The Department of Dead Ends

by Roy Vickers

  ‘I quite agree.’ Swilbey’s voice was calm as ever. ‘By the way, years ago – when I was starting – did you finance my play because of Mildred?’

  ‘N-no. At least, I don’t think so. Not altogether. Does it matter, now?’

  The personality had been thumped into numbness. Only the mannerisms remained active – and some resolution he did not yet understand. Swilbey rose from his chair.

  ‘I’m glad we’ve had this talk. One way and another, Wain, you’ve been a factor in my life. I would like to be able to visualize you. May I touch you?’

  ‘Of course! I’m a shrimp compared with you.’

  ‘Yes, you’re shorter. And you’ve kept slim.’ The hands crept lightly to the head, crept over the features, outlining the heavy, prominent chin with a dimple in it, crept below the chin to the throat –

  Don’t let him do anything rash!’

  But how would it be possible to keep ‘him’ quiet? For the first time for six years, consciousness of the perpetual darkness returned, and with it the animal fear.

  At six o’ clock, Menceman, the journalist, came as usual with a digest of the day’s papers. Swilbey barely heard a word throughout the hour’s reading. At seven-thirty, when he was going upstairs to prepare for dinner, he crashed into the balustrade.

  The parlourmaid, who had been with him for years, gasped with astonishment. Never before had she seen him miss his direction.

  ‘Have you hurt yourself, sir?’

  ‘No, thanks. My foot slipped,’ he lied.

  That evening, alone with Mildred in her little sitting-room upstairs he got up to go to bed, faltered and then:

  ‘Will you take me to my room, please?’

  Sheer astonishment made her ask:

  ‘Why, Robert?’

  ‘Because I’m blind!’ he cried, and broke down like a child.

  The next day, Mildred beat down his protests and took him for a holiday up the river where he could scull for hours while she steered. The first nervous crisis passed. She made no mention of Wain.

  He evolved, during that holiday, an interim personality – an understudy to sustain the role of Robert Swilbey. All the mannerisms were faithfully copied, but the inspiration was lacking. The interim personality could not write dialogue that sparkled with clever nonsense. He was working then on Playgirl Wanted, but had to abandon it before he had completed the first act.

  ‘Menceman, I’m going to try my hand at straight drama. I shall have a background of police work, treated realistically. You might begin by going through the verbatim reports of trials, picking out the small points overlooked by intelligent murderers.’

  Now and again, the inner voice would register a half-hearted warning. He’s planning to kill Wain. Better humour him.’

  ‘David Durham advised me to have a model theatre on the table beside me, as he does,’ he told Mildred. ‘Of course, my sense of touch isn’t developed enough for that sort of thing. But I could rig up a model stage at the other end of the drawing-room.’ He meant at the short end of the ‘L’. ‘Scale about one to four I should think. I could use it, too, for rehearsing special scenes.’

  He spent sixteen hundred pounds on what became not a model but a miniature stage, with many of the fitments of a fullsized stage. Unable to concentrate enough for original work, he rehearsed revivals on the miniature stage.

  At rehearsals he necessarily worked through a subordinate stage manager.

  ‘I want to be able to handle the rigging myself – get the feel of the controls,’ said Silbey, because he knew that he intended to hang Wain, thereby giving the murder the outward semblance of an execution.

  Chapter Five

  There is no doubt that Swilbey planned the murder of Wain in minute detail. But there is considerable doubt whether he meant to carry it out. Remember that daydreams and fancies and castles-in-the-air possess a special kind of reality to a playwright – they become as real to him as is a parcel of speculative shares to a business man.

  In a sense, Swilbey soothed his wounded ego by murdering Wain every night. The taunt of being a blind man, who could only hold his woman by invoking her pity, was nightly avenged by the fatal blow that was not actually struck. Nightly, too, the heads of Scotland Yard were made to confess themselves beaten by the dazzling brilliance of Robert Swilbey – a man who, as it happened, could not see.

  Certain it is that for two years he made no attempt to use the ‘engine of death’, as counsel called it – more simply, the essential parts of a gallows, disguised as rigging for shifting scenes and the heavier stage properties. Nor did he take any step to lure Wain to the house. Ironically, Wain was, as it were, put on the spot by Mildred herself.

