XVI

THE TWENTY-SEVENTH OF DECEMBER

‘Routine inquiries—a distasteful task. . . .’

The Inspector was like a large, well-groomed tabby cat,—a ‘doctored’ cat, Miss Tredennick thought to herself, and thus immune to the temptations inherent in his peculiar calling. It was half-past eleven, and they were sitting together by her bedroom window, Miss Tredennick in her favourite arm-chair, and the Inspector on an upright Sheraton chair, the seat of which was a little too narrow for him. A small round table, bearing a decanter of pale sherry, two glasses, a seed-cake and a box of cigarettes, stood between them. Although it was cold in the street outside, the sun seemed to strike the glass panes with tropical force, and the Inspector, who sweated readily, mopped his brow more than once during the interview.

‘Those, of course, were her windows,’ he said, as if to him­self. ‘What a splendid observation-post this would have made, if we’d been keeping watch.’ Then with a glance at his hostess, he added, ‘I suppose, if she had the light on and forgot, or didn’t bother, to draw the curtains, one might almost see right into her room?’

Miss Tredennick thought for a moment, and then said, with an assumption of nervousness which she was far from feeling, ‘I don’t want to lose your good opinion, Inspector—and still less to shock you——’

‘Shock me, Madam? If you knew the type of case I’ve had to handle for the last twenty-five years, that wouldn’t worry you!’

Miss Tredennick said airily, ‘Oh, I didn’t mean that kind of shock at all. The shock I was thinking of is aesthetic, rather than moral. So as to save your time, I may as well be frank with you. I know you’ve come to find out what I’ve seen, during all the many hours I’ve spent sitting up here alone. My fear is that when you find out that I’ve seen quite a lot, you may put me down as a dirty-minded old woman. But I don’t think I am. They say there’s a streak of obscenity in all of us. I’m told that the language of nuns on the operating-table is quite appalling. I make no pretence to being a saint and I’ve never slobbered over virginal purity like a Victorian poet or novelist. On the other hand, I don’t think I get the vicarious satisfaction out of sex-crimes and nameless orgies that apparently titillate the readers of some of the cheaper newspapers. Till this unfortun­ate woman came to live here, I ignored such things. It was only in self-defence that I—took the notice I did.’

‘In self-defence, Madam?’

‘Yes. I have an old-fashioned, perhaps snobbish, regard for this house, this street and this neighbourhood. It grieves me to think that almost all the houses opposite are lodging-houses. However, that’s the so-called march of progress and I can’t stand in its way, much as I should like to. But the thought that some of these houses were becoming mere brothels, and this once highly-respected, residential district was sinking to the level of Paddington or Bayswater, was too much to bear, and I determined to do everything in my power to root out this new evil that was creeping amongst us. Did I use the word evil? That’s describing it far too sanctimoniously. This nuisance, I should have said,—this disgusting nuisance. I’m not intolerant. I shouldn’t mind in the least if some minor royalty, or even some captain of industry took the house next door and kept his mistress there in a gilded cage. But the sight of these shame­less harlots at their trade—— Yes, Inspector?’

‘I must say, Madam, I find what you’re telling me of the greatest interest. It sheds quite a new light on my investiga­tions.’

His sentence amazed her—or was it ironical? ‘A new light?’ she said. ‘But surely—tell me this. Some weeks ago, Mrs Muller, my housekeeper, informed me that the police had raided a house in Pollitt Rise for the very reason we are now discussing. You must know that?’

‘Yes, Madam, indeed I do. In fact, I was in charge of the operation.’

‘Well then?’

‘But, Madam, we’re talking of Seven Pollitt Place, which is quite another matter. We know a certain amount about the residents,—Mrs O’Blahoney, who’s the lessee of the house, Miss Wheeler, who has the post of secretary to a charitable organisation, Mrs Casey, an elderly Irishwoman and Miss Proudfoot, who is also somewhat advanced in years and not unlike yourself,—with certain obvious differences, of course. That only leaves us with Miss Varioli, whose death, as I told you, we are investigating.’

Miss Tredennick said smartly, ‘Quite so, Inspector. But I can’t help wondering why, if the authorities are merely con­cerned to ascertain the cause of her death, they didn’t entrust the task to a member of the Homicide Bureau—or is that purely an Americanism?—instead of the Vice-Squad, to which I gather you belong.’

