Only The Ruthless Can Play

by John Burke

  ‘You see?’ said Partridge.

  ‘You’re lying! You’re one of them! Show it to someone else — someone independent. You know it’s not true.’

  ‘The earlier part of the book is straightforward. A lot of wastage, but even at a glance one can see where it’s leading. We’re all familiar with the fundamentals by now. But towards the end it rambles off into … well, scribblings.’ Detective Inspector Freeman got to his feet. He looked unhappily round the room. He was not sure on whose shoulder his hand ought to fall.

  David Marsh let out a high, shrill breath. ‘You’re covering up. My father did all the work … you stole his ideas and killed him … and you’re all in it. Give me that.’

  He snatched the notebook back.

  It was Dr Schroeder who came quietly towards him and touched his arm. There was a sad, appealing note in his voice.

  ‘Your father was a great man,’ he said. ‘He gave a great deal to Intersyn, and we were all proud to work with him. But he was highly strung. He was difficult to get on with at times. And at the end he was … unsettled.’

  ‘You’re a liar.’

  ‘Seriously unsettled,’ said Schroeder gently but firmly.

  ‘You can’t trick me. You can’t talk me down. You can’t hide the truth for ever. Look — any one of you — read this. What about you … you … ?’

  He was staring at Andrew, as though knowing that someone who detested him would nevertheless give an honest answer.

  ‘At the end,’ said Partridge brutally, ‘Marsh was insane. The diary makes that clear. That was why we held on to it.’ He turned towards the police. The sergeant was just getting to his feet. ‘Marsh began to get some pretty nasty delusions in the later stages of his work. He got persecution mania. He felt frustrated, he couldn’t break through the final problems single-handed, and so he turned against the other men on the project. We were worried about him — but not worried enough, as it turned out later. I’m not denying I feel guilty about Marsh. I do — but not for the reasons his son thinks. I feel guilty because I didn’t take him off the project and make sure he got proper medical treatment. We didn’t realise he was boiling up quite so fast. The truth of the matter is that Richard Marsh committed suicide.’

  David Marsh threw himself at Partridge. Detective Inspector Freeman moved with surprising speed and was suddenly between the two of them. He got a grip on David, and the two of them reeled away across the room.

  Partridge was determined to finish. He raised his voice, hectoring yet patently sincere. ‘We hid that notebook,’ he said, ‘because we wanted to protect the widow and son. He was just a boy then. Also there’d have been trouble with insurance, trouble over the widow’s right to a Company pension. Maybe we should have destroyed it … but’ — he grinned sourly — ‘in this Company you file everything away. And it wouldn’t have stopped young Marsh here building up his fantasies about the wrongs his father suffered at our hands. The book meant everything to him, whether it still existed or not. To anyone else, it means nothing because … well, because it literally means nothing.’

  David fought against the detective and twisted him towards the wall. The sergeant moved in closer and planted one large hand on David’s left elbow. The young man was immobilised for a moment.

  Partridge turned to him and said: ‘I’m sorry, but it’s all true. We’re not villains. We didn’t steal any of your father’s secrets. He wasn’t robbed, he wasn’t murdered. He was mentally unbalanced and he killed himself.’

  David was straining forward now, yelling at him. Andrew watched in horror. He recognised the truth when he saw it yet felt hatred for Partridge, the man who was telling the truth. Then that feeling went under the pressure of another — of fear for Jessica’s safety. He tried to speak, but Partridge went on, louder and louder, as though to beat David Marsh to his knees.

  ‘Richard Marsh was unstable,’ he said. ‘His son has inherited the more dangerous tendencies.’

  ‘It’s a lie … a lie … a lie. You’re scared. It was you who put Western up to it — told him the same story — got him to sneer at me, sneer at my father — ’

  And Andrew, already about to speak, said instinctively: ‘So that’s why you killed Western?’

  ‘Of course,’ said prim, shrewd little Ames gleefully.

  They were like angry troops with a wretched captive, each wanting to add a kick; like dogs diving in to tear at the fox.

  Andrew said: ‘It was you who knocked me out that night in the hotel. Nosing into files right at the start. You soon guessed someone was on your trail. When did you know it was Western? And where were you on the night when Western was killed?’

  ‘I’ll tell you where I was.’ Still panting, still twisting vainly in the professional grip of the two stony-faced detectives, David Marsh said: ‘I went to see Dr Schroeder to get the truth out of him. He was one of them. He knew. He’d made it clear to me that he worked with my father, and he pretended to like him. But I knew. I could see. I went to him, to give him a chance to show that he was sincere … or to give himself away. I knew that someone, sooner or later, would give himself away.’

  ‘And … ?’

  ‘And he wasn’t there.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘I went away.’

  But they all knew now how it must have been. No need for a brainstorm, no need for telepathy. They hardly dared to look at each other, because they knew so much all at once. Western had followed David Marsh, still keeping an eye on him, still acting on Partridge’s instructions. And David had suddenly come out of Schroeder’s office — perhaps having spent a long time turning over papers cautiously and opening drawers — and had bumped into Western.

