Death Knocks Three Times

by Anthony Gilbert

  “May I ask what you consider these letters should be worth to me?”

  “That’s better.” He smiled at her. “Now you did me out of a very nice little income about a year ago. Don’t you think it would be fair if you made over sufficient capital to bring in approximately

  that sum annually? I’m not, you note, asking for any compensation for the loss of a charming wife.”

  For a moment even the indomitable old woman was winded.

  “Are you out of your mind?” she gasped. “You cannot really suggest that I should sell out half my investments for your benefit?”

  “Why not? A lot of men would have asked for more. You’ve had the double income for nearly a year; then there’s the price you got for the house. I suppose legally half that would have come to Isabel if we had been married. No, I can’t agree I’m being rapacious. I’m sure you’re an enemy of the present Government and approve of private enterprise. I owe it to myself to do the best I can in my own interest. You may not believe it, but I’m nearly sixty-one. Even the Labour Exchange doesn’t take any interest in me. It’s never been easy for a man of my age to get a job …”

  “And then you would hardly know how to settle to work after so many years of living by your wits,” she flashed.

  “You should be in the racket yourself,” he complimented her. “You know all the answers. Well, are you sure you don’t think my offer worthy of consideration?”

  “Do you imagine a newspaper would give you anything like that sum?” she demanded.

  “I dare say not, but to a newspaper it’s only a feature. To you it’s life itself, isn’t it?”

  As he spoke, all the charm and kindliness left his face; now he looked wolfish, gaunt, every minute of his age. This was how some of the women he had betrayed had seen him, utterly without pity, without a shred of principle. They, poor fools, could starve, pitch themselves in the Thames, as one had done not so long ago, go out humbly seeking some poorly-paid job to keep body and soul together. This man would be capable of any infamy, of putting a bill of sale on the furniture when he went, so that the last of his dupes hadn’t even a bed to sleep on, capable of emptying her box of its last pitiful scraps of finery, robbing her of her rings and modest bracelets while she slept. The metamorphosis was terrifying; it made Clara realize that she was indeed fighting for her life, but she intended to sell it dearly. Everything courageous and ruthless in her rose to meet this disgraceful challenge. Time was now of the essence of the situation. Given time for reflection she would still find some way out of this impasse.

  “I shall consult my solicitor,” she said. “I believe you can get a long term of imprisonment for demanding money with menaces.”

  He shook his head. “I call your bluff. By the way, if you could make it convenient to give me a little on account …”

  “Not a penny shall you have from me. I’ve no doubt you wheedled quite a respectable sum out of Isabel, poor deluded creature …”

  “If I did, she had full value for the money.” He looked at her curiously. “Tell me this. Miss Bond. Have you ever in your life performed a spontaneous, generous action? Did you ever give a man even sixpence because you were sorry for him, and without making inquiries as to whether it was his own fault that he was down and out? Forget your sister for a moment, treat me as a fellow human being who’s down on his luck. Lend me a couple of pounds to see me through till mid-day tomorrow.”

  “Lend you money?” She could scarcely believe this last example of the fellow’s insolence. “I would sooner throw it in the sea or give it to the first drunken beggar I met. In a civilized society a ruffian like you would be behind bars. You are a public danger. You’re like a leech sucking blood, but unfortunately you cannot be dislodged by a burning cigarette end or a lump of salt. But when the police know of the infamows bargain you have proposed …”

  “What was that?” he murmured, but his face had colored deeply and she saw that he was shaken with anger. “Don’t forget you have no evidence that I proposed any sort of bargain, and I shall naturally deny it.”

  “You expect people to believe you? You?”

  “Are they more likely to believe a cranky old woman whose god is money? How many years is it since you last looked in a mirror, Miss Bond? You might have a shock if you saw how you appear to other people. No, don’t waste any more energy on me. You’ll need it all to cope with this situation. Remember, my offer holds until midday tomorrow. After that my terms go up each day. Don’t forget to mention that to your solicitor when you consult him.”

