‘Well, I wouldn’t say that. But I haven’t seen you before, and you’re up there at the window . . .’
I climbed down the ladder and faced him, still with the wide, friendly smile.
‘I haven’t been here long. I’m Mr. Sarek’s chauffeur. He and Mrs. Sarek are having a week in Paris. I’ve been left to look after the chickens.’
I could see he was still uncertain of me, but his suspicions were receding.
‘I was about to make myself a cup of tea. Maybe you’ll join me?’
The lingering suspicion vanished, and his face brightened.
I had offered him the thing he had come for: the universal bond between clergymen and parishioners. I couldn’t be a burglar if I was going to give him tea.
‘Now, that’s very kind of you...’
I led into the dining room and sat him down. I could have strangled him and shoved him down the old well at the back of the house, but I had to be on the right side of him. I didn’t know how well he knew her, and what he would tell her.
While I waited for the water to boil, he talked. He unfolded, the story of his narrow, dreary life with tender and loving detail. He told me about his early struggles in South Africa about his ill health, what his bishop said, what the wife of his bishop said, and of course, what he said himself.
He had a quiet soft voice that was as unstoppable as the Niagara Falls. I gave him his tea and sat on the edge of the table, and waited for him to stop. I didn’t listen to a quarter of what he said, but it didn’t matter because he didn’t seem to expect me to say anything. It was the most devastating and persistent monologue I have ever encountered, and as dull and boring as anything I have ever had to listen to. He sat there from half past two to twenty minutes to five, talking ceaselessly about himself.
I could have stopped him, but only if I had been rude, and I wasn’t taking any chances of him complaining about me. So I had to sit there and take it. Nothing would have pleased me more than to smash the teapot over his flat, sleek head: nothing less would have been adequate.
Finally I could stand it no longer.
‘Sorry to interrupt you, but I’ll have to feed the chickens The light’s going.’
He paused in mid-stride, his mouth hanging open, then looked blankly out of the window.
‘Bless my soul, is it as late as that?’
He had been so engrossed with the sound of his own voice he had completely lost count of time.
‘Well, I must be getting along. My wife will be wondering where I’ve got to.’
I got him to the door before he could start another story.
‘Perhaps you would tell Mrs. Sarek I looked in? I have tried so often to meet her. Whenever I’ve called I could get no answer.’
I could have hit him then. I don’t know how I kept the exasperated fury out of my face. He didn’t even know her!
Whenever she had seen the damned old driveller coming she had dived into the house and kept out of sight. And I had put up with him for two hours because I thought he knew her!
‘Perhaps during the week you would care to come down to the vicarage. We could have another interesting little chat. I have some photos of the African Veld that are really worth seeing.’
‘I keep pretty busy. You’d better wait until Mrs. Sarek comes back before you call again. I’m not being paid to talk to callers. Mr. Sarek wouldn’t like it.’
He looked startled.
‘Well, perhaps one evening...’
‘I’m busy in the evenings too. Good night.’
I shut the door in his face.
It wasn’t until eight o’clock that evening when it was dark that I climbed the ladder again and entered her room. It wasn’t quite so large as it had looked from the loft doorway. It was a little shabbier, the furniture was scratched, a thin film of dust covered the wardrobe mirror, and there were bits of fluff on the floor. It was an unloved, uncared for room.
Maybe she wanted something prettier and more modem, and couldn’t be bothered with it. The smell of musk and her own faint and peculiar body odour hung in the stuffy, close atmosphere.
The top of the dressing table was littered with pots of cream, half-empty bottles of perfume, a bottle of T.C.P. and a wad of cotton wool. On the chest of drawers was an ashtray crammed with cigarette butts, smeared with lipstick.
I glanced under the bed. Several pairs of shoes lay anyhow in the dust, as if she had kicked them of when going to bed and had forgotten them.
