A Man of Forty (22 page)

“A gentleman. One of his friends.”

“Get on with it, man,” said Spencer, with an impatience all the more effective by reason of its contrast with his former half-casual manner. “ What was the name?”

“He didn't give his name.”

“No, no. But you recognized his voice.” Stevenage stared, beginning to be frightened. How in the world did he know that? “ I see it in your eyes,” explained Spencer, answering his unspoken question. “ If you're thinking it's not safe to hide anything from me, you're quite right, Stevenage. And if you think I know everything already, why, you may be right there, too.” He laughed good-humouredly. “ So the name was ...”

“I think,” said Stevenage, sticking nervously to his guns, “ I couldn't say for certain, mind you, but I
think
it was Mr. Brome.”

“Brome?” said Spencer. “ B-r-o-m-e? Never heard of him. But I'm quite prepared to believe, my friend, that Mr. Brome is a very nice gentleman, a very nice gentleman indeed, who wouldn't hurt a fly.” .

“Well, so he is,” said Stevenage sulkily, “ if you want to know.”

“Quite.” Mr. Spencer was friendliness itself. “ But that doesn't alter the fact—does it, old chap?” he said confidingly to Stevenage, “ that he may be able to help us. So what did he say?”

“He asked if Mr. Swinford was in. I said I didn't think so, and should I go and make sure? He said not to bother, but when
would
he be in? I said he was generally in by six, or else not till midnight or so. I said was there any message, and he said ... he said it didn't matter,” Stevenage finished lamely.

“It didn't matter because…” prompted Spencer gently.

“Because nothing,” said Stevenage.

“This Mr. Brome seems to be a very dear friend of yours,” said Spencer, with an irony that was not ill-natured. “ Did he often come to see Mr. Swinford?”

“Not so much lately. Not for three months they haven't.”

“They?”

“Mrs. Brome used to come too, now and again. Very nice-spoken.
Always the pleasant word. He gave them a key to the flat, Mr. Swinford did, so that they could use the place when he went abroad on business.”

“When did you last see Mr. Brome?”

“Not for months. I don't properly remember. Why, it must have been way back in the winter.”

“Until you saw him today he hadn't been here for months. Is that it?”

Stevenage opened his eyes wide in indignation. “ Saw him today! Who says I saw him today?”

“Well, didn't you?”

“No, I didn't. And I never said so either.”

“Sorry. My mistake,” said Spencer. “ How long had Mr. Swinford been a tenant here?”

“Eighteen months as near as nothing.”

“You're very exact,” suggested Spencer with a smile.

“And I'll tell you why,” said Stevenage. “ Because he came the very same week as Mr. Hortman, my new boss.”

“And that's a thing you remember, eh?” Spencer laughed. “ Now this visit of yours to the basement : what time was that?”

“Near enough to half-past seven by the hall clock. And if you want to know how I know that, I'll tell you, sir. It's quite simple. I timed myself.”

“Timed yourself?”

“Last time it took me seven and a half minutes to put in a new fuse-wire, including the return journey, as the saying is. That was because I had to get candles. This time I did it in five, by the hall clock. Seven twenty-nine to seven thirty-four. Not that it's a clock to catch a train by, mark you.”

“During that five minutes, Trewin,” said Spencer sadly, “ a man could have come in and got out again without being seen. At all events, without being seen by Stevenage, the only person who'd look twice at him. On the other hand…”

“Anyone who did that job and made his get-away inside five minutes,” said Trewin, “ must be an uncommonly cool customer.”

“Just what I was going to remark, dear friend,” said Spencer. All the same, it makes one think. The time, seven-thirty, would fit in nicely with your findings, Trewin, and yours, Dr. Grove.”

“Yes,” said Dr. Grove. “ The hall clock, by the way, is eleven minutes slow.”

“Indeed?”

“I checked it with mv watch when I came in.”

“ Excellent,” said Spencer. “ Most helpful.” Dr. Grove felt two sizes larger. “ Moreover, we mustn't get fixed in our ideas,” Spencer went on. “ That fuse of yours may be a red herring, Stevenage, drawn across our path by someone who enjoys making things difficult.”

“Do you mean inside help?” asked Dr. Grove eagerly.

