The End Of Solomon Grundy

by Julian Symons

  “It wasn’t necessary.”

  “When he suggested it, what did you say?”

  “Said I’d think about it.”

  “Why go so suddenly? Why the one-way ticket?”

  “Why not. Nothing to keep me. I didn’t know when I’d be coming back—”

  “Nothing to keep you. We wanted you for questioning, you knew that.”

  “You didn’t say so.”

  “Come on now, that won’t wash. You aren’t a fool. Are you?”

  “I don’t know. You tell me.”

  “You say you didn’t leave in a hurry.”

  “No special hurry.”

  “At an hour’s notice. Getting on the first plane you could. Without telling your wife?”

  “I’d have sent her a postcard.”

  They left it and came back to it, talked about Estelle Simpson and came back to that.

  “Your car’s been identified – seen near her flat – you were seen going in – she opened the door to you, stood talking – because of Kabanga, was it? – you didn’t want to share her – she was threatening to tell your wife – demanding money – is that why you did it? – come on now, if she was blackmailing you that’s your story – you’ve got a story and we want to hear it – if you were innocent why run away – ?”

  To these and hundreds of other questions Grundy’s replies were that he had not known Estelle Simpson, had not visited her in Cridge Mews, had not run away. He had been going on holiday.

  “I don’t see much sign of that broken nerve,” Ryan said after five hours had passed.

  Manners was pale, and his face was covered with sweat. He disliked these sessions.

  “No.”

  “If anything, he’s in better shape than we are. Tough as old rope. What do we do, soldier on?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “He goes on helping us with our inquiries, you might say.”

  “If Leighton recognises him we’re all right.” “And if he doesn’t?” Manners did not reply.

  The identification parade was more than usually difficult to arrange. The procedure is that plain-clothes policemen go out into the street about half an hour before the time fixed for the parade and collect people from the street. They had tried to find ginger-haired men, but had only discovered a couple, and the other men had hair ranging in colour from flaxen to mouse. Only two or three of them much resembled Grundy in appearance.

  Grundy had been told that he could have his solicitor or a friend present. He had first of all said that he wouldn’t bother, but had then changed his mind and asked for a neighbour from The Dell named Weldon.

  “Weldon?” Ryan said.

  “Dick Weldon. And you’d better look out. Dick’s a civic-minded type, if he finds you doing anything out of line you’ll be for it.”

  Manners had nothing to do with the parade, which was conducted by the station officer. The two witnesses were Seegal, the garage man, and Leighton. Dick Weldon stood in a corner beside the station officer, large nose slightly raised. He had voiced a protest as soon as he saw the other people on the parade.

  “They don’t look like Sol.”

  “We’ve done the best we can, sir.”

  “Look at that little shrimp there, he’s not more than half Sol’s size. And that chap in the brown coat, he looks like a tramp.”

  “He had the option of refusing the parade, sir. He didn’t choose to do so.”

  “If you ask me the thing’s a bit of a farce. I suppose he realised that, and wanted to get it over.”

  The station officer made no reply. He had already marked Weldon down as an objectionable barrack-room lawyer type. He went into the room where the witnesses were waiting, with a police officer, and said to them: “You understand, walk slowly down the line. Take your time, don’t hurry, you can go back and look at any of them twice. If you make an identification there’s no need to say anything, just touch the person you identify on the shoulder so that there’s no mistake. You will go out by another door, and as soon as you have gone out you must leave the building. You must not talk to each other. Do you understand?”

  They said that they understood. Seegal, small and swarthy, was the first to go in. He took some time, looking carefully at Grundy, who stood next to last in the line, and at two of the others. Then he said to the station officer, “I think it’s the one next to the door. The biggest one, with the tweed overcoat on.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m ninety per cent certain that’s the chap I’ve seen.” “You mean it might have been someone else?”

  “No, I’m sure that’s the chap.” Seegal touched Grundy on the shoulder.