  His arrogance aroused in her every atom of antagonism of which she was capable.

  “Take your letters where you please, Mr. Marlowe. I am not interested, and I shall be surprised if any one else is. In any case I

  propose to go to the police in the morning, about some anonymous letters I have received recently. You cannot help me there, I suppose, Mr, Marlowe? Ah well, I dare say the police will trace this rascal, and at the same time I will have a word with them about yourself. I fancy they may be very interested to know about your career and your manner of getting a living of recent years. Whatever you do, don’t destroy Isabel’s letters. I am sure the authorities will be interested in them if no one else is.”

  He moved toward the door. “Your last word. Miss Bond?”

  “It will not be my fault if it is not.” Suddenly anger flamed up in her. “I would sooner die than treat with you,” she cried.

  That anger reassured him. She was frightened, all right.

  “Perhaps you will, Clara Bond,” he said. “Perhaps you will.”

  He swung round for a fine dashing exit, but this was spoiled by a quite insignificant plump little man who came hurrying in at that moment, wearing what Marlowe privately considered a rather awful black felt hat and a utility overcoat.

  “Sorry, I’m sure,” he murmured, but John Sherren belied his appearance by saying: “If there’s any hanky-panky I shall remember those words. Aunt Clara, this chap …”

  “One of poor Isabel’s pick-ups, down on his luck, as msual. We mustn’t delay you, Mr. Marlowe. John, remind me that in the morning I have to go to the police about some letters that might interest them.”

  12

  ROGER MARLOWE strode through the hall defiantly humming a contemporary catchy tune.

  “You can have her, I don’t want her,” he sang under his breath. The lift was just going up and he went up in it. He wanted to be alone to think for a minute. He hadn’t anticipated that the old woman would be an easy pigeon to pluck, but he hadn’t believed she would go to the police until he heard her speak to her nephew, Marlowe might bluff all he pleased, but it certainly wouldn’t suit his book to have his record raked up. As for Isabel’s letters—they were far more valuable as a weapon to extort cash out of Isabel’s sister than as copy for the press. Miss Bond might be a big noise in Brakemouth but in the world at large she was just another of these domineering old ladies who are the pest of hoteliers and shopkeepers. She hadn’t really much publicity value, and anyhow it was so long ago. Unless, of course—his eyes brightened—these letters could be linked up with a more recent scandal. If she committed suicide he’d be on toast. All the same, he didn’t want to find himself pilloried as the man who drove the old woman to her death. He cursed John Sherren for his untimely entrance.

  Like his antagonist, he was accustomed to fighting a lone hand, and he didn’t give in easily. He had had his defeats, of course, and as one got older one’s attractions faded. Sometimes, catching sight of himself in the morning before he was armed for the day, he would be shocked to see that lined, haggard face, the pouches under the eyes, the tousled gray hair. An hour later, of course, it was dif-‘ ferent. He was quite unrecognizable: a spruce, hearty, pleasantly spoken fellow, looking not much over fifty. Oh, he had a few years left. The old tricks were still good enough, and you couldn’t afford to let yourself go. Age was a man’s chief enemy. He thought sometimes, when vitality was at a very low ebb, about fellows
who fall in front of trains or out of windows; but he knew he’d never follow their example. He hadn’t the nerve. His kind of life bred an insolent defiance. Brakemouth was still full of elderly unaccompanied women, who’d be good for a loan, if nothing else. And there were scores of Brakemouths all around the coast. He got up and stared at himself in the mirror. He looked every hour of his age now. What he wanted was a double Scotch, but in a place like this you’d be expected to pay for your drinks as you had them. He went despairingly through the pockets of his coat, but it was no good. He hadn’t change for five shillings in the world. The only thing to do was stroll down and look around as if he were expecting a friend. He could tell the barman he’d wait. Perhaps someone would offer him one, and before it was his turn to pay for a round he could mutter something about the telephone. It was a very old gag but there weren’t any better ones.

