by Julian Gloag
“Now!” said George sharply.
Jordan jerked as though he had been hit.
“The truth, Maddox.” He picked up his pipe and tapped the bowl rhythmically on the desk. “No more mucking about. What happened?”
“But I’ve told you. You really must accept it.”
The tapping ceased. “Did you strangle her from in front or behind?” Immediately he’d asked the question, he started rapping again.
“I didn’t strangle her. I didn’t touch her.” This was unfair.
“From behind, wasn’t it?” Tap-tap, tap-tap.
“No,” Jordan raised his voice above the noise of the pipe against the desk. “I tell you, I didn’t even touch her!”
“You had quite a tussle, didn’t you?”
“No!” They should be typing up his statement now; they should be letting him alone.
“Did you knock the clock down?”
“No, I didn’t even—”
“June knocked it down, did she?”
“No—I … How do I know wh—”
“What’d you hit her with?”
“I didn’t hit her.”
The staccato became more rapid, ceasing only when George asked a question. Asked? Thrust it, propelled it at Jordan.
“You got in a panic, Maddox, didn’t you?”
“No. I don’t know—”
“You left your scarf in a panic, Maddox?”
“No—”
“You dropped the key because you were panicked, Maddox?”
“What key? I don’t know what you’re—”
“Where did you get the key? Where?”
“I don’t—”
“We know where you got the key, Maddox! Where?”
He couldn’t think. Wildly his mind ran over car keys, garage keys, typewriter keys.
“Where, Maddox? Where?”
The bowl of the pipe was hammering at his head now. Perhaps he did have a key. What key? Which key?
“Where, Maddox?” That was Symington. Jordan turned to look at the inspector, and, as he did so, George cut in harshly, “Forget about the key. What did you hit her with? Your fist?”
“The clock?” Symington.
George: “Did she scream?”
“How long did it take?” Symington.
“You just dropped everything and ran, didn’t you?” George.
“Panicked, Maddox!”
“Frightened, Maddox?”
As he twisted from one to the other, the pipe blows rapping at his skull, he heard his own voice, high and plaintive, calling again and again: “I didn’t do it! I didn’t do it!”
He knew that it was a form of madness, he even cried to them, “You’re mad!” but he no longer knew who was mad. If he was mad, then sanity lay with them.
“Let me alone, let me alone!”
Abruptly the questions ceased, the hammering stopped.
He heard a voice say, “Don’t be too hard on him, Mr. George.” And in the sudden peace, he looked up to see the shimmering figure of Symington standing beside the superintendent. It was then he realised he had been crying. If he had wept in panic, now he was overcome with gratitude. Symington was on his side; he’d misjudged Symington. He glanced at George. If only he would relax his grimness too.
Slowly the lines in the superintendent’s face softened. “Well, perhaps you’re right, Bill.” Bill—George—Jordan; it was going to be okay now.
“If …” said George. “If.” He leaned forward. “Why don’t you tell us, son, uh?”
“It’s not so hard, is it?” Symington murmured.
He felt the sweet weakness of sex in his thighs.
“Think of yourself, lad,” said George quietly, almost sadly. “Think of your wife—and your little girl, Maddox. Now wouldn’t it be better for everybody just to have done with it, just to get it over with?”
Yes, God, yes. He didn’t think of Willy or Georgia. He wasn’t even thinking of himself. Smiling, he felt himself touched by the ineffable grace of surrender. They were his friends. He opened his mouth to speak.
There was a bang behind him, steps. He half turned. A voice said, “Sorry, sir, didn’t know you were using number five.” The door slammed shut.
Jordan looked back to the policemen. They had not altered their positions—they bent gently towards him like priests.
Like priests. Jordan took out his handkerchief and wiped his face.
Like vultures!
He put away his handkerchief and met George’s stare. “Go to hell!” he said.
7
And then it all began again.
Perhaps if he had realised the hard arrogant retribution which George would exact, he would have stayed silent.
But he had regained a partial ability to think, at least, and he was struck with the obvious thought that if they had all the proof they needed to arrest him, then surely they’d arrest him. If they arrested him, well and good. But if not—he would not give in to browbeating.
Although Symington wasn’t browbeating. He disappeared for a time and came back and gave Jordan a statement, which he signed. He read it—but as he read each sentence, he promptly forgot it. He was left with the vague impression that he had said a lot of silly, damaging things. But these were of no importance.
He was worn down, worn to the bone, but he didn’t break. He resisted the rage and the blandishments, the wooing and the shouting. But he saw it now as a kind of bargain—they must give him something for what he gave them. But it was up to them to make the first move, to make the offer. So long as they kept asking him, a non-swimmer, to dive into a deep pool without hope of a lifebelt, he would refuse.
“If you’re so sure, arrest me,” he said over and over again. It became a taunt, his only weapon. He was sorry to have to use it, but it was only fair that if his soul was being demanded of him, he should at least be promised a bed and a cell in return.
And then suddenly, without explanation, they both departed and left him alone. He was sorry to see them go. But he knew they’d be back.