  Leighton followed him. He walked up and down the line two or three times, twitching nervously.

  “Do you want any help?” the station officer asked.

  “Want them to take their coats off, anything like that?”

  “No. He was wearing an overcoat. I just want to make sure.”

  He walked up and down twice more, and then tapped Grundy on the shoulder.

  “You’re certain of the identification?”

  “Definitely, oh yes, definitely.”

  The other members of the parade dispersed. Dick Weldon asked the station officer,

  “What happens now?”

  “They identified him, you saw that. I tell the super.”

  “And then?”

  “That’s up to him.”

  Manners listened to what the station officer had to say. Then Grundy was called.

  “You have been identified today as a man who went with Sylvia Gresham into Mr Kabanga’s house at The Dell on the evening of Saturday, 21st September, as a frequent caller at her Cridge Mews flat, and as a man seen to enter that flat on Monday evening, the 23rd, at about ten o’clock. Do you want to amend your statement in any way?”

  “It’s all bloody nonsense.”

  “That is all you have to say?”

  “Yes. Except – can I talk to Dick Weldon?”

  “In a moment.”

  He was formally charged with the murder by strangulation of Sylvia Gresham, also known as Estelle Simpson. Then he saw Dick, who said firmly, “That identity parade was a farce. You should never have agreed to it. No use worrying about that now, though. Who’s your solicitor?”

  Grundy’s big hands clasped each other tightly. “Solicitor? I haven’t got one.”

  “Shall I get in touch with old Trapsell, then, my own solicitor? He’s on the ball, you’ll find.”

  “Yes. All right.”

  “Just a matter of mistaken identification,” Dick said heartily. “Trapsell will get it straightened out soon enough. What about Marion?”

  “She’s gone off to stay with her father.”

  “I know. Damned bad, running out like that. Still, she ought to be told. And I’ll tell your office partner, shall I, what’s his name – Werner.”

  He provided encouraging conversation for another five minutes, until Grundy was taken away.

  PART THREE

  Chapter One

  Counsel’s Opinion

  Marion and her father sat in Magnus Newton’s chambers while he walked up and down on the rather dirty carpet and talked about the case in brief interjectory gusts. Newton was a red-faced puffy little man with a high reputation which, according to some of his critics, he had done little to earn. He was, however, a fashionable QC and Trapsell said they had been lucky to get him.

  “Nothing but the best,” Mr Hayward had boomed.

  “Only the best is good enough for my girl.”

  Trapsell, a dapper and cynical little man who looked rather like a waiter, thought: and your girl’s husband. Aloud he said, “It’s a matter of availability, largely. It so happens Newton is free. If he hadn’t been—” His shrug indicated the depths to which they might have been compelled to sink. “Mind, it will cost you money.”

  “Only the best,” reiterated Mr Hayward. And now the best was in front of them, talking with his custom
ary air of frayed irritability about the case.

  “Spoke to your husband, Mrs Grundy, simply says he didn’t know the girl at all, the whole thing’s a mistake. You can’t offer any opinion on that?”

  “No. I was there at the party when she slapped his face. But he had never mentioned her to me. And when I spoke about the – the incident afterwards, he said he didn’t know her.” She paused. “Will you want me to give evidence?”

  “I should think so, yes. Don’t you want to?”

  “If it’s necessary.”

  “I don’t want my little girl exposed to more unpleasantness than necessary,” Mr Hayward said.

  Newton glared. “Murder is an unpleasant business, Mr Hayward. Did you quarrel much? There’s this story about a scream, that’s a bit of nonsense I suppose, hysterical woman, Mrs what’s her name, Facey.”

  “We had had an argument, and I think I probably did cry out. But for the most part we had a good relationship.”

  “Ha.” Newton looked at her, seemed about to say more, didn’t. “Now, I’ll tell you the way I see this case. The evidence on the other side is divided into two Parts. First the evidence linking your husband with Simpson at The Dell, then the evidence putting him at her flat on the night she was killed. And there are three important points.” He held up three stubby fingers. “One, this girl Paget who’s supposed to have seen him with Simpson on Saturday night. Know anything about her, any grudge against your husband, that sort of thing?”