As I lit a cigarette I noticed my hand was unsteady. I don’t know why it was but the untidiness and her personal things lying in full view strangely excited me: as if she was in the room herself, standing before me, naked.
I went over to the dressing table and pulled open the drawers. I found nothing except the kind of junk any woman would keep in her dressing table drawers: powder puffs, compacts, more lipstick, handkerchiefs, a pair of fancy garters, a hairnet, and stuff like that.
I missed nothing, disturbing the jumble of things as little as possible. I closed the drawers and stood back, aware suddenly of my face in the mirror. I looked queer: there was a red flush on my face, my eyes were over-bright and my forehead was shiny with sweat beads.
‘You’ve got it bad, haven’t you? A real case, and you know it, and she knows it too.’
Handling her stuff, breathing the air in which she slept had me talking to myself. I was ready to walk up the wall and across the ceiling. I went over to the wardrobe, a little unsteady at the knees and opened the doors.
There were a number of frocks, coats and skirts, and summer dresses banging on hooks the length of the wardrobe.
At the far end of the row were three costumes: short white tunics covered with sequins and trunks to match. White kid, sequin-covered knee boots stood in the comer of the wardrobe.
I lifted down one of the costumes to examine it: the kind of costume a professional ice skater might wear, but when I looked at the boots I knew she hadn’t worn this outfit for skating.
The costumes puzzled me. Had she been on the stage?
The maker’s tab on the neckband of the tunic told me the outfit had been made in Cairo. I remembered Sarek telling me he lived in Cairo. Probably that was where they had met.
I put the costume back and continued my search. I didn’t hurry for I had to be careful not to disturb anything. Every article I handled I put back exactly as I found it. It took time, but I did it.
In one of the drawers of the wardrobe I found a wooden box, its lid secured by a length of black ribbon.
I carried the box to the light, and opened it. It was crammed with letters and photographs; almost the first photograph I looked at was of her in the sequin tunic and high boots.
A tall, broad-shouldered man in a white-silk shirt and black-Spanish trousers was balancing her on his hand. She was standing upright, both her feet gripped in his hand, her arms folded. It was remarkable balancing trick, and a still more remarkable feat of strength.
There were other pictures, taken, apparently in a nightclub, showing she was an expert gymnast and acrobat.
Her partner just stood around and let her climb over him. He was a handsome hunk of beef, as good-looking as a movie star and as strong as a bull. I had no idea what she weighed then, but from the look of her she had the same curves and solid hips as she had now.
Nine and a half stone would have been a conservative guess, and to hold that weight at arm’s length meant strength. Big and tough as I am, I knew I couldn’t have done it.
I put the box aside. The letters would make interesting reading when I was in bed. I had already taken my sheets into the guest room and made up the bed. I could be uncomfortable if I had to, but while she was away I was going to pamper myself.
I spent over two hours going through the drawers in the wardrobe and the chest that stood by the door. I found nothing to explain why she had locked the door. The answer might lie in the box of letters, but I didn’t think so. They weren’t hidden.
If sh
e had anything to hide I knew she would make a job of ft.
I took off the lock on the door and went downstairs, fetched up the bottle of whisky and the breast of a cold chicken and continued the hunt.
I searched everywhere, even unmade the bed, took of the mattress and handled every inch of it. I worked from the window, covering the floor, the wall and the furniture, and I finally found what I was looking for behind the wardrobe Hanging on a hook, out of sight and almost out of reach was a portable typewriter in a worn leather case. I fished it out and took of the lid.
Even without the blue, deckle-edged notepaper that was clipped in the lid of the case I knew by the letters e and d that were so obviously out of alignment that this was the machine on which the threatening letters to Sarek had been written, and it followed that she must be the writer.
I sat back on my heels and grinned at myself in the dusty wardrobe minor.
I had her now.