  Partridge said: ‘What did Western say to you?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Western would have reacted contemptuously, thought Andrew, to disguise the fact that he had been caught off balance. If David Marsh had accused him of being a paid spy, he would have retaliated by sneering. Sneering came naturally to Philip Western. He would have said, in an unguarded moment, that David’s father committed suicide.

  And David would have thrown him over the rail into the smoothly flowing resin.

  Suddenly David Marsh went limp. The detectives had to hold him up. He said: ‘He oughtn’t to have been there. I didn’t want to have anything to do with Western. All I wanted was the notebook — and now I’ve got it — and you can’t hide it any more, you can’t pretend it doesn’t exist. You all know the truth, however you try to hide it.’

  They took him away. Partridge, about to follow, said: ‘We’ll find out the whole story in the end. But what I’d like to know right now is — how did he find out so much about Belby? How did he know the way in, and where the files were, and where the spare key was kept?’

  What Andrew Flint wanted to know was where Jessica was. He was scared that his own question and Partridge’s questions were one and the same. And he wasn’t sure that he would find Jess alive.

  *

  ‘I didn’t mean it to be like this,’ whimpered Mrs Marsh.

  ‘No, you didn’t mean it,’ said Jessica. She knew that she should feel pity for the woman, but she was possessed by a terrible anger against her. ‘You fed him with stories about his father, stuffed him with ideas of vengeance and establishing the truth and heaven knows what else — and now that he’s done what you wanted him to do, you say you didn’t mean it.’

  ‘Not like this.’

  ‘But how else could it have been? He’s never been allowed to have a thought or a life of his own.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  Mrs Marsh’s head sank forward and the tears came freely. And it was all too clear that she didn’t understand. This was not what she had wanted. She did not understand how things had got to this stage.

  But Jessica understood. She had no proof that the final steps had been as she envisaged them, but she knew the men concerned and knew how they would have
acted. David must have approached Dampier and hinted that he knew something about Western’s death. Dampier would have been only too ready to listen to anything about Western: greedy for facts or conjecture, wanting always to be omniscient, he would have walked happily into the trap. It was his job, his whole nature, to be perpetually inquisitive. They must have arranged to meet somewhere; David could have picked him up in the car, and then they had gone to a quiet place and David had demanded information on how best to get into Belby and find what he was looking for.

  Dampier would have refused to talk. He must have been very stubborn. It had taken a considerable amount of torture to make him talk — the use of acid and a knife.

  Jessica thought of herself in David’s arms, and a wave of sickness came over her. She choked it back.

  Dampier had talked. But he must have talked too late. David had gone too far. She told herself that he hadn’t meant to kill Dampier, that he didn’t know what he was doing, couldn’t control his actions, wasn’t really responsible for his actions …

  This bowed, snivelling woman in the cellar was the responsible one.

  Jessica said: ‘But why did he keep … ’ She couldn’t say it. She could only nod towards the terrible crumpled heap in the corner. ‘Why carry it round in the car?’

  Mrs Marsh looked up suddenly. Her misery was transformed into a naive pleasure. ‘Oh,’ she said confidently, ‘he wouldn’t have wanted to leave it just anywhere. Once this was over, David would have wanted the poor man to have a decent burial. I’m sure that’s what it was.’ She nodded and smiled. ‘David’s a good boy,’ she said. ‘He’s always been a good boy.’

  ‘He’s a liar,’ said Jessica, ‘and a murderer.’

  ‘Never. I’ve never known him lie. How dare you say that?’

  ‘He lied to me,’ she recalled. ‘I asked him if he had killed Philip Western.’

  ‘I don’t know who you’re talking about. Whoever it is, if David said he didn’t do anything, then he didn’t do anything. David,’ said Mrs Marsh proudly, ‘has been brought up to tell the truth. He always tells the exact truth.’

  The exact truth … Yes, thought Jessica, perhaps that was so. She had asked him specifically if he had pushed Philip Western over the rail in order to provide a vengeful parallel with what had happened to Mr Marsh, and he had said no. David the truthful, the meticulous, the believer in a truth that was always clear and sharp-edged and exact, would have felt quite justified in answering no if there had in fact been a slightly different motive for his murdering Western.

  She wondered what his answer would have been if she had asked the plain, unadorned question — asked him simply if he had killed Philip Western. He might have come right out and said yes; or would he in his lucid but fanatical mind have found an excuse for telling a lie in order to reach what he considered a greater truth in the end?

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Mrs Marsh wailed again. It was a defensive cry. She was consolidating her refusal to understand so that eventually she would be able to assure herself that she was free from blame.

  There was a faint sound from outside that could have been a car drawing up. There was a pause, then a dull thumping from the back of the house.

  Jessica went to the foot of the cellar steps. She looked round for a weapon. The dismal light struck a muted reflection from the head of a hammer. Jessica went towards the bench. Mrs Marsh got there first. She grabbed the hammer.

