by Julian Gloag
“Yes, but—”
He was interrupted by the entrance of Colin’s secretary.
“Miss Lawley, put this away, will you?” Colin tapped the manuscript. “And draw up the usual contract for Ballard.”
“Yes, Mr. Sutlif. Minimum terms?”
“Yes. And, oh, Miss Lawley, I’m afraid you’ll have to look after Mr. Jordan for a bit in view of what’s happened.”
“She already is,” Jordan said. “June was on her holidays, you know.”
Miss Lawley nodded slightly, like a head housemaid acknowledging a tradesboy. Dusty yet regal, she wore a brown stole that might well have been a counterpane she’d whipped off the bed and slung round her shoulders before leaving home. She didn’t like Jordan. She was supposed to have a kind heart.
She went out, but returned almost immediately with a cup of coffee for Colin and tea for Jordan.
Jordan took the cup. “Miss Lawley,” he said casually, “I think I’d like coffee in future, if I may.”
“Coffee, Mr. Jordan? But you always take tea.”
“Yes, but I think I’d prefer coffee.”
Miss Lawley seemed to be waiting for an explanation of this extraordinary request. None came, and at last she said, “Very well,” and left the room with sweepingly dismissive speed.
Colin Sutlif lit a cigar, first dipping the end of it gently into his coffee. Immediately the fragrance filled the room and reminded Jordan, as it always did, of the time when the annual Christmas visitor at Sibley had inexplicably changed—Father had been replaced by Uncle Colin—and the smell of festivity had switched from whiskey to cigars. Father had reappeared only once, to lie exposed in his coffin for a day and a night in the small rectory chapel. When Jordan had obediently kissed the white, drained face, he had been puzzled by the absence of the old familiar odour. For a long while after, he had secretly thought they’d buried a waxwork by mistake and that his real father lived on somewhere, red-faced and rich-smelling as ever.
“Seen the Telegraph this morning?” Colin asked.
“No—I’m a Guardian man.”
“That faded liberal rag. Have a look at this.” He threw the Telegraph across his desk. “At the bottom there.”
Jordan found the short paragraph headed “Kensington Murder.”
The body of a twenty-four-year-old woman was discovered yesterday at 27 Panton Place by Mrs. M. Ardley, landlady. Death was due to strangulation. The police, headed by Chief Superintendent S. George of the C.I.D., are vigourously investigating the murder. The victim has been identified as June Sanger, a secretary at the firm of Sutcliff & Maddox, well-known London publishers.
It had been the same in the Guardian, almost word for word. So she had not gone away after all. Jordan felt an uneasy flutter at the thought he’d seen her on Monday, a couple of days at most before the murder. He’d give Superintendent George a ring as soon as he was finished with Colin.
“Well-known publishers, my foot,” said Colin. “Not well-known enough to get the name right.”
He meant, Jordan knew, Sutcliff, not Sanger. Colin had a mania about the misspelling of his name: S-U-T-L-I-F, he’d shout in rage. Jordan had once heard him yelling down the telephone, “Not s—f! F—f—f—f! F for fart!”
“They’re not giving much away,” Jordan said.
“They probably know who did it alright. Don’t like to show their hands until they’ve got a watertight case. Poor kid. A bloody business.” He clenched the cigar in his teeth. “I hope they catch the bugger quick.”
“They haven’t talked to you, have they?”
“The police? Yes. They were on the phone first thing I got in this morning. Want permission to look through our files.”
“What in heaven’s name for?”
“Just ‘routine.’ I suppose they’re hoping to find a compromising letter or two. God knows how the police mind works. I wish them joy of it. I’m just wondering how to break the news to Miss Lawley—she’ll scream bloody murder at the … Damn. How wildly out of proportion one’s language gets. Well, if she doesn’t like it, she’ll just have to put up with it.”
“It seems rather unlikely that June would have filed compromising letters.”
“Yes, old chap, but it seems rather unlikely that she should have been murdered. I suppose you had a word with her people?”
Jordan sipped his cooling tea. “Don’t think she had any. Her mother died a few months ago. Her father had been dead for years. I don’t know that she had anyone else.”
“Well—perhaps it’s just as well.” Colin turned and stared out of the window. “Poor child.”
Whenever Colin dropped his gruff and caustic manner, Jordan felt inexplicably ill at ease, as though he’d accidentally stepped into a prayer meeting. It didn’t happen very often. Jordan shook his head to disperse the memory of those other occasions.
He was glad to be rescued by Miss Lawley.
“The police are on the telephone, asking for you, Mr. Jordan.” She paused. “I thought,” she said meaningfully, as though the police had been called in to investigate his strange preference for coffee over tea, “that you’d prefer to take the call in your own office.”
He grinned at her. “Right you are. We’re all settled, aren’t we, Colin?”
Colin grunted.
Jordan was glad they’d phoned. Saved him the trouble of ringing them up himself. In his own office, he picked up the phone.
“Superintendent George, I was just going to ring you. There’s—”
“Inspector Symington here. You were going to phone us? Yes, what about, Mr. Maddox?”