  “Sol didn’t – doesn’t – get on too well with her father. But I don’t think he even knew who she was. I’ve only spoken to her half a dozen times myself. I don’t know any reason why she should have a grudge against us.”

  “Because that particular bit of evidence, seeing your husband going into the house with Simpson, that’s something we’ve got to shake. You’ve tested the light?” he asked Trapsell.

  “Yes. It’s not all that good, but there was enough for her to see by.”

  “Ha. Then there’s the postcard. They have Tissart. I suggest we try to get hold of Borritt.” He turned again to Trapsell, who nodded sagely. Newton coughed, beamed, and then, conscious that he had not been entirely explicit, explained. “Tissart, the handwriting expert they will call, is quite positive your husband wrote the card. I hope that we shall be able to call an expert just as eminent, just as eminent I assure you, to say that he didn’t. And then the third point is this identification by the man Liston.”

  “Leighton,” said Trapsell.

  “Leighton. That places your husband at the right spot, more or less at the right time. I don’t like that. No, I don’t like that at all.”

  “Just a few seconds,” Mr Hayward boomed, as though he were in Court himself. “A man can easily be mistaken.”

  Newton looked at him, swelled up a little, appeared likely to burst out in wrath, but in fact only said mildly, “We have to convince the jury of that, Mr Hayward.” He went back to his desk, looked through the depositions. “Jellifer and Clements, they’re supposed to have seen your husband in his car, or seen the car rather. What about them? Any grudge against you?”

  “Why, no. They’re – we’ve always thought of them as friends.”

  “All right. They’re not important, it’s the three principal points we’ve got to hammer away at. One more thing. You’re still staying with your father?”

  “Just outside Hayward’s Heath,” Mr Hayward said.

  “Same name but it doesn’t belong to me, worse luck.”

  Newton went on as though he had not spoken. “The question of your husband leaving the country is bound to be raised. As you know, he was going for a holiday, but the prosecution are bound to say otherwise. It would help if you could make it plain that you went to stay with your parents by mutual agreement. That’s one reason why I should like you to give evidence.”

  “I see,” Marion said. “All right.”

  Newton said slowly, “It would help to scotch any rumours – and in my opinion a good part of this case is the product of rumour – if you went back to live again at home. In The Dell, I mean.”

  For a moment Marion’s gaze met the stare of Newton’s little eyes. Then she looked down. “I don’t think I could do that. Not yet, at any rate.”

  “Ha.” Newton continued to look at her for a few moments. Then his manner changed to jocular urbanity as he wished them good day, and told Marion not to worry. To Trapsell, who stayed behind for a few more words, he said, “She thinks he did it.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that.”

  “Trouble is I shall have to call her so that we can put something up against this story of his running off to Belgrade. But I don’t like putting her into the box, I don’t trust her. For that matter, I don’t like him. Uncouth devil. Doesn’t seem to take any interest in the case.”

  “I’d noticed that myself.”

  “You’d think he didn’t care what happened. Oh, well, wouldn’t do to take only the clients we liked, would it?” Mr Trapsell laughed dutifully. Newton tapped his nose. “Something I forgot. You might find out if he’s got any form at all, our client.”

  “I checked. He hasn’t.”

  “Good. Shouldn’t have been surprised if he had, you know, punching a policeman on the nose, that sort of thing. I wish he didn’t look such a violent type, I must say.”

  Chapter Two

  Down in The Dell

  Caroline Weldon wheeled in a trolley from the other side of the room divider, and shouted “Supper.” Cyprian did not stop looking at the television set, but stretched out a hand, picked up a bowl of soup and a spoon and began to convey the soup to his mouth. Gloria came in, said, “Oh, Mummy, look at him, honestly he’s too much.”

