Dead or Alive

by Patricia Wentworth

  She told Bill about the lights having gone wrong, and about waking up in the night and hearing someone in the sitting-room.

  “Pity you didn’t see who it was,” said Bill when she had finished.

  A light shudder ran over Meg. Suppose she had had a match. Suppose she had struck it and seen Robin—looking at her. He had looked at her in so many ways—lightly, appraisingly, coldly, tauntingly, cruelly, and with what she had taken for love. That hurt most to remember now. The shudder threatened to become uncontrollable. Whoever had been in her sitting-room that night has passed her so near that they might with any unreckoned movement have touched. If he had touched her, she would have known whether it was Robin O’Hara.

  Bill’s voice broke in upon her thought.

  “Why wouldn’t the lights go on?”

  This at least was easily answered.

  “Because the bulbs had been taken out.”

  “The hall light was all right when you went in.”

  “Yes, I know, Bill—that was clever, because if the hall light hadn’t gone on, you would have come in to see what was the matter. But I didn’t find out there was anything wrong till you had gone, and of course I hadn’t got a candle, so I just left the hall light on and my door open. Then, after I was asleep, my door was shut and the hall bulb taken away.” The shiver went over her again.

  “Where were the bulbs?”

  “One on the sitting-room mantelpiece—that was the one I found and put in—and the others on the kitchen table.”

  “What was he looking for?” said Bill.

  “Do you think he as looking for something?”

  “Must have been, otherwise the whole show is pointless.”

  Meg shook her head. She was very white. Her eyes avoided his.

  “It might have been—to frighten me.”

  “Why should anyone want to frighten you? Who would want to frighten you?”

  Her silence said the name she would not speak. If she had had any other name in her mind she would have spoken it aloud.

  “It’s the most preposterous nonsense!” said Bill violently.

  Meg nodded. She was thinking of other preposterous things which Robin O’Hara had done.

  “My dear girl, be practical!” said Bill. “Nobody took all that trouble and risk for nothing. Oh yes, it was a risk all right—I might have come in with you and caught him on the premises.”

  She shook her head.

  “No—he wasn’t here then.”

  “How do you know?” His voice was quick and angry.

  “I don’t know how I know, but I do know. There wasn’t anyone here when I came in.”

  “You mean he came and took out the bulbs and went away again, and then came back when you were asleep?”

  She nodded.

  “Yes, that’s how it was. I’m quite sure there wasn’t anyone here when I came home.”

  Bill was frowning heavily.

  “Have you been through the drawer? Is anything missing?”

  She made a little helpless gesture.

  ’“I don’t know. You see, the things in that drawer weren’t mine—at least most of them weren’t. It was Robin’s drawer, and I’ve never really been through it. I suppose I ought to have, but—” Her voice died away on the word.

  “So you’ve no means of knowing whether anything was taken?”

  She shook her head in a hesitating way. Then she said rather breathlessly,

  “The card might have come from there.”

  “What card?”

  She got up, went over to the writing-table, and came back again. There was a small white card in her hand. She laid it on Bill’s outstretched palm and went and sat down again. She was glad to sit down again, because her knees were shaking.

  Bill looked at Robin O’Hara’s card and said sharply,

  “Where was this?”

  Meg pointed at the little walnut table, now heaped with books and papers.

  “That was out in the middle of the room. All the books and papers had been cleared off it. They were on the sofa. There wasn’t anything on the table except that card.”

  Bill stared at the printed name—Mr Robin O’Hara. Then he turned the card over and sat up straight.

  “Why do you think this card came out of the drawer?”

  “Because there’s about half a packet of Robin’s cards there.”

  “Get them, will you? I’d like to have a look a them.”

  She brought him the narrow yellow box, still loosely folded in its white wrapping-paper. The lid came off and the cards ran out upon the wide arm of the chair. A single glance was enough. He said sharply,

  “I thought not. That card never came out of this box—at least not this year, Meg.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He held up the card which she had given him.

  “Look! This isn’t a new card out of a box—it’s a card that’s been knocking about in somebody’s wallet. Look at the colour beside one of these. And look at the corners—worn—you see?”

  Meg saw. It was impossible to help seeing what was so evident once it had been pointed out. But it didn’t seem to her to make any difference, except that this worn card was more of a witness to Robin’s presence than a brand new one would have been. It had been with him through these months of absence. He had touched it and handled it. She knew just where it had lain in his wallet. And with that she had a sudden stab of terror, because Robin’s wallet had come empty out of the river a year ago.

  The telephone bell rang, and went on ringing. Even after she had put the receiver to her ear, it went on upon a ghostly thrumming note. She shook the instrument and said, “Hullo!” She shook it, and the note went on buzzing in her ear. Then all of a sudden it stopped, and a man was speaking.

  “Is that Mrs O’Hara?”

  Bill heard her say “Yes,” and then “Oh yes, I am.” And after that, “What is it? … Oh yes, I could.… Yes, I think I’d rather.… Yes, twelve o’clock would be all right for me.” She rang off and turned round to Bill.

  “That was the bank manager—Robin’s bank. He wants to see me. He won’t say why.” She spoke in a slow, troubled voice.

