The Favorite Short Stories of W. Somerset Maugham (15 page)

R. will be away for the night. I absolutely must see you. I shall expect you at eleven. I am desperate, and if you don’t come I won’t answer for the consequences. Don’t drive up.-L.

It was written in the flowing hand which the Chinese were taught at the foreign schools. The writing, so lacking in character, was oddly incongruous with the ominous words.

“What makes you think that this note was written by Mrs Crosbie?”

“I have every confidence in the veracity of my informant, sir,” replied Ong Chi Seng. “And the matter can very easily be put to the proof. Mrs Crosbie will, no doubt, be able to tell you at once whether she wrote such a letter or not.”

Since the beginning of the conversation Mr Joyce had not taken his eyes off the respectable countenance of his clerk. He wondered now if he discerned in it a faint expression of mockery.

“It is inconceivable that Mrs Crosbie should have written such a letter,” said Mr Joyce.

“If that is your opinion, sir, the matter is of course ended. My friend spoke to me on the subject only because he thought, as I was in your office, you might like to know of the existence of this letter before a communication was made to the Deputy Public Prosecutor.”

“Who has the original?” asked Mr Joyce sharply.

Ong Chi Seng made no sign that he perceived in this question and its manner a change of attitude.

“You will remember, sir, no doubt, that after the death of Mr Hammond it was discovered that he had had relations with a Chinese woman. The letter is at present in her possession.”

That was one of the things which had turned public opinion most vehemently against Hammond. It came to be known that for several months he had had a Chinese woman living in his house.

For a moment neither of them spoke. Indeed everything had been said and each understood the other perfectly.

“I’m obliged to you, Chi Seng. I will give the matter my consideration.”

“Very good, sir. Do you wish me to make a communication to that effect to my friend?”

“I dare say it would be as well if you kept in touch with him,” Mr Joyce answered with gravity. “Yes, sir.”

The clerk noiselessly left the room, shutting the door again with deliberation, and left Mr Joyce to his reflections. He stared at the copy, in its neat, impersonal writing, of Leslie’s letter. Vague suspicions troubled him. They were so disconcerting that he made an effort to put them out of his mind. There must be a simple explanation of the letter, and Leslie without doubt could give it at once, but, by heaven, an explanation was needed. He rose from his chair, put the letter in his pocket, and took his topee. When he went out Ong Chi Seng was busily writing at his desk.

“I’m going out for a few minutes, Chi Seng,” he said.

“Mr George Reed is coming by appointment at twelve o’clock, sir. Where shall I say you’ve gone?”

Mr Joyce gave him a thin smile.

“You can say that you haven’t the least idea.”

But he knew perfectly well that Ong Chi Seng was aware that he was going to the gaol. Though the crime had been committed in Belanda and the trial was to take place at Belanda Bharu, since there was in the gaol no convenience for the detention of a white woman Mrs Crosbie had been brought to Singapore.

When she was led into the room in which he waited she held out her thin, distinguished hand, and gave him a pleasant smile. She was as ever neatly and simply dressed, and her abundant, pale hair was arranged with care.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you this morning,” she said, graciously.

She might have been in her own house, and Mr Joyce almost expected to hear her call the boy and tell him to bring the visitor a gin pahit.

“How are you?” he asked.

“I’m in the best of health, thank you.” A flicker of amusement flashed across her eyes. “This is a wonderful place for a rest cure.”

The attendant withdrew and they were left alone.

“Do sit down,” said Leslie.

He took a chair. He did not quite know how to begin. She was so cool that it seemed almost impossible to say to her the thing he had come to say. Though she was not pretty there was something agreeable in her appearance. She had elegance, but it was the elegance of good breeding in which there was nothing of the artifice of society. You had only to look at her to know what sort of people she had and what kind of surroundings she had lived in. Her fragility gave her a singular refinement. It was impossible to associate her with the vaguest idea of grossness.