He gave her a look of such frank admiration and such an agreeable smile, that he won her heart.

‘You’re too shrewd, Miss Tredennick. I must admit that the Homicide Bureau, to give it your title, has done most of the spade-work, and that I was simply called in as an extra,—just in case there should happen to be some other angle to consider. By the way, I understand that about two months ago, or rather less, perhaps, someone defaced the front door of Number Seven with a most offensive inscription. Did you hear about it?’

‘I not only heard about it, I saw the inscription. And, I may say, I was highly amused.’

‘Had you any kind of idea who might have been responsible?’

Miss Tredennick looked him calmly in the eyes and said, ‘Absolutely none! But I’d like to give the woman who did it—it must have been a woman, don’t you think?—a pound for her trouble.’

The Inspector said thoughtfully, ‘Is that so? Well, yes, I see your point of view.’ He paused, as if to encourage Miss Tre­dennick to say something more, but as she maintained an imperturbable silence, he went on, with a very slight shrug of his shoulders, ‘As I was going to tell you before this little digression, there seems, on the face of things, little doubt that this poor young woman killed herself in the old-fashioned way, by stopping up the cracks in the windows and under the door and turning on the gas. But why did she do it? She was per­fectly healthy. She had about a hundred pounds in the bank and some savings-certificates. She had a good job as secretary to a business-man who was often called out of London, so that she had a good deal of free time. What’s your idea, Miss Tredennick? Did she strike you as the suicidal type? Was she morbid or worried?’

‘Far from it. She seemed full of life and much too pleased with herself,—until, perhaps, the last week or two.’

‘Yes? Do you think you could tell me when you first began to notice her existence, and how she came to arouse your—what shall I say?—I don’t mean curiosity, of course——’

‘Yes, you do, Inspector, but never mind. I think it was about the end of last July when it first struck me that she was a resident at Number Seven. There was something about her that demanded attention, an air of “sexiness”, shall I say? In fact, after I’d seen her with one or two men, I put her down as a bad lot.’

‘You mean, a professional? Not merely a woman who leads an immoral life for her own personal gratification, but to speak plainly——’

He paused, as though he found it difficult to speak quite as plainly as he had intended. But Miss Tredennick helped him out.

‘I couldn’t believe that any decent girl, whatever illicit intrigue she might be conducting, would behave in public like Miss Varioli. There was such a brazen, come-hither look about her. At first I suspended judgment, but the more I saw of her, the surer I felt that she was “in the racket”. Is that the phrase?’

He nodded and she went on, ‘Then one night in the middle of September, she came home in the small hours of the morning with a man who had a very noisy car. It woke me up. They turned on the radio and danced in the street. After that, I felt quite certain.’

The Inspector repressed a smile. ‘But, Miss Tredennick, professional prostitutes—you see, you’ve taught me at last to say what I mean,—aren’t in the habit of dancing on the pavement.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, quite sure. It would be a waste of time. I can under­stand your being furious at having your night’s rest so rudely disturbed, but you jumped to a wrong conclusion. If she’d been what you took her for, there’d have been a stream of clients during working hours. Tell me, how many different men did you see her with, altogether?’

Miss Tredennick pondered. Of course, it had all been recorded in her Journal, but she had destroyed it on Christmas Day. What a pity! Though, in its unexpurgated form, enriched as it had been with her own poetic embellishments, it would hardly have been a suitable exhibit to parade before this pleasant, neuter tabby-cat. She said, ‘I think eight.’

‘In how many days,—or weeks?’

‘In these last four months.’

‘Really, Miss Tredennick! If the woman had been what you took her for, she’d have been broke.’

‘But it wasn’t only eight times in all. I’ve seen her with the same man more than once. Don’t these people ever have regulars?’

‘They may, sometimes,—but not so exclusively, if you know what I mean.’ He rose, and drawing himself up to his great height, he looked down at her with a humorous pity and said, ‘No, no, Miss Tredennick. I’ve no doubt whatever that you hoped you could collect sufficient evidence against her to turn her out of this street and hand Number Seven over to the National Trust. But I’m afraid your diagnosis was wrong. She was nothing more than a rather vulgar young woman with a strong fondness for the opposite sex. It’s common enough nowadays. Just one more question. I’m told that the last night but one before her death, a man drove her home in his car. Had you seen it before?’

