The Man Who Killed Himself (9 page)

Preparations

May became June, and this was a fine June. The days were sunny, the nights mild. In the second week of the month he walked often in the Green Park, entering it from Piccadilly and then going through to Buckingham Palace, where he stared at the soldiers on duty as though they might have answers for some of the questions that still bothered him. On the way back he looked at the young couples who walked along oblivious of other people, like solicitor and client in consultation. He often had a feeling of isolation, sometimes doubted his own identity. He did not put it to himself in quite that way but the thought disturbed him, and once, when he was looking at the letters and postal orders for Matrimonial Assistance he asked aloud: ‘What am I like then? What am I really like?’ He was inorgiastic with Joan. He attributed this to the shock of discovering Pat Parker’s treachery and this was in a way consoling, but at times it seemed to him that his hold on existence itself was failing. Who was he trying to protect? Did he want to live out the rest of his days as Arthur Brownjohn?

From such vague depressing thoughts he was roused by the need for ingenuity and for action. When Easonby Mellon disappeared there must be nothing left that could possibly connect him with Arthur Brownjohn, and this meant that his fingerprints must be eliminated both from Mellon’s office and from the Clapham flat, in case some inquiring police officer noticed that the two were identical. This created a further problem because some prints must be left, at least in the office. How were they to be obtained?

He investigated the forgery of fingerprints. He found with pleasure that several methods were open to him. He could photograph a print in a book, have a rubber stamp made from the photograph, hold the stamp in his hand to impregnate it with body sweat, and thus leave impressions of the stamp in suitable places. Or he could have a print copied on to latex and glued to rubber gloves, using the gloves to leave prints. These methods had their dangers, however, since he would have to employ somebody to make the stamp or to have the prints copied, and he settled finally on a third method, involving the use of cellulose tape. He went out and bought a soapstone statuette of Buddha (‘soapstone,’ said one of the books he consulted, ‘is an excellent print-taking surface.’) He admired but did not touch it himself, and the dealer held the statuette firmly while extolling its beauty. Afterwards he was in agony while the man was wrapping it in tissue. Supposing the prints were destroyed! They survived, however, and on the following day he bought a pair of rubber gloves and completely cleaned the office. He paid particular attention to everything on the desk, the chair and the files, but he did not forget the door handle, the window sill, and other places likely to bear traces of prints.

Then came the ticklish part of the operation, the ‘lifting’ of the prints on the statuette. He used for this purpose a roll of cellulose tape. By rolling this tape gently over the Buddha he obtained a number of reasonably good prints. The last part of the process involved pressing the tape on to the best print-taking surfaces he could find on his desk and the filing cabinet. These ‘roll-ons’ (a technical term which he had used in his own mind) became fainter with use, but he managed to take a few more which he dotted about the room. These were the presumptive fingerprints of Easonby Mellon. They were not likely to deceive any serious police examination with a hand-lens, but the beauty of the device was that in his particular case this was all to the good. ‘Ah ha,’ the fingerprint expert would say, ‘These prints are fakes. The man Mellon is obviously a criminal, trying to leave false prints.’ And the joy of the whole thing was that he wanted them to think just this. When he had done with the statuette he sold it in the Portobello Road for less than a quarter of what it had cost him.

The problem of his prints at the Clapham flat was less easily solved. He considered and rejected one shocking idea, and decided that something was bound to occur to him in a day or two. In the meantime he had to provide Easonby Mellon with a background that was so far lamentably lacking. He took Joan to see a film called
The Eye of the Past,
of which he had read reviews. It was about a business executive who had risen to be the president of a corporation. Unknown to his friends he was the son of a convicted murderer, and had been prone to fits of uncontrollable rage in his youth. He was afraid that at some moment of crisis he would be moved to injure somebody because of the bad streak in his heredity, and his concern about this was shown in several dream sequences in which he was shown committing violent actions through a kind of fog which swirled about the screen. Sure enough his secret became known to a subordinate, a man who nursed a grudge about having been passed over for promotion. He now tried to obtain his ends by blackmail, and up to a point succeeded. The president paid him money, but when the man demanded promotion as well the president hit the man with a tyre lever, drove his car on to a rubbish dump, and set light to it. The body was identified, however, and the president was implicated because he had been seen leaving the dump. He fled to his home town, where he went to see an old nanny, who was the only person who had been kind to him when he was at home. In the end he was captured in her sitting-room, where she had given him the cookies he had loved in childhood. Under the influence of a long speech from her he gave himself up peacefully instead of fighting it out with the police.