  ‘I want to ask something of you, Robert,’ she began. ‘About Turley Wain. It’s two years now since he gave you an explanation. He told me at the time that you had been very kind to him.’

  ‘He was very kind to me. I told him I’d fix a divorce, if you wanted it.’

  He hoped she would say she had never, and would never, want a divorce. But she did not. The darkness came down on him again.

  ‘We exchanged parting gifts. I have only seen him once since then. To-day. He is very changed. I drew from him that things have gone very badly with him, and he expects to be made bankrupt. Will you help him, Robert?’

  ‘Of course I will! Apart from your friendship with him, he did me a good turn when he financed Brenda Gets Married.’

  He felt her approaching. The darkness vanished as he visualized her physical beauty against the background of a sun-lit flower garden. She thanked him warmly – because he had said he would help Turley Wain.

  ‘When shall I tell him to come and see you about it?’

  In the nightly murder, Wain always arrived at five-thirty on a winter afternoon. And Mildred was always out of the house. He reminded himself now that, on Fridays, Mildred always visited her parents, who were in retirement in Canterbury.

  ‘Next Friday at five-thirty,’ he answered, and added: ‘February fifteenth – my birthday – good omen for Wain!’

  It was about five-thirty when he came, Inspector. I was in the rehearsal theatre. I showed him the tackle for shifting the heavier pieces.’ That was part of the scene in which the police, every night, were ‘hopelessly baffled’.

  On Friday, Mildred left for Canterbury after lunch; she would stay for dinner, returning on the last train.

  At five-thirty precisely, the parlourmaid announced Wain. Speaking from the miniature stage, Swilbey greeted him with the opening lines composed two years ago.

  ‘Hullo, Wain! I’ve just finished here. You haven’t seen this little rigout before, have you?’ Swilbey could hear the parlourmaid drawing the curtains. He spoke loudly enough for her to hear. ‘It’s the engineering I’m proud of. Have to haul everything up to the flies when we want a change. With the double reduction on these pulleys, a child could manage it – designed the whole thing myself. How’s that for a blind man, eh! Have a cigarette?’

  He felt for his cigarette case in one pocket and another. Like many a sighted man, he was never sure of his pockets.

  ‘You dropped it on that bench, sir.’ The parlourmaid left the curtains, hurried to the stage, recovered the cigarette case and handed it to Swilbey.

  Wain, who did not know that the very word ‘blind’ was a danger signal, made polite murmurs. When Swilbey heard the parlourmaid draw the last curtain, he said:

  ‘Let’s go and sit down. I won’t bother to put the tackle away.’

  Back together down the short arm of the ‘L’, a left turn into the long arm, to his armchair and the group of chairs round it. Swilbey felt the hands of his watch. Five thirty-four. Not a minute to waste.

  ‘Mildred told me you might go bankrupt. How much do you want?’

  ‘Bankruptcy is one thing. There’s another!’ Judging by his voice, Wain had gone to pieces – he was almost cringing. ‘To leave out technicalities, I got caught in a landslide, Swilbey. I swear to you I didn’t tr
y to save myself at the expense of others. I threw in all my own resources, including even my furniture, when I need not have done so. It wasn’t nearly enough. In trying to save the investments of others I committed a technical breach of the criminal law. At this moment I am actually wanted by the police.’

  ‘Better give me the figures!’ Thirty-eight minutes past five. The babble must not last more than another four minutes. And he mustn’t forget Wain’s cigarette. It might set the house on fire – which would disarrange the plan.

  Wain seemed to shrink from coming to the point.

  ‘Last week, a detective came to see me. Very decent fellow. Karslake. He knew you when you were at the Bar. I drew wool over his eyes because I didn’t want to be arrested there and then. And now I’m keeping out of his way.’

  ‘Wain, old man, how much do you want?’

  ‘The technical breach – well, five thousand pounds would cover that. But look here, Swilbey, I’ve no excuse for asking you.’

  ‘Yes, you have! You and Mildred together made it possible for a blind man to make a living. My career pivots on you two. She hinted that you might want a wad of ready cash. Come with me.’

