by MARY HOCKING
‘Is George in?’
Edward looked up, shook his head, and looked down again; he hardly seemed to recognize her. Paddy felt disappointed. She was excited and pleased with herself and she wanted to show off to someone. Cedar Crescent was deserted; there was no one to see her as she strutted along, swinging her handbag, preening herself in the soft night air. As she entered the house, she stopped in front of the speckled hall mirror. She pulled the bright mauve jumper down across her hips, smoothing it tight between her small, high breasts; she tilted her head back, her green-shadowed eyes registering an exaggerated insolence. The attitude of contemptuous provocation pleased her mightily. She spat one or two phrases at the mirror, the wide crimson mouth trembled and laughter blared out. She swayed away from the mirror and went up the stairs, humming to herself. She could hear the sound of a typewriter and she crossed to Jessica’s study.
Jessica looked up, a little distractedly, from a mound of crumpled paper.
‘You’ll never guess where I’ve been,’ Paddy said.
It seemed to Jessica that Paddy sounded a little less artless than usual; but she dismissed the thought, telling herself that she was falling into a dreary habit of analysing other people’s reactions to the extent where nothing seemed normal. Paddy shattered her attempt at reassurance by saying triumphantly:
‘Scotland Yard!’
Jessica flinched, but she made no comment. Paddy, baulked of the response she had expected, became aggressive.
‘I thought I’d drop in on those two bastards that came here the other day. After all, if they can come mucking around where they don’t belong, I can do the same, can’t I?’
‘They refused to see you, I suppose?’ Jessica asked hopefully.
‘They invited me into their parlour, dear. Ever so polite, they were. “Good of you to come, Miss Brett.” But I don’t think I was top of the popularity poll when I left.’
Jessica pushed her typewriter to one side.
‘What is this all about?’
Paddy sat on the edge of an armchair; her skirt was very short and Jessica had a long view of a slim, stylish leg. She hoped that Paddy had not adopted that particular pose at Scotland Yard.
‘Inspector MacLeish had been after George and Desmond on some trumped-up charge,’ Paddy explained. ‘Of course, he said he was just making enquiries, but it was pretty obvious he meant to be nasty, so . . .’
‘George and Desmond?’ Jessica said sharply.
‘Some bloke got run down outside Beaconsfield and George happens to have the same kind of car so the dumb . . .’
‘I still don’t see what this has to do with you.’
But this, at least, Jessica was beginning to see only too clearly. She watched as Paddy opened her handbag and began rummaging ostentatiously for cigarettes. The brilliant red hair flopped forward, shielding her face.
‘Just that I was with them at the time of the accident.’
Jessica stared, fascinated, while Paddy frowned over a cigarette lighter that did not seem to be functioning well.
‘So I was able to give them an alibi. A lucky thing, wasn’t it?’
‘When did all this happen?’
‘God! You sound like a bloody policeman yourself, Jessica.’ Paddy got the cigarette going and leant back. ‘Well, it happened on the evening of April 20th, if you must know. I ran into them just as they got back to the flat; we had a kind of party, the three of us, and I spent the night there.’ She tossed her head back and looked at Jessica, very straight: ‘That was why you didn’t hear me come in.’
Jessica thought that it was a quite appallingly unconvincing performance; she began to feel afraid for Paddy. Paddy, who had been expecting a row, drew on her cigarette and prepared to enjoy herself.
‘It’s bad luck on George,’ she confided. ‘Because he lent the car to a friend for the evening, which puts him in rather a jam.’
‘Do the police know that?’
‘He’s not going to tell them unless he has to.’
Second line of defence? Jessica wondered. Aloud, she said:
‘Who did you see at Scotland Yard?’
