by Julian Gloag
“And when did you last see June Singer alive?”
“I told you yesterday. On Friday.”
“Friday, March the sixth, that would be, would it?”
“Yes.”
“And you did not see her after that?”
“No. I … did not.” They’d trapped him into lying. But why, why did he let this oafish policeman trap him into lying? Not that it mattered—no one could possibly know. But all the same, it was elementary to tell the truth to the police unless—precisely, unless.
“What?” he said.
“I said, do you happen to own a dark-brown cashmere scarf?”
Jordan put his hand to his throat and looked down. It was his dark-blue scarf. No wonder he was hot.
“Well, do you own such a scarf?”
“Well, yes, I do have one, I think. Brown cashmere.” It was Willy’s last Christmas present—she always gave him scarves and gloves—and he’d lost it. He didn’t know when.
Superintendent George leaned over and opened a drawer in the desk. He pulled out a brown scarf, shook it unfolded and laid it on the desk top.
“That it?”
“I’m not sure. I imagine there are lots of brown scarves in London.”
“Examine it.”
“Well—” But already he had spotted the white marker tag which Willy sewed on all his clothes, and the red initials, J.J.M. “Yes,” he said, “that’s mine.”
“Would you explain how it came to be found in June Singer’s room at Number Twenty-seven Panton Place?”
“I … I really have no idea.” He knew that he was smiling. He might have guessed. Everywhere he went he left something behind. Galoshes usually. He went through a dozen pairs of galoshes a year. And gloves—he had hundreds of mismatching lefts and rights. Just because you left a scarf behind didn’t mean—well, it didn’t mean anything. Why, come to that, it wasn’t even certain he’d left it behind. “I haven’t the faintest idea, Superintendent. I can only suppose Miss Singer took it in mistake for her own and forgot to return it.”
“That’s your explanation?”
“What other explanation could there be?”
George frowned. Slowly he took the scarf and folded it into an immaculate oblong. He put it back into the drawer. “Mr. Maddox, there’s usually a reasonable explanation for anything—however silly it might sound. We policemen are simple men; we don’t try to trick people. We just want the truth. That’s all, Mr. Maddox. Now why don’t you just tell me the truth, ummm?” He looked away, as if to spare Jordan embarrassment. “It really can’t do you any harm, can it?”
“I …” He could hardly swallow. His palms were sticky with sweat. He thought ironically how proud he’d been of their dryness last night. But they didn’t know anything—for the very simple reason that there was absolutely nothing to know. With great care he found himself saying, “I have told you the truth, Mr. George.”
George looked at him and sighed; he nodded to Symington, and Jordan heard the inspector get up and leave the room.
“Alright, Mr. Maddox. We’ll leave it at that.”
“Can I go?”
“I’d be much obliged if you could wait for five or ten minutes. Have a smoke?” He took out a worn leather case and a box of matches and put them on the desk top. “Help yourself. Woodbines, I’m afraid.”
“Thanks, I will.” He reached over and took a cigarette. He never thought he would actually need a cigarette.
“Nasty scratch you got there,” said George, looking at Jordan’s wrist, which was exposed as he reached for the cigarette.
Jordan said nothing—this time he had sense enough.
“How did you get it?”
“Cat or something, I suppose,” he said noncommittally.
“You have a cat, do you? My missus loves cats. Got a pair of Siamese. Seal points. What kind of cat’s yours?”
“Haven’t got one, actually. The neighbours, they …”
“Neighbours have a cat, eh? Oh, well, once they take a fancy to you, can’t get rid of ’em, can you? I know just what you mean.…” He went on talking, evenly, calmly—as though he’d seen it all, and perhaps, thought Jordan, he had. And yet not been soured by it.
“Like a cup of tea, would you?”
Jordan glanced at his watch. Christ—it was quarter to three. He’d been here for three hours, four. “Yes, but …”
“It won’t be long now. Just wait here and I’ll see if I can’t rustle up a cup for you.” He got up and went to the door. “Sugar?”
“Yes.”
Left alone, Jordan took out his handkerchief and wiped his face and his hands and his wrists. What an awful little hole it was. He stood up; he ached all over.
