14. The Redhead

Roger went to the bedroom and looked at Margaret. She hadn’t moved. They’d thrown an eiderdown over her, only her face and one shoulder showed. She lay on her back, and he did not believe that she could be feigning sleep; this was more than sleep, she was drugged.

He went slowly and quietly to the bed and stood looking down at her. Her breath-taking beauty had a quality which made his heart beat fast; she had attracted him from the moment he had seen her. He didn’t stop to argue the rights and wrongs or wisdom; just accepted the fact. No woman had moved him like this since he had first met Janet. He felt no sense of disloyalty as he looked down, only an unusual quietness of mind - unusual because he had been so restless during the day.

It was warm in the room.

He went to the window and pushed it up, glanced round to make sure that no draught caught the girl, then noticed that the car still stood outside. Sloan was a long time moving off. He could see only the glowing side lamps and the dark shape of the car.

Sloan had had plenty of time to drive away.

Margaret and his quietness of mind were forgotten. He crossed the room, switched off the light, and went out into the hall, closing the door gently behind him. He stood quite still, listening, heard nothing until suddenly a faint scratching sound broke the stillness.

If Bill had forgotten something he would have hurried back, not climbed the stairs stealthily. As the scratching sound grew louder, Roger backed into the kitchen, which was opposite the front door; the man outside was fumbling in the darkness. Roger could see without being seen.

He wished he had his gun.

The lock turned; after a brief pause the door began to open slowly. A hand appeared; then a man’s face and head.

He was red-haired.

He stepped swiftly inside the hall, and stood looking round, stared at the open door of the kitchen, then at the living room. He closed the front door softly, catching his breath as the lock clicked. He was tall and slender, with wide shoulders and a pale skin; a good-looking young man whom Roger thought he’d seen before, not only the back view, but the face. Undoubtedly it was the man who had run across the grounds at Morden Lodge.

He turned again, and Roger saw the heavy spanner gripped in his left hand. He was hatless. The light shone redly on his hair, which was thick, curly, attractive. He had a well-shaped, sensitive mouth, not much of a chin; with a better chin he would have compared with Paterson for good looks. There was a hint of weakness, also of femininity about him. He moved easily. The long spanner swung loosely in his hand, then tapped against his leg.

He came toward the kitchen.

Roger moved a pace, behind the door, and pressed close against the wall; he could not see the man now.

The footsteps stopped; then a door creaked. Roger looked out again, and saw the intruder standing on the threshold of the living room. The spanner was raised; so was the right hand. He was groping for a light. He didn’t press it down, but stood absolutely still, as if listening for some sound of movement. He heard nothing and suddenly switched on the light, then stepped quickly into the room, swinging the spanner.

His shadow moved eerily across the cream-coloured walls; and over a small gilt mirror.

The movements stopped as the intruder stood still. Roger stayed in the kitchen. The redhead came out, the weapon half raised; no doubt he would use that if he were threatened. He had probably knocked Bill out and stolen his keys. But Bill would have to wait. The redhead’s eyes glittered, he looked tired; feverish. He hesitated in the middle of the hall again, but didn’t come to the kitchen, turned to the bedroom and tried the door handle.

He thrust the door open quickly, then switched on the bedroom light.

He gasped: “Margaret!”

Then he hurried into the room.

Roger slipped into the hall, stood by the bedroom door, ready to go in if the redhead threatened the girl; but nothing in the man’s tone was threatening. It was a despairing cry.

“Margaret!”

He pulled off the eiderdown, flung himself on to the bed, put a hand beneath her head and raised her face - and kissed her passionately, muttering all the time. He kissed her lips, her cheeks, her hair, held her tightly to him, while she lay relaxed in his arms, her face hidden, her body still. The redhead gripped her shoulders, pressed his lips into them, kept muttering her name over and over again.

Roger felt an inward coldness; a repulsion from the youth’s complete surrender to his passion.

The youth drew back, but gazed at Margaret, adoringly; fondled her shoulders again, suddenly pressed his face against hers. There was something hopeless in his expression; hopeless passion. He drew away again, and his hands shook as he brushed his hair back. He didn’t look round, and the spanner lay by the side of the bed, no threat now. He stroked her hair with his left hand, closed his eyes, sat very still, as if the surge of emotion were too much for him to bear. Then suddenly he cried: “Margaret, wake up. Wake up! I must talk to you, Margaret!” His voice was low pitched, vibrant. “Margaret, it’s me - it’s Alec! You must wake up.” He took her shoulders and shook her so that her head jolted to and fro, but her eyes didn’t open. “Margaret - darling - wake up, wake up!”

There was a sob in his voice.

He stopped shaking her; and he was trembling violently.

