I have purposely refrained from describing the preparations for the wedding, now only three days distant, because for those who are not involved nothing could be more boring. If it comes to that, nothing is more boring for the bridegroom. All he is anxious to do is to marry as quickly and neatly as possible, and get off on his honeymoon, leaving all the flap behind for other people to clear up, and, incidentally, pay for.
Stanley Bristow had naturally been in his element, organising, amending, and confirming every detail, such as the hire of cars, the time of their arrival at the house, the estimated time of arrival at the church, the estimated time of departure from the church after the ceremony, the invitations, the music, the printing, the photographers, the champagne, the catering, and the flowers.
This, one felt, was his finest hour.
In so far as the atmosphere was concerned when I went round that evening, I can say that it was determinedly cheerful.
I recalled the little group I had seen on the doorstep the previous night-Stanley, the Inspector, and the sergeant-tying up the loose ends, checking my statement as far as they could, eliminating me from the list of people who could conceivably have killed poor Bunface.
To put it brutally, it seemed that Stanley and Elaine Bristow were now reconciled to the fact that Juliet was going to marry a man who was still suffering from the after-effects of a car crash, but had doubtless come to the conclusion that to postpone the wedding would be inconvenient and embarrassing.
I believed, and still believe, that Juliet’s feelings were different. She thought she was marrying a mentally sick man, but one whom she loved and could nurse back to mental health. Poor old Juliet.
I noticed this bright atmosphere at the start. There was the exaggerated enthusiasm about the wedding presents which had arrived, the optimistic prognostications about the weather, the certainty that the bridesmaids would appreciate their ghastly, tawdry presents, which, according to Elaine Bristow, looked as though they had cost twice as much as they had done, though privately I didn’t agree.
All three chattered incessantly about everything except that which was uppermost in their minds. I prayed along with them until after dinner. Then I said:
“I had another threatening note today. Like the other one.”
Juliet was not in the sitting-room. Elaine Bristow was, but she muttered something and left me alone with Stanley.
Stanley was drinking a glass of brandy. He put his glass down on a small table by his chair.
“Let’s have a look at it, old boy,” he said, in his eager, snuffly tone. “I think you ought to take it to the police, old boy, I really do. Practical jokes are practical jokes, but this is getting a bit thick, old boy, it really is.”
He gazed at me with his exophthalmic goitre eyes and held out his hand. I suppose he thought I was going to fish about in my pocket and slap it into his outstretched palm.
“I tore it up,” I said.
“Tore it up?”
“You know as well as I do, by now, that it was no good taking it to the police. You know what they think, don’t you?”
“I don’t know what the police think, old boy,” he muttered evasively. “How should I know what they think?”
I felt the anger begin to churn around in my stomach again; not as intensely as before, but enough to be going on with.
“They were here last night, weren’t they? Checking?”
“They called here, yes.”
“Checking my movements?”
“They asked a few questions, yes, they did, they asked a few questions, old boy. Just routine stuff. Nothing to worry about.”
“Nothing for whom to worry about? Nothing for them to worry about? Nothing for you to worry about? Is that it? Good old them, good old you!”
I was sitting on a settee on the left side of the fireplace, and watched him get up and walk to the grate, and stand with his back to it, tall, and droopy, and ineffectual, staring down awkwardly at me.
The door opened and Juliet came in.
“I was just saying that I had had another note, Juliet, like the other one.”
“But he tore it up,” murmured Stanley Bristow. “He tore it up, for some reason, so he can’t show it to us.”
“Never mind,” said Juliet cheerfully, and went out carrying an early morning tea-set given me by a cousin. It was egg yellow, and the cups and tea-pot were square. This cousin and I never liked each other.
She gave me a smile as she closed the door. It was a sort of open, understanding, maternal smile. It didn’t suit her.
I preferred her slow, discreet smiles which made you want to ask what the hell she was laughing at, and the secretive sidelong looks, and the withdrawn manner. I preferred the Italian streak, even if it did come from old Bardoni, rather than the open Anglo-Saxon stuff. But I was glad of the smile, and glad of the way she had received me. She had forgotten, or pretended to have forgotten, the bitterness of my parting words the previous night.
Stanley and I sat and looked at each other in silence for a few seconds, then he cleared his throat and said:
“Elaine and I have been thinking, old boy-”
“I know what you’ve been thinking, all right. So has Juliet,” I said. “In some ways I don’t blame you. I can’t produce any proof. I would if I could, but I can’t, but I think I’m beginning to see the answer.”
“Beginning to see the answer?”
“Vaguely. Possibly.”
I told him about the letter in the newspaper, and my visit to old Colonel Pearson, and the theory I had built up as a result of his casual, parting remark.
Stanley listened attentively, sometimes sipping his brandy and saying: “Ah, crooks,” or “Blackmail, eh?” or “Gangsters, what?”
