The Hunter and the Trapped (15 page)

“Nineteen forty-six,” said Mont, promptly. “You went to Oxford in nineteen forty-six.”

“I must have, mustn't I?”

“After the war?”

“Oh yes, it was after the war.”

“What was your war service, sir?”

A cloud swept over Simon's face but it was gone directly. “None. I didn't pass the medical.”

Mont was surprised.

“You look very fit now, sir, if I may say so.”

“Asthma,” Simon told him, his eyes, very dark now and curiously blank, searching the wall behind the Chief-inspector's head. “That was what our doctor put on the certificate he sent to the Board.”

This curious account of his illness baffled Mont.

“But it
was
asthma, wasn't it?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

“You were treated for it?”

“Very successfully. I was always well at Oxford, and nearly always since.”

He smiled and Mont was reassured. Naturally Fawcett didn't like confessing to an illness that everyone knew was largely psychological. An illness that had allowed him to miss active service of any kind.

Simon smiled again.

“I'm sure I should have made a very bad soldier,” he said.

This confirmed Mont's own conclusion about him.

“Were you treated at home or in hospital?” he asked, to complete his sources of further information, if such should be necessary.

“At home.”

“And your doctor's name?”

“Now that,” Simon said, with another happy smile, “is more difficult. So long ago. Would it be Gordon? Yes, I think perhaps it would. But I so seldom see a doctor.”

“Yes, you told me that. You are lucky, aren't you? I've always heard asthma is a chronic complaint, liable to come on again any time.”

“Then I'm
very
lucky, aren't I?”

Impossible to spin out the interview any longer, Mont decided. The fellow seemed to be a confirmed bachelor, no close attachments, parents both dead, a few men friends, the college, the students, his work. One of these intellectuals. What did they call it? Ivory tower, wasn't it? Shut themselves up with their books. Not likely to be much help over Mrs. Morris. Too vague. He'd never notice if she was robbing him under his very nose.

Then he remembered. Fawcett had dismissed the woman. He had said so. Also he had evaded giving any reason for it.

The Chief-inspector had risen from his chair as these thoughts passed quickly through his mind. Simon had risen, too, politely moving towards the door to open it for his visitor.

“By the way,” Mont said, turning as he passed through, “you never told me exactly why you stood off Mrs. Morris.”

“Didn't I?” Simon, half a head shorter, lifted innocent eyes to his questioner. “She took things. Food, mostly. Books, sometimes. I can't afford it. I told her so when I warned her. But it didn't do any good. So last Friday – I made up my mind she must go.”

Mont nodded and went out and down the stairs. Simon waited until he heard him cross the hall and go out into the street. Then he turned back into his own room, his head high, a little smile of satisfaction on his lips.

Penelope spent the next twenty four hours wondering what the police had asked Simon and what he had said to them. She had gone to Scotland Yard to make her statement, hoping the details were the same as those she had invented the night before. It was a blessing, she thought, that she had decided in the end not to stop the cheque. There had been no statement from her bank since her return from France, so she had not been aware that he had not cashed it. Her explanation of that was as good as any. It was a simple one. Simon had accepted it quite calmly. Did that mean it was really a safe explanation?

She tried to remember how the payments for the trip had been arranged. Certainly Simon had collected cheques from various students at their last meeting to arrange the details of the journey out. He had asked for cheques to be made out to him. Some of the students had given him cash. Presumably he had paid the organiser of their party in one cheque drawn on his own account. Would the police be able to go into all that? Would they be able to find out that she had really paid for her holiday before it began?

After she left the Yard her conscience began to nag her. She had committed perjury. She had signed a statement that was untrue from beginning to end. They could put her in prison for that, couldn't they? And apart from her own potential danger, wasn't it likely to involve her, if the truth came out, with this sordid murder? Which was the very thing she was struggling to avoid.

She walked up Whitehall, miserably going over again in her mind her brief warning telephone call to Simon. He had not seemed at all upset, but that was in keeping with his character as she knew it. He had always appeared curiously young and innocent over practical matters. It went strangely with his extreme sophistication in regard to people and their behaviour.

She found she did not want to pursue this thought. Quite suddenly and for the first time she found she was bored with the whole idea of Simon. Not bored mentally as she had known she was in France. Bored emotionally, as well. Totally bored. The word came into her mind, in capital letters, repeating itself again and again. BORED. Simon bored her. She had suffered on his account as no one else had ever made her suffer in the whole course of her life. But the thing had evaporated. And now, quite suddenly, the idea of her love, that great passion, bored her.

She stood still when she reached Trafalgar Square. Her anxiety remained, especially the worry over the statement. That was still growing. She decided she must get advice from someone. Not her father. The estrangement there had grown. Besides, as a lawyer, he would be profoundly shocked by what she had done. He would simply think her more depraved than ever: definitely delinquent.

John? No, not John. It wouldn't be fair and anyway he was back at Portsmouth. Diana, she decided. Yes, Diana was just the person. She would not feel the slightest embarrassment now in telling Diana everything. In fact, Diana ought to know. Simon had mentioned blackmail in connection with the torn cheque. It opened up an abyss of hidden threat for Diana, as well as for herself. For Diana, particularly, on account of Bill. Poor Bill. She felt old and wise and detached, considering poor Bill and – yes – poor old Diana.

Diana was far from pleased to see Penelope. For one thing it was nearly lunch time. She had planned to eat bread and cheese at home, since Bill was at one of his hospitals. Now she supposed she would have to do something about feeding the girl. It would be the simplest to take her out, but what a bind. And then, Simon had rung up. He would be coming round during the afternoon. That meant she must get rid of Penelope as soon as possible. What a bind. What an infernal nuisance.