“I’m looking forward to seeing Robert this afternoon,” she said, in her good-humoured, easy voice. (It was a pleasure to hear her speak, her voice and her accent were so distinctive of her class.) “Poor dear, it’s been a great trial to his nerves. I’m thankful it’ll all be over in a few days.”

“It’s only five days now.”

“I know. Each morning when I awake I say to myself, ‘one less.’” She smiled then. “Just as I used to do at school and the holidays were coming.”

“By the way, am I right in thinking that you had no communication whatever with Hammond for several weeks before the catastrophe?”

“I’m quite positive of that. The last time we met was at a tennis-party at the MacFarrens. I don’t think I said more than two words to him. They have two courts, you know, and we didn’t happen to be in the same sets.”

“And you haven’t written to him?”

“Oh, no.”

“Are you quite sure of that?”

“Oh, quite,” she answered, with a little smile. “There was nothing I should write to him for except to ask him to dine or to play tennis, and I hadn’t done either for months.”

“At one time you’d been on fairly intimate terms with him. How did it happen that you had stopped asking him to anything?”

Mrs Crosbie shrugged her thin shoulders.

“One gets tired of people. We hadn’t anything very much in common. Of course, when he was ill Robert and I did everything we could for him, but the last year or two he’d been quite well, and he was very popular. He had a good many calls on his time, and there didn’t seem to be any need to shower invitations upon him.”

“Are you quite certain that was all?”

Mrs Crosbie hesitated for a moment.

“Well, I may just as well tell you. It had come to our ears that he was living with a Chinese woman, and Robert said he wouldn’t have him in the house. I had seen her myself.”

Mr Joyce was sitting in a straight-backed arm-chair, resting his chin on his hand, and his eyes were fixed on Leslie. Was it his fancy that, as she made this remark, her black pupils were filled on a sudden, for the fraction of a second, with a dull red light? The effect was startling. Mr Joyce shifted in his chair. He placed the tips of his ten fingers together. He spoke very slowly, choosing his words.

“I think I should tell you that there is in existence a letter in your handwriting to Geoff Hammond.”

He watched her closely. She made no movement, nor did her face change colour, but she took a noticeable time to reply.

“In the past I’ve often sent him little notes to ask him to something or other, or to get me something when I knew he was going to Singapore.”

“This letter asks him to come and see you because Robert was going to Singapore.”

“That’s impossible. I never did anything of the kind.”

“You’d better read it for yourself.”

He took it out of his pocket and handed it to her. She gave it a glance and with a smile of scorn handed it back to him.

“That’s not my handwriting.”

“I know, it’s said to be an exact copy of the original.”

She read the words now, and as she read a horrible change came over her. Her colourless face grew dreadful to look at. It turned green. The flesh seemed on a sudden to fall away and her skin was tightly stretched over the bones. Her lips receded, showing her teeth, so that she had the appearance of making a grimace. She stared at Mr Joyce with eyes that started from their sockets. He was looking now at a gibbering death’s head.

“What does it mean?” she whispered.

Her mouth was so dry that she could utter no more than a hoarse sound. It was no longer a human voice.

“That is for you to say,” he answered.

“I didn’t write it. I swear I didn’t write it.”

“Be very careful what you say. If the original is in your handwriting it would be useless to deny it.”

“It would be a forgery.”

“It would be difficult to prove that. It would be easy to prove that it was genuine.”

A shiver passed through her lean body. But great beads of sweat stood on her forehead. She took a handkerchief from her bag and wiped the palms of her hands. She glanced at the letter again and gave Mr Joyce a sidelong look.

“It’s not dated. If I had written it and forgotten all about it, it might have been written years ago. If you’ll give me time, I’ll try and remember the circumstances.”

“I noticed there was no date. If this letter were in the hands of the prosecution they would cross-examine the boys. They would soon find out whether someone took a letter to Hammond on the day of his death.”