‘Both our friends, dear. The inspector was with the superintendent when I was ushered in, so he hung around. The super, did most of the talking, though. At least, he didn’t talk much, now that I come to think of it; just asked a question here and there and let me rattle on.’ Jessica’s uneasiness deepened, but Paddy went on exuberantly: ‘Which I did to some purpose, I might say. But it’s difficult to take a rise out of that man. Now the inspector! He was mad. He didn’t say much, but I could see he didn’t approve of the soft treatment; there was a vein standing out like a cord on his forehead and he sat stiff as an overwound spring. When I passed him on the way out, he looked as though he would like to beat me. Anyone would think the fellow who was killed had been a pal of his.’
Jessica drew in her breath.
‘The man died, then?’
Paddy nodded, and for a moment even her gaiety was dimmed.
‘I don’t agree with leaving him there in the road when he was hurt so bad. If I’d been in that car it would bloody well have stopped, even if I’d had to knock out the driver.’
‘But you don’t want the person who did it to be caught?’
Paddy’s eyes widened.
‘What’s the point? It wouldn’t bring the poor sod back to life, would it?’
‘I think my conscience . . .’ Jessica began tentatively.
‘Lucky me! I don’t have one of those.’ Paddy laughed and stubbed out her cigarette. ‘And anyway, none of this has anything to do with George.’
Jessica looked at her, wondering whether there was a trace of defiance in her tone; but there was utter certainty in Paddy’s eyes. Perhaps Paddy was right. This habit of suspicion was becoming an obsession: she seemed to be moving into a distorted world in which all the simple things around her were out of focus, in which the questions asked and the answers given bore no relation to one another. Now there was something else that bothered her.
‘Why should Superintendent Harper be concerned with this case?’
And Paddy repeated the familiar words:
‘There’s a possibility that it might be linked with a series of robberies they are investigating.’
Jessica pondered this for a moment, her dark head bent.
‘You mean it wasn’t just a hit-and-run killing? Something more deliberate?’
‘Goodness, Jessica, what a lot you read into things!’ Paddy was admiring. ‘You ought to take up writing thrillers instead of all that kid’s stuff.’
Maybe there was something in that, Jessica thought. Certainly some hours later she had decided that she would have to give up her book for the time being. Sinister undertones and complex thoughts which had no place in a child’s world were beginning to creep in.
None of it made sense, she thought, as she turned out the light and stood for a moment watching a cat prowling across the street; burglaries, hit-and-run killings, alibis, Ames drinking too much and Vickers brittle with anger . . . And yet, deep within herself there was the growing conviction that it was like a jigsaw puzzle; the pieces were all there and if she were to try to fit them together a pattern would emerge that made very good sense. The thing to do, of course, she told herself as she turned away from the window, was to sweep all the pieces to the floor and never try to assemble them. There was no one to stop her. No one except, possibly, Superintendent Harper whose fund of questions, she suspected, had by no means been exhausted.
II
Harper did not make any attempt to see Edward Saneck for a few days. Saneck, he thought, might well be the weak link for which he was looking; the man was so elusive that Harper sensed a reluctance to be interviewed by the police. In which case a few days’ delay would do no harm, Harper thought; it would increase the tension and make his work all the easier for him. He was very busy, however, and at the end of the week he decided that he must leave Saneck to the local man. Then something happened which change
d everything.
And so, when Edward went to the door on Tuesday evening, he found Harper waiting for him. Harper had judged correctly that a few days’ delay would increase the tension and as Edward stood at the door, in the violet dusk of evening, Holland Park seemed very far away and it was of another man that he was thinking as he led the superintendent into his sitting-room.
How stupid the English are! he thought; they talk about their police as though they were in some way different from other policemen, a body composed of comfortable, well-meaning men who were only there to solace lost children and give directions to American tourists. He studied the man in front of him, the strong, compact body with its hint of power, though here it was power held in reserve and there was a suggestion that it would be disciplined, the expressionless face with its strong jaw and watchful eyes. Perhaps, with this man, there would be more reliance on subtlety than brutality; at least, the first approach would be polite. But when that failed? Policemen the world over do not change much, the lust for the hunt stirs their blood and if the fox likes to give them a good run, why, that makes the kill all the more exciting. But I haven’t the courage to give you a good run, Edward thought as he faced Harper; my stock of courage is small and it was used up long ago. Nevertheless, he managed to keep his voice steady as he said:
‘I’m sorry I haven’t seen you before, Superintendent.’
