The Sleeping Partner (16 page)

‘I thought you'd want to know the latest about the works dispute. Piper has called a strike for tomorrow morning.'

‘Oh.'

‘Hullo?'

‘Hullo.'

‘I say Piper has called a strike for tomorrow morning.'

‘Yes.'

‘I think Read has mismanaged the thing from the start, don't you?'

Lynn's dead, Frank, I would say. I've just found her. Somebody's
killed
her. No, in this house, in the cellar. And I took her hand, Frank. The wedding ring was on it …

‘Of course, Gill is shop steward, and it's not Piper's place to take the lead, but he seems to be one of those men who can get away with it. I told you I was going back to Wales in me morning, didn't I?'

‘Oh.'

‘Are you all right?' What, Lynn dead? Are you joking, man? When? Where? Incredulous, he would be; incredulous, suspicious, staring.

‘What?'

‘I say, are you all right?'

‘Yes … I'm …'

‘I thought you sounded a bit queer. Is Lynn at home?'

Is she at home? Yes, come over, Frank, and meet her. I said:
‘Why?'

‘Oh, I just thought I'd like to hear the sound of her voice.'

I glanced round, thinking I heard the sound of her voice. ‘No, she's not at home.'

And then he rang off. The chance was gone. I suddenly felt that by saying nothing to him I'd done something not revokable. Yet far better to get help direct. Handle this on my own. Fumble a cigarette out of the box on the table and light it. Take up the telephone again.

And then again I put it back. Perhaps there had been something un-revokable
within my own mind
in not telling Frank Dawson. At least the thought of Frank, incredulous, unbelieving … Other people would be just as incredulous, just as likely to see this, inconveniently, through their own eyes, not through mine. Among them the police. What would you think if you were a policeman? Go slow.

One of the french windows started to swing, and I jumped in the chair as if I'd been shot. I thought someone was shutting me in. But it was only a stray breeze.

I knew I'd got to think, and think more clearly than ever before in my life. But not in this house. I couldn't
stay
in here because if I did, not one straight thought would come. You couldn't while that lay in the coal cellar. I could still follow first impulses, ring for the police or for help of some sort. I knew it was best to do that. But I couldn't for the moment reason out the follow-on of making that move – or the consequences of not making it.

I went out of the french windows, down the steps into the garden. I got well away at the end of the lawn, flopped on a tree stump.

Lynn had been dead some time, and someone had killed her. People don't die, get themselves buried under anthracite.

But who? I was her husband. We'd not been getting on. She'd decided to divorce me, had cited another woman; I'd been furious, resentful at the idea of a divorce, had wanted to stop it. She'd refused; we'd quarrelled violently.

That was the lay-out. I tapped the end of the cigarette and tried to keep it still. It wouldn't keep still I held it up and looked at it. It wouldn't keep still.

A car went past on the road that Lynn had used on the Friday night when she'd come back to fetch something. I'd run across this grass after her then, through the trees. She'd lost one earring. Three weeks ago tomorrow. Why had she come back that night and when had she come back for the last time?

Who had last seen her? On the Saturday or Sunday after leaving me she'd replied to the bank's letter. Much later, nearly a week later than that, Ray French's postcard. Miss Lord had had the rent of her flat only six days ago.

But she hadn't seen her. She said Lynn had come too late. For that matter, neither had Ray, and the postcard had given wrong information.

I looked back at the house; it was dark and square-shouldered and baleful against the trees and the sky. Out here was some kind of sanity and safety. But whatever I thought up, I had to go in once more – either to phone the police or to fetch Kent and lock the door. A spot of rain was cold on my hand.

I swallowed; saliva was all the time gathering in my mouth, and three or four times I had spat it out. I needed more brandy, but that too was in the house. Not the courage to go back yet. Another cigarette.

Steady, think it over. Don't rush into a primary error. It could be as big a bloomer not to call the police as to call them, probably much greater. I didn't know. I'd
got
to know. A flash of lightning lit the sky, and I waited for the thunder. This time it never came.

