A Man of Forty

by Gerald Bullet

  “Well, gentlemen, there’s no doubt as to the cause of death, I take it?”

  “None whatever,” said Trewin. “ My opinion is precisely Dr. Grove’s.”

  Dr. Grove, being new to this kind of thing, tried not to look gratified.

  “The wound couldn’t have been self-inflicted,” said Spencer, consulting his notes. “ You’re agreed on that too.”

  “Yes,” said Grove.

  “Ask yourself, man,” said Trewin. “ Here’s a cadaver with a nice little neat hole——”

  “All right,” said Spencer. “ I know. I know. And how long dead, do you say?”

  “Ee, well,” said Trewin, “ not less than one hour. Eh, doctor?”

  “I agree,” said Dr. Grove. “ And not more than, say, three.”

  “Fine,” said Trewin.

  The two nodded at each other with an air of quiet self-satisfaction.

  “Now, Dr. Grove,” said Spencer, “ let me see that I’ve got your story right. You were rung up at your house at about nine-thirty-five and asked to go at once to 47 Orkney House, where you would find a Mr. Adam Swinford in desperate need of attention. Were those the exact words?”

  “That phrase was used. I was struck by it. It seemed curiously stilted in the circumstances.”

  “Quite. Like a prepared speech,” said Spencer. “ You said it was a woman’s voice. I suppose there’s no doubt of that?”

  “I had no doubt at the time. The voice was natural enough, even though the phrasing wasn’t. She said,’ Please go at once, or you may be too late. He’s in desperate need of attention.’ I asked her to give me some idea of what was the matter, so that I could go properly equipped,” he explained in parenthesis. “ To that she answered : 4 He’s had an accident, a bad fall. He’s unconscious.’ Then she repeated the name and address.”

  “Did you ask where she was speaking from?”

  “No. I assumed she was speaking from here.”

  “Naturally,” conceded Spencer. “ You knew this place, I suppose, since you live so near?”

  “Yes. At least I knew it was what it is, a block of flats. I’ve passed it scores of times.”

  “Quite. You assumed she was speaking from here,” said Spencer, scratching his chin with a blunt forefinger. “ And was she?” he suddenly asked, turning on Stevenage.

  “Me, sir? I don’t know. Not from the office she wasn’t. Nor yet from the call-box on the first floor landing, because it’s still out of order. I’ve just been to see. But lots of the tenants are on the telephone, naturally.”

  “They, of course, connect straight to the exchange. Don’t come through you, I mean?”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “If she’d been speaking from this building,” suggested Dr. Grove, “ it would have been natural for her to say ‘ Please come at once,’ not ‘ Please go at once,’ don’t you think?”

  “Yes,” said Spencer. “ But naturalness doesn’t seem to be the lady’s strong point, by your own account.”

  “That’s true,” admitted Grove.

  “Your name’s Stevenage, didn’t you say?”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “Been here long?”

  “Five years.”

  “Good. Are you the only hall porter here?”

  “No, sir. There’s Jackson and there’s Gregg. We work in shifts, right round the clock, sir.”

  “When you’re on duty do you see everybody that comes in and goes out?”

  “Pretty well everybody, but not——”

  “But not everybody. Quite. You’re not always on the spot. Naturally. But this evening now. From half-past six, say, to the moment when Dr. Grove arrived. Where were you then?”

  “I was there all right. On the job, I mean. Well, except for five minutes or so, down in the basement.”

  “ Oh? What were you doing in the basement?”

  “At the fuse-box. Putting in a bit of fuse-wire.”

  “Where was the fuse?” Spencer asked.

  “On the second floor.”

  “Was it reported to you, or did you find it for yourself?”

  “They got through on the phone and complained.”

  “Who was using the electric light in broad daylight, I wonder?”

  “It was a power circuit. Not light. Young lady name of Graham wanting to boil an egg.”

  “And on the second floor. The first floor flats wouldn’t be affected?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I see. So you were in the basement for five or ten minutes. Except for that you were in your usual place and saw people coming and going.”

  “Yes and no, sir.”

  Spencer gazed at him blandly. “ How’s that?”