  Bill laughed a little.

  “I should say at a guess you’re overdrawn.”

  She shook her head.

  “I haven’t got anything to overdraw. It’s not my bank—it’s Robin’s. I’ve never had an account there.”

  “Then it can’t be anything to bother you.”

  She said, “I don’t know,” letting the words fall slowly. And then, “Will you come with me, Bill? I don’t want to go alone. You see, the only think I can think of—the only reason he might want to see me—is something to do with that packet I told you about. I was to open it in the manager’s presence if Robin was dead. It might be something to do with that, and it if is, I would like you to be there.”

  Bill shook his head.

  “It won’t be that, Meg—he’d want legal proof before he’d let you open it. But of course I’ll come.”

  He made her have a cup of coffee and something to eat on the way. His relief at seeing how much better she looked after the food and the hot drink was off-set by exasperation and distress. If she wasn’t starving herself, a cup of coffee and a bun wouldn’t bring her colour back like that. He cursed the conventions with all his heart. They permitted him to take Meg out and feed her, but forbade him to finance her so that she could feed herself at home. At least that seemed to be Meg’s point of view.

  They were shown into the manager’s private room. He rose to greet them, shook hands, and asked them to be seated, with an air of brisk efficiency. Meg’s introduction of Bill as an old friend who was helping her with her business affairs was received with a hard look which only just fell short of being a stare. Not, Bill thought, a genial person, in fact a good deal the reverse, but efficient, undoubtedly efficient. A little man with black hair and a cocksure carriage of the head. He leaned forward in his chair, facing them across the tabl
e, and rapped upon his blotting-pad with the fingers of his left hand. It was rather as if they were a class and he was calling it to order. He said,

  “I have asked you to come here, Mrs O’Hara, because I was anxious to know whether you can give me any information with regard to your husband.” His eyes were sharp on Meg’s face. They saw her wince.

  She said, “But, Mr Lane—” and then stopped. Her eyes went to Bill.

  Bill leaned forward.

  “Mrs O’Hara, on the advice of her friends, is about to ask leave to presume her husband’s death. We believe that it will be granted. There is—evidence which has lately become available.”

  Mr Lane transferred that very direct gaze of his to Bill.

  “Evidence of Mr O’Hara’s death?”

  “Yes.”

  “What kind of evidence?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say, but the application will undoubtedly succeed.”

  Mr Lane looked down at his blotting-pad. There was for a moment a certain effect of rigidity. It seemed to Bill as if he had just heard something which surprised him very much, and that he did not wish to show that he had been surprised.

  The effect passed. He looked up again at Meg and asked quickly,

  “Then you have not seen your husband lately?”

  It was Bill who said, “Of course she hasn’t!” And after than Meg answered in a wavering voice,

  “Oh no!”

  “Or heard from him?” said Mr Lane quite unabashed.

  “Mr Lane,” said Bill, “Robin O’Hara disappeared over a year ago. Evidence is now available to show that he met with his death by misadventure at the time of that disappearance or a little later. Now may I ask what you are driving at?”

  Mr Lane said, “Certainly.” He leaned back in his chair and addressed them both. “A week before he disappeared Mr O’Hara deposited a packet with us for safe custody. He told me that it contained papers of considerable importance, and that he wished to safeguard them by imposing some very stringent and unusual conditions. He wrote those conditions down and insisted that we should both sign them. The conditions were as follows. During his lifetime the packet was only to be surrendered to him in person, he himself signing for it in my presence. In the event of his death, it was to be surrendered to his wife, who was similarly to sign for it in my presence. The packet was then to be opened, and she was to consult with me as to the disposal of the contents. I have no idea what the packet contains, except that Mr O’Hara once informed me that he was doing government work of a confidential nature, and I concluded that the papers about which he was taking such precautions had some connection with this work. When Mrs O’Hara informed me that her husband was missing, and that it was feared he was dead, I told her what I am now repeating. I added that I considered myself bound by the conditions under which I had accepted the packet, and that it would therefore be necessary for the death to be proved legally before I could consider that the second of the contingencies provided for had arisen.” He spoke with an air of being pleased with his own lucidity.

  Meg said “Yes?” in a faintly inquiring voice.

  Bill said, “Well?”

  Mr Lane went on speaking. He leaned forward. His delivery became less measured, and he tapped on his blotting-pad to emphasize a salient point.

  “I will now come to my reasons for wanting to see you, Mrs O’Hara. At ten o’clock this morning, as soon as the doors were open, I received a letter asking me to deliver to the bearer the packet deposited by Mr O’Hara.”

  “What?” said Bill. Then he looked at Meg. She was very pale indeed. Her hands clasped one another tightly. Her face had a pinched and horrified look. He saw her try to speak, and he saw her fail. He asked what she had not been able to ask.

  “A letter? You say you had a letter. Who wrote it?”

  The manager opened a drawer on his left, drew out a thin sheet of paper, and laid it down on the blotting-pad before him.

  “It was signed by Mr O’Hara,” he said drily, and once again his eyes were on them both with that look which was not quite a stare.

  Meg spoke then. She said,

  “Robin—” in a small quivering voice.