The sergeant brought his tea, and Jordan drank it, not caring that the heat of it numbed the roof of his mouth.
Inspector Symington came in quickly, shut the door behind him and went round to the other side of the desk. He was holding a sheet of typewritten paper in one hand.
“Where’s Mr. George?” Jordan asked.
“Busy.” Symington stared aggressively at Jordan, who noted that the inspector’s jacket was sharply, spivishly waisted. Just what you’d expect, he thought.
“Sign this, then you can skedaddle,” said Symington.
“Sign what?”
“This.” Symington handed him the piece of paper.
“What’s this?”
“Your statement.”
“Statement? What are you talking about? I never made a statement.” Jordan glanced at the sheet; it was headed “Statement made by J. J. Maddox to Chief Superintendent George and Detective-Inspector Symington at Sarah Street police station, March 11.”
“It’s exactly what you said. Read it. Alter it, if you want to.”
“I never understood I was making a statement.”
“What did you think you were doing, playing grandmother’s footsteps?”
Jordan stared at Symington. “You’re insufferably offensive aren’t you?”
The inspector smiled. “Well, that sounds like the truth at any rate.”
Jordan dropped the paper. “I’m not signing this.”
“What are you afraid of? Isn’t it true?”
“If it’s what I said, then it’s true.”
“Well, read it and see if it’s not what you said.”
Jordan hesitated. Then he picked up the sheet of paper and began to read.
NAME: Jordan John Maddox
ADDRESS: Woodley Road, Woodley, Surrey
OCCUPATION: Publisher
June Singer was in my employ for five and a half years. She came to work for me on June 26th, which I remember because it was my birthday. I thought she was efficient. But I did not get to know her very well in the office. She was quiet and efficient and got on with her work. I did not have to tell her what to do all the time. She was responsible. She was not a chatterbox. She was attractive, but I never thought about that. She confided to me about her mother dying and about her room at Panton Place where she moved before Christmas. She talked a good deal about Mrs. Ardley, who was something of a joke, although I never met her. She did not tell me about any boy friend. She was not the sort to go tattling about her private affairs. I do not know if she received any personal correspondence at the office. I have not the faintest idea if she received any personal phone calls at the office. I was fond of her, but not in a sexual way. I took her out for a drink once, but I cannot remember when. I did not go to Panton Place. I have never visited No. 27 Panton Place. I recognise the brown cashmere scarf as belonging to me, but I cannot explain how it came to be in June Singer’s room. I can only suppose she took it in mistake for her own and forgot to return it.
I last saw June Singer alive on Friday, March 6.
I have read over this statement and it is in all respects a true one.
He looked up at Symington and smiled. “You think you’re going to get me to sign this?”
“We’re not trying to get you to do anything, Maddox. But I would like
to know why you refuse to sign that statement.”
“Because it’s an utter farce.”
“Oh, no. It’s not a farce, Maddox. It’s a very serious matter. Very serious indeed. We’re investigating a murder.”
“I don’t mean the murder. I mean this statement, so-called. Here, look at this: ‘I was fond of her, but not in a sexual way’! I never said that.”
“I can assure you you did. I took down your words just as you spoke them. I’ll be glad to show you my notebook.”
“I may have said them, but not like that. My God, you make it sound the exact opposite of what I said. The whole thing—the way it’s put—is loaded with false implications. What you need, Inspector, is an elementary lesson in the use of the English language.”
It was Symington now who smiled. “I’d be glad of that. But if the statement isn’t the truth, it’s only you that can correct it, isn’t it? We don’t have to bother about literary criticism, do we? All we want is the simple facts.”
Superintendent George came in just as Jordan was about to reply.
“Hello. Still here, are we?”
“Mr. George, have you seen this ridiculous piece of paper?”
George held out his hand and took the statement. He read it through, now and again mouthing a word. “What’s wrong with it exactly, Mr. Maddox?” he said when he had finished reading.
“The whole thing’s wrong!”
George brightened. “Oh, I see. You want to make a new statement, is that it?”
