Murder: One, Two, Three Read online

  She didn’t answer.

  He shouted: “What’s the matter, you deaf?”

  “Michael—Mike! What’s happened?”

  “I’ve told you what’s happened,” he said hoarsely and roughly. “I’ve been called to Scotland, special business. If I pull it off, I’ll be—” He stopped.

  “What’s happened?” breathed Daphne. She pushed the bed clothes back with a sudden, almost angry movement, and sprang out of bed. Long, white legs were close together, her small white feet touched the pink carpet. The nightdress she wore was loose about the waist, the ends of the tie strings hung down. “Michael, tell me.”

  “Don’t get up! Don’t—”

  She reached him, and gripped his hands.

  “What’s happened, what are you looking like that for?”

  His hands were cold, and his body was quivering; she had never known him like it. She recognised the brutality of his fear. His eyes were red rimmed and bloodshot, as if he had been drinking; and she could smell whisky fumes on his breath. He didn’t snatch his hands away, but let her hold him, and he tried to meet her gaze.

  “Please tell me, Mike. Tell me what it is.”

  He gulped.

  “No, I—I can’t,” he said. “It—it’ll be all right.” With sudden strength, he snatched his hands free. “No! And you needn’t worry, you just—just tell everyone I’ve gone away on special business. Understand?”

  “Michael, I want to know what’s happened.” But her voice was taut and scared.

  She was wide awake, she felt calm, and was determined to make him talk. She clutched at his arms again, and caught one – and then he raised the other, gripped her shoulder, and roughly thrust her away. He had never raised a hand against her before, had never even looked as if he might.

  She went staggering back against the bed, and collapsed on it.

  She didn’t speak, just watched him incredulously.

  “Listen to me,” Michael said harshly, “I’m going away on special business. I’ve got to go away. I’ll be back. You needn’t worry. Whatever happens, just say I was called away. That’s all.”

  She didn’t get up; and she began to shiver, then to plead.

  “Mike, darling, I don’t care what you’ve done. I don’t care what it is. I want to help you. Please tell me what’s happened, and I will. I’ll find a way. Don’t run away from me like this.”

  He was throwing things into the suitcase. Then he turned round abruptly, caught his hip against a corner of the case, and knocked it flying. Shirts, socks, handkerchiefs, a brush, all his shaving things – everything was strewn about the room. The case itself fell on one side, swayed to and fro, and then turned slowly and snugly the right way up, with one pair of blue socks in a corner.

  “Oh, God,” Michael cried. “Oh, God!”

  He raised his hands to his face and his head was bowed. He stood like that, and when she reached him and put an arm about him, he didn’t move.

  This time, she just waited.

  When he was no longer quivering, she bent down, and began to pack the case, without lifting it to the table. She kept looking up at him. When he took his hands away from his face, she saw a new pallor. She felt quite sure that he hadn’t slept; if he had his eyes would not look so dreadful.

  She got up, although she was so badly frightened.

  “I—I can’t tell you now,” he said slowly and huskily. “I just can’t, Daff. Wish I—wish I could. But I’ve got to go away for a few days. When it’s all blown over—” He stopped.

  “When what’s blown over?”

  He didn’t answer, but there was a different expression in his eyes, as if for the first time, he saw a gleam of hope. His lips parted. His teeth showed, very white. He put his arms out, and gripped hers, near the shoulders. His fingers bit into the softness of her flesh.

  “Daff, I’m in a jam. I’m counting on you. You’ll do—you’ll do anything to help me, won’t you? You’ll do anything, because—you do love me, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Say you—say you’ll do anything.”

  “Of course I will!” she almost shouted at him, “but how can I if I don’t know what it’s about? What happened? Tell me. I don’t care, I’ll do everything to help you, but I must know what it’s about. Don’t you understand, I must know.”

  He was really hurting her arms.

  “Listen, Daff. I didn’t come home last night. That’s it and all about it. I didn’t come home. I—I telephoned to say I’d be away for the weekend. Never mind why, say I—say I said it was unexpected business. And I didn’t come home.” He was gripping her so tightly that the pain almost made her cry out, but he didn’t seem to realise it. “Will you say that, Daff, if—if anyone asks questions?”

  “Who will ask questions? And what about? Mike, let—let me go. You’re hurting.”

  He snatched his hands away.

  She folded her arms across her breast, and her long, white fingers rubbed the places where he had hurt so much; but she wasn’t thinking about that, then.

  “I can’t tell you,” he said. “It—it’s better that you don’t know anything. If you don’t know, you—never mind! You—you might not hear anything until Monday. I shouldn’t think you would.” Another fresh hope had sprung into his mind, and he snatched at it, brightening, gripping her arms again. “Daff, you go away! Go and spend the weekend with your mother, just say I’ve gone away on business.”

  She said very slowly and very clearly: “I must know what has happened, Michael.”

  He drew away from her.

  There was silence between them for what seemed a very long time. Suddenly they were strangers; and it seemed to Daphne that Michael also realised it.

  His mouth tightened and his voice grew hard.