‘As you know, Inspector, that was the night I had my attack. I don’t like thinking of it. Yes, it was the car that drove her home in September, when they danced on the pavement. What happened this time, I can’t tell you exactly. But I’ve good reason to think she shook her fist at it, when it drove away.’

For a moment only, the Inspector looked a trifle grim. He said, ‘I’ve already seen your housekeeper’s son. Would you regard him as a reliable witness?’

‘Yes, most reliable. I’ve always found him a very truthful boy.’

‘Then, Madam, I don’t think I’m justified in taking up any more of your time.’

‘Oh, please, Inspector. Do have one more glass of sherry—or some cake—you haven’t tasted it yet. And please, before you go, tell me the answer. Why did she kill herself? You’ve already asked me that question; now you must let me put it to you.’

‘Incredible as it may seem, I really think she killed herself for love.’

‘For love? Is it possible?’

‘Yes, even in these days. Goodbye and thank you for a delightful morning.’

He gave her a smile and a bow, and walked almost casually out of the room, as if he lived in the house. Miss Tredennick sat back in her chair and looked out of the window. Yes, that had been her house, and those had been her windows. She’d stopped up the chinks with newspaper and turned on the gas and died—for love! Where was she now—in Heaven or in Hell—or was she nowhere at all? How sad it all was! What a pitiful, humdrum ending to what might have been an enthral­ling cause célèbre! As it was still the holidays, Pollitt Place was deserted, except for a few cars parked by their owners’ front doors. How dull it looked!

The front door of Number Ten opened, and Magda’s head appeared as she showed the Inspector out. He turned to the right and walked towards Lampstone Lane. Magda closed the front door slowly and quietly. To Miss Tredennick, it sym­bolised the closing of a delightful book which she was destined never to open again.

[2]

Magda had finished the washing-up,—not this time in Miss Tredennick’s kitchen, nor in the basement of Ten Pollitt Place, but in the kitchenette of 25, Underbourne Mansions, Twicken­ham. It had only taken her about seven minutes, but it seemed an age since the front door of the flat had clicked to, and Robert’s footsteps had died away on the stairs, leading down to the entrance.

He had warned her that he might have to leave her soon after nine, so as to join his wife and her friends at their supper-party, and almost his first words that evening had been, ‘I did my best,—but I couldn’t get out of it.’ And a little later he had added, as if by way of explanation, ‘The wife and I had a bit of a row on Christmas-night.’ The wife! There was some­thing possessive and binding about the phrase which made Magda unhappy. (Hitherto she had never been really unhappy while he was with her.)

Nor had he fixed any date for their next meeting. She had hoped he would say, ‘On New Year’s Eve, you and I must be together.’ Instead, when he realised that part of her mind was prowling into the future, he said, ‘My dear, don’t let’s waste precious time looking ahead. Let’s live for the present like two happy animals, and make the very most of it while we can.’ His love-making had been as eager as ever before, but it had a greedy and brutal quality that was new. It was as if he too were pricked by a twinge of conscience, and were trying to stifle it by whipping up his passions to fever-heat.

She had read somewhere that lust may turn to love, thereby finding its justification. But was the opposite process possible? Her own feeling for Robert, after the ecstatic bewilderment of her initiation, had tended steadily towards a more and more romantic idealism. She would have been almost willing to exchange her lot for Dorothy’s,—to be the wife in the back­ground, to whom, after whatever infidelities, he would always return. And had he not promised her that some day she should be?

Her longing for that day implied no change in her beliefs. She was still firmly convinced that the stealing of another woman’s husband was not absolved by any subsequent mar­riage. It was merely that her desires had veered towards a more domestic kind of bliss than she had envisaged in the earlier days. The flat had now really become her home,—a sinful home, to be sure, but of all temptations the most seductive.

She went into the sitting-room, sat down and looked at the little clock which Robert had given her as a Christmas present. She could stay where she was for another hour at least, before turning out to face the quizzical smirk of the night-porter, and, far harder to bear, the moment of her arrival at Number Ten.