  She walked over to the television and switched it off. Cyprian protested. Gloria appealed to her mother.

  “Honestly, he just sits looking at that thing and shovelling food into himself, can you wonder he’s fat?”

  “Bum to you, sis,” said Cyprian.

  “And disgusting.”

  “Shut up,” said their mother. Brawny arms akimbo she went to the door and shouted again, “Dick. Supper.”

  Dick came down the stairs, wearing the dirty old clothes he always put on as soon as he got home. He was met by protests from Gloria and Cyprian, which he ignored. He took his bowl of soup and began to drink it standing in front of the television set, rather as a few years earlier he might have stood in front of a fireplace. There were no fireplaces in The Dell.

  Caroline sat on the arm of a chair with her own soup, and looked respectfully up at him. She knew the signs. Dick was about to make some serious pronouncement. It was the kind of thing that made her feel they were really a tremendously united family, and sure enough when he spoke it was to use the out-of-date slang which for Dick was always a sign of emotion.

  “Rally round now, all of you, and listen to me. I want to talk about Sol.”

  “Is he a killer?” Cyprian asked. Gloria gave an exasperated sigh.

  “Of course he’s not. We all know Sol, he’s a bit of a rough diamond but he wouldn’t do anything like that. He never even knew the girl.” In spite of himself, Dick could not help letting a slight note of scepticism enter his voice as he said these words.

  “Then why did he tear her dress? And why did she slap his face?” Cyprian asked.

  “Honestly, doesn’t he butt in, Daddy, isn’t he the most terrible bore?”

  “You’re both being pretty tiresome.” Dick was a quick eater. He had finished his soup, and now took a hunk of bread and cheese. “If you’ll listen to me for five minutes we might get on a bit. Sol’s going to be tried for murder on some of the flimsiest evidence I ever saw. That identification parade was a scandal, he should never have let himself be put up for it. I’m sorry to say that some of our friends here seem just to be taking it for granted that he did it. Very bad show, that is. Now, what I suggest is that we should form a little group to try to discover the evidence that shows Sol didn’t do it.”

>   “Suppose he did?” It was Cyprian again.

  Dick Weldon rarely lost his temper, and he did not do so even under this provocation. He said calmly, “He didn’t, Cyprian. Let’s not argue about that.”

  Caroline was looking puzzled. “What have you got in mind?”

  “First of all, there’s what Jennifer Paget said about seeing them outside on Saturday night. I believe she was – mistaken, let’s put it that way. I thought we might just go over and make sure exactly what she could see.”

  Half an hour later, the four of them stood at the entrance into The Dell from Brambly Way. Gloria and Cyprian had reluctantly agreed to play the parts of Estelle Simpson and Sol, and were standing close together almost opposite Kabanga’s house. Caroline, leading an imaginary dog, entered The Dell from Brambly Way and walked past them. Afterwards Gloria and Cyprian went together towards Kabanga’s house. Dick stood watching.

  “Did you see them?”

  “Don’t be silly, of course I did. I knew they were there. And they were standing almost under the lamp. They could have moved farther into the shadow.”

  “It’s damp farther in,” Gloria said. “She wouldn’t have wanted to get her shoes dirty, would she?”

  Dick had his pipe going. Now he said, “Why should they have been standing outside anyway, running the risk of someone seeing them, why not go into the house straight away?”

  Felicity Facey bore down upon them, with Adrienne in trail. They exchanged sharp “Good nights”. Felicity’s suggestion that Marion had been murdered had become known in The Dell and had aroused indignation in some households, approval in others. Caroline had made clear her own feeling that Felicity had behaved badly, and the two women were barely on speaking terms. When she had gone by Dick repeated his question, to which nobody had an answer. “I think I’ll just have a word with old Trapsell about that.”

  After they were indoors again Gloria said, “I tell you what I might do, I might talk to Adrienne. At school, I mean. She’s quite thick with Jennifer, and she keeps on saying things about her that are – well, sort of mysterious.”