“Well—” he instinctively disliked Symington, the official tone without any pretence of humanity—“I was just going to say it’s quite alright for you to have a look through our files.”
“Mr. Sutlif has already granted us permission to do that, sir. Was that all?”
“Yes, that’s all,” he said sharply.
“Well, Mr. Maddox, we’d rather like to have a word with you.”
“Fire away.”
“Not on the telephone. We’d like to see you.”
“See me? But you’ve already seen me once.”
“There are one or two small matters we’d like to clear up.”
“Alright then. If you must. When do you want to come up? The afternoon would be—”
“We’d like you to come to the station, Mr. Maddox, if that’s alright.”
“It certainly is not alright. I’ve got a very great deal to do—”
“To assist us in our enquiries,” Symington said flatly.
“Look, Inspector, I’m perfectly willing to assist you in your enquiries, although I’m blowed if I can see what more I can tell you, but I really can’t go gallivanting round to Scotland Yard or wherever it is—”
“Sarah Street. Sarah Street police station. Chelsea. Quite easy by bus, you just—”
“I’ve no doubt you are a busy man, Inspector, but I too am busy.”
“We’re investigating a case of murder. Surely it is not too much to ask a citizen to do his duty by assisting the police in their enquiries? I’m quite sure we won’t need to keep you long, Mr. Maddox, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Oh … blast! Alright. I’ll come down this afternoon. Where did you say it was?”
“Sarah Street, Chelsea. We’d like you to come now.”
“Now? I can’t possibly …” He looked at his watch. Ten-thirty. What difference did it really make anyway? The day was clearly going to be ruined. “Very well then. I’ll be with you in half an hour.”
“Sarah Street police station. It’s easy enough to find. Take a number—”
“Yes, yes. I’ll find my way.” He put the phone down. Bloody nuisance.
He’d been holding his cup of tea all this while. He put it down on the desk. At least he wouldn’t have to drink any more of that. Suddenly he laughed. It was ridiculous—he was behaving as badly as Colin. And after all, he did have a kind of responsibility
towards June.
The sun was out, and it mollified him. He walked a bit, then took a cab. He was at the police station in twenty minutes.
He was asked to wait. “Won’t be a minute, sir,” said the uniformed sergeant.
It was much more than a minute. Ten, then fifteen, then twenty-five. “Sergeant, I really can’t wait all day.”
“I’m sure Mr. George won’t be five minutes, sir. You just sit tight.”
Forty minutes. He had long ago ceased to be interested in the sergeant’s telephone calls. “Look,” he said, “I’ll wait another five minutes, then I shall simply have to go.”
The sergeant said he would go and have a look, and went. He came back to say that Mr. George would be out right away.
But it was another twenty-five minutes before the superintendent appeared. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Maddox.”
“So am I,” Jordan said, and immediately felt ungracious.
“Come this way, will you?” said George with impassive kindliness.
They went to a tiny room, where the superintendent sat behind a desk. Jordan sat in front of it. In the corner, slightly behind him and to his right, was a third chair. Apart from a three-tier file, that was all the furniture.
“Let’s go on with it, Superintendent, shall we?”
“Just one more minute till Mr. Symington gets here, I’m afraid.”
“Mr. George, do you realise that I’ve been waiting here over an hour? If this is an example of police efficiency, I—”
“I appreciate it’s inconvenient, Mr. Maddox. I appreciate it all the more that you were able to come here this morning. It’s one of the drawbacks in police work, unfortunately—a policeman’s time isn’t his own.”
“I was practically ordered to come here!” He sounded, he knew, not so much indignant as feeble.
“Ordered? Oh, no, Mr. Maddox. Not ordered. I do hope you didn’t form that impression. Ah, here’s Mr. Symington.”
The inspector came in, nodded, and sat down in the third chair with an air of hostile efficiency. He opened his notebook with a snap. When Jordan looked at George, Symington was just out of his line of vision.
“Now we can begin,” said Superintendent George, but he didn’t seem in any particular hurry. He was a maddeningly slow man—Jordan wondered how he could ever have risen to be a chief superintendent. For the policeman was now leisurely turning the pages of his notebook.
“Ah,” he said. “Well, now. How long was June Singer in your employ?”
“Six years.”
“Six years. I see. When did she first come to you? Do you recall the date?”
“June the twenty-sixth. It happened to be my birthday.”
“Did it now? June the twenty-sixth. Well, then, it wouldn’t be quite six years, would it? More like five and a half?”
“Five and a half. Superintendent, you asked me both those questions yesterday and I answered them. Can’t we—”
“Just making sure, Mr. Maddox. Now, perhaps you could tell us what you thought of Singer?”
“What I thought of her? What’s that got to do with anything?”
“We want to form a picture of the sort of girl she was. Anything you can tell us will be of great assistance, I’m sure. You did know her for nearly six years. What sort of an impression did you have of her?”
“Well …” He stopped. That was just the trouble—he really hardly had any impression of her at all, as a person. “Well, she was efficient.”
“Efficient. Is that all?”
“You don’t get to know someone in an office very well.” He was apologizing—where June had been there was now just a vacuum in his mind.
“Would you have said she was quiet, for example?”