Her life in that house was now becoming a nightmare. There were times when she thought Miss Tredennick had guessed her secret, though she found the old woman’s shrewd­ness nothing like so embarrassing as Dorothy’s lack of per­ceptiveness, and Magda hated her for it. On the night of Christmas Eve, when she had been so affable in the hall,—‘My husband insists I shall go out with him and see the decorations,’—Magda had longed to strike her in the face and say, ‘You fool, don’t you understand that he wants me, not you? Go back and talk to your budgies. Nobody else here wants to talk to you or ever to see you again!’ Yes, one of these days, if the strain were too prolonged, she would break out and ruin everything.

Ruin everything? The words gave her a jolt. Weren’t they waiting—hadn’t Robert said he was waiting—for some crisis, which would enable him to do in hot blood what he couldn’t do in cold?

There had been moments during the past three days, when her common sense had suddenly reared its ugly head and plagued her with painful questions. If Robert was really as eager as he said to get rid of his wife, why did he still take so many precautions to prevent the truth getting about? Why must they always start the outward journey separately? Why had he gone out of his way to introduce her as his niece to the hall-porter? When she had protested against the lie, he had said, ‘But darling, when Dorothy divorces me, you’re not going to be named as the co-respondent. That’s all I’m worried about.’ At the time she had been quite satisfied by the explanation, but now it suggested all manner of doubts.

Making an effort of will, she transferred her thoughts to her mother and Hugo, who were also sources of uneasiness. (Of all those who lived at Ten Pollitt Place, Justin alone brought her no kind of worry.) Between herself and her mother, an armed neutrality had developed. All might have been well, if only Magda had been able to leave Hugo alone. But there lay the trouble. She had written to the secretarial college for their prospectus in an access of spite which she couldn’t control, though she knew no possible good would come of it. She knew equally well that her repeated criticisms of him to her mother were sheer folly, yet she found herself impelled to make them almost every time he was mentioned. When she spoke to him, she could hardly keep the acidity out of her voice. It was some­thing very much deeper than jealousy. Apart from what he might in his sly way suspect, he had become the symbol of all her frustrations, and as such, the arch-enemy.

She looked at the clock again, then round the room at all the little things which were hers and Robert’s. Was it conceivable that some day she and he would be there in their own right? The room had been very cold that evening when first they came in, and Robert had lit the gas-fire and turned it up to full strength. But now, as Magda sat directly in front of it, the heat was unbearable. She got up, turned it down and then out, trying the tap three or four times (as people do, who aren’t used to gas-fires), to make sure that the gas was completely cut off. Her precautions suddenly reminded her of what had happened only three nights before on the top floor of Number Seven Pollitt Place, and of the Police Inspector’s call that morn­ing at Number Ten. He had questioned all three Mullers for a few minutes. Hugo had put on his innocent baby-face and done his best to appear like a child of eight. But evidently he wasn’t quite successful; for the Inspector, after dismissing him from the interview, had turned to Mrs Muller and said, ‘By the way, I forgot to ask your son how old he was?’ And when he heard that Hugo was fifteen and a half, he said, ‘Really—as old as that!’ with a slight lift of the eyebrows, and Magda had felt a malicious satisfaction. The Inspector had gone on to ask both her and her mother if they had any theory as to what had induced the young woman to kill herself. Mrs Muller had answered, ‘No, no theory at all,’ and Magda had said the same thing, though something in her tone prompted him to say, ‘I feel, Miss Muller, you have at least thought of some possible reason. Please tell me, however strange it may seem.’ And she had replied, ‘The only possible reason I can think of, is that she had something on her conscience she couldn’t bear.’ And she had added, with an attempt at a smile, ‘I know that may sound rather silly.’ But he had answered quite seriously, ‘No,—it is a possible motive. But you hadn’t formed the idea that she might have been—to use an old-fashioned phrase—crossed in love?’ ‘She—in love? Was she capable of it?’ Magda’s voice was indignant as she put the question. The Inspector had looked at her searchingly and said, ‘That’s something I think none of us can answer.’

Remorse or love—whichever it might have been—the impulse had been strong enough to drive a full-blooded young woman to desperation. If a creature like that, with her hard-bitten worldliness, her common sense, her appetite for plea­sure, had given way under the strain, how could Magda hope to survive an ordeal that was ten times as harassing to her pernickety conscience,—especially now that the rapturous moods which had hitherto sustained her were troubled by introspective forebodings?