  “Well, it’s like this, sir. There I am, ready to speak when spoken to, answering the telephone, taking messages, and so on and so forth” said Stevenage persuasively. “ But that’s not to say I’ve got to see every mortal man or woman that comes in or goes out. Nine out of ten, yes. But half-past six to half-past seven, you may say that’s the busiest time of the day, barring morning times. That’s when the folks are coming back from their offices. And if you was to put me in the box and ask me to swear on me Bible oath that never a single soul could have slipped past me, well, I just couldn’t do it.”

  Spencer frowned ; then switched over from the frown to a smile. “ Yes, I appreciate that, Stevenage. You’re a hall porter, not a policeman. You knew the deceased gentleman, of course. Naturally you did. Do you happen to know anything about his movements, his habits, people who visited him?”

  “Can’t say I do, sir.”

  “Think a bit, Stevenage. By the way, is there a telephone in No. 47?” Spencer asked innocently.

  You know very well there isn’t, you old fox, thought Stevenage. Well, here goes. “ Meaning I must have had telephone messages for him sometimes,” he said, with a half-truculent grin. “ True enough. So I have. As a matter of fact,” he went on, beginning to enjoy his sudden importance, “ there was a call for him today, about tea-time.”

  Can’t be any harm in mentioning that, thought Stevenage. And he’ll find out, whether I do or not, and then I shall be for it. But he suddenly remembered that there was, or might be, just conceivably might be, a reason why he shouldn’t have mentioned that.

  “Who from?”

  But no!—couldn’t possibly be anything in that, thought Stevenage. He’s not the murdering sort, though they do say you never can tell. Still, I’d stake my life on that Mr. Brome being all right.

  “A gentleman. One of his friends.”

  “Get on with it, man,” said Spencer, with an impatience all the more effective by reason of its contrast with his former half-casual manner. “ What was the name?”

  “He didn’t give his name.”

  “No, no. But you recognized his voice.” Stevenage stared, beginning to be frightened. How in the world did he know that? “ I see it in your eyes,” explained Spencer, answering his unspoken question. “ If you’re thinking it’s not safe to hide anything from me, you’re quite right, Stevenage. And if you think I know everything already, why, you may be right there, too.” He laughed good-humouredly. “ So the name was ...”

  “I think,” said Stevenage, sticking nervously to his guns, “ I couldn’t say for certain, mind you, but I think it was Mr. Brome.”

  “Brome?” said Spencer. “ B-r-o-m-e? Never heard of him. But I’m quite prepared to believe, my friend, that Mr. Brome is a very nice gentleman, a very nice gentleman indeed, who wouldn’t hurt a fly.” .

  “Well, so he is,” said Stevenage sulkily, “ if you want to know.”

  “Quite.” Mr. Spencer was friendliness itself. “ But that doesn’t alter the fact—does it, old chap?” he said confidingly to Stevenage, “ that he may be able to help us. So what did he say?”

  “He asked if Mr. Swinford was in. I said I didn’t think so, and should I go and make sure? He said not to bother, but when would he be in? I said he was generally in by six,
or else not till midnight or so. I said was there any message, and he said ... he said it didn’t matter,” Stevenage finished lamely.

  “It didn’t matter because…” prompted Spencer gently.

  “Because nothing,” said Stevenage.

  “This Mr. Brome seems to be a very dear friend of yours,” said Spencer, with an irony that was not ill-natured. “ Did he often come to see Mr. Swinford?”

  “Not so much lately. Not for three months they haven’t.”

  “They?”

  “Mrs. Brome used to come too, now and again. Very nice-spoken. Always the pleasant word. He gave them a key to the flat, Mr. Swinford did, so that they could use the place when he went abroad on business.”

  “When did you last see Mr. Brome?”

  “Not for months. I don’t properly remember. Why, it must have been way back in the winter.”

  “Until you saw him today he hadn’t been here for months. Is that it?”

  Stevenage opened his eyes wide in indignation. “ Saw him today! Who says I saw him today?”

  “Well, didn’t you?”

  “No, I didn’t. And I never said so either.”

  “Sorry. My mistake,” said Spencer. “ How long had Mr. Swinford been a tenant here?”

