Brother Death

by John Lodwick

  “Do you know,” she said, “I thought that was what you’d say. Ever since this morning I’ve been certain of it. But are things really quite so bad?”

  “Oh yes,” he said. “It’s now largely a question of whether two should hang for the price of one. Therefore . . . well, wipe that look of abnegation off your face. . . . People don’t die for Rumbold, though Rumbold may in the last eventuality die for them.”

  “Can’t you get away at all?” she said.

  “Oh yes,” he said. “I have my plans, of course. I thought I might go down to Southampton and get on the boat for Jersey. You don’t need a passport for that trip. From Jersey I could get across to Carteret or Granville. Once in France they’ll never catch me. But it’s goodbye to Spain now, I’m afraid.” He gazed at her quizzically. “Spain . . . and Mañuela.”

  “Yes,” she said slowly, without rancour. “She was what you really wanted, wasn’t she? I’m sorry that I was bitchy at the time but it was only because I wanted you myself. I can see now that you’d have been better off with her.”

  “Oh, as to that,” he said. “Well . . . does one ever really know? These unfinished episodes always have something very alluring about them when reviewed in retrospect. Besides,” here he grinned, “who can say whether it’s all over yet? If the first leg of my trip goes well I may still join her across the Pyrenees.” He closed the suitcase, locked it, looked about the room to see if there was anything which he had forgotten. A half empty bottle of hairwash stood upon the mantelpiece: he threw it in the fireplace.

  “There!” he said. “I’d travel lighter, but a change of clothes is useful when there’s a description of you circulating. Incidentally, if they make enquiries you might tell them I was wearing a blue pin-stripe when you last saw me. Every little helps to confuse the issue.”

  “And now?” she said.

  “Now I’m going to bump that bag across the hills and catch a bus. Don’t worry. I’ll be in Edinburgh to-morrow morning.”

  “I could drive you,” she suggested.

  “And get caught by some yokel with a helmet in a road block? No, thank you. The little man I kept in durance vile is probably telephoning even now for reinforcements. I’ve got a start on him, but if I don’t use it cleverly I’m done for. . . .”

  He paused. Fiona had slumped across the bed. She lay with her face pressed hard against the pillow. Her shoulders heaved. “Don’t take on so,” he said gently. “Look . . . I’ll give you back your cheque. Yes, I insist. Besides, I’m not being really chivalrous, because I daren’t cash it now.”

  She turned her head. One red-rimmed eye appeared above the crumpled eiderdown. “Peggy’s already taken it,” she said. “The one inside your wallet is a blank.”

  “Ah,” he said, and laughed. “Clever, clever little Peggy. You ought to watch your step with her, my dear. These sneak killers seldom stop at one success.”

  She sat up. The rapid evolution of this crisis, the muddled state of her poor mind, heavy as it was with the fumes of lunch and whisky, Rumbold’s evident assurance and the zest with which he faced the situation . . . all these factors had combined until now to keep her passive, resigned to what appeared to be the ineluctable consequences of their association and joint action.

  But now a new thought came to her. She sat up, with hands pleading, and spoke with her voice not much above a whisper. “Please tell me the truth,” she said. “Please . . . please. Are things really so bad? Maybe they just want to prevent you going to Spain. There’s nothing very terrible in that. You could stay here till they forget about you.”

  “No,” he said. “They must have followed me to Devonshire . . . Oh, not the ordinary police, of course, but the other comrades. I was stupid not to reckon with it at the time . . . very stupid. Don’t imagine that they give a damn about the boy. The odd murder’s all in the day’s work to Mr. Cassell. What he wants is something concrete to arrest me for when he’s finished tapping all my telephone calls and correspondence. I’m afraid I underestimated Mr. Cassell.”

  She gazed at him piteously. “You’re not lying, are you?” she said. “It isn’t just that you want to get away from me, is it? Don’t lie . . . I couldn’t bear it.”

  “No,” he said solemnly. “This time it’s the truth: I wish to God it wasn’t.”

  She stood up. She thrust her body close against him. Her arms met in the hollows of his shoulder blades. “Take me with you,” she said. “Please take me too . . . I’ll do anything you want. I won’t be any trouble.”

  “Listen,” he said. “Do you realise that if things had turned out just a little differently I might have killed you?”

  “Kill me, then,” she said: then, since he made no reply, “Oh, I don’t care . . . I don’t care at all. Do you think this is a life for me? If you don’t get away I’d rather die.”

  “Don’t be foolish,” he said. “Life without any money would be hell for you, and I’ve only a few hundreds left. Your job is to stay here quietly. In a month’s time I’ll be just a dim and rather nasty memory. Then you can go to Monte for the season.”

  “But I love you,” she said, and in her desperation she shook him, hammered with her fist upon his chest. “I love you . . . I love you . . . will nothing make you understand that?”

  “It’s too late now,” he said gravely, and he kissed her, held her tight, swung her in his arms so that they faced the looking-glass together.

  “Come,” he said. “Let’s have a stiff one for the road,” and setting her down, he took from the cupboard a bottle, and from the washstand two dirty tooth-mugs.