  Swilbey felt some squeamishness in promising money that would never be given. But there is no gentlemanly method of committing murder.

  ‘D’you mind putting your cigarette out, old man? Have to be careful of fire, where we’re going.’

  On the way back round the turn of the ‘L’, to the rehearsal theatre, he asked:

  ‘And what about the bankruptcy?’

  ‘Astronomical! Fifty thousand pounds, if a penny!’

  ‘Hm! We’ll have to talk about that later. We’re going over the stage. That door at the back is still in use. All right! I can manage. In their own place, the blind can manage as if they were not blind. Mind that pulley!’

  Wain, as he had himself said, was a shrimp beside Swilbey. Moreover, he did not know how to use what little weight and strength he had. So the ‘compensatory fantasy’ was translated into reality without muscular strain.

  When Wain was dead, Swilbey turned on the main switch which flooded the stage with light. The room lights of the short arm of the ‘L’ had been turned on by the parlourmaid.

  The parlourmaid! Half-way to the corner, he stopped. He had had a sudden mental picture of the parlourmaid handing him his cigarette case after he had dropped it on the bench.

  ‘If I’ve dropped anything this time –’

  He went back to the stage and groped on the bench: he was leaving, when his foot touched something on the floor which ought not to have been there. He bent down.

  ‘That damned case again!’ Like frightened snakes, his fingers slid over the tessellated pattern of the slim gold case. ‘Phew! I had a sort of intuition. Subconscious memory. Good! It means “he” won’t make any mistakes!’

  He thrust the case into his breast pocket and hurried away.

  At four minutes to six Swilbey, back in his gadget-laden armchair, switched on the radio. Luck again came to him who had earned it. A drama critic was talking.

  At six punctually, just as the radio critic was finishing. Menceman, the journalist, came in.

  Swilbey turned off the radio and spoke as if Wain were sitting near him.

  ‘Wain,’ he said, ‘let me introduce Mr Menceman, who –’

  ‘There’s no one in the room but ourselves, Mr Swilbey.’

  ‘Oh, then Wain must have slipped out – I had to listen to that critique. You’ve heard of Wain – of course! My fairy godfather. Backed my first play. Badly hit in the Slump. Let’s have the Slump news first.’

  There was no fear of Menceman strolling about the room, turning the bend of the ‘L’ and seeing the corpse.

  Swilbey gave his full attention. The plan was fulfilling itself. Menceman would leave at seven. By domestic routine, a housemaid would discover the body of Turley Wain at seven-thirty, by which time he would be in his room, dressing for dinner.

  But at nine minutes to seven the sequence of the plan was broken by the house telephone.

  ‘An officer from Scotland Yard, sir. Chief Inspector Karslake. He wants to speak to Mr Wain.’

  For a second only Swilbey hesitated.

  ‘Mr Wain left a long time ago. But tell Mr Karslake I would like to see him if he can spare the time.’

  With a nod he dismissed Menceman and concentrated on the problem of the detective.

  Chapter Six

  Swilbey held out his hand and waited, as the blind do, for Karslake to grip it.

  ‘It’s good to see you after all these years, Mr Swilbey. I always take the wife to one of your plays when I get the chance.’

  ‘And it’s good to hear your voice!’ echoed Swilbey. ‘We must have a chat sometime. At present, you’ve got something on your mind, and Wain has told me what it is. You may take it that will be settled at once – in full.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure I’m glad to hear it, as he’s a friend of yours. All the same, I can’t stop the machinery at this stage, as you know. Can I see him, please?’

  ‘He’s not here,’ said Swilbey. ‘Left about six.’

  There was a short, strained silence.

  ‘Mr Swilbey, his coat and hat are in your vestibule.’

  ‘Surely not! Wait a minute.’ On the house telephone he spoke to the parlourmaid.

  ‘What time did Mr Wain leave?’

  ‘He hasn’t left, sir. I thought he was in the drawing-room with you, until you said he wasn’t.’

  Swilbey repeated the girl’s words.

  ‘Then d’you mean to say he sneaked out of the room without saying good-bye or anything?’ asked Karslake.

