Dead or Alive (11 page)

Meg said “Yes?” in a faintly inquiring voice.

Bill said, “Well?”

Mr Lane went on speaking. He leaned forward. His delivery became less measured, and he tapped on his blotting-pad to emphasize a salient point.

“I will now come to my reasons for wanting to see you, Mrs O'Hara. At ten o'clock this morning, as soon as the doors were open, I received a letter asking me to deliver to the bearer the packet deposited by Mr O'Hara.”

“
What?
” said Bill. Then he looked at Meg. She was very pale indeed. Her hands clasped one another tightly. Her face had a pinched and horrified look. He saw her try to speak, and he saw her fail. He asked what she had not been able to ask.

“A letter? You say you had a letter. Who wrote it?”

The manager opened a drawer on his left, drew out a thin sheet of paper, and laid it down on the blotting-pad before him.

“It was signed by Mr O'Hara,” he said drily, and once again his eyes were on them both with that look which was not quite a stare.

Meg spoke then. She said,

“Robin—” in a small quivering voice.

“Robin O'Hara,” said Mr Lane briskly. He lifted the sheet of paper and passed it across the table.

It was Bill who took it—an ordinary sheet of typing paper with yesterday's date and no heading—a brief typed note:

“Dear Sir,

Kindly hand over to bearer the packet which I left in your charge just over a year ago.

Yours faithfully

Robin O'Hara.”

The noticeable ornamental signature with its upward thrust stared from the white paper. Bill stared back at it. When Meg put out a hand he gave her the letter. Their fingers touched. Hers were very cold. He thought they were too stiff and cold to shake.

She read the letter through and put it back on the table. Mr Lane picked it up. None of them had spoken a single word.

The silence went on until Bill said bluntly,

“What did you do?”

Mr Lane tapped the blotting-pad.

“There was only one thing I could possibly do.”

“You refused?”

Mr Lane's manner became rather more reserved.

“I wrote a line to Mr O'Hara reminding him of the conditions which he had himself laid down, and asked him to call for the packet at his convenience.”

Meg made a sudden movement.

“Why did you want to see me?” she said, her voice low but perfectly controlled.

“Because,” said Mr Lane, “to be quite frank, Mrs O'Hara, I wanted to know whether you had any knowledge of your husband's whereabouts, and I also wished to ask you for your opinion of this signature.”

Meg's eyes widened. She took up the letter, looked at it for a long time, and then gave it to Bill.

“It's Robin's signature,” she said.

After one quick glance at the manager's imperturbable face Bill reversed the sheet and studied the signature upside down. Mr Lane's hand offered him a magnifying glass.

“Satisfy yourself. I see you know how the ordinary forgery is done.” He turned to Meg in explanation. “Forgers usually turn a signature upside down and copy it stroke for stroke as if they were drawing. A magnifying glass will show where the pen has been lifted. But if this is a forgery, it wasn't done that way.”

Bill had been looking through the magnifying glass. He put it down now and said,

“No, there's no break.”

“None at all,” said Mr Lane. “I naturally subjected it to a careful scrutiny. May I ask whether you were familiar with Mr O'Hara's signature?”

“Yes—we were at school and college together.”

“And you would say that this—”

“I should have said that he had written it, if I didn't know that it was impossible.”

“And your reason for supposing it to be impossible?”

“I have told you—I believe O'Hara to be dead.”

“And you, Mrs O'Hara?”

“I—don't—know,” said Meg in a faint, steady voice.

There was a pause. Then Bill said,

“The man who brought this letter—what was he like?”

“District Messenger,” said Mr Lane drily. “His instructions were to take the answer back to the office. I asked him to describe the person who had commissioned him, and he gave a description which might have applied to Mr O'Hara.”

“What did he say?” said Meg quickly.

“A gentleman in a blue suit and a bowler hat—not out of the way tall, but taller than some. He couldn't say whether he was dark or fair, he hadn't noticed. He supposed he might have noticed if the gentleman had been very much one way or the other. He couldn't say what colour his eyes were. The gentleman was a very pleasant gentleman. He said he'd call back at the office for the answer.”

