31st Of February

The 31st of February

First published in 1950

© Estate of Julian Symons; House of Stratus 1950-2011

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

The right of Julian Symons to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

This edition published in 2011 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

Typeset by House of Stratus.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.

Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

www.houseofstratus.com

Julian Symons was born in 1912 in London. He was the younger brother, and later biographer, of the writer A.J.A. Symons.

Aged twenty five, he founded a poetry magazine which he edited for a short time, before turning to crime writing. This was not to be his only interest, however, as in his eighty-two years he produced an enormously varied body of work. Social and military history, biography and criticism were all subjects he touched upon with remarkable success, and held a distinguished reputation in each field. Nonetheless, it is primarily for his crime writing that he is remembered. His novels were consistently highly individual and expertly crafted, raising him above other crime writers of his day.

Symons commenced World War II as a recognised conscientious objector, but nevertheless ended up serving in the Royal Armoured Corps from 1942 until 1944, when he was invalided out. A period as an advertising copywriter followed, but was soon abandoned in favour of full time writing. Many prizes came his way as a result, including two
Edgar Awards
and in 1982 he received the accolade of being named as
Grand Master
of the Mystery Writers of America – an honour accorded to only three other English writers before him: Graham Greene, Eric Ambler and Daphne Du Maurier. Symons then succeeded Agatha Christie as the president of Britain’s Detection Club, a position he held from 1976 to 1985, and in 1990 he was awarded the
Cartier Diamond Dagger
from the British Crime Writers for his lifetime’s achievement in crime fiction.

He published over thirty crime novels and story collections between 1945 and 1994; with the works combining different elements of the classic detective story and modern crime novel, but with a clear leaning toward the latter, especially situations where ordinary people get drawn into extraordinary series of events – a trait he shared with Eric Ambler. He also wrote two modern-day Sherlock Holmes pastiches. In
A Three Pipe Problem
the detective was ‘...a television actor,
Sheridan Hayes
, who wears the mask of
Sherlock Holmes
and assumes his character’. Several of Julian Symons’ works have been filmed for television.

Julian Symons died in 1994.

TO KATHLEEN

The French call a typewriter
une machine á ècrire
. It is a description that could well be applied to Julian Symons, except the writing he produced had nothing about it smelling of the mechanical. The greater part of his life was devoted to putting pen to paper. Appearing in 1938, his first book was a volume of poetry,
Confusions About X
. In 1996, after his death, there came his final crime novel,
A Sort of Virtue
(written even though he knew he was under sentence from an inoperable cancer) beautifully embodying the painful come-by lesson that it is possible to achieve at least a degree of good in life.

His crime fiction put him most noticeably into the public eye, but he wrote in many forms: biographies, a memorable piece of autobiography (
Notes from Another Country
), poetry, social history, literary criticism coupled with year-on-year reviewing and two volumes of military history, and one string thread runs through it all. Everywhere there is a hatred of hypocrisy, hatred even when it aroused the delighted fascination with which he chronicled the siren schemes of that notorious jingoist swindler, Horatio Bottomley, both in his biography of the man and fictionally in
The Paper Chase
and
The Killing of Francie Lake
.

That hatred, however, was not a spew but a well-spring. It lay behind what he wrote and gave it force, yet it was always tempered by a need to speak the truth. Whether he was writing about people as fiction or as fact, if he had a low opinion of them he simply told the truth as he saw it, no more and no less.

This adherence to truth fills his novels with images of the mask. Often it is the mask of hypocrisy. When, as in
Death’s Darkest Face
or
Something Like a Love Affair
, he chose to use a plot of dazzling legerdemain, the masks of cunning are startlingly ripped away.

The masks he ripped off most effectively were perhaps those which people put on their true faces when sex was in the air or under the exterior. ‘Lift the stone, and sex crawls out from under,’ says a character in that relentless hunt for truth,
The Progress of a Crime
, a book that achieved the rare feat for a British author, winning Symons the US Edgar Allen Poe Award.

