for your own use, by falsely representing them to be prescribed for certain of your patients. You were subsequently struck off the medical register for this. You are at the present time a registered addict under your own name, which is …”
“Need you go on?” Nelson asked, wearily. “All that is a very long time ago.”
“I’m afraid I must. You work at present as a representative of a firm of manufacturing chemists producing chiefly sedative and narcotic drugs. You have been obtaining supplies of these drugs for your personal use by forging the signatures of doctors purporting to receive samples from you.”
“Have you asked every doctor I’ve visited whether he’s taken a sample? Can they possibly remember? All the firms bombard the doctors now-a-days. They sign for a sample to get rid of you. Put it straight in the fire, I wouldn’t wonder.”
“These were not put in the fire. They were in a drawer in Mrs. Morris’s bedroom.”
Nelson gave a sharp, despairing cry and flung himself down on a chair with both hands to his face.
“I must ask you what was the nature of this traffic with Mrs. Morris,” Mont said, sternly.
Nelson raised a white, haggard face.
“It began when one of the doctors pushed the sample back to me after he’d signed for it. Said he’d changed his mind about trying it. Couldn’t be bothered. But I had his name on the slip in my book. I used the stuff for myself. It gave me ideas.”
Mont nodded. The poor sap got supplies from his own doctor but always with the hope that they could be cut down by degrees to the point of elimination. What a hope! The man was a typical case. You only had to look at his room, his clothes, his untidy, dirty appearance
, to confirm it.
“I still don’t see where Mrs. Morris comes in.”
Nelson sighed wearily.
“She found some of the samples. I suppose she made a point of running through all our things in these flats.”
“I shouldn’t wonder.” Mont thought of Mrs. Hyde. An indiscreet letter, probably, in that case. Nelson with his drug-induced carelessness, would be easy meat for the blackmailer.
“She knew what my job is. She knew I didn’t make over much at it. She suggested we might work together. She’d market the stuff if I could bring it in.”
“And you fell for that!”
“Imbecile, I know. I found that out before long.”
“Go on.”
“She never sold the stuff. Or so she told me. But she threatened to tell my firm what I had done.”
“She’d be too scared to get into that racket,” Mont said, “even if she had the contacts. Which I doubt. It wasn’t her line at all. Little family matters were what paid off with her. So she blackmailed you?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“I’ve never kept count. Every month or so. It crippled me.”
“Why did you never report her?”
“And let it all come out and lose the only job I’m ever likely to get?”
The bitter despair in his voice touched even Mont’s hardened soul. After all, the chap had begun life as a doctor.
“How much did you give her that Saturday she was murdered?”
“Ten quid. She wanted twenty. I told her that was all she’d get – ever. I meant it at the time.”
“Did you strangle her? Did you take her handbag and post it through the letter-box of an empty house after you’d recovered your money? Is that how you really stopped the blackmail?”
“No!” Nelson was on his feet, panting and terrified. “No, no, no!”
“O.K. If you didn’t kill her there’s no need to get so excited, is there? Don’t leave here, will you, Mr. Nelson? I mean, go out to your job as usual, but don’t leave your domicile for any other. I may want you to help me again.”
The Hunter and the Trapped Page 12