Mrs Crosbie clasped her hands violently and swayed in her chair so that he thought she would faint.

“I swear to you that I didn’t write that letter.”

Mr Joyce was silent for a little while. He took his eyes from her distraught face, and looked down on the floor. He was reflecting.

“In these circumstances we need not go into the matter further,” he said slowly, at last breaking the silence. “If the possessor of this letter sees fit to place it in the hands of the prosecution you will be prepared.”

His words suggested that he had nothing more to say to her, but he made no movement of departure. He waited. To himself he seemed to wait a very long time. He did not look at Leslie, but he was conscious that she sat very still. She made no sound. At last it was he who spoke.

“If you have nothing more to say to me I think I’ll be getting back to my office.”

“What would anyone who read the letter be inclined to think that it meant?” she asked then.

“He’d know that you had told a deliberate lie,” answered Mr Joyce sharply.

“When?”

“You have stated definitely that you had had no communication with Hammond for at least three months.”

“The whole thing has been a terrible shock to me. The events of that dreadful night have been a nightmare. It’s not very strange if one detail has escaped my memory.”

“It would be unfortunate, when your memory has reproduced so exactly every particular of your interview with Hammond, that you should have forgotten so important a point as that he came to see you in the bungalow on the night of his death at your express desire.”

“I hadn’t forgotten. After what happened I was afraid to mention it. I thought you’d none of you believe my story if I admitted that he’d come at my invitation. I dare say it was stupid of me; but I lost my head, and after I’d said once that I’d had no communication with Hammond I was obliged to stick to it.”

By now Leslie had recovered her admirable composure, and she met Mr Joyce’s appraising glance with candour. Her gentleness was very disarming.

“You will be required to explain, then,
why
you asked Hammond to come and see you when Robert was away for the night.”

She turned her eyes full on the lawyer. He had been mistaken in thinking them insignificant, they were rather fine eyes, and unless he was mistaken they were bright now with tears. Her voice had a little break in it.

“It was a surprise I was preparing for Robert. His birthday is next month. I knew he wanted a new gun and you know I’m dreadfully stupid about sporting things. I wanted to talk to Geoff about it. I thought I’d get him to order it for me.”

“Perhaps the terms of the letter are not very clear to your recollection. Will you have another look at it?”

“No, I don’t want to,” she said quickly.

“Does it seem to you the sort of letter a woman would write to a somewhat distant acquaintance because she wanted to consult him about buying a gun?”

“I dare say it’s rather extravagant and emotional. I do express myself like that, you know. I’m quite prepared to admit it’s very silly.” She smiled. “And after all, Geoff Hammond wasn’t quite a distant acquaintance. When he was ill I’d nursed him like a mother. I asked him to come when Robert was away, because Robert wouldn’t have him in the house.”

Mr Joyce was tired of sitting so long in the same position. He rose and walked once or twice up and down the room, choosing the words he proposed to say; then he leaned over the back of the chair in which he had been sitting. He spoke slowly in a tone of deep gravity.

“Mrs Crosbie, I want to talk to you very, very seriously. This case was comparatively plain sailing. There was only one point which seemed to me to require explanation: as far as I could judge, you had fired no less than four shots into Hammond when he was lying on the ground. It was hard to accept the possibility that a delicate, frightened, and habitually self-controlled woman, of gentle nature and refined instincts, should have surrendered to an absolutely uncontrolled frenzy. But of course it was admissible. Although Geoffrey Hammond was much liked and on the whole thought highly of, I was prepared to prove that he was the sort of man who might be guilty of the crime which in justification of your act you accused him of. The fact, which was discovered after his death, that he had been living with a Chinese woman gave us something very definite to go upon. That robbed him of any sympathy which might have been felt for him. We made up our minds to make use of the odium which such a connexion cast upon him in the minds of all respectable people. I told your husband this morning that I was certain of an acquittal, and I wasn’t just telling him that to give him heart. I do not believe the assessors would have left the court.”