  He began slowly to get ready for the journey downstairs. He’d told Clara Bond he was sixty-one, but actually it was nearer sixty-eight. He was pretty well preserved for his age, he decided. You couldn’t always trust these mirrors. Probably by morning Clara Bond would have thought better of going to the police. He looked at Isabel’s letters again, hesitating. Safer to destroy them, perhaps. On the odier hand, that nephew of hers might talk her into some sort of offer. He wouldn’t hold out, not for long. Perhaps he would have an opportunity to sound him later. Perhaps even the chap was in the bar at this very minute, and if he played his cards well he’d get the double Scotch after all. The very thought made him feel younger. He brushed his suit, rubbed up his shoes, strapped on his wrist the handsome watch diat didn’t go but could be counted on to make a good impression, and went jauntily down the stairs.

  After Marlowe’s departure John remained where he was for about half a minute, staring stupidly at the door. He was distracted by his aunt saying testily: “My dear John, either come in or go out. Also I should like that window closed. I am in imminent danger of pneumonia, and though possibly nothing would please you better than my death, it might not prove quite so profitable as you perhaps hope.”

  John turned and automatically moved toward the window. When he had shut it the truth of her words sank into his mind. Was it a warning that he wouldn’t inherit anyhow? Did she mean to leave everything to that old witch, Frances Pettigrew?

  “Who was that chap?” asked John. “Oh, I know what you said, but—what’s his name?”

  “I really cannot see that it is of any importance to you, but since you are kind enough to be interested, it is Marlowe.”

  “Marlowe? Then he … ?”

  “Yes?”

  “Isn’t he the one who was going to marry Aunt Isabel?”

  The old woman’s voice was bitter as the north wind. “Did she tell you that?”

  John let that pass. “Aunt Clara, was he trying to make a touch?”

  “Really, John! The vulgarity of your expressions appalls me.”

  “He said something about Isabel’s letters.” John’s voice was very dogged. “He couldn’t have anything on her, surely.”

  “Certainly not. In any case, I find it difficult to understand how it is possible to have anything, as you so crudely put it, on a dead woman.”

  “No, of course not, but it might give him power over the dead woman’s relatives.”

  “My dear John, you are allowing your novelist’s imagination to run away with you. Mr. Marlowe had hoped to marry your aunt or at all events to appeal to her sympathy to the fullest financial extent, and now that that is no longer possible he has made the mistake of supposing that I am made of the same weak stuff as she was. That is all. The majority of people with regular incomes are pestered from time to time by such men. If you were more successful in your chosen profession you would probably have had experience of them yourself.”

  John watched her with more perspicacity than she had supposed him to possess. Badly shaken, he decided. So there was something. So what?

  “He spoke of an offer being open and letters either written by or once in the possession of Aunt Isabel. And he wants money. Any one can see that. That type lives by its wits. You aren’t going to give him anything, are you?”

  “If you are afraid that you will be the ultimate sufferer by any such improbable decision on my part …”

  “I hadn’t thought of that. Hadn’t you better tell me … ?”

  “When I require your assistance, John, I will ask for it. I must add that I have not hitherto noticed such solicitude on your part for my welfare.”

  “You’ve always been able to look after yourself to date,” said John simply. “However, if you won’t—it’s your funeral, after all.”

  “A singularly unfortunate expression,” gibed Miss Bond. “Ah, here is Frances. Now perhaps we can hope for some sensible conversation.”

  “I could certainly do with some,” agreed Miss Pettigrew briskly. “If the public addiction to films is any indication of the mental stature of the country I am amazed that we are in as good a position as we are… . Ah, Mr. Sherren, still enjoying the fruits of idleness?”

  “I had meant to go back tomorrow,” said John uneasily.

  “Had? So something has happened to make you change your mind?”

  “This is all great nonsense,” said Miss Bond composedly. “John is making a great flurry because one of poor Isabel’s ne’er-do-well

  acquaintances has turned up and is proving—obstreperous. What John considers he could do by remaining here I have not yet fathomed.”

