The Benefits of Death

by Roderic Jeffries

“You,” she said, “are the most self-satisfied bastard I’ve ever met. I’ve a mind to kick you into the cold, just to show you that even a fallen woman like me has some self-respect.”

  *

  At seven o’clock, Pamela put down her knitting — for her, knitting was a self-imposed misery that Leithan described as masochistic — and looked across the room. “Charles, it’s getting on.”

  “Only a couple of hours to bed.”

  “If you don’t shut up, I’ll paste some cotton-wool round your chin and turn you into a billy goat.”

  He drank more Cinzano.

  “Your car’s still outside the house, Charles.”

  He stared at the round curtained window on the roadside. “Unless it’s been stolen, yes.”

  “Aren’t…aren’t you going to drive it round to the woods?”

  “It can stay where it is.”

  She tried to contain the racing excitement within her. “This isn’t your idea of a funny, is it, Charles?”

  “I’m not joking.”

  “Then why? What’s made you decide?”

  “What’s it matter?” he asked harshly. “Aren’t you going to kiss me?”

  “Kiss you, you old billy goat? I’ll kiss you until you scream for help and can’t work up an appetite for a fortnight. God, Charles, I feel as if someone has injected sunshine into all my veins. I feel completely and gloriously mad. I could lasso the moon, or dig up the sea: I could dance naked in a frenzy before Bacchus.”

  “Now who’s wearing the beard?” he demanded.

  *

  The Cuenca Club held its annual general meeting at the Bambridge Rooms in Jermyn Street. Normally, apart from the committee, there were only two or three members present to hear the chairman deal with the almost non-existent agenda, the hon. treasurer present the balance sheet, the hon. P.R.O. catalogue the appearances of Cuencas in the press, the hon. secretary of the show committee report on shows, and the hon. secretary comment on the graph of membership. On the 20th November, there were so many people that the room was overcrowded.

  The eighteen chairs around the oblong table were occupied, as were the five uncomfortable wooden ones beyond it. Fourteen other people were having to stand, although a search was being made for further chairs.

  Georgina Yerby had dressed with care and her suit — worn, but smart — went well with her thin, angular, figure. Her face was set in hard angry lines, and there were dark circles under her eyes. She was trying hard to be pleasant to everyone, but frequently the bitterness within her came to the surface. She hated so many of those who were present. She and her friend had started the club and worked hard for it and the breed. They had gained grudging recognition of the breed in the dog papers. They had cajoled, begged, and almost forced, people to support and work for the club. Her friend had bred their bitch and it was the finest Cuenca in the country. They had seen the breed grow until it was given a pair of C.C.s a year and although the judges refused to award C.C.s to any of the dogs, her bitch — willed to her by her dead friend — had gained the first two C.C.s.

  Then money, in the person of Evadne Leithan, had stepped in.

  She had bulldozed her way wherever she wanted to go, and it had soon become clear that her only object was to use her money to gain success for herself: she was not interested in the general welfare of the club. She had gone to Spain and visited all the important Cuenca breeders and had finally made a fool of herself by paying two hundred guineas for a tri-colour. But she had had the last laugh, as money always did. Through an oversight, the breed specifications had not listed tri-colour as an eliminating fault. She had won two C.C.s and all the odds were in favour of her winning the vital third one — unless, of course, tri-colours were barred.

  To her eternal credit, Georgina Yerby had not been responsible for the initial move to bar tri-colours. As chairman, it was her duty to guide, not lead, even if to do so was to see her own interests threatened. Her neutrality had lasted until she discovered that Evadne Leithan had gone so far as to try to buy votes, then she had fought back with all of her — limited — resources. Her battle met with some success. Although she had a cold nature and found it difficult to make friends, no one doubted her honest sincerity and that fact brought her supporters. But how well could sincerity match money? This meeting would tell and she was terrified that she knew the answer.

  Leithan arrived and went down the stairs to the room in which the meeting was being held.

  “There you are.”