Julian was indeed something of a pioneer in the fifties and sixties bringing into the almost sexless world of the detective story the truths of sexual situations. ‘To exclude realism of description and language from the crime novel’ he writes in
Critical Occasions
, ‘is almost to prevent its practitioners from attempting any serious work.’ And then the need to unmask deep-hidden secrecies of every sort was almost as necessary at the end of his crime-writing life as it had been at the beginning. Not for nothing was his last book subtitled
A Political Thriller.

H R F Keating

London, 2001

On Monday, February the fourth, in one of the years following the second of our great wars, the wife of a man named Anderson died. Her life ended at the comparatively early age of twenty-eight; and the circumstances of her death, as recounted at the inquest, were curious with out being remarkable. She had been preparing dinner in their flat when she suggested (her husband told the coroner) that they should drink a bottle of wine with the meal. They debated which wine they should drink with the fillets of sole she was preparing, and decided on a bottle of Chablis. The Anderson’s kept their modest stock of wine in a cellar below their ground-floor flat; and Mrs Anderson had left the sitting room, where her husband was reading the evening paper, to go down and fetch the bottle. He sat reading for a few minutes, until it occurred to him that his wife was a long time in the cellar. He got up (Anderson told the coroner), went to the head of the cellar stairs and found, to his surprise, that although the outside switch which gave illumination to the dark twisting stairway was switched on, the cellar was in darkness. He turned the switch on and off, as a man will do in such a case, but no light appeared. (It was found afterward that the fuse had blown.) He called his wife, but there was no answer. Anderson, now a little alarmed, went back to the sitting room for a box of matches, and with their aid groped his way down the steep, narrow stairs. At the bottom he found his wife, dead. She was, in fact, quite decisively dead, for she had sustained a fractured skull and a broken neck. Anderson made sure that there was no hope of her revival, and then went upstairs and telephoned doctor and police. He made a favourable impression at the inquest by giving this evidence in a composed manner, but with a subdued voice.

Why did Mrs Anderson fall? A box of matches lay near her body, so that when going down the stairs, she had presumably, like her husband, the benefit of their light. Perhaps her match had blown out and she had not troubled to strike another; perhaps she had slipped on one of the steps, which was very uneven. One conjecture seemed as idle as another, after the event. The only awkward question that Anderson was asked came from a little juryman, wearing a stiff collar and a made-up bow tie. “Whose suggestion was it that you should drink this bottle of Shablees?” the juryman asked.

“My wife’s,” Anderson said in a low voice.

“And she made it while she was cooking supper?”

“Yes.”

“And then – while
she
was doing the cooking –
she
went down to the cellar to get the Shablees?”

“Yes.”

The little juryman cocked an eye up to the ceiling. “Did she ask you p’raps to keep an eye on things while she was gone?”

“No.”

Tugging at his stiff collar, the juryman pounced. “Why didn’t
you
go down to the cellar, if she was busy with the supper?”

The look of absent-minded resignation on Anderson’s face did not change. “My wife always liked to choose herself the particular bottle of wine we drank. It was one of – it was something she liked doing.”

The little juryman cast a look of triumph round the court and sat down. The coroner expressed sympathy with Anderson. The verdict was “Accidental death.”

After the funeral, Anderson went back to his job as an advertising executive. During the following weeks the quality of his work, and his ability to concentrate, were poor; but that was not surprising, since they had been poor for some time before his wife’s death.

At a quarter to ten on Monday morning a small regiment of black Homburg hats marched down Bezyl Street. Beneath the hats advertising men were to be found, respectably overcoated, equipped with briefcases, wearing highly polished shoes: the younger faces among them alert, with pushing doglike noses, the maturer ones lined and yellow or red and sagging like overripe tomatoes. These older faces wore, beneath their outward cynicism or bursting good humour, a look like that of men hurrying for a train. Then the hats shot into offices, right and left, and in five minutes Bezyl Street was clear of them.

One of the hats, concealing a face that had graduated from dogginess to a lined and yellow maturity, turned into a corner building. Above the first floor of this building was a sign that ran round the corner into Vale Street and said VINCENT ADVERTISING VINCENT ADVERTISING VINCENT ADVERTISING VINCENT ADVERTISING. The word VINCENT was on the corner, so that if approached from Vale Street the sign read ADVERTISING VINCENT ADVERTISING VINCENT ADVERTISING. The Homburg hat tilted upward, looked at the sign and above it at the watery grey February sky, and disappeared inside the building.