“I don’t mean what I said was wrong. What I’m saying is, this is a completely false representation of what I did say.”
Frowning, George turned to Symington. “Didn’t you copy this from your notebook, Inspector?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well,” said George, puzzled, “I must say, Mr. Maddox, I thought I heard you using these words. But we can easily check up on it. I wouldn’t want you to sign anything that you don’t feel to be completely true. Let’s just go over—”
Jordan made up his mind. “I’m not going over anything, Superintendent. It seems to me I’ve been kept here long enough and—”
“Kept here? No one’s keeping you, Mr. Maddox. Dear, dear, what ever gave you that idea?”
“In that case, I’m going.” He moved to the door.
“There is just one thing, Mr. Maddox,” the superintendent said mildly, “and I tell you this for your own good. You don’t have to say a word to the police, if you don’t want to. No one does. That’s fair enough, isn’t it? Of course, if you don’t tell us anything—tell us the truth—then it makes our work all the harder. And then, of course, another thing—it looks bad, if you know what I mean. After all, why shouldn’t a man, a citizen, help the police, tell them the truth, sign a statement—why shouldn’t he? Unless he’s got something to fear. Well, think it over, and if you have any second thoughts, just let us know, eh?” He paused. “Well, Mr. Symington will show you out. Good afternoon, Mr. Maddox.”
Out in the street, the fading sunlight and the shoppers beginning to hurry home, Jordan could hardly believe what had happened in there. He’d told them a small lie, for almost no reason—except that in that little stifling room it had seemed vital to prevent their finding out he’d seen June on Monday morning. He stopped on the pavement and half turned. He could go back, as easy as winking. And yet it was unimportant. Trivial. Whichever way he told it, it would sound guilty now. And she quite easily could have taken the scarf home with her by mistake. What did it matter? Damn all!
He might, perhaps, give Tom Short a ring, to be on the safe side. But he could do that in the morning. He hailed a taxi and told the driver “Waterloo.” He’d catch the early train today.
3
“Manzanilla, Mr. Maddox?” enquired William dutifully.
“Yes, thank you, William. Er—no. Make it a whiskey. A large one.”
“Right you are, sir.”
“And give me twenty cigarettes, would you?”
“Any particular kind, sir?”
Jordan shook his head. He took the whiskey and the cigarettes and a box of matches and gave William the exact change.
He went over to the tall Georgian window and turned his back on the club bar. It would be at least fifteen minutes before Tom arrived, and by that time the place would be full of smoke and brash chatter. Now it was empty as a private drawing room and silent except for the faint rattle of ice and chink of glass as William marshalled bottles and tumblers for the lunchtime rush.
Perhaps he should have waited in the parlour upstairs, away from the Friday crowd. But he wanted people. He didn’t want to mix with them, but he wanted them to be there, as usual, as normal. He wanted to forget that in his pocket was a scrap of paper that Archie, the porter, had given him as he came in. A scrap of paper asking him to ring a Chelsea number. He wondered whether it would be Symington or George this time—but whoever it was, they could wait.
He half closed his eyes and the pale sunshine misted and glimmered. The same pale light had filled his room that Easter at Sibley more than twenty years ago, when chicken pox had released him into a lazy world half out of life. Most of the time he had been left alone in his room with the Holman Hunt on the wall, “The Light of the World” tiptoeing sadly in his long nightgown. And Jordan could hear, unusually loud, the pleasing sounds of the house, doors and footsteps and the gong for meals and the strike of the fat, squat clock in the hall (for some unknown reason, Aunt Mary disliked the really good long-case clock, which therefore remained perpetually silent, its weights hanging exhausted at the end of their wire tethers), and the passing of Uncle John, clearing his throat as if to give some stentorian military command, and Annie humming away on the landing as she dusted the willow pattern china displayed on top of the linen cupboard. He remembered the invalid peace of it all.
He would be quite content to sit this one out too.
“Hello, Jordan.”
The whiskey swirled in his glass as he turned. “Hello, Frank. How’s advertising?”
“Oh, pretty bloody.” Frank Wade grinned.