  “Eighteen months as near as nothing.”

  “You’re very exact,” suggested Spencer with a smile.

  “And I’ll tell you why,” said Stevenage. “ Because he came the very same week as Mr. Hortman, my new boss.”

  “And that’s a thing you remember, eh?” Spencer laughed. “ Now this visit of yours to the basement : what time was that?”

  “Near enough to half-past seven by the hall clock. And if you want to know how I know that, I’ll tell you, sir. It’s quite simple. I timed myself.”

  “Timed yourself?”

  “Last time it took me seven and a half minutes to put in a new fuse-wire, including the return journey, as the saying is. That was because I had to get candles. This time I did it in five, by the hall clock. Seven twenty-nine to seven thirty-four. Not that it’s a clock to catch a train by, mark you.”

  “During that five minutes, Trewin,” said Spencer sadly, “ a man could have come in and got out again without being seen. At all events, without being seen by Stevenage, the only person who’d look twice at him. On the other hand…”

  “Anyone who did that job and made his get-away inside five minutes,” said Trewin, “ must be an uncommonly cool customer.”

  “Just what I was going to remark, dear friend,” said Spencer. All the same, it makes one think. The time, seven-thirty, would fit in nicely with your findings, Trewin, and yours, Dr. Grove.”

  “Yes,” said Dr. Grove. “ The hall clock, by the way, is eleven minutes slow.”

  “Indeed?”

  “I checked it with mv watch when I came in.”

  “ Excellent,” said Spencer. “ Most helpful.” Dr. Grove felt two sizes larger. “ Moreover, we mustn’t get fixed in our ideas,” Spencer went on. “ That fuse of yours may be a red herring, Stevenage, drawn across our path by someone who enjoys making things difficult.”

  “Do you mean inside help?” asked Dr. Grove eagerly.

  “That’s a possibility, too,” said Spencer. “ But look, Stevenage. Did you notice anybody come in or go out during that period? I mean anybody at all unusual.”

  Stevenage screwed up his face, considering the point. “ No, I don’t think so. Except the fellow who came to see to the telephone upstairs. And a man selling evening papers. But that’s not unusual either. There may have been others, but I didn’t notice.”

  “Never mind, old chap,” said Spencer soothingly. “ If you’d known that one of them was going to commit a murder you’d have been more observant, I expect. Hullo, Mr. Hortman, what can we do for you?”

  Hortman’s large improbable face peered round the edge of the door.

  “Dr. Grove is wanted on the telephone,” he said in a husky whisper.

  “Ah, we’ve kept you too long, doctor,” said Spencer. A happy thought came into his head. “ By the way, did you tell anyone you were coming here?”

  Dr. Grove stopped suddenly, on his way out of the office. “ No, I didn’t, by Jove! I came away in too much of a hurry.”

  “That’s very interesting,” said Spencer. “ Is it a woman’s voice, Mr. Hortman?”

  “Yes,” said Hortman.

  “In that case we’ll talk to her in here, I think. Switch the call through, Mr. Hortman, will you?” Hortman removed his face and shut the door : Stevenage was almost, sorry for him. With his hand hovering over the telephone receiver Spencer said : “ This is what you’ll say, Dr. Grove.…” He spoke three sentences into his private ear. “ Right. Go ahead.”

  Dr. Grove lifted the receiver. “ Dr. Grove here ... Is it ...? Ah yes. Yes, he’s come round. Yes. But his condition is still critical. He seems to be asking for someone, but we can’t catch the name.… The best way would be to come and see me here, but unfortunately I’ve got an urgent appointment to go to… Five minutes? Well, yes, I think I could wait five minutes… Very well. Good-bye.” He replaced the receiver and moved away, carefully avoiding Spencer’s eye. He looked extremely unhappy.

  “ I quite agree with you,” said Spencer. “ But murder’s a dirty business, too.”

  Dr. Grove, shrugging his shoulders, said : “ You don’t need me any more, do you?”

  “Not for the moment, thank you. You’ll be available when we need you again?”

  “Of course,” said Grove.