Just as I finished, the door opened and Juliet came back with Elaine Bristow.
Stanley said:
“James says he now knows the answer to all this nonsense. It’s a blackmail racket, he says. This old woman, Mrs. Dawson, she helped crooks to get jobs and then later in life she blackmailed them. And now she’s been bumped off by gangsters who’ve taken over the racket. James has got the whole story from a colonel who was a prison governor, and used to supply names to Mrs. Dawson. How’s that, Elaine? What about that, Juliet? That explains it, doesn’t it? Damned serious matter, eh?”
I would have been deceived, I would have thought his enthusiasm was genuine, if I hadn’t glanced at his eyes and seen they were lacking in all lustre. He was forcing himself to smile eagerly, and forcing tones of interest into his voice, but his protruding eyes were like those of a dead fish.
“What’s James got to do with it?” asked Elaine patiently.
“How does James come into it?” asked Juliet.
Stanley looked at them without blinking.
“James says they’re afraid of what he’ll discover. The gangsters want him to lay off, that’s how James comes into it.”
“This man, this colonel, must go to the police and tell them what he knows,” said Elaine Bristow in a tired voice. “You must get him along to the police, Stanley, get him along tomorrow, this is important.”
“I will, and James can come with me. This might clear the whole matter up. I’ll go along and see him tomorrow, and James’ll come with me, won’t you.”
I couldn’t understand this suggestion.
“It’s not as simple as that,” I said hopelessly. “You’ve jumped to conclusions. I didn’t say this was what had happened. I didn’t say that at all, all I said was that this was what might have happened. And even that was based on a joking remark by Colonel Pearson. Anyway, it’s too late. You can’t see him, he’s gone.”
“Gone?” said Juliet.
“What do you mean, he’s gone?” asked Stanley.
“He’s emigrated. Gone to Portugal. He left this morning.”
“Gone? Suddenly? Just sort of flittered away? Like that?”
I saw this fool’s eyes come to life. He was back to square one. You get to a point where the jangled nerves won’t stand any more.
“You bloody well think I’m nuts, don’t you?” I suddenly shouted. “You think the whole thing is a creation of my mind? Just because I can’t produce a snapshot of the man calling himself Sergeant Matthews, or the messages, or a recording of the man on the ’phone, you think I’m just a bit barmy-well, don’t you? Just because this is something which you’ve never come across in your safe humdrum life, you think it can’t exist. You make me sick, and I don’t mean mentally sick, though it may come to that, by God!”
I saw Elaine Bristow suddenly swell and turn pink. She said:
“Stanley was only trying to help, James! Stanley was going to make a suggestion, as a matter of fact.”
“Oh, indeed? What sort of suggestion?” I asked acidly.
“Even before this last-well, your last outburst, he was going to suggest that, well-” She began to falter.
“I know a man,” said Stanley Bristow unexpectedly loudly. “I know a damned good man in Harley Street.”
I looked at him and saw that he had gone as pink as Elaine.
“How nice for you.”
“Listen, old boy,” he went on, snuffling the words out rapidly, almost incoherently, “there’s nothing to be worried about, nothing at all, and nothing to be ashamed of, and we’re not suggesting anything for the moment, but later, perhaps after the wedding and the honeymoon, we thought, Elaine and I, that is, we thought that perhaps if you had-what shall we say? — a good overhaul by this chap, it would do no harm. See what I mean? Not psycho-analysis, or any nonsense like that. Knew him in the Army, splendid chap, full of common sense. Not now. Later. And anyway, perhaps when you and Juliet get back from the south of France, we can think again. Perhaps these-these gangsters-perhaps they’ll have stopped persecuting you by then, see what I mean?”
He stopped. The mumbling contradictions in his speech didn’t occur to him. Elaine looked at him almost admiringly. She seemed to think he had put it over rather well.
Then they both looked at me, and Juliet, who had been pretending to read an evening paper, gave me one of her sidelong glances without raising her head from the paper.
I got up and walked over to Stanley with my glass.
“Can I have another brandy?”
“Of course you can, old boy,” he said, though not very willingly. He was probably thinking that hot, sweet tea is better for cases of shock. He poured out one of the smallest tots I’ve seen. I raised my glass.
“Here’s to the Doctor, and I hope he can swim, because as far as I’m concerned he can go and jump in the river. Thanks all the same.”
There was another awkward silence.
“I’m sorry you take it like that, old boy.”
“Stanley was only trying to help,” said Elaine.
“I know,” I said, and sighed. “Oh, God, don’t I know it! But Elaine, this Colonel Pearson exists-there’s his letter in the paper! And I saw him this morning.”
“I’m sure you did, dear,” said Elaine.
“It’s a pity he’s gone,” muttered Stanley. “That’s all.”