The swing doors closed with a faint hiss. In the reception hall the air was warm and slightly sweet. A body as soft as a cushion moved behind the reception desk.

“A cold morning, Mr Anderson.

But seasonable, Miss Detranter.”

Framed advertisements reviving the glories of past campaigns lined the corridor. Anderson walked slowly between them, came to a small square landing with three doors set into it, turned right down another corridor and opened a door. Within it were the apparatus of a life – kneehole desk, revolving chair, hatstand, oak cupboard, green carpet. He took off his dark overcoat and put it on a hanger, hung above it his black Homburg hat and sat down in the revolving chair. The watch on his wrist said eleven minutes to ten.

A typewritten note was propped against his desk calendar. It said: “9:20 Mr Bagseed rang. Please ring him back. J L.” underneath it was another typewritten note: “V V has called a conference at 10: 30. He would like you to be there. J L.” He turned the pieces of paper face downward, and looked at the morning’s mail. A letter from Artifex Products about next year’s advertising for Quickies, the lightening pick-me-up; some proofs of new advertisement for Crunchy-Munch, the tasty chocolate-covered mixture of toffee and biscuit. He picked up one of the telephones and said: “Mr Bagseed of Kiddy Modes, please.”

The switchboard girl’s name was Miss Vine, and she had a clinging voice. “Mr Bagseed’s ringing you, Mr Anderson. He’s on the line now.”

“Put him on,”

Bagseed came on, as always, with a rush, as though he had been talking for some time and was taking up a point made in the middle of a conversation. “I say, you know, this won’t do, Mr Anderson; we can’t let this appear.”

“What won’t do, Mr Bagseed?”

“I’ve been on to you once already.” The voice was nasal, querulous, accusing. “We must stop this advertisement at once; it just won’t do.”

“Which advertisement, Mr Bagseed?”

Impatiently the voice said: “Why, the one for tomorrow’s
Gazette.
Just look at it yourself. Are you with me, Mr Anderson? Are you there? Have you got a proof of the advertisement there? Are you with me?”

He held the telephone between left ear and shoulder and flicked over the contents of a folder marked
Kiddy Modes Proofs.
He stopped at an advertisement showing a little girl wearing a Kiddy Modes frock and looking rather anxiously up at her mother.

“I’m with you, Mr Bagseed.”

“Well.” The voice laughed nasally. “Do you know what Mr Arthur said when he saw the proof this morning? He said – I can’t repeat his exact words, because they’re not polite – but the gist was that he said the little girl looks as if she’s asking to go to stool.”

“But Mr Bagseed –” He picked up a pencil and began to draw on his blotter.

“Mr Arthur asked if we were trying to make Kiddy Modes a laughingstock. I said of course not; I said it’s only if you look at it in a certain way. But he said –” Anderson put the telephone down on the desk and drew a man’s head with a wide-open mouth. Occasionally words came out from the receiver: “But I said – but he said – and I had to admit—”

The pencil point snapped. Anderson threw it across the room, picked up the receiver again and spoke in a deliberately gentle voice.

“This advertisement has already been approved by you, Mr Bagseed, as Kiddy Modes’ advertising manager. Isn’t that so? And we agreed then that the drawing was excellent? Isn’t that so?” The door opened and a face followed a pipe round the opening. “Just to keep the record straight,” Anderson said amiably.

The nasal voice changed to a whine. “I know, I know. The fact is sometimes Mr Arthur’s simply – unpredictable. It makes life difficult.”

“It makes life difficult.” Anderson raised a hand in greeting, pointed to the telephone and turned down the corners of his, mouth. The newcomer sat in the visitors’ chair, placed one leg over another, and looked at his beautifully polished black shoe. “But now that we’ve got it straight, let’s see what we can do to help you. I’ve got two advertisements that we can substitute – the one with the teddy bear and the one with the doll’s pram. The paper won’t be pleased, but to hell with the paper. Which do you want? The teddy bear?”