It wasn't really any use trying to reason clearly even out here. Every now and then I'd think things were beginning to settle; but all the time I was doing it with the lid off. Nothing solidified, took shape. Nothing could.

The rain came faster. Must go back to the house. At this moment I had one advantage over everyone else. I only – apart from the murderer – knew I hadn't killed my wife. If the police were called in they'd automatically make me chief suspect. Could I turn this advantage to any gain before I reported the body? I thought, if I don't tell the police, can I go about the ordinary business of living, without people knowing what I've seen – even for a few hours?

How did murderers manage to do it as if nothing were the matter? Did they have some inner skin to the mind which stopped them from remembering?

Reason it out. Lynn had been dead some time. At first the sight of the wet blood had deceived me, but common sense insisted … Who then went to her flat in Grosvenor Court Mews late at night? Today was Thursday. Someone came on Thursday late to pay the rent. Presumably they slipped the money in an envelope into Miss Lord's letter-box. Something of that sort, to avoid a meeting or a cheque. How could anyone risk going to the flat unless they knew Lynn was dead?

I went back to the house.

Kent was quiet now. Nothing stirred or moved. I went upstairs. It was queer, the feeling, as if going away from the doors of the house was moving away from safety. If Something followed up the stairs the retreat was cut off. I went into our bedroom. Although it wasn't really dark in here I put on the light. I went over to her dressing-table and began to search through the drawers.

The scent she used came from her things, and suddenly I had to stop because I found tears running down my face. Perhaps it was weak and shameful being like that, but the scent brought up all sorts of memories; it had been a part of the early days of our marriage in London with all the physical companionship of the long nights, the shared excitement, the comradeship, the sense of heightened living.

I sat there miserably for a time, not able to go on. And as I sat there my feeling for the thing in the cellar changed. I was still scared of it, in an illogical instinctive way, but a lot of the fear had given way to pity and anger. No doubt it was true that Lynn hadn't much liking for me before the end; but that didn't change what I felt and had felt about her. She was my wife, and someone had murdered her and dragged her down into the cellar, and left her alone in the dark and the dirt and the ignominy.

Kent was barking now, and with a sudden lurch of fear I went out to the landing window and peered down the drive. There was no one about. I went back to the bedroom.

A few old bills, two theatre programmes, a list of Festival Hall concerts, underclothes, handkerchiefs, shoes, folding coat-hangers, needles and silk cotton, an old handbag quite empty. Lynn had been a great spender, and there were about two dozen frocks hanging in the wardrobe. I should have realised she wouldn't have left so many of her things behind.

I began to feel in the pockets of her day dresses, and immediately came on a note that was a shock. It was on a piece of the firm's notepaper and simply said: ‘My dear Lynn, Shall be delighted to see you Wednesday. Do ring me if you want to make it earlier, Frank.' The other thing I found, in an inner pocket of her Burberry, was a Yale key. That might not have meant anything except for the label tied on which said ‘9a'.

I took Kent back to Mrs Lloyd's, told her I'd see about getting him moved as soon as I could. I don't know if I still looked queer; anyway she always peered at you as if she thought you'd been up to something.

I drove shakily back into London. By the time I got there it was nearly half-past ten. I still felt sick; it kept coming in fresh waves every few minutes like when you have food poisoning. I went into a snack bar and drank two cups of black strong coffee and swallowed a few mouthfuls of a plate of bacon and eggs. I couldn't remember when I'd last eaten.

Nobody here in London had changed as I had changed. The girl who served me had the mark of an old gland operation on her neck. ‘Scrambled egg and mixed grill, two teas. Well, they
say
they're invisible but it all depends who's looking, don't it? Three cheese and tomato. Milk shake.' There were sweat stains on the other girl's overall. ‘ Two fish and chips. It don't seem decent, not ever to be left alone.' She sniggered. ‘ Makes you think. Sorry, sir, no poached eggs; scrambled or fried …'

The food stuck in my chest. I got up and went out, garaged the car, registered at the same hotel. Then I walked down Piccadilly.