“Margaret, I’ll do anything for you, anything! I’ll die for you, do anything, but talk to me. Wake up and talk to me, tell me you want to marry me.”

The sleeping beauty lay still.

Alec clenched his hands, raised them, turned his head away from her, and muttered: “I can’t stand it, I just can’t stand it. Margaret, please wake up, tell me you still love me. That’s all I want to hear, just that. Tell—”

He stopped, and stood up suddenly; a new thought had entered his mind, a thought which quietened him. His stillness, now, was as uncanny as the girl’s - who could sleep through all this. He glanced round. His expression had altered, there was a cunning look in his eyes which spoiled his features. He licked his lips; red lips. He turned suddenly, and made for the door. Roger backed away swiftly into the kitchen again, his heart in his mouth; but the youth named Alec had left the spanner behind; any fight would be man against man. He turned down the hall. Roger heard a sharp sound and peered out of the kitchen in time to see Alec straightening up from the bolt of the front door. He went back into the bedroom and slammed that door behind him.

If he locked it—

No, the lock didn’t turn. Roger stepped swiftly toward it, turned the handle, opened the door an inch. Alec didn’t look behind him, Roger widened the opening, so that he could see the youth, the bed and the girl. Alec stood at the foot of the bed, trembling, his hands at his throat. He took off his tie, and drew it taut between his hands, then let go slack. He said in a low, clear voice: “If I can’t have you, no one else will. No one else will.”

He pulled the tie taut again and went toward the girl.

Roger felt a savage anger toward him; anger, when he should have been detached, dispassionate. He found that his hands were tightly clenched, and felt cold. Alec stood over the girl for what seemed an age, then bent down and raised her head. He put the middle of the tie at the back of her neck, and she didn’t move until he let her head fall to the pillow and began to knot the tie - to strangle her.

Roger pushed the door wide open and stepped into the room.

“I think that’s enough,” he said.

Alec swung round, hands clenching, then backed a pace. His eyes were glaring, his lips were moist. He glanced round swiftly, saw the spanner on the floor, made as if to move toward it, but as Roger darted across the room, changed his direction and came at Roger. His first blow; wild, powerful, caught Roger on the side of the head and sent him reeling back. Alec made a noise, savage, animal, in his throat, and snatched up the spanner. He turned and swung it, Roger flung up his left arm to fend off the blow; the iron cracked against it, and pain sheered through the arm and shoulder. Alec raised the weapon to smash it down upon Roger’s head. Roger kicked at his shins, brought a gasp to his lips and made him lose his balance. The spanner whistled harmlessly through the air. Roger went at him, drove his right fist into his stomach, which made him give another agonised gasp and brought the weak chin forward. Roger struck at the chin; every ounce of his weight was behind the blow, and anger, too, this wasn’t just self-defence. Alec reeled back, arms waving, and the spanner dropped from his hand. Roger kicked it away, and struck him again, full on the nose. Alec squealed with the pain and cupped his face in his hands; blood trickled through his fingers.

Roger sprang at him, to strike again—

He stopped himself, and drew back, trembling. He turned away, picked up the spanner, and put it on a chair by the door. His hands still shaking, he took out his cigarettes and lit one. He had never been so near to losing his self-control. Alec was too shaken by the pain to move or take his hands away; he held his mouth wide open and took in great shuddering breaths.

Through it all, Margaret slept.

 

Roger said: “Shake out of it.” He took the red-haired man’s arm and pulled him out of the bedroom into the bathroom. Alec seemed hardly aware of what was happening. Roger dropped the plug into the hand-basin and turned on the cold water tap, grabbed the back of Alec’s neck and thrust him forward, head and face beneath the water. Alec gasped and shivered, tried to back away, but couldn’t move.

Water lapped over the side of the basin.

Roger let him go, pulled a towel from the rail and flung it at him.

Alec dabbed at his hair and face. His nose still bled, but the blood thinned with the water, turning it pink. He kept dabbing, and didn’t look at Roger, who stood with his hands in his pocket, watching the youth, trying to sum him up. He saw that Alec’s hands still trembled, his knees seemed to wobble.

Roger went forward, took his arm, and led him into the sitting room. Leaving the door wide open, he went into the bedroom, made sure that Margaret was still asleep, switched out the light and closed the door gently. He was half-prepared for a rush from the youth; but Alec sat in an armchair, the towel drooping from his hands, water tinged with blood gathering on the end of his nose and chin.

Roger said: “Give me your wallet.”

Alec didn’t move or answer. Roger went across and took the wallet out of his inside coat pocket. He found what he wanted: a letter to Alec Magee, at an address in Kensington.

He tossed the wallet aside, and said: “Well, Mr Magee?”