  “Robin O’Hara,” said Mr Lane briskly. He lifted the sheet of paper and passed it across the table.

  It was Bill who took it—an ordinary sheet of typing paper with yesterday’s date and no heading—a brief typed note:

  “Dear Sir,

  Kindly hand over to bearer the packet which I left in your charge just over a year ago.

  Yours faithfully

  Robin O’Hara.”

  The noticeable ornamental signature with its upward thrust stared from the white paper. Bill stared back at it. When Meg put out a hand he gave her the letter. Their fingers touched. Hers were very cold. He thought they were too stiff and cold to shake.

  She read the letter through and put it back on the table. Mr Lane picked it up. None of them had spoken a single word.

  The silence went on until Bill said bluntly,

  “What did you do?”

  Mr Lane tapped the blotting-pad.

  “There was only one thing I could possibly do.”

  “You refused?”

  Mr Lane’s manner became rather more reserved.

  “I wrote a line to Mr O’Hara reminding him of the conditions which he had himself laid down, and asked him to call for the packet at his convenience.”

  Meg made a sudden movement.

  “Why did you want to see me?” she said, her voice low but perfectly controlled.

  “Because,” said Mr Lane, “to be quite frank, Mrs O’Hara, I wanted to know whether you had any knowledge of your husband’s whereabouts, and I also wished to ask you for your opinion of this signature.”

  Meg’s eyes widened. She took up the letter, looked at it for a long time, and then gave it to Bill.

  “It’s Robin’s signature,” she said.

  After one quick glance at the manager’s imperturbable face Bill reversed the sheet and studied the signature upside down. Mr Lane’s hand offered him a magnifying glass.

  “Satisfy yourself. I see you know how the ordinary forgery is done.” He turned to Meg in explanation. “Forgers usually turn a signature upside down and copy it stroke for stroke as if they were drawing. A magnifying glass will show where the pen has been lifted. But if this is a forgery, it wasn’t done that way.”

  Bill had been looking through the magnifying glass. He put it down now and said,

  “No, there’s no break.”

  “None at all,” said Mr Lane. “I naturally subjected it to a careful scrutiny. May I ask whether you were familiar with Mr O’Hara’s signature?”

  “Yes—we were at school and college together.”

  “And you would say that this—”

  “I should have said that he had written it, if I didn’t know that it was impossible.”

  “And your reason for supposing it to be impossible?”

  “I have told you—I believe O’Hara to be dead.”

  “And you, Mrs O’Hara?”

  “I—don’t—know,” said Meg in a faint, steady voice.

  There was a pause. Then Bill said,

  “The man who brought this letter—what was he like?”

  “District Messenger,” said Mr Lane drily. “His instructions were to take the answer back to the office. I asked him to describe the person who had commissioned him, and he gave a description which might have applied to Mr O’Hara.”

  “What did he say?” said Meg quickly.

  “A gentleman in a blue suit and a bowler hat—not out of the way tall, but taller than some. He couldn’t say whether he was dark or fair, he hadn’t noticed. He supposed he might have noticed if the gentleman had been very much one way or the other. He couldn’t say what colour his eyes were. The gentleman was a very pleasant gentleman. He said he’d call back at the office for the answer.”

  “Not a very useful description,” said Bill. “It would fit a good
many thousands of people.”

  Mr Lane nodded.

  “Exactly. I did my best to check up on it by instructing one of the clerks to follow the messenger.”

  “You did?”

  “With very disappointing results,” said Mr Lane. “The clerk followed him all the way to the office and hung about there for some time. When the messenger came out again, he made some excuse and asked him about the answer. Well, the boy said the gentleman had met him outside the bank, so he had given him the answer there. It must have been just before the clerk came out. He couldn’t add anything to his description except that the gentleman was a real gentleman and had tipped him five shillings.”

  “I see,” said Bill.

  XII

  “What does it mean Bill?” said Meg as they walked away.

  “I don’t know,” said Bill Coverdale.

  “It was Robin’s signature.”

  “It looked like his signature. But I’m asking why the letter should have been typed, or why it should have been written at all. You see, Robin evidently considered the packet very important. He laid down those very strict conditions about its surrender, and he would know perfectly well that the manager couldn’t go back on them. That packet wasn’t to be handed over to anyone except Robin in person or you in person—Robin, if he was alive, or you if he was dead. Now nobody who had made those conditions would be likely to have forgotten them.”

  “Robin might,” said Meg. “You know, Bill, he took things up for a bit and—and dropped them.” That was what Robin had done with her, taken her up and—dropped her. Her breath caught for a moment, but she went on. “He ran things hard, and then—lost interest. They were everything one minute and nothing the next. He might have made those conditions and forgotten them—I do really think he might.”

  Bill frowned over that. He said,

  “I doubt it. But if he’d lost interest enough to be hazy and indifferent about the packet, why should he want it at all? And if he did want it, why not write a holograph letter, which he must have known would carry a great deal more weight than a bare signature? It seems to me that there’s only one possible reason for that letter’s being typed, and that is that the forger knew he could fake a perfect signature, but was afraid to risk anything more. Did you ever know Robin to type a letter?”