Chapter Six

Fear

 

Ruth Endicott had been frightened since half past eight that morning, although at first the fear had been vague and shadowy. During the day, it had grown to gigantic proportions, to a state of terror, and although this had subsided, it flared up again when she saw the black car slide to a standstill outside her tiny house.

The first realisation that something was wrong had come on waking. She had been alone in bed. At night, she often was. She had learned to expect Lionel to come in late, often in the early hours of the morning, just as she had learned to expect a lot of other things: Lionel’s violent outbursts of temper, his cruelty whenever she annoyed him, cruelty so different from his demanding amiability when he was in a good mood. Looking back, she still couldn’t understand why she had married him, except for his money. It had really been a combination of circumstances, including being sick to death of living in a small back room, all that she could afford, and sick to death of being pestered by men because she lived alone. She had been overjoyed that one of them thought enough of her to offer marriage.

The odd thing was that Lionel had given her everything he had promised. The little house was well-furnished and newly decorated, they had a 21-inch television set, a record player, a washing-machine, a fridge – everything a housewife could want – and in that way at least she was the envy of her neighbours.

But on the whole, apart from those occasions when he lost his temper and seemed to go crazy, life wasn’t so bad. She could never understand his wild outbursts, but had a vague kind of impression that he was taking something out on her – that someone else was kicking him, and he had a temperament which made him want to hurt someone in return. Only twice had he marked her permanently: once when he had struck her on the ear with a heavy mug, so that the ear lobe had split; and once when he had smashed a dinner plate on her hand. She still had a scar on the back of that hand, red and unsightly.

She did not know for certain what Lionel did for a living, and he never talked about it. Once, when she had asked him, he had flown into one of those wild rages; that had taught her that it was useless, even dangerous, to probe. Nowadays she never asked questions, no matter how late he got home. She always felt certain that he would be by her side in the mornings; he could be so considerate that he often got into bed without waking her, certainly without disturbing her.

When she first woke that morning she couldn’t understand the coolness at her back. She turned her head, and saw his empty pillow. It was so smooth that she knew he hadn’t been to bed at all, although it was broad daylight. She stretched out a bare arm for the bedside clock, to turn it round so that she could see it more clearly; it was nearly a quarter to eight. She took a few minutes to wake up properly, and then hitched herself up in bed. It was still strange not to look down and see Lionel, grubby and dirty because he always needed a shave so badly in the mornings – he used an electric razor and had never really learned how to shave properly with it.

Ruth Endicott pushed back the sheet and got out of bed, catching a glimpse of herself in the tall wall mirror which Lionel had placed there when getting the house ready. He insisted on her wearing only one of the new fashioned, very short pyjama suits, without the pants; and if he was awake when she got up, he liked to lie there and look at her and also her reflection when she first got out of bed. She did not realise that it was simply by habit that she now sat on the side of the bed and unfastened the ribbon-tapes of the jacket at the neck, where they were loosely tied, and slipped the jacket off her shoulders. She always had a moment’s sensuous pleasure when she saw herself like that, knowing that her body was seductively beautiful. Sometimes she even got a thrill out of the way Lionel edged towards her, and from the expression on his face. At those moments his lips were always moist; he drooled.

She stretched, yawned, tapped her mouth, and then stretched out for her panties, bra and slip. She went along to the bathroom, which had been installed before they had moved in. Very few houses in Brasher’s Row boasted a bathroom. She had acquired another habit, of a quick morning bath while the kettle came to the boil on a low gas.

She went downstairs, stark naked because it was so warm. The storm had lasted over a day, and wind cut along the street and hissed in at a top window which was not curtained off. She saw rain and heard it spattering as she put on the kettle. There was no sign of Lionel, and uneasily she thought that the storm must have kept him away. She wasn’t exactly frightened then, just uneasy, and it wasn’t until she was in the bath that she admitted the truth to herself.

Whenever Lionel got in very late, or whenever his normal morning routine was disturbed, he was likely to get vicious. That wasn’t always the case, but it very often was. She tidied the kitchen quickly, put the breakfast things ready, and hurried upstairs, in case he came back soon. He would expect everything to be exactly as he liked it; if the breakfast wasn’t ready except for cooking bacon and eggs, he was liable to start knocking her about. She wondered whether she should have her bath, decided to risk it, bathed very quickly in tepid water, and then hurried to the bathroom, putting on her bra as she went. Twenty minutes after waking, she was downstairs again, making the tea. Now that she was fully awake she realised how violent the storm had been; like Lionel’s temper.

At nine o’clock, she was too hungry to wait any longer. She cooked her own breakfast, and dawdled over it. She felt better then, and began to tell herself what she would do if he started to get violent. She often had these rehearsals beforehand, imagining what she would say, how she would hit him back; but in fact he always terrified her the moment he raised his voice.