“How’s Ellen?”
“Alright, I suppose. I wouldn’t know.” Frank put a cigarette in his mouth and began patting hopelessly at his pockets for matches.
“Here.” Jordan handed him the box.
“Well, as best man, you should be told, really. Ellen and I have separated.” Frank lit the cigarette and shoved the matches into his pocket.
“Oh,” Jordan said, “I’m sorry.”
“Not legally, of course. Nothing like that. Not yet.” He took a deep breath of cigarette smoke and coughed. “We’ve not seen eye to eye for some time. You know how Ellen is. No warmth. Not that she says anything—but it comes across all the same. Worse.”
Jordan sipped his whiskey. He could think of nothing to say. He remembered Ellen on her wedding day, standing beside him as he read the telegrams—she had been pretty then and happy. He had seen her since, but she hadn’t made much impression.
“I’m a sexual man, Jordan,” said Frank with a little laugh.
Jordan smiled automatically. “Don’t let’s start that again.”
Frank said, “I’ve got a little flat off Sloane Street.” He looked at Jordan. “With Sheila.”
“Sheila?”
“Sheila Steggins. My secretary. You met her.”
“Oh, yes—in your office.” He made an effort—“She’d been in America or something.”
Frank smiled. “That’s right.” He stared out of the window. “You know,” he said quietly, “it may sound silly but I feel I’ve got someone now who understands me. Who wants to understand me.”
“I see,” said Jordan.
“Oh, God!” He gulped his drink. “I might have expected that from you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Forget it.” Frank looked down at his empty glass. “I need a drink. Get you one?”
“No, thanks.”
“Well, keep it under your hat.” He turned awa
y to the bar.
Jordan took out a cigarette and discovered Frank had gone off with his matches. He slipped the cigarette back into the packet.
Tom Short came across the room briskly, his arm upraised to brush away impeding elbows and shoulders.
“I’m late,” he said. “What’s this important business? Do you want to talk about it at lunch or shall we go up to the parlour?”
“Let’s go to the parlour. Look, I’m sorry to drag you away from your conference.”
“Think nothing of it. Lot of rich old bastards trying to cook up a tax fiddle. I was only there to make it look good.” But all the same, his air was hurried. “Let’s get out of here,” he said loudly, looking round. “Full of queers these days. I don’t know why I bother to belong.”
The parlour was empty.
“Do you want a drink?” Jordan asked.
“Not in the middle of the day, old boy. The pot.”
Jordan was uneasy. Perhaps he was really making a fuss about nothing. “Have you got a match, Tom?”
“Yes, right. Here.” Tom snapped open his lighter. “It’s about Willy, isn’t it?” he said abruptly.
“About Willy?” Jordan was puzzled. “No—why should it be?”
Tom laughed. “I didn’t think you’d be looking so worried about anything else.”
“Oh. No, it’s about my secretary—June Singer.”
“The one that was murdered?”
“How did you know?”
“Plastered all over the papers. Besides, Willy told me.”
“You’ve seen Willy?”
“She gave Norah a ring and I picked up the phone. Couldn’t wait to spill the beans.” He laughed again.
Jordan was annoyed; it wasn’t like Willy to go tattling about his private affairs. “Well, I …” This was going to be difficult. “I saw the police yesterday afternoon. Yesterday morning and afternoon. I was there—at the police station—for nearly five hours. And … I feel they badgered me, rather.”
Tom merely grunted.
“They asked me a great many questions. All rather pointless, I thought. And I can’t say I liked their attitude. And then they wanted me to sign a statement.…” He felt as if he were back in that hot little room. “Well, I didn’t sign it because it seemed to me that they’d got what I said hopelessly garbled. And besides that I … it sounds so bloody ridiculous—but I told them a lie. It’s not important but … You see, they asked me when I’d last seen the girl, and I told them on Friday, when she left the office as usual. But in fact, and I only remembered this yesterday morning—or perhaps it was Wednesday night—in fact I’d seen her on Monday morning. And I also told them I’d never been to Panton Place—well, that’s where I saw June on Monday. And then there’s this business of my scarf.”