  He turned to face Alan Marsh.

  “Where’s Evadne?”

  “Isn’t she here?”

  “She hasn’t been near our place and Judy went to no end of trouble getting special food in, knowing Evadne likes her eats.” Marsh fingered his lips. “Has she said why she didn’t come to us?”

  Marsh was looking very worried, thought Leithan. Wondering if he were no longer persona grata and if the friendship that meant so much to his toadying soul had come to an end? “I thought she must be with you since I haven’t seen her since she went to London.”

  Judy Marsh hurried up to her husband’s side. She was a bird-like woman who used too much lipstick.

  “He hasn’t seen her,” said her husband. He finally let go of his lips.

  “You haven’t seen Evadne?” asked Judy Marsh.

  Leithan shook his head.

  “Where is she?” said Marsh. “She’s got to be here, I tell you, she’s got to be here.”

  “She will be,” replied Leithan.

  “I hope nothing’s happened to her,” said Judy Marsh.

  “Something must have done.” Marsh’s voice was both angry and uncertain. “Look at all the special eats we bought.”

  “We’re not worried about that,” snapped his wife, and she looked angrily at him. “We’re concerned about dear Evadne. I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to her. We’re so fond of her.”

  Leithan offered them cigarettes. As he shut his gold cigarette-case, he saw Marsh staring at it and mentally assessing its worth. For Marsh, everything could be reduced to pounds, shillings, and pence. Leithan said he wanted to have a word with someone and he managed to break free from them.

  Georgina Yerby, at the far end of the table, stood up and called for silence. Then, she welcomed everyone to the fifth annual general meeting. As she spoke, in a high-pitched and wearying voice, her gaze constantly went to the door at the far end of the room.

  The balance sheet for the year was passed and the committee were returned unopposed.

  Mrs. Cyclen presented her P.R. report. “In the past year, we have gained mentions in the national press on no less than three occasions which I feel certain is a remarkable achievement.” She looked for, and received, some applause. “The first two references concerned the shows at Crufts and Glasgow when Cuencas appeared in the list of winners, while the third one followed an accident in Kensington High Street between a taxi and a bus. I know you’ll all be glad to hear that although the Cuenca suffered severe shock from the noise the bus made when it crashed into the taxi and the taxi turned over, she is now very much better. The press referred to a Pekinese as being the cause of the bus swerving, and although I immediately got on to the papers and told them the dog was a Cuenca, they very rudely refused to print the correction. However…”

  Marsh tiptoed up to where Leithan was standing. “She’s still not here.”

  “I know,” replied Leithan.

  “But when Mrs. Cyclen’s finished, we’ll start on the agenda and the first item is tri-colours.”

  “She’ll get here in time.”

  “But what say if she don’t? I’ve been speaking to one or two of those we’ve persuaded down. They’re saying that if she can’t be bothered to turn up, they can’t be bothered to vote. I’m telling you, they’re proper fed up. Where is she? You must know.”

  “I don’t.”

  “I’ll go and see if she’s somewhere upstairs.” Marsh turned and hurried out of the room.

  G
eorgina Yerby watched Marsh leave.

  “…And I have persuaded a very well-known firm of doggie food manufacturers,” continued Mrs. Cyclen, “to feature a Cuenca in their advertisements when our first champion is made up.” She paused for a few seconds. “I do hope you think our small sub-committee has done its job?” She stared anxiously round herself, as if expecting a demand for her immediate resignation.

  Mrs. Cyclen was assured by everybody’s appreciation. Georgina Yerby announced they would now deal with the proposals listed on the agenda. Immediately, the atmosphere became tense, strained, and angry.

  “The first item reads — ‘That the breed standards be altered so as to exclude tri-colours and that the Kennel Club be so notified.’” Georgina Yerby looked at the doorway.

  Marsh ran into the room and crossed to Leithan’s side. “She’s nowhere. She’s not turning up. What am I going to say to people?”

  Leithan made no answer.