It was half past nine when she had finished, and she went to the front door to bring the milk in. As she did so, a gust of wind nearly pulled the door out of her grasp, and rain splashed over her face. She snatched up the milk, backed into the narrow hallway with it, and tried to close the door, but the wind made it difficult, and it wouldn’t latch. When at last she closed it, she was breathing hard. To make the situation worse, she had put the milk on the floor behind her and as she turned round she knocked it over; milk spilled out in a huge river and a big pool. In vexation, she stamped in it and made matters worse by splashing the walls. She scurried along to the kitchen for a floorcloth, and was on her knees, swabbing up the mess, when the door began to open.

On the instant, she was terrified; if Lionel came in and caught her doing this, there was no telling what he would do. He couldn’t have come at a worse moment. She knelt transfixed, floorcloth in hand and dripping milk, and staring up as the door banged back.

It wasn’t Lionel.

It was a man she had never seen before, a youthful-looking man, his plastic raincoat streaming with water, his cloth cap dripping, his brown shoes oozing. He tried to slam the door, but it blew back in his face. He had to struggle with it, as Ruth had, and surprise helped her to relax, even to get angry. What did he mean, opening the door with a key and bursting in like this? She got to her feet, and dripped the milk-soaked cloth into the pail. When he closed the door and turned round, she was facing him.

“Who are you?” she demanded. “What are you doing with a key to my door?”

He didn’t answer at once.

In a way, he was quite good-looking, although he was too fat. The wind had whipped colour to his cheek, and his eyes were clear, too; honey brown in colour. He was half smiling, half sneering; Ruth had a vague feeling now that she had seen him before somewhere, but couldn’t be sure.

“Go on, answer me! When my husband comes back—”

“Forget it, Ruth,” said the man. “Li won’t be back, you’ve got to get used to the idea. He won’t be back. He’s gone on a long, long journey. I want a little talk with you about him?”

“What do you mean?” she managed to gasp. “What do you mean, he won’t come back? Of course he’ll come back. He never—”

“Ruth,” said the stranger, “he’s had trouble. You could have a lot of trouble, too. Don’t make any mistake about that. Where does he keep his books and papers—his betting slips, that kind of thing?”

“In—in the living-room. But what—”

“Lead the way,” the stranger ordered, and he moved nearer and took her wrist in a firm grip, then twisted her round so that she went ahead of him. As the man pushed her towards the living-room, she knew fear much greater than the fear which possessed her when her husband went berserk. He glanced round, holding her arm up behind her, not hurting but making it obvious that he could hurt at any moment. He stood looking round at the spotless tablecloth, the table ready for Lionel’s breakfast, the range of domestic luxuries just visible in the convened wash-house beyond. The man looked round, then took off the raincoat and his cap. He handed them to her.

“Let these drip, baby.”

“Look here, I want to know—”

“I told you, Ruth,” said the man, “Lionel’s had trouble and you can run into plenty of it if you’re not careful. Just do what I tell you.”

She took the coat and cap into the kitchen, and hung them behind a door. When she got back into the room, the man was standing over the little writing bureau where Lionel kept all his papers.

“Got a key?” the man demanded.

“No, and if I had I wouldn’t let you have—” Ruth began, and then stopped, catching her breath; for the stranger turned round and looked at her in a way which frightened her just as much as Lionel ever had.

He said: “Where’s the key?”

“I—I haven’t got one, Lionel never let me have one! He told me to keep away from that desk, it was private. I—I don’t know where a key is.”

“You’re telling me you’ve never opened it when he’s been out?”

“Of course I haven’t! Lionel would have had the skin off my back if he—if he’d thought I’d do a thing like that!” She was beginning to fight for breath.

“That’s good,” said the man. “That’s very satisfactory. If that’s true it might help you a lot.”

She didn’t ask him what he meant, just stood gasping for breath. He took out a big pocket knife, opened a blade, and began to work on the lock. She had heard about locks being picked, but had never seen it done before. In about three minutes there was a loud click, and the middle drawer opened. The man pulled out the other drawers, too, and then opened his case and put most of the papers from Lionel’s desk into it. She began to utter a protest; he just turned round and looked at her. When the desk was empty of everything except one bundle of papers, a few sheets of notepaper, pens and pencils and ink and blotting paper, he closed it again and turned round and stared at her. Her fear rose to shrieking point.

“Ruth,” he said, “I’ve got bad news for you. Lionel’s dead. He got mixed up with the police, and he was on the run. He was okay while he was free from the cops, but if they’d caught him he would have squealed, so some old pals of his sent him on that long journey.”