Alec gulped. “Who—are you?”

“A friend of Margaret’s.”

“I—I didn’t know what I was doing. I just didn’t know what I was doing, she’s driven me crazy. Crazy! I can’t sleep, can’t eat, I can’t do anything, everywhere I go she’s with me, I can’t help it. She’s my very life.”

“You’re crazy, right enough. What did you do to my friend outside?”

“Eh? Who?” The eyes, blue and flecked with gold, darted to and fro. “Oh, the man in the car! I—I knocked him out. I wished I’d killed him! He spent the night with Margaret, took her everywhere, came here with her, brought her to his flat. I wish I’d killed him!”

“You’d get hanged for that.”

“Hanged?” Alec laughed; a thin, high-pitched sound, mirthless and ugly. “Who cares about getting hanged? I’ll get hanged all right, because I—” he stopped abruptly, the cunning look came back to his eyes. “I didn’t say anything.” He was truculent, aggressive. “I’m talking a lot of nonsense. Margaret always makes me - makes me feel crazy. I’m all right. I’ll smash your face in for what you’ve done to me!” He touched his nose gingerly; it was red and swollen already. “That’s what I’ll do, smash your face in.”

Roger snapped: “Get up.” Alec Magee didn’t move. Roger crossed the room swiftly and yanked him out of the chair. He swung him round by the shoulder, twisted his arm in a hammerlock, and pushed him toward the hall, then to the front door. He drew back the bolt with his foot, then opened the door. He felt a savage anger, would gladly have bent that arm up until the bone snapped.

Light from the hall shone on to the landing - and on to Bill Sloan, who was coming slowly up the stairs, blood on his forehead and face, his lips clenched, his right hand gripping the handrail. He relaxed when he saw Roger, raised his left hand in greeting, and stopped halfway up the stairs. He looked near collapse.

Roger said: “Take it easy, Bill.”

“I’m - all right. So you got the swine.” Sloan started up the stairs again. “Go in, I’ll be all right.” Roger drew back, letting Alec go, but the youth made no attempt to escape, just went slowly back into the sitting room. Sloan said. “I’ll be all right, Roger, but watch him, he’s dangerous.”

“He’s tamed now.” Roger took Sloan’s arm and led him into the sitting room, helped him to sit down beneath the light. The wound was on the back of the head; the hair was matted with blood, blood had trickled down his neck, and there was a long dark streak on his collar, stiffening to the shape of the neck. Roger said: “Magee, I’ll smash you up if you move.” He pushed the man into a chair, went into the bathroom, drenched a sponge and grabbed two towels, and hurried back. Magee hadn’t moved. Roger draped one towel round Sloan’s shoulders, then began to sponge the wound. The skin was badly cut, but was there any damage to his skull? Roger dried the wound gently, padded it with one towel and wrapped the other round, turban fashion, scowled, and went to the telephone. Magee sat watching Sloan duly, as he leaned back in his chair, his eyes closed, breathing heavily.

“Scotland Yard, can I help you?”

“This is West. Send a doctor and ambulance to Flat 40, Langley Mansions, Victoria - Mr Sloan’s flat. Hurry.” He waited for the answer, replaced the receiver, turned and growled at Magee: “If we can’t hang you, you’ll go inside for a stretch.”

Sloan’s head lolled forward, chin on his chest. Roger put a chair in front of him, raised his legs and lowered his shoulders gently on to a cushion until Sloan lay at full length.

“Is he—is he—” Magee started to say, but couldn’t finish. He looked frightened, now. “I didn’t mean—didn’t mean to kill him.”

“Changed your tune, haven’t you? Why did you try to kill Margaret?”

Alec said: “What? I love her, don’t you understand, I love her, I wouldn’t—”

He broke off again, and licked his red lips; the cunning glint in his eye didn’t look like that of a sane man. Roger stood between him and Sloan, knowing there was nothing he could do to help Sloan until the doctor arrived.

“And what had Lake done to offend you? Touched his cap to Margaret?”

“Who?”

“Lake. The victim of the Indian club.”

Alec said: “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He closed his mouth, compressed it into a thin line; a gesture of defiance which wouldn’t last long. Roger, glancing at Sloan, saw that his eyes were closed; he’d lost consciousness. His skull might be cracked. The effort of walking up the stairs might prove fatal; if there were a severe haemorrhage, he would probably die. Why didn’t the ambulance and the police surgeon come? He saw Alec looking at him out of the corner of his eye, with the cunning which lunatics often show.

Alec opened his mouth.

“I didn’t mean to hurt anyone, I didn’t mean to do any harm. I just didn’t know what I was doing. I’m not myself, I can’t live without Margaret; ever since she threw me over, I’ve been ill. I just can’t think or do anything, she haunts me. But I didn’t mean to do any harm. Can’t you understand? I didn’t mean to hurt anyone, I just—”

Roger said: “You just smashed their skulls.”