‘It was good,’ Joan said afterwards. ‘But very psychological. I mean, it couldn’t really happen.’

He was sober, even grave. ‘Something like it happened to me. My brother Chris went to prison. Robbery with violence. It killed our mother.’

‘Go on.’ Her mouth was agape. ‘You never told me. Where was that?’

‘In Canada. I left home when I was sixteen. Cut myself off.’

‘You don’t have any accent.’

‘It was a long time ago. I’ve often thought that was the thing that made me go into the Service. I’ve been alone ever since.’

‘E, you’ve got me.’ Joan threw herself into his arms. She had been making coffee, and the milk boiled over.

In bed later on he said, ‘Sometimes I read about Chris. Not Chris Mellon, that was just a name I took. He’s always in and out of prison. And I know I’ve got the same thing in me. Violence. I could be violent.’

She shivered delicately. ‘Well, you have been. That man you shot with the harpoon in Iceland.’

‘That was in the way of work. I meant personally. If it came to the point I’d use violence.’

She shivered again and held him close. He thought it was a conversation she would remember.

On the following day Major Easonby Mellon visited Weybridge. He wore a green tweed suit which contrasted markedly with his hair. He ate lunch at a good hotel, where he made himself unpopular by loud unfavourable comments on the food and service and then by questioning his bill. He asked the hotel porter, as he had already asked two publicans, if he could recommend a really discreet place. Such a hotel is not easily found in the respectable commuter land of Weybridge but eventually he was told that the Embassy, by the river, might be the sort of place he was looking for. The reception clerk proved to be a bored young man who booked without question a double room for the following Wednesday.

‘Just the one night, sir?’

‘Not sure we shall stay the night. I’ll pay for it, of course. May have to get back to London in the evening.’ The clerk nodded. He hammered the point home. ‘Been meeting elsewhere, you understand. Had to change because of damned snoopers. Must have discretion.’

‘I understand.’

He paid for the room in advance and returned to London well satisfied.

The most difficult part of this phase in the operation remained, and he proposed to take the daring step of using Pat Parker to help in it. When Parker came in to the office he broached the matter. Parker was not in a good temper. The names they had taken from the files had almost all proved to be duds. One of the elderly gentlemen with an independent income had proved to be a retired dustman, and another was a widower at Bournemouth who was anxious to see something of London’s famous night life. Others had written mere filth. There was only one possible mark, Parker said indignantly.

The Major shrugged. ‘You chose the names.’

‘You mean you’d have picked different ones.’

‘Perhaps. After a time you get to know who’s serious.’

‘You’d better find a few serious ones. Otherwise we’ll go back to the twenty a week, you wouldn’t like that, would you?’

‘How would Pat like to earn twenty-five pounds next Wednesday?’

Parker was smoking one of his cheroots. He took it from his mouth. ‘For what?’ When he was told he said suspiciously, ‘What’s the game?’

The Major hesitated, as though reluctant to confide. He saw Parker now with new eyes, a man of narrow vision who aspired to be nothing more than a petty crook living grubbily off a woman. In his new-found confidence he admitted that Pat would indirectly be helping him to nail a mark of his own. He did not go into details.

Parker was at sea. ‘It’s worth fifty.’

In the end they settled for forty, to be paid when the job had been done on the following Wednesday. Arthur Brownjohn travelled home in the train to Fraycut that Friday well pleased. In his briefcase were letters in Easonby Mellon’s erratic, dashing hand.