“Oh, yes. She was quiet. I mean she talked—but she wasn’t a chatterbox or anything like that. Quiet and efficient. Got on with her work. Responsible—one didn’t have to look over her shoulder or tell her what to do all the time.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere, aren’t we?” The superintendent smiled, and Jordan noticed for the first time a thin veil of close-cropped hair on his upper lip. “What else? Was she attractive?”
“I suppose she was attractive enough, yes. I never thought about it.” He could hear the pencil scratching away in Symington’s notebook. He was unpleasantly aware of the inspector, not three feet from his shoulder.
There was silence. The water in the hot pipes gurgled. It was stuffy and very hot in the room. The window didn’t look as though it had ever been opened.
“Well?” Jordan said at last.
“I thought you were going to tell us a bit more about Singer.”
“It really is a waste of your time—and mine. I know—knew—very little about the girl.”
“Did she ever confide in you?”
“Confide in me?”
“Confide,” George repeated the word firmly.
“Well, she told me about her mother dying and that sort of thing, if that’s what you mean?”
“When Singer first came to you she was living with her mother?”
“In Putney, yes. She only moved quite recently—when her mother died.”
“And when was that?”
“Er—which?” Jordan gave a quick grin.
“When did Singer move to Panton Place?”
“I don’t recall precisely. Some time in December—before Christmas, I think. Mrs. Ardley could give you the exact date.”
“Mrs. Ardley?”
“June’s landlady.” Jordan was puzzled.
“Did you know Mrs. Ardley?”
“Good lord, no. June, you know, used to talk about her a good deal. She was something of a joke—rather a character, I understood.”
“Did you ever meet Mrs. Ardley?”
“No. I said that.”
“Just tell us anything you can remember Singer telling you, Mr. Maddox—doesn’t matter how trivial it sounds.”
“Well, she told me about her mother dying. And she talked about her new flat—room, rather. And about Mrs. Ardley, what—”
“Room?”
“Room, yes.”
“She had a room, not a flat?”
“I believe so. But you must be aware of that, Superintendent.”
“Don’t you worry what I’m aware of, Mr. Maddox. You just tell us what you know.”
“Well, I …” He was ashamed suddenly. Surely he should have known more of June’s life. Or was there any more to know?
“Did she ever tell you about a boy friend, for instance?”
“No.”
“She never hinted she might have a boy friend?”
“That wasn’t the sort of thing she’d tell me about. I wouldn’t expect it.” He shook his head in irritation. It was unfair somehow—this prying. When she was alive, no one would have asked such questions—no one cared. Her private life was her own. But now that she was dead and all should be done with, the most personal things could be raked over. It was sordid. “She wasn’t the kind of girl to go tattling about her private affairs.”
“But she did confide in you?”
“Well, if telling me about her mother’s death is confiding, yes—she confided in me. But really …”
“But she didn’t tell you about any boy friend?”
“I’ve answered that, Superintendent. Surely there’s not much point in going over the same ground again and again.”
“We want to get it absolutely clear. You never can tell when some small detail won’t be very important, Mr. Maddox. Now, you say she didn’t have a boy friend—but, well now, did she receive any private correspondence at the office?”
“I simply do not know.” He almost laughed at the stupidity of it.
“Well, then, personal telephone calls?”
“Again, I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“Ummm.” Superintendent George leafed slowly through his notebook once again. He looked up. “After five years—nearly six, wasn’t it?—you were fond of her?”
&n
bsp; “Fond of her? No, I don’t—”
“You liked her?”
“I liked her? If that’s what you mean, oh yes, I suppose I was fond of her.”
“She was an attractive girl, wasn’t she?”
He was suddenly blazingly angry. “I was not fond of her in that way! I don’t know what the devil you’re trying—”
“What way?”
“In a—in a sexual way, if that’s what you’re driving at. This is quite preposterous. I—”
“You never took her out?”
“I certainly did not!”
“Not even for a friendly drink? Lots of people take their secretaries out for a friendly drink. There’s no harm in that.”
“Well, I … I may have done …”
“Did you?”
“Yes, I think I did, once.”
“When?”
“I can’t remember. Look—”
“Last year? This year?”
“I really can’t remember. And I most strongly resent this question.”
“Why is that? We’re only trying to get at the truth. Why should you object to that?”
“I don’t object to … That isn’t the point.” The point was that he felt, absurdly, in some kind of unknown danger.
“Very well. You can’t remember whether you took Singer out this year or last year. Can you remember where you went to have that drink?”
“No.”
“It wouldn’t have been Panton Place, would it?”
“Good God, no. What on earth do you think I am?”
“Have you ever been in Number Twenty-seven Panton Place?”
“No—I …”
“Have you ever visited Number Twenty-seven Panton Place?”
“Well, I …” He’d only got to say it now—yes—but it would sound all wrong. It would sound as if …
“Come on, Maddox,” Symington’s sharp voice. “Have you or haven’t you ever been to Twenty-seven Panton Place?”
“No!” Damn it! He half turned to look at Symington, the little bastard.
“You’re quite sure of that now, Mr. Maddox, aren’t you?” said George.
“What? Yes. Yes, quite sure.”