“Not a very useful description,” said Bill. “It would fit a good many thousands of people.”

Mr Lane nodded.

“Exactly. I did my best to check up on it by instructing one of the clerks to follow the messenger.”

“You did?”

“With very disappointing results,” said Mr Lane. “The clerk followed him all the way to the office and hung about there for some time. When the messenger came out again, he made some excuse and asked him about the answer. Well, the boy said the gentleman had met him outside the bank, so he had given him the answer there. It must have been just before the clerk came out. He couldn't add anything to his description except that the gentleman was a real gentleman and had tipped him five shillings.”

“I see,” said Bill.

XII

“What does it mean Bill?” said Meg as they walked away.

“I don't know,” said Bill Coverdale.

“It was Robin's signature.”

“It looked like his signature. But I'm asking why the letter should have been typed, or why it should have been written at all. You see, Robin evidently considered the packet very important. He laid down those very strict conditions about its surrender, and he would know perfectly well that the manager couldn't go back on them. That packet wasn't to be handed over to anyone except Robin in person or you in person—Robin, if he was alive, or you if he was dead. Now nobody who had made those conditions would be likely to have forgotten them.”

“Robin might,” said Meg. “You know, Bill, he took things up for a bit and—and dropped them.” That was what Robin had done with her, taken her up and—dropped her. Her breath caught for a moment, but she went on. “He ran things hard, and then—lost interest. They were everything one minute and nothing the next. He
might
have made those conditions and forgotten them—I do really think he might.”

Bill frowned over that. He said,

“I doubt it. But if he'd lost interest enough to be hazy and indifferent about the packet, why should he want it at all? And if he did want it, why not write a holograph letter, which he must have known would carry a great deal more weight than a bare signature? It seems to me that there's only one possible reason for that letter's being typed, and that is that the forger knew he could fake a perfect signature, but was afraid to risk anything more. Did you ever know Robin to type a letter?”

Quite unexpectedly, Meg said, “Yes.”

“When?”

“He got a typewriter about a month before he—went. It was a new toy, and he was typing everything.”

“He didn't take it with him?”

“No—I sold it the other day. But you see, he might have typed this letter. And if he didn't, who did, Bill? That's what I keep asking myself. Who sent me that paper? Who has been into the flat—twice,-and each time left something to make me think Robin is alive? Who
is
it, if it isn't Robin?”

She was so pale that he put his hand on her arm.

“We're going to have lunch. We can't talk like this in the street. It's early still, so we'll get a quiet table if we come in here. Then I'll tell you what I think.”

She followed him into one of those small lunch-rooms which have multiplied during the last few years. It was painted in primrose and green—green walls, green floor, green ceiling; primrose linen, primrose china; and waitresses in primrose smocked with green, pretty girls with the air of amateurs at a charity bazaar. There was a table in an alcove which promised privacy.

The prettiest waitress brought them soup in porringers and withdrew. The soup was good and hot. Meg was very glad of it. She felt shaken and bewildered. She waited for Bill to tell her what he thought, and Bill waited to see her colour come back, because just now in the street he had been afraid that she was going to faint.

When the porringers had been taken away, and a chicken and mushroom stew had been set before them in a primrose casserole, he said,

“You've got to eat before we talk, and when we've talked I'm going to put it across you, so you'd better brace up and have a good lunch, because you're going to want it. I'm feeling pretty fierce.”

He got a smile which shook him a little. Meg said aloud,

“You're
frightfully
good to me, Bill.”

In her heart she felt, “Why have we got to go on like this? It's been so long—I'm so tired. Why have we got to go on talking about Robin? I'm too tired to go on. He was cruel. I'm young—I want to be happy. Perhaps Bill doesn't love me any more—perhaps he does.…” The thoughts went to and fro in her mind while she listened to Bill talking about Ledstow, and the Professor, and Miss Cannock. She was glad that he didn't want to go on talking about Robin until she had eaten something and got rid of that muzzy feeling in her head. You ought to be able to live on dry bread, but when you are not used to it you get an uncomfortable sort of feeling of being too light. Ever since yesterday she had felt as if there wasn't anything really to prevent her floating slowly up into the air. It was difficult to think clearly when you had this sort of feeling.