  ‘Oh, no, you don’t!’

  Faint footsteps paced overhead. Mrs Marsh held the hammer awkwardly like a croquet mallet and kept her gaze fixed on Jessica.

  The footsteps went away and a muffled voice shouted something unintelligible. Then they returned and there was the sound of the key rattling in the lock at the top of the steps.

  The door opened. A policeman came halfway down and saw Jessica. Over his shoulder he said: ‘Looks as though she’s all right, sir. You can come on down.’ Then he saw Mrs Marsh, and his eyes widened. ‘Now, wait a minute … ’

  Mrs Marsh’s fingers opened and the hammer clattered to the stone floor.

  Andrew came hurrying down the steps behind the policeman.

  Jessica said: ‘Andrew! How did you … however did you know … ?’

  ‘That’s what personnel files are for, isn’t it?’ he said loudly, coming up to her and putting his arm round her. ‘Home addresses and everything.’ He tightened his grip. ‘It’s all right, Jess. It’s all right.’

  The policeman looked at the heap in the corner. ‘What’s this?’ he said doubtfully.

  He went closer; and saw what it was.

  ‘My God,’ said Andrew. He was holding Jessica as though wanting her, expecting her, to swoon against his shoulder; but he was the one who was trembling now. ‘Oh, my God,’ he said as the policeman carefully turned the body over and the light fell on what had been Dampier’s face.

  Poor Andrew, said Jessica to herself. She was grateful to him for coming, but it was an impersonal gratitude. Dear Andrew — she tried the words over and they meant nothing. She felt oddly detached. Poor Andrew. Poor David.

  She was too numb to think, to feel, to respond.

  Thirteen

  There was a great soul-searching and a great exchange of mutual recriminations inside Intersyn. Someone must be at fault but it was hard to decide who. Public Relations Department worked feverishly in order to keep up a steady broadcast of ‘No comment’ in answer to all questions from the outside world. The Directors read the newspaper headlines, winced, and blamed Press Department for not finding some way of keeping the whole thing out of the papers. Memoranda choked the interdepartmental communication trolleys.

  The dead men came in for rather more obloquy than sympathy. It was not done to get murdered. It was quite against Company policy. All these years there must have been some weakness in Western and Dampier that nobody had detected.

  And as for young Marsh … it was obvious that the entire system of personnel training and selection would have to be overhauled. Somewhere a terrible error had been made. Marsh ought never to have got as far as he did. He had been declared unfit to plead; he ought long ago to have been declared unfit to work for the Company. The causes of this misjudgement must be analysed. There would have to be meetings. Committees would be formed, reports written, a psychologist consulted; departmental heads would be asked to assess all their staff, and new slips of paper would be attached to the personnel files; several thousand pounds would be spent on printing a new handbook dealing with revised job grading methods.

  By the time they had finished, the original reason for all this activity would have been happily forgotten. The activity would have become self-justifying and self-reproducing.

  Anyone on a future Executive Course who mentioned Western, Dampier or Marsh would finish the Course with a large black mark against his name. He would never become good management material.

  Andrew Flint’s initiative in starting the final brainstorm session was noted by Partridge. So was Andrew’s insistence on Partridge himself answering leading questions. Andrew got a good report from the Course, but not quite good enough. He was marked for promotion in a limited field.

  If the Course could be said to have a winner, that winner was Hornbrook. He had comported himself admirably throughout. He had been resolute but not pushing. He was confident but not aggressive. He had quarrelled with nobody but was capable of showing firmness when it was necessary. Hornbrook was an ideal Intersyn type.

  Andrew went home to Muriel, who said: ‘Oh, you’re back — do you get a prize, or have you been expelled?’ And they had a drink and went out to dinner, and bickered in the car on the way home, and Andrew made love to her that night; and the next day he telephoned Jessica.

  Jessica thanked him for his call and said that she didn’t really want to see him again. Andrew was irritated, then remembered how glad he had felt that it was all over and knew that his chivalrous gallop to her rescue had altered nothing. He was glad he had been the one to release her f
rom that cellar. Somehow it rounded things off nice and neatly. He had drawn a line; he could start again.

  There was a friend of Muriel’s, a young woman separated from her husband, who had several times looked intently at him at parties. Once or twice she had held his hand longer than she need have done, and nowadays she expected him to kiss her cheek when they met or parted. He knew that she was waiting for him to kiss her on the lips. Then it would all start. It was risky, with her living so close to them and Muriel knowing her so well, but he knew that the time was right and that soon it would start.

  Jessica gave in her notice to Intersyn.

  She had planned a savage farewell speech. There were so many things she could say. But in the end they had a little party at which she was presented with a travelling clock, and there were drinks and jokes and everyone was sorry that she was leaving, so she just thanked them all and there was no speech, no parting fling.

  She slept soundly that night and woke up feeling empty but gay.

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