He stretched a little and stood up. He wandered about the room, sat for a bit behind George’s desk. He tried all the drawers. They were locked. Symington’s desk and the file cabinet, too. Sensible fellows. He felt quite at home. Everything was locked up at home too.
He looked at his watch. Twenty minutes past four. They’d been gone nearly half an hour. It was early. He began to get a little bored and started to repeat aloud all the limericks he could remember. A feeble lot. Clerihews. He could only think of three.
Half past four. He’d give them another ten minutes.
Where the hell were they? Probably eating their dinner—or high tea or whatever they called it. He was annoyed; he was hungry himself. There wasn’t even any water left in the jug.
At quarter to five he looked out into the deserted green corridor. He went back inside. But he could not sit still.
At five he left the room and went a little way along the corridor. He stopped outside room number four—his old room. He tapped at the door. No answer. He went in. Nobody there.
Perhaps the police had gone on strike.
He went to the end of the corridor and the entrance hall.
The sergeant at the desk looked up. “Good evening, sir.”
“Good evening.” Jordan was nonplussed. There were only the double doors between him and the street.
He made up his mind. If they wanted him that much, they’d have to come looking for him. He went to the door.
“Excuse me, sir.”
Jordan turned eagerly.
“Are these yours, sir?” The sergeant held up the bunch of this morning’s daffodils.
“Oh.” Jordan went slowly to the desk. “Yes,” he said.
“Here you are then. I had the stems in water all day, so you’ll find them fresh.”
Reluctantly Jordan accepted the flowers. He stood, holding the wet stems.
“Anything else, was there, sir?”
“No,” he an
swered. Then angrily, “Nothing at all.”
He turned and left the station, down the steps and into the street. He walked slowly. At the corner, he glanced back at the Bristol-blue lamp. He felt let down.
So what he needed was a pick-me-up.
He began to move quickly. Soon he was in the King’s Road. He went into a pub and ordered a double gin and orange. It was a large, anonymous and practically empty pub. He liked it.
He had five gins—doubles—a sausage roll, a Cornish pasty, a pickled onion and a hunk of Wensleydale. He left because the place was getting full and because there was a man in the corner who looked like a policeman. He wanted to see if the man would follow him. But when he got outside he forgot about it.
He still had the daffodils in his hand when he entered the train for Woodley. Between Waterloo and Vauxhall, he let down the window and flung the flowers into the dark. Then he went to sleep.
He woke up three stations down the line from Woodley. It was half past eight when he finally got into his car and drove home. As the car zigzagged over the white line and back again—always back again—he tried to sing. But his gentle euphoria was vanishing.
As he turned into the drive, he scraped the wing against the gatepost. Somehow that made him feel better.
Willy was waiting for him in the living room.
He looked at her, sitting, her hands folded in her lap.
“I’ve—” she started to say.
“Alright, alright. I know. You’ve been ringing me all afternoon.”
She stood up. “Jordan, I rang Tom.”
He crossed the room. “Haven’t we got any gin?”
“Jordan, I know where you’ve been. I rang Tom and he rang Sarah Street. They said you were there. They said you refused to speak to him.”
Jordan slopped whiskey into a glass. “Maybe I did. Talking to Tom isn’t my idea of a cosy chat.” The whiskey tasted vile, but he drank it.
“Jordan,” she stood, hands together—like a maiden in prayer, he thought. “Jordan, what is wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
“Tell you what? There’s nothing to tell.” Cold, miserable, forlorn—she might at least have lit a fire. She could learn a lesson from the police about heating.
“Please, Jordan. You never tell me anything. Please.”
“Blast and damnation. I haven’t got anything to tell you. Why do you always accuse me of not telling you things?”
“I’m not accusing you, Jordan.”
He laughed. “About the only one who isn’t.”
“I’m your wife. You must tell me what happened today.”
Cold as any icicle, he thought. Hard to rhyme icicle. Bicycle—then what? He’d forgotten Georgia’s verse for tonight. “How’s Georgia?”
“Jordan, I won’t be put off. Don’t you realise you have a responsibility? Surely—”
Something curdled inside him. “Oh …” He hesitated. He saw the tiny movement at her temples. “Oh, alright,” he said. What was the use?
He didn’t tell her much. Just that he’d made another statement. Grudgingly he mentioned the scratch and explained the significance of it to her. He felt miserly.
“We must ring Tom at once.”
“No.”
“Jordan, of course we must!”
“I forbid you to telephone Short.”
Her cheekbones reddened. “Why? But why?”
Because he wasn’t going to have anyone else interfering. Because he’d just about had enough of it. Because … there were five thousand reasons. He was absolutely determined.
They stood and stared at each other in silence.
The bell was a relief.
“If that’s Tom, tell—”
“It’s the doorbell, Jordan, not the phone.”
He smiled—he must be really very tight.
As she went to the door, he stood in the living room, wondering if it could possibly be anyone but the police. In Woodley nobody called after six. He switched on the lamps at either side of the fireplace, but the light only made the room more gloomy.
They came in behind Willy, expressionless in their raincoats.
“Hello, Superintendent,” he said. “Had a nice trip down? Darling, this is Superintendent—sorry, Chief Superintendent George and Inspector … I’m awfully sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.”