“Why? Why is it a pity? All he did was to spark off the blackmail idea in my mind.”
“He’s right, Elaine.” He glanced quickly at her. “All the Colonel did was to spark off this blackmail idea. Just as a joke. He wouldn’t have believed it, see what I mean? Anyway, we can’t see him. So it’s no good crying over spilt milk.”
“What spilt milk? What good would it have done you to see him?” I said angrily. As I spoke I banged my glass of brandy down on the marble chimney piece. The thin goblet shattered and the remains of the brandy lay in a small pool on the marble.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured, “I’m sorry I broke your glass.”
“It’s all right, old boy,” said Stanley. He watched Elaine grab a shovel and hearth brush and sweep up the mess.
Suddenly, from the settee, Juliet said:
“I want to have a word with Jamie. We’ll go out for a stroll.”
But Elaine said, over her shoulder, “Don’t bother, darling, Stanley and I are going to bed anyway.”
“Bed?” said Stanley. “It’s a bit early, isn’t it? Anyway, old boy, what was in this last message you say you had?”
“It’s not a question of a message I said I had, it’s a message I did have.”
“Yes, well, all right, old boy-what did it say?”
“Much the same as before,” I said sulkily. “Except that it said that if I agreed to their demands I should place a red geranium on my window sill.”
“A red geranium?”
“Yes, a red geranium.”
“Have you got a red geranium?”
“Of course I’ve got a bloody red geranium,” I flared up. “It’s in my damned kitchen! As they well know.”
Juliet got up from the settee. Stanley took the hint, and moved to the door. Elaine followed him. At the door Stanley stopped and said:
“Well, there you are, old boy! Stick the geranium on your window sill-and then they’ll all go away, won’t they? — they’ll disappear, all these gangsters that are after you.”
He went out, followed by his over-ripe, shoddy wife. I think I can be permitted to describe her like that, even in print, in view of what happened later, just as I have been frank about Stanley.
But I stopped him before he had shut the door and said:
“That’s not the point. You wouldn’t understand this, perhaps, but it’s important to me.”
He paused with his hand on the door knob, and stared down at me.
“What’s important to you, old boy?”
“It’s the individual, that’s what’s important, it’s a question of whether the individual can survive when he’s pitted against the organisation, that’s what matters, that’s what matters to me, that’s why I’m being so bloody-minded-it’s not a question of whether the individual gets submerged in the State, it’s something far more primitive-it’s a question of whether the individual-me, in this case-has a bloody chance at all against the jungle these days, whether it’s a State jungle or any other kind of modern jungle. The peasant had a chance in the old days, not much, but just a chance, but has he now, Stanley?”
Elaine had gone along the passage, Stanley Bristow stood looking at me blankly.
“It’s all right,” I said. “Forget it. You don’t understand.”
“Of course I understand, old boy. You want to prove you can stand on your own feet. Quite right, too!”
I guessed it was silly to have submerged him in a stream of words and ideas. I imagined he was thinking that it was bad enough to have me suffering from an imaginary persecution, without having me build abstruse theories upon it.
“That’s right,” I said hastily. “Well, good night.”
“Good night, old boy.”
I helped him to close the door in case he came back at me. I couldn’t bear any more of him. Then I turned and saw Juliet, and in a way I was pleased and in a way I was shocked.
She was standing stiffly by the fireplace. All the superficial brightness had gone out of her.
The fear was back in her eyes.
“You don’t want to worry,” I said uneasily.
I went to put my arms around her, but she drew back.
“What’s the matter?” I said, as though I didn’t know.
“I now think it’s true,” she said, staring at me with big, frightened, dark eyes. “I think what you said is true, I think you’re up against something-some big criminal thing. It didn’t make sense till you saw Colonel Pearson, but it does now.”
“Maybe I’m right, and maybe I’m wrong,” I said, as lightly as I could. “Come on, cheer up.”
I put an arm round her and kissed her. She didn’t resist, but her lips were cold. She said:
“If I never ask you to do another thing, will you do this one thing for me?”
“The geranium?”
She nodded. I turned away.
“No,” I said. “No darling. I can’t. Not even for you.”
I watched the tears welling up in her eyes.
“It’s not just the story now. It’s not just a dislike of being pushed around. I’ve just got to prove something.”
“What?” she said evenly, but a second later I heard her sob.
To my astonishment, I heard myself echoing, in some part, Stanley Bristow’s words.
“That if he’s in the right, or at any rate not in the wrong, then a man can stand on his own feet, even these days against the organisation. It doesn’t mean much, I suppose, to most people. But I’m a bit keen on the idea.”
When we parted she was more cheerful. If she wasn’t, she pretended to be. I didn’t tell her that her name had been mentioned in the last message. I didn’t truthfully think it was more than bluff. I suppose it was criminally wrong of me.