  After Rumbold had been walking for about an hour over rough and undulating heathland, he struck a modest country road, leading westwards. But he had not gone very far down this road . . . perhaps three hundred yards . . . before he heard the sound of a car behind him. It would have been perfectly possible for Rumbold to dart into the shelter of a near-by quarry, but he restrained himself, not wishing to appear more conspicuous than he was already: mud-stained and carrying a heavy suitcase in this wilderness.

  This restraint on Rumbold’s part was unfortunate. The car, a large coupé, stopped beside him, and Cassell leant out.

  “Hullo, Rumbold,” he said.

  Rumbold laid down his bag. “Good staff work,” he said.

  “Yes,” said Cassell, “but very boring. We’ve been going up and down among these cow-pats for an hour now.”

  “You’ve got here very quickly,” said Rumbold. “I feel flattered. It isn’t often you make the arrest in person, is it?”

  “Oh, I wasn’t far away,” said Cassell. “Only in Dundee. A depressing town, don’t you agree?”

  “Very depressing.”

  “By the way,” said Cassell. “The gentleman on my right, behind me, has a firearm.”

  “So I perceive,” said Rumbold. The Colt was, in fact, levelled at his chest. “And what has the other gentleman got . . . a pair of handcuffs?”

  “No,” said Cassell. “The other gentleman has a warrant for your arrest.”

  “Oh,” said Rumbold. “And what is the charge, please?”

  “I’m afraid that it’s one of murder,” said Cassell deprecatingly.

  “Ah?” said Rumbold. “Well, in that case, perhaps I’d better join you,” and, picking up his bag, he moved as if to do so.

  “No, no,” said Cassell, and opening the car door he disembarked, followed closely by the gunman. “No, no. Put down your bag. You won’t need it. Let us have a little walk and talk together,” and taking Rumbold by the arm he led him towards the entrance to the quarry.

  And still the gunman followed.

  “It was fortunate that we should meet just here,” said Cassell.

  “Why so?” said Rumbold.

  With a delicate gesture Cassell indicated the high walls of t
he quarry; the eighty feet of Grampian granite, with boulders at the bottom.

  “If we had met elsewhere,” he said, “I should only have had to bring you here. There just isn’t any other isolated place which suits your purpose.”

  “I see,” said Rumbold. “So this is the Tarpeian cliff, is it?”

  He had grown pale, but not really very noticeably so.

  “I could lend you a pistol, of course,” said Cassell. “But quite frankly it would be a little awkward afterwards. People make such stupid enquiries . . . Where did he get it? . . . why didn’t you stop him? I’m sure you take my meaning.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Rumbold. “In any case, I don’t like guns. Poetic justice is much better.”

  Beneath the bracken at the quarry’s base, a single blue crocus sprouted. Cassell plucked it, sniffed it, extended it to Rumbold.

  “Of course,” said Cassell. “I don’t want to hurry you. The decision to be made is serious. You could always choose a trial amid the pageantry of British justice. I am told that there might also be a certain amount of publicity. That, too, might please you, though I believe they cut out the relevant columns before the prisoner receives his daily paper.”

  “No,” said Rumbold. “I think that your solution is the best.”

  “I’m very glad to hear it,” said Cassell. “Shall we shake hands now? This gentleman,” he pointed to the gunman, “will follow you to the top.”

  “Must he?” said Rumbold. “I don’t intend to run, I promise you.”

  Cassell shrugged, twisted his crocus, picked another: this time a yellow one. “I’m doing my best to make the occasion as informal as possible,” he said. “Unfortunately, even in my job, there’s some damn fool just above you. I’m afraid it’s necessary, Rumbold.”

  “Very well,” said Rumbold. “I won’t insist.” He extended his hand. “Goodbye, Cassell,” he said. “I always hated you, but there was some love in it as well.”

  “Goodbye, Rumbold,” said Cassell.

  They shook hands. Rumbold began to mount the slope. A few yards up, he paused.

  “Aranjuez would laugh,” he said.

  “Yes, wouldn’t he?” said Cassell.

  “It’s funny,” said Rumbold. “There was a girl out there I was really keen on. It might have led to something. Who can tell?”

  “I wouldn’t worry about the one we have here,” said Cassell. “There’ll be no prosecution.”

  “I’m glad of that,” said Rumbold.

  He began to mount again, mounted perhaps thirty feet, then turned once more.

  “Are you going to stay and watch?” he said.

  “Oh yes,” said Cassell. “I was looking up your dossier file the other day. It said that when you were at Ringway, on your parachute course, you made the best exits from a plane that they had ever seen.”

  Rumbold laughed. The earth crumbled beneath his shoes. The gunman, a much older man, followed painfully.

  “You seem very out of training,” said Rumbold when they reached the top.

  The gunman said nothing.

  “I wish you’d stand a little further back,” said Rumbold. “After all, this is my affair, not yours.”

  The gunman retired slightly.

  Rumbold looked down. Cassell and the car seemed very tiny, the road a dirty ribbon.

  “I hope that everybody will observe,” said Rumbold, “that the artist operates without a safety net.”

  And then he jumped.

  The blood flowing from the broken body would have spoilt the car’s upholstery. Therefore they sent an ambulance to fetch it from the town.

  the end

  Saint Ydeuc, France.

  February, 1947.