Penelope did not expect a very cordial welcome, so she was not surprised to find Diana both cold and preoccupied. She had not seen either of the Allinghams since old Mrs. Allingham had gone home. Before that they had asked her to dinner twice which had surprised her at the time. Perhaps she thought now, as silence fell between them, it had been the old lady who wanted to see her, or to be kind to her, or in some way influence her in her relationship with Simon. Not that she had ever preached to her. How strange that all this had never once occurred to her at the time. How very deep in love she must have been. Was it always to be like this?

“Well,” said Diana, when Penelope had sat looking at her for some time without speaking. “How did you enjoy your trip?”

“France? It was lovely.”

Penelope's voice held no enthusiasm, even some small surprise that an event so long past could be expected still to have any importance for her.

Diana looked at her watch.

“I'm afraid I've nothing in the house,” she said “We'd better find some lunch out.”

“No.” Penelope roused herself. “No, Di, I don't want you to give me lunch – or anything. I've come to tell you something. You ought to be warned.”

“Warned?”

Penelope told her. About the cleaner's death, that it was murder, that the police were asking questions of all the tenants at the flats, that they had found her cheque in the dead woman's handbag.

“My God!” whispered Diana. A cheque with Simon's name on it, even if it was signed by Penny. A cheque that linked him to the old bitch that did his rooms. He had told her a good deal about Mrs. Morris and her threats. But always as if he had frightened her off.

“If only he wasn't so careless,” Penelope said. “He must have torn up my cheque and thrown it away and she found and kept it.”

“Why did he tear it up?”

Penelope told her, quite frankly. Diana stared.

“Did Simon tell you why he wanted you to lend him thirty pounds?” she asked, sharply.

“No. Oh, was it to pay that woman blackmail? Did she know … ?” It was Penelope's turn to stare, horrified. The abyss was growing all the time.

“About me? He thinks she guessed. Not that I ever went there. But I agree with you, he's so careless sometimes. So careful and so bloody careless. You never know what he'll do. Why didn't he borrow from
me
? There'd have been none of your – complications.”

“How could he? He'd left you, hadn't he?”

“Left me? My poor child, you don't think your silly little affair with him made any difference to
us
?”

Pity her revenge came too late, Penelope thought, as she smiled into the angry face before her.

“I wouldn't know,” she said, quietly. “I expect it would have made a difference to me if I had. But I suppose you're used to sharing.”

Before Diana had time to strike again she went on to tell her about the interview with the Chief-inspector and its outcome.

“That's what I came here to tell you,” she said. “I told Simon at once, so that he'd use the same explanation.”

“When did you see him?”

“I didn't. I don't see him now. It's finished. I thought you realised that.” Penelope spoke calmly, quite decisively. She saw disbelief in Diana's face. She could not resist one more thrust at her former more successful rival. “I expect it was the difference in our ages as much as anything. He and I don't belong to the same generation. Ideas about things have changed since he was young.”

Diana laughed harshly.

“I don't think you know what you're talking about,” she said. “But I'm glad you've got over it. Simon will be glad, too.”

“Hasn't he told you, then? I'd have thought from what you say that he would, seeing you are a sort of father – or should I say – mother – confessor.”

They stood glaring at each other, both striving to invent more hurtful words to fling. Diana gave it up first. She had never ceased to expect this outcome. Penelope was not the sort of girl to hold more than a passing attraction for Simon. She was not capable of dealing with his difficult, complex nature. Above all, she had not really loved him, or not with the abiding passion that filled her own life.

So now Diana felt forgiving, indulgent. She said, more quietly, “There's no point in our scrapping like a pair of alley cats. I'll remember what you said. I think you should warn anyone else who's likely to get involved.”

“Who could be?”

“I don't know. Look, why don't you get John to advise you.”

“John! I couldn't possibly ask him …”

“Yes, you ought to. I remember now Simon said John had called and been offensive to him.”

“Then he did go! I told him not to.”

“What d' you mean?”

“The evening we got back. When I reached our flat he was there with Caroline. I was – rather upset. John shot off though I told him not to. He was mad at Simon for – because – I wouldn't say what had happened.”

“Then you
must
see John. If the police find out he was there that evening after you left and that there was a row over
you
, then your story about the cheque will look pretty silly, won't it?”

Penelope nodded. It was what she had feared. They would all be drawn in, unless they could all be warned and hold to the same story.

Diana moved across the room to the telephone.

“Shall I try to get him for you? His aunt ringing up will sound better, won't it?”

She made a face as she said ‘aunt' and Penelope, who never could remain angry for long and did not enjoy fighting, particularly with anyone as well equipped for retaliation as Diana, smiled at her and nodded. Their quarrel was over, since the cause of it had vanished.

John Allingham had his own reasons for considering it urgent to see Penelope, more this time on Simon's account than on hers. He listened to her account of the cheque and then said, abruptly, “Was he ever violent when you were with him?”

“Violent? Simon? Of course not.”

As he did not answer she said, “Why? Why do you ask that, John? Was he violent with you?”

He told her then of Simon's attack on him and the outcome. She was appalled.

“It's so utterly unlike everything he stands for – or seems to stand for. I simply don't understand – I can't believe …”

“You believe that I'm speaking the truth?”

“I must – as it's you, John.”

“Thank you.”

They sat, looking at each other, afraid to say what was in both their minds.

“Do you think there's anything wrong with him?” John asked at last. “I mean, when he didn't get up and was obviously not hurt it occurred to me he might be basically – well – a bit queer.”

“You mean mental, don't you? Mad?”

“It isn't always obvious, is it? I mean, it comes on slowly. We had a chap went crackers all of a sudden while I was at Gib. this August. I didn't tell you, did I? Not much in touch, were we?”

She shook her head, sadly.