23 March

My dearest,

Next Wednesday then. Will it be like last Wed? You know it was marvellous, ecstasy, don’t know how to say it. I love you, love seeing you in our little room. Sorry you thought it was dingy, but we have to be careful. Don’t ask me about myself, can’t tell you, too complicated, I’ve made silly mistakes, can’t go back on them now. And you too? Is that what you meant when you talked about him?

E

2 April

Clare my darling,

Your body is white as the moon, your eyes are stars. If I were a poet I’d be able to write properly about it. After each meeting I feel more jealous of him and angry that he doesn’t appreciate the treasures he’s got. But I’m glad too, glad you don’t belong to him because then you wouldn’t belong utterly to me. I know you do.

Ever your devoted,

E

Dearest dearest C,

Dearest I was so upset, hurt and angry too – not angry for long, I never could be with you, but my anger when it comes is so intense it frightens me. What was there in my letters that made you tear them up? Why is it wrong to wish we could be together always? Don’t you know, dearest C, that I love you with every nerve and sinew in every possible way, mental and physical. I cannot bear to see you only once a week when you come to art class, it isn’t enough. Why should you worry about him, whether you are deceiving him or not, it does not matter since you say he doesn’t care. I don’t understand your feelings. I have ties too, I told you that, but you know I will break them as soon as you say, so that we can be together. And we shall be together, we must, I cannot bear it otherwise and I cannot bear to think of him with you. I’m sorry my darling for writing like this. It is not just physical, it is everything. You are so cool and calm it exasperates me but you know I love you always.

E

There were a dozen letters altogether. He had composed them after careful study of the letters written by Edith Thompson to her lover Frederick Bywaters. Did they show obvious signs of their origin? Reading them through again with the attempted objectivity of an artist looking at his own work, he did not think so. Would it be possible for a handwriting expert to recognise Arthur Brownjohn’s hand? A comparison with Mellon’s correspondence would show they had been written by him. Why should anyone seek to identify them with Arthur in view of that? Some of the sheets would have Clare’s prints on them, even though they might be blurred, because they came from a packet of blue Basildon Bond paper that she had bought and handled before she took a dislike to the colour. They would not show Easonby Mellon’s prints, but that could not be helped. He was pleased with the occasional irrelevancies he had put into the letters. ‘Do you remember that day in the little tea shop at Sevenoaks…you looked like raggy Maggie today but I loved you just the same…rather worried in case Jamie recognised you…you ask what we’ll live on darling, we’ll manage, lovers always do.’ He was pleased also with the increasing hysteria of the letters’ tone and the preoccupation which they showed with Arthur, referred to always as
him.
The last two or three letters were undated and the writing was much more erratic, to indicate excitement. It was obvious from them that Mellon had told her of his marriage and that Clare had refused to go away with him. His language became almost abusive:

I can’t stand it and won’t. If I give up Joan why should you feel bound to him, what has he ever done to make you happy? You say I must not come down but I shall if I wish, why not, I am so wretched, what harm can it do, I would sooner come down and have it out once and for all. I shall not give up because I love you and if you do not love me any more I would sooner end everything.

It was repetitive stuff to read, like all love letters, but it seemed convincing. At least, it convinced him.

Finishing Touches

DIARY

Friday June 13

Friday the 13th, unlucky, rather worried. But it wasn’t. Not that I am superstitious anyway, but you never know. Clare now quite usual self. Said she heard I’d seen Elsom. Yes, I said, had to be in London and he’d dropped in. His proposition sounded interesting but I’d have to investigate it, didn’t want to lose my independence. She agreed, but wasn’t interested. Why should I worry about that? But I do. Went on to talk about discussion in local Liberal Party. Man named Ffoliot – Jenkins says they are too much like Labour. Why should I have to listen to that, what does she take me for?

Saturday, June 14

Shopped in morning. Hubble called while out, gave Clare clean bill of health. Later she went to Liberal committee. I talked to Susan, asked her if she had seen strange man around.