  “Go and spend the weekend with your mother. If you don’t, you’ll be letting me down. I’ll get in touch with you when I can. Just say I came home for an hour yesterday afternoon, then went off, and rang you late last night and said I wouldn’t be home for the weekend. Say you haven’t seen me since. Understand?”

  “But you may be seen driving away!”

  “I won’t be seen,” he said roughly. She knew that he realised the folly of saying that, but sensed that nothing she could say would make him tell her what she so desperately wanted to know. “I’ll get in touch with you, soon. I expect I’ll want you to come and join me. We’ll see. It might all blow over. If it does—”

  “What might blow over?” she flung at him.

  The stranger who was her husband spoke wearily: “Daff, go and make me a cup of tea, and cut me a bit of bread and butter. Or make some toast. I’m in a jam, a really bad one. I don’t want you to know anything about it, yet. It may never be necessary for you to. I hope it won’t be, but—but I’m relying on you. Just say I telephoned and couldn’t get home. That’s all.”

  She hesitated, and then drew on a dressing gown and went downstairs. She didn’t look round. It was chilly, and she felt as if she was walking into a cold room. The wind was still blowing, she could see the shrubs in the garden, bent beneath its force; it was making windows rattle, too, and howling down the drawing room chimney.

  It was silent in the small kitchen, which was spick and span, bright blue and cream, with much chromium and stainless steel. Daphne switched on the toaster, put on the kettle, and cut some bread. She felt numb. It was the uselessness of arguing which affected her, much more than the fact that she had never seen Michael anything like this since – since that fall over the cliff. He had been frightened then, and he was frightened now. If he had broken down, and told her what it was, it wouldn’t have been so bad; and when he had buried his face in his hands she had thought that he would explain. Then he had stiffened, and become quite determined; and there was nothing she could do or say to make him change his mind.

  She recognised the cause of it: the ugly fear.

  He came down, ten minutes later; she had poached two eggs and had them ready.
Mechanically, he said thanks; mechanically, he sat down and ate and drank. It was then seven o’clock. By ten past, he was ready to go. Then he took out his wallet, which was flat and nearly empty. He looked up at her, anguished.

  “Have you—any money? Cash, I mean.”

  For a wild moment she thought that if she said no, he couldn’t go. That passed, very quickly. She didn’t speak, but went to the bedroom for her handbag; she had eleven pounds.

  He took it.

  The suitcase was on the floor in the tiny hall, and he took his coat from the wardrobe cupboard.

  She caught her breath.

  “Mike, can’t you—?”

  He started to pick up the case, then dropped it, and took her in his arms. The fierce passion of his kiss told her how desperate he felt; it was like a goodbye of absolute finality. She could feel the pounding of his heart and knew the passion that was in him.

  He drew back, still holding her.

  “Daff, trust me. Do what I ask. Don’t say I’ve been home all night, don’t tell anybody.”

  He snatched the case, turned, and hurried through the kitchen to the back door. It was bolted. She heard him draw the bolts back noisily. The door opened. He stepped into the wind, which made his raincoat billow out, and staggered for a moment. Then, without looking round, he went into the garage.

  Only two houses were near this house and the garage, both hidden by trees. But Daphne found herself thinking of them. She heard the engine start up. Then the garage doors opened. She didn’t go out again; something told her that it would be a mistake. Instead, she went into the drawing room, where the red chairs looked very bright in the morning sun, and the walls seemed almost harshly white.

  She stood at the window as Michael drove off.

  She was very, very frightened.

  She did not go to her mother for the weekend, but stayed at home.

  Nothing happened, and nothing was said to hint at the reason for Michael’s terror.

  Then, on the Monday, she could stand the strain no longer; so she went up to the cottage on the cliff to see Tony Reedon, a family friend whom she thought she could confide in, and who might even know something about the mystery.

  The cottage doors were locked, and a newspaper was stuck in the letterbox. She looked through the downstairs window and saw nothing unusual, except that the rooms were more untidy than Tony usually kept them. That was puzzling, but not – at that stage – even remotely frightening.

  By then, the edge of her own fears had been dulled a little by time. They nagged more than hurt, and at moments she looked at a photograph of Michael and seemed to see him as the stranger who had glared across the room. Everything was touched with unreality. She lived in a kind of nightmare world, in which tomorrow would be normal and bring release from tension, but today was filled with dread.

  When she came back from Tony’s cottage, the white house seemed starkly bright against the pale green trees beyond. The grass wanted cutting. Weeds were beginning to cover some of the flower beds with a sheen of green. She saw all this without really noticing it; it hurt to come home and to think that Michael might – might not be coming back.

  She opened the door, stepped inside, and kicked against two letters on the mat. One was addressed to Michael, one to her. She picked up Michael’s, first, and held it tightly; leaned against the wall, and then opened it. It was from Mildmay’s London Office; his firm’s. She saw the pale blue letter heading, the blue typing, the spidery signature at the foot: H. J. Netherby. It was only a few lines, but it affected her as a knife, stabbing.

  Dear Mr. Mallow,

  Instead of visiting Basingstoke on Tuesday, which is on your itinerary for this week, will you be good enough to come to London and see me? I have urgent matters to discuss about the south and south west. I shall expect you at 11.30 a.m.