“That's a possibility, too,” said Spencer. “ But look, Stevenage. Did you notice
anybody
come in or go out during that period? I mean anybody at all unusual.”

Stevenage screwed up his face, considering the point. “ No, I don't think so. Except the fellow who came to see to the telephone upstairs. And a man selling evening papers. But that's not unusual either. There may have been others, but I didn't notice.”

“Never mind, old chap,” said Spencer soothingly. “ If you'd known that one of them was going to commit a murder you'd have been more observant, I expect. Hullo, Mr. Hortman, what can we do for you?”

Hortman's large improbable face peered round the edge of the door.

“Dr. Grove is wanted on the telephone,” he said in a husky whisper.

“Ah, we've kept you too long, doctor,” said Spencer. A happy thought came into his head. “ By the way, did you tell anyone you were coming here?”

Dr. Grove stopped suddenly, on his way out of the office. “ No, I didn't, by Jove! I came away in too much of a hurry.”

“That's
very
interesting,” said Spencer. “ Is it a woman's voice, Mr. Hortman?”

“Yes,” said Hortman.

“In that case we'll talk to her in here, I think. Switch the call through, Mr. Hortman, will you?” Hortman removed his face and shut the door : Stevenage was almost, sorry for him. With his hand hovering over the telephone receiver Spencer said : “ This is what you'll say, Dr. Grove.…” He spoke three sentences into his private ear. “ Right. Go ahead.”

Dr. Grove lifted the receiver. “ Dr. Grove here ... Is it ...? Ah yes. Yes, he's come round. Yes. But his condition is still critical. He seems to be asking for someone, but we can't catch the name.… The best way would be to come and see me here, but unfortunately I've got an urgent appointment to go to… Five minutes? Well, yes, I think I could wait five minutes… Very well. Good-bye.” He replaced the receiver and moved away, carefully avoiding Spencer's eye. He looked extremely unhappy.

“ I quite agree with you,” said Spencer. “ But murder's a dirty business, too.”

Dr. Grove, shrugging his shoulders, said : “ You don't need me any more, do you?”

“Not for the moment, thank you. You'll be available when we need you again?”

“Of course,” said Grove.

Only a few minutes earlier he could have made a good exit : the quiet professional man, imperturable, casual, discreet. Then he had been bubbling over with excited self-importance, and longing to get home and tell his wife all about it. But that piece of unprofessional duplicity over the telephone had given him a sudden distaste for the affair. To be forced into lying, into trickery, affected him far more than the sight of a man dead by violence. This was not, after all, a romantic adventure : it was ugly, a thing of squalor. And the ugliest part of it, the man-hunt, the yelping pack, the millions of human creatures feasting on the offal, this was still to come. With a polite “ Good night, gentlemen!” he turned on his heel and went out; and even the sergeant's grave salute did not enhearten him.

Dr. Grove's change of emotional temperature had not been lost on Spencer. Still less had it been lost on Stevenage, who during the last quarter of an hour had experienced a great many quick changes himself. Horror, fear, a sick excitement, some heightening of self-importance, pity, indignation, and disgust : all these in turn had had their way with him. He experienced yet another shock, of sheer surprise, when Dr. Grove's telephone-caller, in little more than the five minutes she had engaged for, came walking nervously, stupidly, into the snare prepared for her. Again the helpful Mr. Hortman put in an appearance : he escorted her to the door of the little office that had once been his but was now, alas, in the possession of a man who seemed resolved to exclude him from the least participation in the inquiry. She hesitated at the entry, seeing three men rise to greet her : a smallish, slight, olive-skinned woman in her late thirties or early forties ; with large, rather childlike brown eyes, and black hair cut in a straight bob. The forlornness of her appearance touched at least one of the three who confronted her, and he, Stevenage, was the first to greet her.

“Good evening, ma'am. You don't remember me, I expect?”

The woman looked peeringly from face to face. Stevenage could see that she was terribly tired : a tired child, and a child no longer young

“ Which is Dr. Grove?” she said.

Spencer turned quickly on Stevenage. “ You know this lady? Won't you introduce us?”

“I'll introduce myself,” said Lydia, seeing her friend's sudden confusion. “ I'm Mrs. David Brome. Are you Dr. Grove?”