Susan What kind of man?

Self Reddish-brown beard, loud clothes.

S Don’t know who you mean.

Self Yesterday I saw him leaving this house just before I came in.

S Better ask Mrs Brownjohn about him.

Self I did. She didn’t know what I was talking about.

S No more do I. Probably some sort of hawker and Mrs Brownjohn didn’t open the door.

Self He didn’t look like a hawker.

I hugged myself during this conversation. Susan doesn’t like me, all to the good perhaps. I think it sunk in, left her curious.

Sunday, June 15

Houses are built of single bricks joined with mortar. Today went for drinks to the Paynes’. Had a chance to talk to Mrs P, their daughter goes sometimes to Clare’s art class at Weybridge. I asked what time she got back, Mrs P said about 7 o’clock. I said that was funny, I’d rung Clare last two Wednesdays about 9.30, no reply. Mrs P pricked up ears, didn’t think Wendy came back with Clare (I knew she didn’t, Clare can’t stand her!) but would find out. No no, I said hurriedly, don’t do that, probably the line was out of order. We agreed telephone service was terrible. She will ask her though. I let Mrs P see I was worried, said it was a pity I couldn’t be home more. Every little thing tells.

Monday, June 16

Why do I have to do it? Today C came to me, said suddenly it was a pity I had to go away so much in mid-week, she missed me. I said she had the Liberal Party, art class, etc. ‘Yes, but we could go out together. To the theatre perhaps. I haven’t been to the theatre in years. Perhaps if Elsom–’

Perhaps, I said. Then she looked as if she was sorry for having spoken. ‘You know I never interfere.’

Why do I have to do it, I wondered then? I felt sorry, but it’s no use. Events have a logic. They must work themselves out. And what has C ever given me in the way of companionship or sex or money? Silly to be sentimental, but I am sometimes. Life is a terrible tangle. Why can’t it be straightforward? Today we gardened together. In the afternoon a new American car came. I had to adjust it before it fitted the slot, but then it worked marvellously. Raced it against several British cars, American won easily. Clare made milk jelly, horrible.

On Tuesday he was again in London. At Romany House the cares of Arthur Brownjohn were sloughed off from Major Easonby Mellon. There were letters to be sent out, some introducing Patricia Parker, there were people to see. Then a quick, early lunch. Then Major Easonby Mellon went to Waterloo Station and took the train to Fraycut. Was it Easonby Mellon who took the train? In the carriage which he occupied alone, he considered the question. Could Arthur Brownjohn have done what he was going to do this afternoon? It was one thing to drop hints and make discreet suggestions, quite another to mount the frontal assault that was to be essayed now. No, Arthur could not have done it. But the hand of Easonby Mellon was firm, the smile with which he viewed himself in the carriage glass had about it a touch of bravado.

Arthur Brownjohn had never done more than say a timid good morning to the ticket collector, who looked remarkably like the comedian Phil Silvers. Major Mellon first handed him the wrong half of his ticket and then asked the way to a house called The Laurels.

Phil Silvers lacked patience. ‘Never ’eard of it.’ He turned away.

The Major bristled. ‘Just keep a civil tongue in your head when you’re asked a civil question.’

‘I said
never ’eard of it
.’

‘The Laurels, Livingstone Road.’

‘Down the High Street, first left, second right.’

The Major fumbled in his pocket, produced a shilling, handed it over, nodded, walked away. A sideways look revealed Phil Silvers looking after him with a stare that blended surprise and disdain.

Major Mellon sauntered up the High Street and went into the Catherine of Aragon, a pub which Arthur Brownjohn had never entered. He ordered a double whisky and asked the barmaid whether she knew The Laurels in Livingstone Road. He had received directions at the station, but couldn’t find it.

The barmaid, by contrast with Phil Silvers, was made up of good humour. She laughed heartily. ‘You’re walking away from it.’