  The opposers to the motion had been relying on Evadne Leithan to be the spearhead of the attack: they were prepared to follow. With no one to lead them, they were uncertain and largely disorganised.

  The vote was taken. Fifteen members were in favour of the motion, eight were against, and there were twelve abstentions. It was victory for the old guard.

  Chapter VII

  Leithan was cutting up raw paunch and the smell of it disgusted him as it always did. From the tack room, he could look through the line of wire-mesh doors and see the drooling dogs as they regarded him with desperate appeal. He suffered a desire to take them out and shoot them.

  “Anyone around?” called out a voice from outside.

  “In here.” Leithan put down the large butcher’s knife on the wooden slab. A young man, in his middle twenties, entered the building.

  “Are you Mr. Leithan?”

  The dogs began to yowl as they forgot their stomachs long enough to realise a stranger was present.

  Leithan shouted at the dogs and they reluctantly became silent. “I am.”

  “My name’s Detective-Constable Herald. I’d like to check on something with you, sir?”

  Leithan picked up the knife. “I’ll finish this first.”

  “Of course, sir.” Herald stared at the paunch. “What is it?”

  “This?” Leithan cut through a roll of the green, blubbery mass. “Have you never sampled the delights of tripe and onions?”

  “Not half. My mum used to be a dab hand at that.”

  “This is the raw material.”

  The detective looked at Leithan’s face to see if he were joking, then back at the paunch. “That is?”

  “Yes.”

  Herald remained suspicious.

  Leithan finished cutting up the paunch into small squares and apportioned it into the plastic bowls. “I’ll just feed these ravenous beasts.” He picked up the six bowls, one on top of the other, and opened each wire door in turn and put the food in the compartment. As soon as he returned, he washed the rubber gloves under the tap and then peeled them off.

  “What are they?” asked Herald, indicating with a vague wave of his beefy right arm the dogs, who could be heard guzzling their food and repeatedly choking.

  “Cuencas. A Spanish breed of dog, reputed to have been the favourite of the Infanta of Philip the Fourth. If so, the Spanish have got their own back on us for the Armada.” He led the way out of the kennels.

  They went behind the ornamental trees — two of the evergreens were bright with small orange berries — and round the garage to the door of the house. Herald showed no interest in the building. If anything, Leithan guessed, the other was scornful of such age. Once in the sitting-room, Leithan said: “What’s the trouble?”

  “We’ve had a report, sir, that Mrs. Leithan is missing. We’re wondering if there’s any truth in it?”

  “No, there isn’t.”

  “Then she’s here now, sir?”

  “No. She’s been a little under the weather recently and I imagine she just hasn’t bothered to write me.”

  “D’you know where she is?”

  “Not at this precise moment.”

  “You think she’s on holiday and hasn’t got round yet to writing you?”

  “Yes.”

  “When did you last see her, sir?”

  “When I drove her into Ashford on Sunday to catch a train. I dropped her at the station.”

  “To go on this holiday?”

  “Not quite. She was due to stay with some acquaintances of hers who live in London.”

  “Would they be Mr. and Mrs. Marsh?”

  “How have you got their names?”

  “They made the report, sir. Proper worried, he said he was.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “It sounds as if you don’t like them, sir?”

  “I doubt whether my likes or dislikes matter at the moment.”

  Herald’s expression tightened. “They say she wasn’t at a meeting she was absolutely certain to attend.”

  “The certainty was demonstrably false, wasn’t it?”

  “You’re not at all worried?”

  “My wife is an adult of sound mind. Does that answer you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I presume that in the present instance she needed a break and therefore took it. Likewise, when she decides she’s had enough, she’ll come back.”

  “Is she in good health?”

  “She suffers from angina pectoris. However, provided she takes everything easily and overdoes nothing, she’s all right.”

  “Have you checked with hospitals, sir?”

  “No.”

  “Wouldn’t that be an idea?”

  “It would if there was any reason to suppose she might be in one. As there isn’t, I haven’t bothered.”