“I didn’t mean it!” The voice sounded tearful, now; part of the cunning, or else a slow return to sanity, a realisation of what he had done. In this mood, he might talk freely. “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. If Margaret had been kind to me, it wouldn’t have happened, but she’s—so hard. Hard.” He sighed the word. “She’s beautiful, she makes me go crazy, but she’s hard. Cold. Don’t you understand? She made me love her, made me believe we would get married, and then—she threw me over. Jilted me! I knew there were others, lots of others, only I thought ours was the real thing. But—it wasn’t, she didn’t really love me. If only she loved me, everything would be all right. I’m sorry—sorry if I’ve hurt anyone. I wish—I wish I were dead!”

Roger wished he could do something more for Sloan; but it might be fatal to move him again.

“What were you doing at Morden Lodge, Magee?”

“Eh? The house? Oh, this evening. I was waiting for Margaret. That’s all, just waiting for Margaret. I spend hours hanging about there. Just to catch a glimpse of her as she drives in. She won’t speak to me, doesn’t even smile at me, but it helps—it helps if I can see her. She doesn’t always see me, or else she pretends not to. I don’t know. Sometimes she tells Carney to throw me out of the grounds. I know that he’s got orders to stop me from worrying her, but I can’t help it, I just have to see her. And if she’s with another man, I—I want to smash him to pulp! Jealousy, I suppose. I tried to reason with myself, I even kept away from her for a week, whole week—but I couldn’t stay away any longer. I’ve watched her, everywhere. I would have killed her if she’d started gadding about again, but she’s been at home all this week. Tonight—tonight was the first time she’s left home. Except in the day, it doesn’t matter in the daytime.”

“How long were you there tonight?” asked Roger.

“Eh? Tonight? I ran away when that shot was fired. It scared me. At first I thought it was meant to kill Margaret, perhaps it was, but—she wasn’t hurt, was she? Then some other men came up, and I ran away. I thought it was Carney and the others, they’d have beaten me up if they’d caught me.”

Roger said more gently: “Did you see Carney when the shot was fired?”

“Eh? No. I didn’t see anyone. Only Margaret. I was only looking at Margaret.” He gave a smile, a foolish smile, yet with a lot of cunning in it. “I hid in the ditch. They couldn’t see me there. I hid in the ditch, and was looking at her - and then the shot was fired.”

“Who fired it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you sure you didn’t see anyone else there?”

“Only the men who came running up to Margaret. I just saw them, that’s all, then I ran away. They’d have beaten me up.” He sighed. “Look here, I’m tired, and my nose hurts. You shouldn’t have hit me like that, it still hurts. You might have broken it.”

A car drew up in the street below.

Roger said: “What happened, later? Why did you return to the house?”

“I just had to see Margaret.”

“Did you see her?”

“Yes.” A fatuous smile crossed Alec’s face, and he nodded with deep satisfaction. “Oh, yes, I saw her. There were a lot of strange men at the house, and I couldn’t see Carney or any of the others. I crept up and listened at the window, and I heard someone say that all the servants had left. I didn’t mind, provided they weren’t there. If Carney had ever hit you, you’d know why I was so scared of him. He nearly broke my arm once, and—well, they’d gone, so it didn’t matter. I saw Margaret, at the window, and beckoned, and—and she came to see me. Why—you were in the room with her!”

Roger said: ‘’Was I?”

“Yes,” Alec giggled. “So was her father. I pointed to the gym, where we always used to meet, and she nodded. So I waited until she left the room, and then I went to the gym. She—she was there.” He frowned, as if teased by some unpleasant memory, and drew his hand across his face. “I know she was there, and—oh, yes. Yes! There was someone else there. I heard him moving about. Well, I think I did. Did you mention Lake, just now?”

“Don’t you remember?”

“It—it’s all vague, hazy, I can’t remember everything. No, I can’t remember.” He smiled again; but there was the old cunning in the smile, he probably remembered everything vividly, reasoned that it would be smart to pretend that he’d seen nothing. “Then I left. It wasn’t any good staying, was it, when someone else was coming? I—I jumped somewhere. I think I must have jumped out of the window.”

The front-door bell rang.

Roger turned toward the hall. “And what happened then? Did you lie in wait for her?”

“Eh? Oh, no. I went to the Can-Can. She always goes to the Can-Can when she’s able to get away. She went tonight, with that—with that man.”

He pointed at Sloan; and looked as if he would gladly murder him.

The bell rang again. Roger opened it to the Yard men. An hour later, he was at the Yard.