  ‘Apparently, he did. I’d told him what I could do for him, and we’d really finished. I asked him to excuse me for a few minutes as I wanted to hear the end of a dramatic critique on the radio. At six, when Menceman came in – you saw him just now – I began to introduce them, when Menceman told me Wain wasn’t here.’

  Karslake noted a half-smoked cigarette on the ash tray by his side: nothing in the tray within Swilbey’s reach. That tallied with what Swilbey was saying.

  ‘He left the room, then, but not the house,’ said Karslake.

  ‘He wouldn’t wander about my house without permission,’ asserted Swilbey. ‘It’s much more likely that he heard Menceman arrive and thought it was you coming to collect him. He was in a very nervy state.’

  ‘If he left the house – without his hat and coat – which way did he go?’ pressed Karslake.

  Swilbey had seen that question coming – had seen, too, that he was in no danger, provided he did not shirk the logic of his position.

  ‘He could have got into the garden by going through the door at the back of my rehearsal stage, and along the corridor. That door was locked on this side. If he slipped out that way, it must be unlocked now.’

  ‘Can I have a look at that door?’

  Swilbey stood up.

  ‘Come with me,’ he invited. ‘The stage is in this room – round the corner.’

  Karslake followed Swilbey round the corner of the ‘L’. A corpse, as such, could not shake Karslake’s nerve. But his nerve was shaken this time, partly because he thought, for a second or two, that the corpse was a stage property.

  Looking some thirty feet down the short arm of the ‘L’, he saw a well-lit stage-set of a saloon bar. Left back, at an angle, was the bar, with shining pump handles: left, a pin-table: right, a bench in green plush – and centre, a human form suspended by its neck in what appeared to be a noose attached to the hook of a pulley block.

  Two paces nearer, he recognized the features of Turley Wain.

  ‘What?’ Swilbey stopped in his stride. ‘Did you speak?’

  ‘No. It’s all right.’ Karslake was thinking quickly. ‘Carry on, please, Mr Swilbey.’

  Swilbey, a couple of feet ahead, walked on. With the steadiness of a sighted man, he stepped on to the stage. He passed within a dozen inches of the man who was obviously dead
. So to the back of the miniature stage.

  ‘Nothing doing!’ ejaculated Swilbey. ‘The door is still locked on this side.’

  Fascinated, Karslake watched Swilbey return, wondering whether, this time, he would collide with the dangling corpse. Again there were a dozen inches to spare. Perhaps, he reflected, the blind always walked in the same track in familiar surroundings.

  ‘Surely it isn’t worth investigating, Karslake! The charge against him is pretty certain to be dropped, after restitution. Forget it for a few minutes and have a drink.’

  ‘That sounds a good idea,’ said Karslake, who had meantime satisfied himself that there was no hope of saving life.

  Back, with the blind man, round the corner of the ‘L’ to his chair. Swilbey sat down. Sitting gave him the range of all the gadgets. He leant forward and opened the door of a cabinet.

  ‘Whisky, gin or –’

  ‘Whisky, please.’ Karslake glanced uneasily at a row of decanters. ‘Allow me!’

  ‘It’s all right, thanks. You sit down.’ Swilbey’s voice had a slight edge to it. He passed his guest the whisky decanter, a tumbler and a siphon, then held out his hand for the return of the decanter.

  ‘Can I pour yours for you, Mr Swilbey?’

  ‘No, thanks!’ Swilbey’s tone barely escaped rudeness. Karslake watched Swilbey pour his own drink with a deftness that made his hands seem like independent agents, able to think and act for themselves. Meantime, he was groping for a line of action. That corpse, actually in the same room with them, presented a tricky problem in presence of mind.

  ‘Cigarette, Karslake?’

  ‘Oh – er – thanks!’

  Swilbey thrust his hand into his breast pocket for his cigarette case – kept it there for seconds as if his arm were paralysed. Then he tried his side pockets.

  Karslake saw a thin, tessellated gold cigarette case on the ledge, flush with the dictaphone. But he had observed that Swilbey was very touchy about being helped. So Karslake said nothing.

  ‘Dammit, I thought I had my case on me!’