  “I see, sir.” Herald stood up. “Let us know when you hear from her, will you?” He crossed to the door. “Thanks for your help, Mr. Leithan.”

  Leithan stood in the middle of the room. He heard the front door open and then shut. Slowly, he lit a cigarette.

  *

  The detective-inspector’s room was on the first floor of the police station and it reflected a little of the D.I.’s character. It was always faintly untidy, but in a manner that did not affect efficiency, and on the far wall was a calendar featuring a young lady whose vital statistics were open to inspection. The D.I. was a cheerful person whose record was neither brilliant nor black — he claimed that had it been either there would have been no chance of further promotion for him — and he managed to retain his sense of humour despite a morose detective-superintendent called Murch who suffered from a duodenal ulcer. The D.I. was almost bald, a physical feature that made him appear far older than his thirty-eight years.

  Herald knocked on the door of his office and when there was no answer he went in. He crossed to the desk and looked down at the papers and read through the top ones to see if they contained anything of interest. He heard approaching footsteps and stepped back from the desk. Jaeger entered.

  “I thought you must have gone home,” said the D.I., as he sat down and took a battered pipe from his pocket.

  “It’s three miles out to the place, sir.”

  “And I suppose you walked ’em?” The D.I. opened up a plastic pouch and began to press tobacco into the bowl of his pipe. “What’s the verdict? Much ado about nothing? The shower in London never have been able to sort the wheat from the chaff.”

  Herald twisted one of the two wooden chairs round so that he could sit down. “I don’t know.”

  “That’s honest, even if it doesn’t make for a good start.”

  “He’s rolling, lives in one of those old dumps that’s all cobwebs and history. And he’s most superior and sky-high on his dignity.”

  “What’s the matter? Didn’t he offer you a drink?” The D.I. struck a match and sucked flame into his pipe. His juniors said that he was busy trying to ape Maigret, but they made certain they said it behind his back because beneath his genial exterior
there was a hard core of something that was very close to ruthlessness.

  “He spoke about his wife as if she was almost a stranger. Know what I mean, sir?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Herald ran his fingers through his crinkly hair. “He was on edge, but for a bloke whose wife’s missing and has angina, he wasn’t nearly worried enough.”

  “Maybe he objected to you?”

  Herald took a boiled sweet from his coat pocket and unwrapped it. “I asked him if he’d been on to any hospitals.”

  “And?”

  “Said he hadn’t. That one stinks, doesn’t it?”

  The D.I.’s pipe went out and he had to strike three matches before he relit it. “When did he last see her?”

  “He drove her into the station on Sunday to catch the London train. Presumably, the one she wasn’t on when it arrived.”

  “Did he see her into the train?”

  “All he said was, he dropped her at the station. When he heard she hadn’t arrived, he just reckoned she’d changed her mind about stopping with those people and had decided to go on holiday.”

  “Where to?”

  Herald shrugged his shoulders.

  The D.I. picked up one of the crime reports on his desk and read it through. He looked up. “Hasn’t Leery, in all his twenty years in the force, yet learned that burglary consists of breaking and entering?” He tapped the paper with the stem of his pipe. “Give this back to Leery and tell him to do the job properly.” He flicked the sheet of paper over the desk and with an acrobatic lunge, Herald managed to catch it. “What are you doing at the moment?”

  “I was on the stolen car, sir.”

  “Which one? They’re always being stolen.”

  “Aldington. The detention centre lot.”

  “Those young bastards. Tell Leery to take over. You have a look into this business of Mrs. Leithan. It’s a thousand pounds to a penny they’ve had a row and she’s gone home to Mother, but just in case, sniff around. See how the land lies between them and whether he’s got any little bit of fluff tucked away out of sight. If it looks promising, have a word with the banks and persuade them to tell you whether she’s been drawing money since the eighteenth or whether she’s taken out a large sum prior to that date. See about hospitals and what the railway people have to say. You know the form.”