Harper knew that Edward was afraid of him, and while this did not give him any pleasure it was too useful a thing to ignore. He did not, therefore, attempt to be reassuring.
‘You don’t seem very worried about this burglary.’
Edward turned away and muttered:
‘Won’t you sit down?’
Harper looked so ominous standing there, but it didn’t help much when he sat down. It was not his powerful body, Edward decided, that was so menacing, it was his eyes. It would not be much use lying to this man. So he tried the truth first.
‘We didn’t lose much of value,’ he said. ‘And we are fully insured.’
‘So as far as you are concerned they can come as often as they like?’
‘Oh no!’ Edward tried frantically to remove the impression that it was not his valuables about which he was concerned. ‘I hope very much that you will be able to . . .’ He could not bring himself to use the words ‘make an arrest’ so he finished lamely: ‘. . . get our goods back.’
‘If I’m going to help you, you’ll have to help me, Mr. Saneck.’
The sweat broke out on Edward’s forehead. He had closed the window earlier because the noise of children playing in the street disturbed him, and now the room was becoming very stuffy.
‘In what way can I help?’ he asked. ‘I have prepared a list of . . .’
‘Something a little less direct than that, Mr. Saneck. We have other cases linked with yours, and it may be helpful if we can trace some common factor, if you understand?’
Edward, who did not think that it mattered much whether one understood what the police were doing or not, nodded his head.
‘For example,’ Harper went on, ‘you have never experienced any trouble arising from the fact that you are a refugee?’
Edward said ‘no’ quite calmly, but at that moment all hope left him. There was a long silence; Edward knew the purpose of long silences, but he was still unable to bear them.
‘People here are very good,’ he ventured, hoping to please.
And Harper came in smoothly: ‘You think we treat our aliens well? That’s nice to know.’
Their eyes met for a moment and Edward looked away quickly.
‘Some people are rather uncharitable, I’m afraid,’ Harper went on. ‘They seem to have the idea that we give foreigners . . . sanctuary, I suppose you might call it, and then they turn round and betray us when an opportunity presents itself.’
Edward said nothing, but his eyes became blank. Sanctuary. He did not like the word. Sanctuary . . . He had never thought of himself in this relation to the people around him.
‘However,’ Harper was saying, ‘you haven’t come up against that particular problem. So we don’t need to worry about it.’ He took out a pad and a pencil. ‘But just for the record . . . You’re married, I believe?’
‘Yes.’
‘A wife and one child in Poland?’
Edward’s mouth was so dry that he could scarcely form the words:
‘In Russia now.’
‘Oh?’
The room was intolerably stuffy, but Edward was afraid to loosen his collar. Harper was frowning down at his pad.
‘They are quite safe, though,’ Edward said. ‘I hear from my wife regularly . . .’ He stopped, biting his lip, realizing too late that it was a mistake to have anticipated Harper’s enquiry.
‘Quite safe,’ Harper repeated. ‘But they aren’t free to join you?’
‘No.’
‘How long since you last saw them?’
‘I . . . I haven’t thought.’ Edward’s mind fumbled with memory and the reply surprised him more than it did Harper. ‘Why, it must be over ten years since I’ve seen my wife. I’ve never seen the child.’
He felt a sense of desolation, not at the reality of his loss but at its hopeless unreality. He found himself caught up in the tangle of the years; he made a desperate effort to get clear and said tentatively:
‘I can’t see what all this has to do with my burglary.’