‘Right about turn, is it?’ The Major suited the action to the words, to the amusement of half a dozen regulars in the bar. ‘Never had any sense of direction. Will you take a drop of something, my dear?’

The barmaid took a drop of gin and remarked, after the Major had had two more drinks, that he seemed to be in no hurry.

‘In a manner of speaking I’m not. I’m not damn’ well supposed to be here at all.’

‘You’re not?’ Laughter rumbled in the barmaid, then became quiescent.

‘I’ve come down to see a filthy rotten little skunk and tell him what I think of him, that’s all.’

‘And I bet you will, too. But don’t go doing anything you shouldn’t. What’s it about, a woman?’ When he nodded she laughed, in relief at something so familiar. ‘You know what they say, a woman’s not worth it.’

‘This particular lady is.’ He took out silver, placed it on the counter. It was nearly three o’clock. The bar was almost empty. The barmaid poured another whisky and, in response to his imperious gesture, another gin for herself.

‘You think a deal of her, don’t you?’ she said perspicaciously. ‘What’s this man done, then?’

‘Nothing. I am in the wrong. I should not be here at all.’ He added reflectively, ‘I meant to purchase a weapon, but I refrained. I feared I should do someone an injury.’

‘A weapon!’ The laughter coiled back into her stomach, leaving a fat tense face. ‘I’ll have no weapons in my bar.’

‘I said I haven’t bought it. I shall try reason first.’

She opened the flap of the bar counter. ‘Closing time.’ As he walked out her speculative gaze followed him.

Ten minutes later he turned into Livingstone Road. This was the ticklish part of the operation. Clare was, or should be, at a Children’s Care Committee. Susan was, or should be, working in the house. He walked past the front gate two or three times, apparently unobserved. Then the milkman came along the road. The Major had his hand on the gate. He turned away, came face to face with the milkman, who gave him an incurious glance as he passed carrying milk and eggs. When the man had gone the Major returned, pushed open the gate, walked round the garden to the side of the house, picked up a handful of gravel and small stones from the garden path and threw them at the first-floor bedroom window. There was a ping as the window cracked. From the bathroom window adjoining, Susan’s head peered. She shouted something that he could not hear. He shouted unintelligibly back and then left at a smart trot which slowed to a walk as he turned the corner of Livingstone Road. He caught a bus in the High Street which took him to Esher, and from Esher a train back to Waterloo.

DIARY

Thursday, June 19

Stone walls do not a prison make

Nor iron bars a cage.

Very true, that poem. Prisons are mental. It’s as if you were enclosed in a room for ever with other people. I often feel I’d have more chance inside the stone walls of a prison. There you can cut through the bars and get out. In the room with other people you can get out except by getting rid of them. Isn’t there a play about all that?

Writing this in train on the way up to Birmingham. All part of the plan.

Notes on progress. Contradiction here, have to admit it. I really like all the complications, pitting my wits against ‘authority,’ solving problems as they come up. I’ve done so much since Monday and it’s all so clever, so well arranged, that I can’t help being pleased with it. I said I’d never do anything, but I’ve proved myself wrong! Have to be careful, though. This liking for complication is my weakness.

Notes, then. Tuesday night bought the gun at a shop in Brixton which has lots of flick-knives in the window. Told the man I wanted it to protect house against burglars, had no licence. Paid through the nose for it, naturally. Smith and Wesson .38, same thing that American police use, the man said. Surprised it was so big. Unpleasant, don’t like the look of the thing. Left it with Joan, said if Flexner reappeared show it to him. Seemed to regard it all as a game, extraordinary woman.

Then Wednesday. What a day! First arranged to go up to Birmingham today, a.m. to see Gibson of Steel Alloys. Said I wanted to talk to him about whether he’d be interested in new lines I’d been offered by US firm (True!). Then rang Elsom, arranged to look in and see him tonight about 6 o’clock. Then sent telegram to Clare saying meet me Waterloo Station 4 o’clock Wednesday. Point was to keep her away from Weybridge art class that afternoon. Thought of her waiting at Waterloo getting angry, hugged myself. Appealed to sense of humour, I must say. Then the tricky part of the operation which was not pleasant, taking Pat (Bitch) Parker to Weybridge. Was this a mistake, over-complication, should I have made some other arrangement? Still worried about it.