The clock on the mantelpiece struck half-past nine. Magda looked at it and then again at the fire below it, which now showed no kind of glow, and seemed as inert and harmless as the waste-paper basket by the writing-desk. Yet the sight of it both repelled and fascinated her. The door of the flat was flush with the wall, of which it seemed a part, and the windows, unlike the old wooden windows in Pollitt Place, were metal and sealed the room completely when they were shut. One turn of the gas-tap would be quite enough. People said it was an easy form of death. But what happened afterwards? Was suicide, too, an unforgivable sin?

[3]

Robert was glum and awkward when he arrived at the supper-party after the theatre, but Dorothy was so grateful to him for coming at all, that she pretended not to notice his sulkiness. Besides, he thawed during the meal and even seemed to enjoy being lionised by his hostess, a jolly, middle-aged woman who said silly things quite entertainingly. When Dorothy was alone with him in the taxi, on their way home, she longed to ask him if he hadn’t found the meal more stimulating than their Christmas-dinner at Hackfield. It would have been a triumph, had he agreed, but she prudently avoided the comparison, and surprised him by saying, ‘Do you know, I’m really glad you went to your film first, instead of coming to the theatre with us.’

‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Was the play so bad, or was it too high­brow for me?’

‘Neither. But the wife was such an appallingly selfish woman, I’m afraid it might have given you ideas about me.’

‘What did she do?’

‘Oh, she just nagged and nagged and had nerve-storms and always got her own way,—till the end.’

‘What happened then? Did he kill her?’

‘Oh no. He simply went off with another woman.’

‘That sounds rather immoral.’

‘Immoral or not, I sympathised with him.’

‘And what became of the wife?’

‘She got drunk and turned on the gas. Then the husband, who was really rather conventional, came home and found her dead.’

Robert said thoughtfully, ‘I wonder if that poor woman at Number Seven had seen the play. I suppose it is possible for someone with overstrung nerves to be influenced like that. It would be interesting to see the statistics for that particular form of suicide and to find out if there’s been any rise in the rate, since this play has been on.’

‘If there was, would you ban the play?’

‘No, I don’t think so. After all, the type of person who gives way to these impulses isn’t as a rule much loss to society. I think murder-plays are much more dangerous. For example, if the husband had killed his wife, there might be a good deal to be said for banning the play.’

Dorothy said bravely, ‘Well, if he had, I don’t think anyone could have blamed him.’ Robert didn’t answer, and she won­dered what he was thinking about, and if he realised how abjectly she had been apologising to him. Probably not. She changed the conversation, but when they reached home and he switched on the electric fire in the bedroom, she couldn’t refrain from saying, ‘Anyhow, I’m glad there aren’t any gas-fires here.’

Robert who had forgotten the reference said, ‘Are you? I’ve often wished we had them. They warm up a room so quickly.’ He was thinking of the snug room in Underbourne Mansions and Magda sitting cosily in front of the fire by his side on the sofa. He blushed, but Dorothy didn’t notice it and went on, ‘When Father and I had that flat in Queen’s Gate, there was a gas-fire in my bedroom. I used to be afraid I might get up in my sleep and turn it on without lighting it,—and sometimes, when I was very unhappy, the idea did come to me—not very seriously—that it would be an easy way of getting out of my troubles.’ But there was no sympathy in Robert’s reply. ‘You might just as well have been afraid of getting up in your sleep and jumping out of the window. I seem to remember your flat was on the fifth floor. A drop of sixty feet on to the pavement would be quite effective.’ Then seeing that she looked hurt and miserable, he added, ‘But what a silly subject. Anyway, you don’t have troubles now, do you?’ She smiled and said, ‘No, not really, I suppose—thanks to you.’

Robert felt it was the moment to give her a kiss. He did so, and was almost embarrassed by the glance of affection she gave him in return. She said, ‘Well, Christmas is really over now. You know, next year Christmas Day is on a Tuesday, owing to Leap-year. I suppose instead of having two Boxing Days we shall have two Christmas Eves,—the Saturday and the Mon­day. We shall have to plan it all quite differently, shan’t we?’

‘Yes, quite. Do you want me to take the Christmas-tree in from the balcony to-night?’

‘Oh no. It must stay there till over the New Year.’

‘Well,—good night, ducks.’

‘Good night, my darling husband.’