“Jordan John Maddox—”
“Symington! That’s it.” They had spoken simultaneously.
The superintendent paused and then started again.
“Jordan John Maddox, I’m going to arrest you for the murder of June Emily Singer.”
He was embarrassed. How ridiculous to feel embarrassed, he thought. He smiled at Willy. “Well,” he said and coughed a little.
“You are not obliged to say anything at this time, but if you do so it will be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence.”
There was the familiar snap of Symington’s notebook.
“Yes,” he said. And then again, “Well.”
“You’ll have to come with us.”
“I see.”
“We must ring Tom,” said Willy.
“Is that alright?” Jordan asked. It didn’t matter now—let her have her way. “He’s my solicitor.”
George nodded, and Willy went quickly to the telephone in the hall.
“Like a drink, Mr. George?”
“No.”
“Okay for me to have one?”
“We don’t have much time.”
“I’ll make it a quick one, then.” He felt a rush of affability. “One for the road.” He’d like to make them feel at home. It would be fascinating to sit down and have a long chat with the superintendent—what an interesting life he must have had. Symington, too, of course.
Inspector Symington moved his stance a little so that he could watch Jordan pour the drink. “It’s alright, Inspector, I’m not going to do a Himmler.”
Symington looked at his watch.
“I suppose I’ll be allowed to pack an overnight bag?”
“I expect your wife can do that.”
“What a good idea.” He took a sip of the drink. “It was quick work, Mr. George, wasn’t it?” The superintendent said nothing. “Barely had time to get back here before you turned up. I’ve still got my coat on, see?” He didn’t object to their silence—all part of the job. He knew now they were not waxworks. “Extraordinary, really, isn’t it? A week ago I bet you didn’t even know I existed. Even last week I was still only—what?—a potential witness. And now here I am—a prisoner. It’s a bit of a joke. The sort of thing you dream about. Then you wake up and the laugh’s on you. Not that I mind. And it’s not nightmarish or anything. Just a rather interesting dream. Of course I know it’s real. My Aunt Mary would say I was frivolous,” he laughed. “Did you ever read The Diary of a Nobody, Superintendent?”
George shook his head.
“What a pity. You wouldn’t remember then.”
Willy came into the room. “He’s coming over at once.”
“I’m afraid we can’t wait, ma’am,” said George. “If you would be good enough to pack some things for your husband, we’ll be off.”
“Oh, but Mr. Short is only two minutes away in the car,” Willy said protestingly. And Jordan felt sorry for her. She caught the smile he’d meant for her reassurance and she opened her lips as if to snap back at him. But instead she turned away and said to the superintendent, “I’ll go and pack. I won’t be long.”
They heard her going up the stairs.
Jordan coughed. Whiskey always made him cough. “As I was saying. Pooter—he’s the nobody, the hero—”
“If you take my advice, Maddox, you’ll remember you do not have to say anything at this juncture,” George said evenly. “You may make a further statement at the station, if you wish to do so.”
Jordan was a bit dashed. He’d noticed Symington jotting down everything he’d said. But he supposed his remark
s were not the kind of thing one “gave in evidence.”
They waited in silence.
Tom Short arrived before Willy came downstairs. Symington let him in.
“Hello, Tom, sorry to get you out of bed.”
Tom Short was startled. “Bed?”
“From your dinner then.”
Tom examined Jordan closely for a second, then said to the superintendent, “You have a warrant for the arrest? I’m Mr. Maddox’s lawyer.”
“Yes, sir.” George reached into his pocket.
“That’s alright.” Tom waved his hand. “You taking him to Sarah Street?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He’ll be coming up tomorrow, I suppose?”
“No, sir. Wednesday, at Sarah Street.”
“Why the delay?”
“Couldn’t say, sir.”
“Hum. Wednesday.” He took out his diary and made a note. “I’ll want to see Mr. Maddox tomorrow then.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Like a drink, Tom?” said Jordan.
“No thanks.”
“Worried about the pot?”
Tom ignored that one. “Where’s Willy?”
“Upstairs, packing a toothbrush for me.”
Tom nodded. “Did you make a statement today?”
“I suppose you’d call it that.”
“Well, don’t make another. You haven’t said anything now, have you?”
“No—oh, well, I was just talking to Mr. George here about Pooter, that’s all.”
Tom opened his eyes wide. “Sometimes I think you publishers ought to be locked up.”
Jordan laughed.
“Sorry,” said Tom. “Well have to start thinking about getting someone briefed. We might get Bartlett with luck.”
“Who’s Bartlett?”
“Geoffrey Bartlett. Good man. Well, that’s my worry. Oh, and about Willy, don’t you worry about her. I’ll look after her. She and Georgia might come and stay with Norah until—”
“It all blows over?” Jordan felt that he could quite easily fall into a deep pool of warm laughter if he didn’t watch out.
“It may take a little time,” said Tom heartily, “but don’t you worry.”
Jordan looked round to see Willy and realised that Tom’s heartiness had been for her benefit. “Hello, Tom.”