There was a moment's silence after Lydia's question. Even Spencer seemed slightly uncomfortable. But he quickly recovered his habitual nonchalance.

“No, madam,” he said. “ Dr. Grove was unfortunately called away. He asked me to make his apologies to you. This, however, is Dr. Trewin, who has also seen the… patient.”

Lydia turned quickly to Trewin. “ How is he? Is he…?”

“He is dead, madam,” said Trewin bluntly.

Lydia gave a gasp and put her hands to her head. Spencer, watching her narrowly, decided that the performance was theatrical, and under-rehearsed.

“You're surprised, Mrs. Brome?”

Surprised or not, she was trembling violently, and her face had gone grey. Trewin pulled forward a chair for her. She sat down quickly.

“Did he… say anything?” she asked.

“Nothing to the point,” said Spencer airily. “ Something about
David,
wasn't it, Trewin?”

“Um,” said Trewin. “ I wouldn't swear to hearing anything.”

“This must be a great shock to you, Mrs. Brome. You knew Mr. Swinford well, I believe?”

“Yes.”

“You and your husband frequently visited him here, I understand?”

“Sometimes, yes. My God, I can't believe it!”

Spencer looked at her with a faint, deprecating smile. But he spoke in the same half-solicitous tone.

“Don't you think you'd better tell me at once what you know about this affair, Mrs. Brome? It would save a lot of trouble and unpleasantness.”

Numb with terror though she was, Lydia could almost have smiled at what she conceived to be the ingenuousness of the remark.
The notion that she could escape unpleasantness by telling all she knew was so grotesquely wide of the mark as to be almost comical. She saw that she had walked into a trap, and her wits were working feverishly, desperately, in search of a way out. What could they do to her if she said nothing? What evidence was there? What right had they to ask questions? For a moment, a long nightmare moment, she stared stupidly at her inquisitor, incapable of further acting, incapable of thought, paralysed with resisting the mad impulse to blurt everything out and have done with it. Her sick, dizzy, horror-haunted mind was a distorting screen that shut her away from the world.

She said : “ Who are you?”

“My name is Spencer.”

“I suppose you're the police,” said Lydia, groping her way back to a sense of the part she had to play.

“Why should you suppose that?” Spencer asked quickly.

Lydia got slowly to her feet again. “ I think I'll go home. There's nothing more I can do.”

“Please sit down,” said Spencer. “ I'm sure you can help me if you will.” He gazed consideringly at Stevenage. “ We needn't keep you any longer. I expect you've work to do, eh?”

Stevenage jumped up. He met Lydia's glance shame-facedly, as though he had been caught eavesdropping.

“Beg pardon, I'm sure, ma'am. Don't want to intrude.”

She made an impulsive movement towards him, but checked herself to say, with frigid weary dignity : “ If I'm to be catechized, Mr. Spencer, I think I'm entitled to have one friendly face near me.”

Spencer signed to Stevenage to sit down. “ As you please, madam. Now, if you'll be so good—where were you when you telephoned to Dr. Grove at nine thirty-five this evening?”

“In a call-box at the end of Hanford Road. Does it matter where I was? Why don't you tell me about Adam Swinford? Do you think I'm made of stone?” cried Lydia angrily. Her burst of anger was sincere enough; for she hated this smooth-speaking policeman, unreasonably feeling that he, not she, was to blame for everything. “ You say he's dead, but it's absurd, I can't bear it. Why don't you tell me how it happened?”

“My dear Mrs. Brome, I'm waiting for you to tell
me
that.”

“I don't understand you.”

“It was you, not I, who rang Dr. Grove up to say that the poor young man was in desperate need of attention. How did you know that?”

“It was just a feeling,” said Lydia. “ I'm psychic, you know.” ,

“ Are you indeed? That's very interesting.”

“I can see you don't believe in it,” said Lydia breathlessly. “ Telepathy, and so on, I mean. But it happens, for all that. It came over me in a kind of vivid dream. A waking dream, you understand. I suddenly knew that Adam was hurt. Either hurt or in danger of being hurt. At first it was only a thought, a fancy if you like. Then it took shape, like a picture, like something on a television screen. He was lying on his side, and “—she hesitated, shuddering—” there was blood.”