  Only a few minutes earlier he could have made a good exit : the quiet professional man, imperturable, casual, discreet. Then he had been bubbling over with excited self-importance, and longing to get home and tell his wife all about it. But that piece of unprofessional duplicity over the telephone had given him a sudden distaste for the affair. To be forced into lying, into trickery, affected him far more than the sight of a man dead by violence. This was not, after all, a romantic adventure : it was ugly, a thing of squalor. And the ugliest part of it, the man-hunt, the yelping pack, the millions of human creatures feasting on the offal, this was still to come. With a polite “ Good night, gentlemen!” he turned on his heel and went out; and even the sergeant’s grave salute did not enhearten him.

  Dr. Grove’s change of emotional temperature had not been lost on Spencer. Still less had it been lost on Stevenage, who during the last quarter of an hour had experienced a great many quick changes himself. Horror, fear, a sick excitement, some heightening of self-importance, pity, indignation, and disgust : all these in turn had had their way with him. He experienced yet another shock, of sheer surprise, when Dr. Grove’s telephone-caller, in little more than the five minutes she had engaged for, came walking nervously, stupidly, into the snare prepared for her. Again the helpful Mr. Hortman put in an appearance : he escorted her to the door of the little office that had once been his but was now, alas, in the possession of a man who seemed resolved to exclude him from the least participation in the inquiry. She hesitated at the entry, seeing three men rise to greet her : a smallish, slight, olive-skinned woman in her late thirties or early forties ; with large, rather childlike brown eyes, and black hair cut in a straight bob. The forlornness of her appearance touched at least one of the three who confronted her, and he, Stevenage, was the first to greet her.

  “Good evening, ma’am. You don’t remember me, I expect?”

  The woman looked peeringly from face to face. Stevenage could see that she was terribly tired : a tired child, and a child no longer young

  “ Which is Dr. Grove?” she said.

  Spencer turned quickly on Stevenage. “ You know this lady? Won’t you introduce us?”

  “I’ll introduce myself,” said Lydia, seeing her friend’s sudden confusion. “ I’m Mrs. David Brome. Are you Dr. Grove?”

  § 2

  There was a moment’s silence after Lydia’s question. Even Spencer seemed slightly uncomfortable. But he quickly recovered his habitua
l nonchalance.

  “No, madam,” he said. “ Dr. Grove was unfortunately called away. He asked me to make his apologies to you. This, however, is Dr. Trewin, who has also seen the… patient.”

  Lydia turned quickly to Trewin. “ How is he? Is he…?”

  “He is dead, madam,” said Trewin bluntly.

  Lydia gave a gasp and put her hands to her head. Spencer, watching her narrowly, decided that the performance was theatrical, and under-rehearsed.

  “You’re surprised, Mrs. Brome?”

  Surprised or not, she was trembling violently, and her face had gone grey. Trewin pulled forward a chair for her. She sat down quickly.

  “Did he… say anything?” she asked.

  “Nothing to the point,” said Spencer airily. “ Something about David, wasn’t it, Trewin?”

  “Um,” said Trewin. “ I wouldn’t swear to hearing anything.”

  “This must be a great shock to you, Mrs. Brome. You knew Mr. Swinford well, I believe?”

  “Yes.”

  “You and your husband frequently visited him here, I understand?”

  “Sometimes, yes. My God, I can’t believe it!”

  Spencer looked at her with a faint, deprecating smile. But he spoke in the same half-solicitous tone.

  “Don’t you think you’d better tell me at once what you know about this affair, Mrs. Brome? It would save a lot of trouble and unpleasantness.”

  Numb with terror though she was, Lydia could almost have smiled at what she conceived to be the ingenuousness of the remark. The notion that she could escape unpleasantness by telling all she knew was so grotesquely wide of the mark as to be almost comical. She saw that she had walked into a trap, and her wits were working feverishly, desperately, in search of a way out. What could they do to her if she said nothing? What evidence was there? What right had they to ask questions? For a moment, a long nightmare moment, she stared stupidly at her inquisitor, incapable of further acting, incapable of thought, paralysed with resisting the mad impulse to blurt everything out and have done with it. Her sick, dizzy, horror-haunted mind was a distorting screen that shut her away from the world.

  She said : “ Who are you?”

  “My name is Spencer.”