Whining apologetically, the voice said: “The teddy bear will be fine. You can’t imagine, Mr Anderson, what a weight that is off my mind. You’ve no idea—”

“Not a bit, Mr Bagseed. I’ll make that substitution right away. ’Bye.” Anderson dialled a number on the house telephone. “Production. This is Anderson. Kiddy Modes. Scrap B18 for the
Gazette
tomorrow and give them E21 instead.” There were protesting noises. “Yes, I know it’s late. Complain, hell – let them complain. Who pays for the bloody advertisement anyway?” He put down the house telephone and sighed.

“Swear words so early on a Monday morning,” said the man with the pipe. He was a big man with a square face, in his early forties, who looked both friendly and dependable. His name was Reverton, and he was one of the three directors of Vincent Advertising, who were housed in the three rooms facing the square landing. “What’s the matter with the Bagwash?”

Anderson mimicked the nasal voice. “Mr Arthur’s looked at one of our advertisements and Mr Arthur wants it changed.”

Reverton puffed at the pipe. “We could do without that account. Can’t have important executives getting hot under the collar over penny numbers. What’s it worth – thirty thousand a year?”

“Twenty-five.”

“They get more than that in service.” He looked reflectively at his black shoe. “How’s it going? Getting you down at all?”

“No. Why?” Anderson found it difficult to meet Reverton’s straight, inquiring gaze, and stared at the desk. But there was something wrong with the desk, although he could not have said just what, and his gaze shifted to the broken-pointed pencil lying on the carpet. He saw that Reverton was also looking curiously at the pencil, while his square nailed fingers tamped down tobacco in the pipe. Reverton picked up the pencil and put it on the desk. The match flame flickered above his pipe.

“The best thing to take a chap’s mind off worry is work. Like to handle a new account? Something big?”

Anderson put both arms on the desk and stared keenly at the wall. “Try me.”

“This is really something, Andy. I wanted you to have it. I told VV as much.”

After keenness, gratitude. “That’s damned nice of you, Rev.”

“Nonsense. We’ve all got our plates full. Besides, it’s just up your street.” Anderson’s eyes followed blue smoke on its way up to the ceiling. “Appeal to your sense of humour, too.”

“Sense of humour?”

“It’s something rather –” puff puff went the pipe – “special. VV’s absolutely sold on it. You know the way he gets. That’s what the conference is all about.” Reverton rose, a square head and thick neck running into a stiff white collar, belching smoke like an engine. “Thought I’d put you in the picture.”

“And you are sold on it?”

Reverton paused at the door and grinned, man to man, not director to executive. “Not necessary. If VV’s sold on it we’re all sold on it.” The door closed. His steps faded along the corridor.

What was wrong with the desk? Blotter, letters, engagement pad, calendar, he thought, calendar. The calendar was made of brass, and you turned the small and inconvenient knobs at the back of it to alter the day of the week, the date, and the month. Anderson stared at the calendar and then looked at his morning paper. The paper said Monday, February 25, 1949. The top slot in the calendar said Monday, the slot to the right said February. The slot to the left said 4. It was simple enough.

The calendar was showing a wrong date. But Monday, February 4, was a very special wrong date. It was the date on which Anderson’s wife had died.

The house telephone rang. A plummy voice said: “This is Mr Pile. Can you – h’m – spare me a few minutes?”

“Right away, Mr Pile.” Mr Pile was another director.

He sat staring at the calendar, then picked it up and turned the knob so that it showed a correct date. Then he got up and walked further down the corridor, away from the directors’ offices, to a large room where half a dozen girls sat in front of typewriters. He stopped before one of them. Her name was Jean Lightley, and she was Anderson’s secretary. She was a plain girl of about nineteen, who wore horn-rimmed spectacles and had a great fund of embarrassment. She said with a slight gasp: “Oh, Mr Anderson, did you get the messages?”

“Yes, thanks.” He said casually: “Jean, did you change my calendar this morning?”

“Why, I always do, Mr Anderson.”

“And what’s the date today?”

“Today, Mr Anderson?” She gasped again. “Monday the twenty-fifth.”

“Quite sure that’s what you changed it to this morning?” She nodded, beyond speech, and he turned away, out of the room and back along the corridor to the square landing where the three doors bore the names of the three directors. Anderson knocked on the door which said in gold letters L E G PILE and opened it without waiting for a reply. He said “Good morning” to a small man in his early sixties who sat behind an enormous desk.