I had her just where I wanted her.
chapter seven
After four days of living in that lonely house I got sick of my own company. I spent most of the time going through the hundreds of letters I had found in the box. The bulk of them were from men admirers. I was surprised to come across letters from two men whose names were, at one time, quite often in the press: a fellow with a title and an M.P. They didn’t offer marriage; the best they could do was a flat and a regular income and, of course, an occasional visit when they weren’t tied up with their wives or their business.
It was pretty obvious from all these letters that just before the war she must have been the rage of Cairo. One of the last letters in the box was from Sarek. It wasn’t dated, but the postmark showed it had been written on 3rd September, 1939. It interested me because it appeared to be the only letter he wrote to her. or at least, the only letter of his she kept.
Chirie,
I can see nothing but danger and trouble ahead of us. It is impossible to remain here much longer: a week at the outside. It is time for you to decide what you are going to do. At the moment I have enough money for both of us. Together we can drop out of sight and begin a new life. For the moment Paris is safe enough, but later it may be possible to go to America. I must know immediately. You can be sure of my love. In haste.
Henry
He had probably written that to her when he realized war was inevitable. But why, with so many offers of marriage and hundreds of men to choose from, had she picked a little vulture like Sarek?
I returned the letter to the box. There were no other letters from Sarek, but I did find a long, angry letter from her stage partner, Boris Daumier, dated 31st August, 1939, accusing her of sleeping with other men, of ruining their act, of continually insulting him. It was the high-pitch hysterical squealing of a man maddened beyond endurance. Pages of it, and towards the end the fury petered out and he grovelled, appealing to her to remember their love for each other, reminding her of the happy days and nights they had shared together in the past, begging her to put other men out of her life and return to him.
It made me feel sick to read it. I knew how that big slob must have suffered, but at least he had had some nights with her. I hadn’t.
I now knew something about her; not much, but something to work on. When it came to a showdown I felt pretty sure I could handle her.
Why was she writing these threatening notes to Sarek? What was the point of it? She wasn’t the type to play practical jokes. There was a motive: I was sure of that. For some reason she wanted to throw a scare into Sarek. Somehow I was going to find out that reason.
I had taken the lock on her door to Chesham and had a key fitted. Then I repaired the window catch, screwed on the lock, and locked it from the outside. It gave me an extraordinary feeling of power to have a key to her room.
Now I had her where I wanted her, I got bored waiting her return. I was tempted to phone for Netta, but the risk was too obvious. With a menace like that vicar around, it would be asking for trouble to bring Netta to the house, and besides, now I was sure of Rita, Netta had lost a lot of her attraction.
On the sixth day I took the car and drove to London. It was a Thursday: the day the threatening letter was due to turn up. I had an idea it wouldn’t turn up, but I had to be sure.
I parked the car outside the Wardour Street office, climbed the stairs and pushed open the office door.
Emmie was typing away as if her life depended on it, not as I expected, lording it in his room, but still behind her own rickety, shabby little desk.
She looked up and her gooseberry eyes hardened. She looked a sight. Her pasty skin was blotched with spots, and she had a little red sore at the comer of her mouth.
‘Hello,’ I said, and somehow managed to smile at her. ‘Thought I’d look you up. The house is as dead as a dodo.’
‘I’m busy.’
‘Well, that’s fine. Business must be good.’
‘I don’t want you in the office, Mitchell.’
I had made up my mind to win her over. I had thought a lot about her since I had been alone in Four Winds. I knew my only chance to get her on my side was to tackle her when Sarek was out of the way. She was too powerful to have as an enemy, but if I could get on the right side of her I might still get the in I wanted.
‘If I’m in the way I’ll shove of, but I’d be glad to give you a helping hand if you would like me to.’
‘I don’t want your help.’
Although it turned me sick to my stomach I leaned on the desk and smiled into her ghastly fat face.
‘Come on. Miss Pearl, let’s bury the hatchet... All right, I know I started off on the wrong foot. Well, I’m sorry and I apologize. You’re smart, I don’t need to be told that, although Sarek did tell me. Why don’t we get together? I’m willing if you are.’ Being that close to her was like sticking your nose into a slum house.