When I got into Grosvenor Court Mews there was a chauffeur waiting by a car near one of the other flats, and two girls talking under a lamp who eyed me. There was also a light in No. 9.

I waited about twenty minutes and then began to feel conspicuous, so strolled off towards Curzon Street and walked along it as far as Park Lane. I wasn't far now from the tiny flat we'd first rented; every step in this part reminded me of Lynn. The sky was an odd colour; there were pink reflections from the ground upon the heavy under-tow of the clouds and a giant rift in them stretched half-way to the City.

I looked at my watch. It was ten to twelve. I turned back.

Just short of the mews I stopped to light a cigarette and heard Big Ben through, then I felt the key again and walked on.

The car had gone, the girls had gone. There was only a dog there sniffing at an empty can; he raised his head at my footsteps and watched me until I was past. I got as far as the garage end where I had watched last night and looked across at the windows of No. 9. They were in darkness. Miss Lord had retired to rest. But now there was a light in the windows of No. 9a.

I
DROPPED
my cigarette and pressed it into the stones of the yard. I took the key out of my pocket and looked at it. I waited a minute, taking breaths. Then I went in.

There was a small light burning at the first turn of the stairs, right opposite Miss Lord's door. I went past that, stopping once when a stair creaked. Then I came opposite the door of No. 9a. No light was to be seen under it.

I wiped the sweat off my hands and very very slowly put the key against the jagged opening in the Yale lock. Sometimes almost at the first touch you can tell whether they fit or not. This key slid in like a sword into its sheath. I turned my fingers and the tumblers turned. I pressed on the door and it opened with a very slight creak.

Now you could see why no light showed. This was a tiny vestibule, five by five; a door led off to the right, probably into a bathroom, the door straight ahead into the living-room. A light showed under this. There was a handle, but above it was another Yale lock.

Usually a second such door would be left permanently with its catch back. At least it was worth trying. I took two steps and listened. There was no sound from inside. I put my fingers slowly round the knob and turned. When it had gone far enough I put the fingers of my other hand against the door and pressed. It gave and began to open. As the first split of light showed down the length of the door, the light went out.

I let go the handle slowly and leaned against the door. It swung wide, opening into a vacuum of darkness. Then I didn't make any further move. My ears, are pretty keen, and I thought I should pick up some sound of movement or breathing. It didn't come.

You could make out the oblong of one of the windows. The white blind was drawn, but there was just enough light from the street lamp at the end of the mews to mark the rectangle. By it you could see the shoulder of a chair, the glass of a picture on the wall, the sloping edge of a lampshade, a more anonymous bulk in the middle of the room.

I reached my hand slowly into the room and felt up and down the wall, found the smooth metal of a switch, went to press it down. But it was already down. Farther along the wall, but there was nothing else. I clicked the switch up. Nothing.

Now it was a question of nerves. The longer we waited the less his advantage would be. But I should have phoned the police instead of this. I knew that now.

Somewhere, I think in the flat below, a clock chimed the quarter-hour. A car accelerated away, its exhaust higher than the dying rumble of the traffic. Quiet fell again. Then there was a baby crying, perhaps it was in the house opposite, it went on and on and then suddenly checked and was still. Mother had come. I could hear my own heart beating; it didn't seem fast but it was emphatic. I wondered how long I would have to wait.

A sound over to the right in the darkest part of the room, as if someone had disturbed something by the smallest move. I stepped back towards the first door, groped for the switch, put on the light in the vestibule, then lurched sharply into the living-room, veering left, seeking the shadows there.

Light flooded into the room through the gaping door. Settee, bookcase, television set, piano – something hit me across the head, a new light flashed; I fell across a chair clutching at a coat as it went past me; he shook free; as I rolled to the floor I clutched an ankle; he kicked himself clear, stumbling against the door – darkness fell on me and I lay on the floor holding my head as the outer door opened and slammed.