First she came to the office with the man. He asked again what it was all about. Said divorce case, that seemed to satisfy him. Then he demanded fifty pounds instead of the forty we’d fixed. Blackmail, but what could I do? Very angry, but no good showing it. Had to agree. At least she’d bought a good thick veil as I’d asked. Couldn’t see features clearly behind it.

Got to Weybridge just after 3.30, signed register ‘Mr and Mrs John Smith,’ classical. Same desk clerk, gave him a fiver, ordered bottle of champagne in room. She perked up at that. Sent her into bathroom so that he shouldn’t see her when he brought it up.

Then gave Miss Pat a real shock. As I opened the bottle, poured it, she said archly, ‘What happens now?’

The bitch was ready for anything. She disgusted me. Took out a pack of cards, asked if she played bezique. ‘You’ve brought me up here to play cards!’ Didn’t want to cause a scene, said this was strictly business. Glared at me. ‘I always knew you were a creep.’

EM could have made a blistering reply, really given her the rough side of his tongue. Didn’t do so, just said she was getting well paid for it. Didn’t play, however, so played patience alone. She sat smoking, said I hadn’t even brought bloody papers to read, called me a creep again. Sticks and stones, etc., but words will never hurt me.

At a quarter to six mussed up bed thoroughly, creasing sheets and denting pillows, while she stared at me. At six o’clock we left, she wearing veil. Looked at her figure as I walked out, stockier than I thought, really quite like Clare, especially legs. Travelled up together to Waterloo, not speaking. Gave her the other twenty-five pounds, took it without a thank-you. Goodbye Miss P (B) Parker.

Then to Clapham. Ought to write about that, but can’t. Makes me shiver to think of what I had to do. It makes me angry to think I should have to work by such deceits. Why does society punish a man for going through a social form with two different women? And if all the things said about the sacrament of marriage, one flesh, etc. are true, why should a wife be allowed a separate bank account? Absurd. The habits by which we live and think are not what we believe.

Only writing this to avoid saying anything about last night and Joan. Ashamed, I don’t know why.

It was those hours of Wednesday evening that he fought to eliminate from his mind afterwards. Recollection of them brought terror to him for he knew that what he did, even though it had been forced on him, was wrong.

Seven-thirty. He opened the door, Joan greeted him. He met her with a deliberate brightness that oppressed him by its falsity. ‘We’re going out.’

‘Out?’

‘The flicks.
La Ronde
is on at the Globe, you’ve always wanted to see it.’

‘But E, I’ve got some nice chops I was just going to grill.’

‘No time for that, my girl.
La Ronde,
it’s –’ He kissed the tips of her fingers. ‘Anton Walbrook.’

‘I know, but.’ She did not complete the sentence, peered at him. ‘Something’s wrong.’

‘Nothing. Don’t be absurd.’

‘It’s to do with the Department, that man coming. You’re going to leave me, E, I know you are.’

The image crossed his mind of a bitch knowing that it is going to be put down. Why should he feel like this, when he was doing nothing to hurt her? She clung to him. ‘You don’t love me any more.’

‘Yes, yes.’

‘I love you, E. If I didn’t have you, there’d be nothing left, I should kill myself.’ To this he made no reply. ‘Come to bed. Now.’

He removed her arms from his neck. ‘You said the Tallises are away?’ They were the occupants of the other maisonette in the house.

She stared. ‘You want to get me out of the house?’

In your own interest, he said to himself, while aloud he told her not to talk nonsense, he was coming with her. The stresses of the day had overcome him. He felt as if he were running a high temperature, and when he put his hand to his forehead it was covered with sweat. In the end she agreed to go, but insisted that he come with her while she put on her coat. When they were outside the house she said abruptly, ‘The garden shed.’