She ate her stew, and the law of gravity resumed its normal action. Bill insisted on cheese, biscuits, and coffee. By the time they had come to the coffee Meg had herself in hand again. It wasn't any use being a coward and not wanting to talk about Robin, because they'd got to. And it wasn't any use saying “I can't go on,” because whatever happened you had to go on, and if you had a scrap of decent feeling, you kept your head up and tried not to make things hard for other people. There was no point, for instance, in harrowing Bill. With all her professed uncertainty as to the state of his affections, Meg was sure that it would be terribly easy to harrow Bill. She must therefore be sensible, practical, and a number of other things all rather difficult. What she didn't guess was that her strained courage tried Bill Coverdale higher than her tears would have done. It was so obvious that she was holding on to it with every bit of her strength, and he wanted so terribly to take her in his arms and let her cry there.

“Perhaps we'd better talk now,” he said. “Now, Meg—we've got to talk quite plainly or it's no good talking at all. Let's start with the packet. I've got a hunch about that packet—I've got a feeling that it's very important. Just listen a minute. You say, who sent you the marked newspaper with the letters spelling out ‘I am alive'? You say, who's been twice in the flat and each time left something there to make you think that Robin is alive? The first time it was the word ‘alive' laid out with slips of paper on the hearth-rug. The second time it was one of Robin's visiting-cards. Now I want you to cast your mind back to what was going on when those things happened. The first thing, the newspaper, was in January, wasn't it? And when you told me about it you said Garratt had been urging you to see a lawyer. I asked you if you had seen one, and you said no, because things had begun to happen, things that made you believe that Robin was alive. Garratt had been telling you he was dead, and then this marked newspaper came along and made you think what the person who put it in at your letter-box wanted you to think—that Robin wasn't dead.
And you didn't go to your lawyer.
”

Meg looked at him with startled eyes.

“You mean—”

“Wait a minute. The next thing was someone coming into your flat and laying out the word ‘Alive' on your hearth-rug in slips of writing-paper. That was in February, and it happened just after you made up your mind to go and see Mr Pincott after all. You had written to the Professor and been told that he wasn't attending to his personal letters, so you got desperate and made an appointment with Mr Pincott—and right there you came home and found those letters on the hearth-rug.
And you didn't go and see the lawyer that time either
.”

“I couldn't,” said Meg. “Bill, I
couldn't.
”

Bill put out a hand and drew it back again.

“That is exactly what you were meant to feel. Then in July you lost your job, had another shot at the Professor, failed, and once more screwed yourself up to seeing Mr Pincott. You didn't get as far as making an appointment with him that time—did you?”

“No—I hadn't time.”

“And before you had time someone put what might have been one of your own envelopes in at your letter-box. There was nothing inside except a leaf—a maple leaf—and on this leaf someone had pricked out the word ‘Alive.'
And you gave up the idea of going to see Mr Pincott.
”

“Bill—”

“Wait a minute. Now we come down to the present day. I come along, and I urge you to see Pincott. Garratt urges you to see Pincott, and says his people will back you up in an application to presume Robin's death. What's the result? Someone walks into your flat in the middle of the night and leaves Robin's visiting-card on a polished table which has been carefully cleared and put bang under the light where you can't miss it—all very melodramatic and impressive. Now, Meg, think—think hard! What's at the back of all this? Someone who doesn't want you to get proof of Robin's death. Why? What happens when you get your proof—what is the first thing you do? You go the the bank with it, and you and the manager open the packet which Robin tied up with such very strict conditions. That's where we get down to brass tacks. I don't know what's in the packet, and you don't know what's in the packet—but someone does, and that someone is prepared to go to pretty dangerous lengths to prevent its being opened.”