  “I know you think of yourself as invulnerable,” said John. “But because Greenglades appears to be a haven of respectability that doesn’t mean you’re living in a safe world. You’re not. It’s the jungle, here as elsewhere, and according to the experts, jungle warfare is the most dangerous, the most unpredictable there is.”

  Miss Pettigrew said in the same brisk voice: “Dear me, I seem to have missed a great deal of excitement while I yawned my head off at that interminable film. Does your nephew imply, Clara, that the author of the anonymous letters has come into the open?”

  “I never thought of that,” exclaimed John. “But no—he said Isabel’s letters.”

  “So the threats have become concrete? I take it he is asking for money, Clara?”

  “When you have seen Mr. Marlowe for yourself, Frances, as you are fairly certain to do since he is unhappily staying in this hotel, you will realize that his main activity is to persuade other people to provide him with a livelihood. However, I propose to lay information with the police in the morning, less on my own account— as John has just observed, I am very well able to look after myself —than on behalf of those other weak-minded women upon whom that type automatically preys.”

  “And while you are about it you will mention the anonymous letters, won’t you, my dear Clara?”

  “I doubt whether the police would take those very seriously. However, if it will stop all this argument I shall be delighted to do so. After all, I have been a taxpayer all my life. Who has a greater right than I to demand protection?”

  Frances Pettigrew lifted her head to say unexpectedly: “As this i» your nephew’s last night at Brakemouth, Clara, for since you intend to approach the police he will not need to change his plans, would it not be a kind gesture to invite him to dine with us? Besides, it may be salutary for this Mr. Marlowe to realize we still have a man in the family.”

  She was laughing at him and John knew it, but he said at once: “That’s very kind. I’d be delighted—that is, if you really mean it. Aunt Clara.”

  “Since it is obvious that Frances, does, my assent is scarcely required.”

  John murmured something about washing his hands and returned a few minutes later, minus the hat and coat, and laid himself out to be pleasant. A not-very-well-off bachelor, he had learned young to sing for his supper. Besides, he had his own reasons for wanting to be here tonight.

  When he came back he found the two ladies placidly conversing on some quite innocuous topic.

&nbs
p; “I hope you don’t mind. Aunt Clara,” he said. “I’ve ordered three glasses of sherry. The chap’s going to bring them in here.”

  “Very liverish,” said his aunt. “And very extravagant.”

  “But a delightful treat,” supplemented Miss Pettigrew. “And very thoughtful of your nephew.”

  “In a way it’s a celebration, isn’t it?” suggested John, with a rather fatuous smile.

  “Celebration of what?”

  “When shall we three meet again?” said John airily, and Miss Bond wondered whether he’d started on his night’s libations in the bar.

  “You are being very gallant to two old women,” she said severely. But she was thinking hard. She wasn’t accustomed to doing anything without some definite end in view. She didn’t suppose John was going to try and borrow money from her; if so, he could hardly have prepared the ground worse than by paying half a guinea for three absurdly small glasses of Empire sherry. But equally she was sure it was not affection behind this move.

  The old autocrat would have been horrified to hear that she and the unscrupulous Marlowe had anything in common, but that night at least it was true. Both of them were at heart panic-stricken by the immediate future.

  “What’s behind this?” thought Miss Bond. “Frances is looking very pleased. Does she know something? Are they in a plot together? Why did she suggest his staying? And he accepted before I had a chance of reinforcing the invitation.” She looked covertly from one face to the other, but they told her nothing. “Is Frances really my friend? What does she believe? What does she know? How much did Isabel tell her? She had never said a word. And John. He didn’t come down here for no reason at all.”

  So the thoughts went around and around in her mind like a dormouse on its wheel. I can trust no one, no one, she reminded her self fiercely. I’ve known that all my life. Keep your own counsel. Don’t yield to ordinary human weakness. When knowledge is too much, for you, shut yourself up, don’t see a soul. Always be on guard against betrayal, the careless, treacherous word, the sympathetic atmosphere.