“Li—Lionel dead,” she echoed weakly.

She was startled, not yet shocked, and in a peculiar, guilty way, relieved. Lionel dead. For a moment she felt quite light-hearted. The implications of what the man was saying did not seem important at first, except the one positive statement.

“Now listen to me,” the man went on. “Lionel had a bit put away, four or five thousand quid, judging from these papers.” He tapped the documents which he had left behind. “Did a bit of good work on the gee-gees, he knew form all right. Very smart, Lionel was. And you’re his next of kin and only heir, so that means you get all the money. And you get this house and all that goes with it.”

She was thinking: “Yes, he’s right, I get everything.” Lionel had no relations except some uncles and aunts he hadn’t seen for years, and they would have no claim. She was rich!

“So if you do what you’re told, you’ll be sitting pretty,” the man said. “How much did Lionel tell you about his business?”

“Nothing, I tell you!”

He put his head on one side.

“Don’t start lying to me, Ruth.”

“But I’m not lying. I asked him about it once, I asked him where he spent all his time, and—and he lammed into me, I was black and blue all over. I didn’t dare to ask him any more, and I didn’t dare try to look at that desk, either. If he was working at it, I had to be in the kitchen or in the front room or upstairs, he used to make me stay out. Sometimes he’d even send me to the pictures when he was very busy.”

“Well, that’s fine,” said the stranger, and his smile looked very bright and satisfied. “That’s what he always told us, that he didn’t let you know anything about what he did. And you still don’t know anything, do you?” He paused; it seemed for a long time. He moved, slowly, and came towards her. His smile remained, but it was stiff and mirthless; suddenly she was in even greater terror. The man stretched out his hands towards her, and she backed away, knocked against a chair, and fell back on to it. The chair rocked but did not fall. She couldn’t get further away, just put up her hands to try to fend him off, but she knew that she would be so helpless against him as she was against Lionel.

“Ruthie,” he said very softly, “five thousand pounds, this little house, and a nice quiet peaceful life—how do you like the look of it?”

“It—it sounds wonderful.”

“Wonderful,” the man said. “That’s about right. You can give yourself a good time. You can eat, drink, be merry, and sleep with who you like—if you do what you’re told. If you don’t, you’ll be buried with poor old Lionel.”

“Don’t talk like that!”

“Listen to me,” the man said again, and now he leaned forward and took her wrists, holding them firmly. “The police will catch up with this house soon—-perhaps this morning, perhaps tonight, perhaps tomorrow. They’ll come and ask you a lot of questions. They’ll want to know all you can tell them about Lionel and his pals, and his work. If you don’t know anything you can’t tell them anything, can you?”

“I swear I don’t know anything!”

“Ruthie, if Lionel ever told you a thing, forget it. Just tell the police what you’ve told me. If you tell them anything that will help them to find Lionel’s pals—”

“But I don’t know any of his pals!”

“If you don’t, you can’t name them and you can’t come to any harm,” said the stranger. “Don’t tell the police I came, either. Don’t tell them a thing. If you do, I’ll find out. Rather than let the cops cut you up in the witness box, I’d cut your throat. Don’t make any mistake, Ruthie.”

“I swear I can’t tell them anything,” she gabbled, brokenly. “How can I tell them what I don’t know?”

“Okay, Ruthie,” the man said. “But don’t make any mistake. If I find out that you’ve told them anything—”

He drew his finger across his throat.

 

In a telephone kiosk, twenty minutes later, the man said smoothly:

“She doesn’t know a thing, there’s no need to worry about her … Listen, Shell, I had to find out … I could tell whether she was lying or not. Now be yourself. She’s got to live until she’s got her hands on Lionel’s dough. It won’t take long to separate her from it, and after that … I tell you she’s too scared to talk to the cops. They’re not going to weep about Li, anyway, they’ll be glad he’s gone. Leaving Ruthie until I can cash in is playing it smart … Listen, Shell, there isn’t a thing more to worry about, but we must lay off for a few weeks. We can afford to. Get some more ideas, maybe … Yes, I know I’m the ideas man: give me a chance, I’m as anxious to get further into the big money as you are. Don’t worry, Shell.”

He rang off a few moments later, wiped the sweat off his forehead, and stepped out of the kiosk into the bluster of the warm summer storm.

At Brasher’s Row, Ruth Endicott sat and waited.

It was evening before the dreaded moment arrived, and the police car stopped outside the door. She was in the bedroom, sitting at the window; she had been there much of the day. She knew that the important thing was to make the police think she knew nothing about Lionel’s death, but she didn’t know whether she would be able to hold out. If she didn’t, she believed that the stranger would carry out his threat.