Harper, who thought it odd that Edward had not insisted on this point before, murmured:
‘Probably no connection, Mr. Saneck; but we have to make these enquiries, you know.’
He threw in a few more meaningless phrases about casting nets wide and never being sure what might turn out to be relevant. Then, when he judged that Edward had relaxed sufficiently to be off his guard, he leant forward and thrust a photograph at him.
‘Know that fellow?’
The thin, rather anonymous face danced in front of Edward’s eyes; it was some time before he could see it properly. Then he said, with too-obvious relief:
‘No. I don’t think so. Is this the man that broke into my shop?’
‘He was killed in a road accident soon afterwards. It’s possible he knew something about your burglary.’ Edward’s eyes’ swerved away from the photograph.
‘I don’t know him.’
Harper put the photograph down on the arm of his chair. He had something else in his hand, Edward noticed apprehensively, but he said:
‘You have your own car? Or do you use your partner’s?’
‘I have my own car.’
‘Would you have been using it on the night of April 20th?’
Edward put his hand to his mouth to prevent his lips trembling; he had no idea of the point of these particular questions and this frightened him more than anything else.
‘I can’t remember.’
‘It was the night before you went down to Cambridge, wasn’t it? Surely you remember what you did that evening.’
But he didn’t remember; he didn’t remember anything at all. And then, quite suddenly, it came to him.
‘I had to collect my car from a little place called Abinger something or other . . . Hammer, I think. It broke down there the day before. Miss Holt came with me and we had a meal . . .’
But Harper was no longer interested. He made a movement as though to rise, and then, casually, he handed another photograph to Edward.
‘You might just have a look at that.’
There was a long pause, then Harper said quietly:
‘You do know him, then?’
Edward seemed to make a great effort to draw together the tatters of his strength.
‘I met him once. A week ago, in Cambridge.’
‘Do you know him well?’
‘I told you,’ Edward’s voice was quite level. ‘I only met him once.’
‘For what purpose?’
‘I bought some glasses from him – Jacobean. You may see them if you like, they are in the shop.’
‘And
you can’t tell me anything about him?’
This time Edward met Harper’s eyes steadily; the effort seemed to take all his strength, but still his voice held as he answered:
‘I can tell you nothing.’
And he thought: whatever you do to me, this is one person I will not betray.
‘There are one or two things I am anxious to know,’ Harper said.
‘Then you must ask him.’
‘I can’t do that.’ Harper thrust brutally: ‘He killed himself on Sunday evening.’
He watched the taut control break, the last remnants of fight ebb. Now, he knew, was the time to move in for the kill and he was surprised how much he disliked doing it.
‘You still can’t tell me anything about him?’
‘No.’
‘No idea whether something might be troubling him?’
‘No.’
‘You didn’t notice that he seemed to be disturbed in any way?’
‘No.’
Edward was moving his head from side to side as though each question were a blow.
‘No trouble over these glasses that you bought from him?’
‘No.’
‘He didn’t try to confide in you?’
‘No, no . . .’
‘Or ask for your help?’
The room was reeling; Edward heard Harper’s voice, sharp, staccato: ‘Put your head down.’
Edward pressed his hand to his mouth and muttered:
‘I’m going to be sick.’
‘Which is the bathroom?’
As Harper half-dragged him across the room, something snapped in Edward’s brain, the world disintegrated and time past merged with time present. He stumbled and then he was on his knees retching until his ribs ached and pain racked his chest; afterwards, as he staggered back against the wall, he thought – now it will start again, the beating, the . . . He saw Harper moving towards him and he screamed.
Harper stopped at once. After a moment, he damped a towel and threw it across to Edward. When Edward had wiped his face. Harper said:
‘We’ll get you something to drink.’
Edward hesitated.
‘All right,’ Harper said, and he, too, sounded sick. ‘I’ll go first.’
He found a blanket in the bedroom and handed it to Edward who was now sitting in a chair shivering; he kept at a distance from him.