Mr Pile wore a plain dark grey suit of an old-fashioned cut, a decorous striped tie and rimless pince-nez. He was looking at some papers and said “Good morning” without raising his head. Anderson remained standing in front of the desk. In Reverton’s room he would have sat down without being asked. In Vincent’s the chairs would have been covered with magazines, which Vincent would have thrown on the floor. But Pile was one of the elder statesmen of advertising, a man who believed in emphasizing social and administrative distinctions. However important an executive might be, he was less important than a director. In Mr Pile’s room an executive stood up until he was told to sit down, and it was perhaps thirty seconds before Mr Pile looked up from his extensive study of the papers on his desk and said in a surprised tone:

“Sit down, Anderson.” Then Anderson sat down. Mr Pile stared at him, a little wizened old man with small, hard eyes behind the rimless pince-nez. Below the hard shell of his exterior was a layer of soft, warm shyness and embarrassment. And below the shyness, Anderson guessed, was solid rock. Now he seemed to have difficulty in forming his words.

“Did you – have a pleasant week end, Anderson?”

“Quite, thank you.”

“Did you – spend any time in the garden?”

“My flat is in town,” Anderson said. He had conducted this conversation many times, in half a dozen variations. Which would it be this time, he wondered – the Beauty of Getting Away from It All or Town Mouse and Country Mouse? As Pile talked behind the immense desk in the sombre room the electric desk lamp flashed ever so often upon his rimless spectacles, so that the eyes behind them were almost invisible.

“…so that in some ways,” he was saying, “the country cousin, ignorant and foolish as he may be in the way of the world, has an advantage over the – ah – more sophisticated town mouse. But I mustn’t push my little joke too far. All we advertising men are town mice, are we not?” Anderson covertly looked at his watch. “Are you an admirer of the immortal Walt? I refer,” Mr Pile said with a slight cough, “to Disney, not Whitman.”

Wasn’t this preamble more than usually lengthy? Was there a slight uneasiness behind the pince-nez? “I admire the early films very much,” Anderson said, and added: “I’m due for a conference with Mr Vincent in a few minutes.”

Mr Pile regarded him, apparently sightlessly. “You know of – ah – Sir Malcolm Buntz?” Anderson nodded. Sir Malcolm Buntz was a director of South Eastern Laboratories, one of the firm’s largest accounts. “Sir Malcolm has a nephew who contemplates –” Mr Pile coughed – “a career in advertising.” Anderson said nothing. “He is. I am sure, an amiable young man, but amiability is not, as I remarked to Sir Malcolm, the sole, or perhaps the chief, requisite for a successful career in advertising. Sir Malcolm, however, has been insistent.” He sighed to indicate the degree of Sir Malcolm’s insistence. “And it is difficult to refuse him. In short, the young man is coming here to serve a brief apprenticeship. I have agreed with Mr Vincent and Mr Reverton that he shall begin it under your watchful eye in the Copy Department.”

“We’re very busy.”

“So much the better. It will be a baptism of – ah – fire for him. Let me have a report on him, and do not,” Mr Pile smiled with wintry shyness, “spare Sir Malcolm’s feelings.”

“When does he begin?”

“He begins this – ah – morning,” Mr Pile said. Light shone on his pince-nez. “His name is Greatorex.”

2

Reverton and Anderson sat in armchairs in VV’s room. Wyvern, head of the Art Department, a thin dyspeptic man who wore a sports jacket and dirty grey trousers, sat staring out of the window into the street. The time was twenty to eleven. Wyvern said suddenly: “Here he is.”

There was a commotion outside, and then a little man rushed into the room. “Boys, boys, I’m sorry,” he said. “But wait a minute. This’ll kill you. Just wait a minute, that’s all I ask.” He flung on to the floor a briefcase stuffed with magazines and papers, whisked off hat scarf and overcoat, and darted out of the room again. There was the sound of a lavatory flushing, and then he was back. “Well,” he said. “Well. What’s all this on my desk? Books, magazines, papers, nothing but junk.” He threw a handful of art magazines to the floor and beamed round at them. His hair stood on end and his thick eyebrows stuck out. “I suppose Rev’s told you two boys what this is all about?”