She stared at me, her eyes watchful, her mouth set.
‘I’m busy.’
Keeping that smile on my face was about the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
‘Look, you and I both admire Mr. Sarek. We both work for him. What’s the point in…?’
‘I’m busy.’
I wanted to spit in her fat, hideous face, but somehow I still managed to smile at her.
‘Well, all right, perhaps when you’re not so busy.’ I straightened. It was a relief to get away from her. ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’
‘You can get out.’
I knew the smile was growing dim at the edges.
‘That’s easy. But surely there’s something else?’
She gave me a bleak, spiteful stare and then began typing again.
I could have murdered her then. I could have taken that greasy, fat skull between my hands and hammered it against the typewriter.
I lit a cigarette to give my voice a chance to steady up.
‘Any more threatening letters come in?’
She paused in her typing.
‘No, and when Mr. Sarek returns I am going to advise him to pay you off. You’re getting too much for doing nothing, anyway.’
That made two of them gunning for me. I had one where I wanted her, but I knew I’d never nail this fat little horror to the mast. White-hot fury boiled up inside me, but I still managed a grin: a little crooked perhaps, but a grin.
‘Better look after that sore on your mouth. It might spread and spoil your beauty.’
Well, at least I hurt her. I saw her flinch. Still grinning, I went out and shut the door gently behind me.
When I returned to Four Winds I went up to her room, collected the typewriter and carried it into the guest room. I set it down on the bedside table, took of the lid and threaded a sheet of the blue, deckle-edged paper into the machine.
If she had decided to send him no more threatening letters then I’d take on the job. And I’d send him a threatening letter to remember: not the junk she had been sending. I’d give him t such a scare he wouldn’t let me out of his sight; a scare that even fat E
mmie couldn’t talk him out of Rita would know who had written the note, but that didn’t worry me. There was nothing she could do about it without giving herself away. And besides, I wanted her to know I had found the typewriter. It would be a nice way to break the news.
For some minutes I sat thinking, then thumped out the note with one finger.
You have had three warnings. This is the last. From now on you won’t be safe. Sometime, somewhere, we will kill you. It won’t be quick and sudden. You will know all about it, and we will soften you, you rat, before we do it.
That ought to throw a scare into him. I couldn’t see Emmie persuading him to sack me after getting a note like that.
I hoped I would be there when he read it. His face would be worth seeing. But the best sight of all would be Rita’s face when he showed the note to her. If that didn’t give her a jolt then nothing would.
On Monday I had a telegram saying he and Mrs. Sarek would arrive at eight forty-five. Would I be at the airport to drive them home?
I would be there all right.
Miss Robinson, looking fresh and clear eyed and clean minded, gave me a cool stare when I walked into the reception hall.
‘Remember me? Mr. Sarek’s coming in on the 8:45 plane. Is it on schedule?’
She remembered her manners enough to give me a distant nod.
‘Good evening. I have heard from Mr. Sarek. Yes, it’ll be on time.’
‘He’ll be glad to see you looking so pretty.’
‘The plane is due now. If you’ll wait here, I’ll let him know where you are.’
She swept away, her back stiff.
My charm didn’t seem to be registering well these days.
After a while I heard a plane come in and I strolled to the door. Minutes ticked by, then I saw Miss Robinson and Sarek.
Behind them came Rita and a man in uniform carrying the baggage.
I went out to meet them.
‘Hello, there, did you have a good trip?’
He brushed me aside as querulous as a wet hen.
‘I have a bad cold. Where is the car? Do I have to walk all night?’
Miss Robinson was holding his arm, making soft, soothing noises at him. One look at his white, pinched face and the angry irritation in his little black eyes told me this was the moment to make an impression.
1951 - In a Vain Shadow Page 6