  Yours very truly,

  H. J. Netherby

  That spidery signature held her gaze for a long time. Then she glanced up swiftly at the date; Saturday’s. She had never believed the story about Scotland, but here was the final, damning proof.

  The letter was cold; like Netherby. She had seen him only once, and didn’t particularly want to meet him again. Michael disliked him. He had the aloof efficiency of a machine, it would be impossible to appeal to his better nature, to try to fob him off with an excuse if Michael didn’t go.

  It was like the last straw.

  She could imagine Netherby sitting in his small office, in front of the small desk, with one hand out of sight, and the other, in its skin tight glove, resting on the desk. Perhaps the reason for Netherby’s coldness was the fact that he had been severely injured; she didn’t know how, and didn’t know whether his black, shiny gloves covered artificial hands, or stumps, or paralysed fingers. They didn’t look like flesh and blood, and somehow Netherby himself didn’t. She couldn’t expect help or understanding from him.

  The bitter irony was so hurtful.

  She didn’t think Michael had been summoned to the London office like this for months. It was only a small office, the manager and three or four girls, but—

  Damn Netherby!

  It wasn’t so easy to forget him. It was the finality of the letter which affected her so; Michael was to be there on Tuesday. Tomorrow. She didn’t know where he was, she couldn’t be sure that she would ever see him again.

  She picked up the other letter, and suddenly felt colder than she had all the morning. It was addressed in pencil. It wasn’t recognisable as Michael’s writing, but couldn’t he have printed it? She wanted to tear it open and snatch the contents out, but at first she could only stare.

  It was so thick; much more than just a letter.

  At last, she ripped it open, and shook it to get the contents out. A small bundle of one pound notes, kept together by a rubber band, slid on to her hand. She looked at that stupidly, then shook the envelope, then squeezed it so that the open end gaped, and peered inside, hoping that she would find a note from Michael.

  There was none; only the money.

  She stood with them in her hand, staring out of the drawing room window, dry eyed, but for some reason feeling the sharp edge of pain more than she had since Saturday morning.

  Had Mike sent this?

  She was still holding them tightly when a big green car drew up outside the house, and two men, big men, got out. They walked together up the short drive; one she had seen before, although she didn’t know him. He was big, ungainly, and rather like a bull terrier to look at. The other, brisk moving, alert and good looking, was the one to catch her eye; he was a stranger.

  It was the man she had seen before who drew ahead and, she knew, rang the bell.

  She was standing with the money in her hand when the other moved suddenly, and looked through the window. His gaze lit on the notes. She should have hidden them, she—

  She turned round slowly, to get the money out of the man’s sight. With no good reason except the compulsion of her fears, she wanted to hide it. She looked round, wildly, then hurried from the room, ran into the kitchen, and pushed the bundle into the larder, behind a stack of sugar.

  The front door bell was ringing.

  She made herself go steadily towards the door, opened it, and hoped that neither of these men knew how fast her heart was beating.

  The handsome one was in front. He had a brisk, no nonsense air about him, but there was something friendly in his manner.

  Yet he sent her fear screaming.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Mallow,” he said. “I’m sorry to worry you, but can you spare us a few minutes? This is Superintendent Wortleberry, of the Mid Sussex Constabulary, and I am Chief Inspector West of Scotland Yard.”

  Chapter Three

  Chief Inspector West

  Chief Inspector Roger West could disarm most people, whatever their mood or their malice. It was part of his philosophy that in ninety nine cases out of a hundred it was better to talk to a witness who felt at ease than to one who felt scared. There were time
s to use scare tactics, but they had to be judged to a nicety.

  This certainly wasn’t one.

  He liked the look of the girl. She wasn’t much more, although Wortleberry had told him she had been married four years. That sleek dark hair and that creamy complexion and those grey eyes – she might have walked straight off a woman’s magazine cover. She was quite tall, five seven or eight, and looked extremely well in a linen suit, wine red in colour, with a lot of pleats in the skirt. Beneath the jacket a cotton blouse was white and starched, and she wore a skullcap of wine red feathers.

  She said: “What—what is it about?”

  The fear still screamed in her: that it was about her Michael, that he was dead, or that he’d been arrested for some crime. Terror, not presence of mind, stopped her from blurting out: “Is it Michael?” Then instinctively she realised that she must let this man do the talking; she mustn’t say a word.

  Every instinct she had was deployed, then, in defence of Michael.

  “It’s about a friend of yours,” West said casually. “Mr. Anthony Reedon.”

  She moved her lips, to say “Oh”, and felt very weak. Then she moved aside, to let them come in. They seemed very big; massive. About the cumbersome Wortleberry there was a faint smell of beer and tobacco smoke, and perhaps the farmyard.

  West did not appear to be studying her closely, but there wasn’t much he missed. The fear, first, which clouded her mind and made her clumsy – when, for instance, she seemed to take it for granted that they knew which room to go in, and blundered into Wortleberry as he hesitated by a door. Then she began to speak too quickly.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, this is the room. I’m afraid I can’t help you, I haven’t seen Tony for a week or more. Honestly.”

  That “honestly”, thought West, was a clear indication of her nervous frame of mind.