The Paw in The Bottle Page 18

  “No.”

  “Shall we go to the new flat?”

  She flinched from the idea of being with him, of beginning their association so soon after what had happened.

  “Could I go there alone?” she said. “I—I’d rather be alone for a little while.”

  “That’s absurd.” There was an edge to his voice. “Neither of us should he alone to-night. We must keep each other company. There’s nothing to worry about. I shall not bother you if that’s what you are thinking. But if you want the use of the flat, Julie, then you must share it with me. Perhaps you have changed your mind? I can’t say that I blame you if you have. Perhaps you don’t want a bank account or a mink coat or the flat? You have only to say so and you are free to do what you like. And by that I mean you can go from here and forget you ever met me.”

  Julie stared at him, and her face hardened.

  “You seem to forget you’re giving me all this because you don’t want me to talk,” she said sharply. “I’m going to do what I like. I don’t want you at the flat.”

  Wesley smiled.

  “Things have changed now, Julie,” he said gently. “It doesn’t matter if anyone knows I can see. I’m not going into explanations, but my pretended blindness was to do with Blanche. Now she is dead it doesn’t matter. Perhaps one of these days I’ll tell you about it, but not now. I shall continue to pretend I’m blind for a few more weeks, then I shall regain my sight, but it is not important. If you want to be difficult you can talk, but if you do, you won’t get anything further from me. If you behave yourself I will continue to give you money and let you keep the flat; but only if you behave yourself.”

  Julie didn’t know if he were bluffing or not. She thought not, but she wasn’t sure, and this indecision infuriated her. She wasn’t going to give up the flat or her money. She would hold on to that on any terms.

  “All right,” she said sullenly. “Then you’d better come, I suppose.”

  “Good.” There was a new note in his voice. He looked brighter and less haggard. “Let’s get out of here. Let’s start a new life together. I’ll promise you a good time.” He moved to the door. “I’ll put some things in a bag and I’ll join you in a moment or so. Don’t be long, will you?”

  She finished her packing and when Wesley returned she couldn’t bring herself to look at him. He took her bag.

  “Let’s go,” he said. “I’ll get Gerridge to finish the packing to-morrow.”

  They went down the passage together. Both of them flinched when they had to pass over the brown stain on the carpet. The lift was opposite the front door and Wesley crossed to it and pressed the automatic button.

  Neither of them spoke until the lift came to rest and the doors swung open, then Wesley said : “It’ll be good to get away from the place. I’ve always hated it.”

  As the lift began its descent Julie happened to glance down. In the corner of the lift was something that attracted her attention. Wesley saw it at the same instant. He made a quick dart forward, picked it up, and put it hurriedly into his pocket. But Julie had recognized it. It was the finger-stall she had put on his finger after he had cut himself on the night of their first meeting.

  She was startled that he had concealed it so hurriedly, and saw an odd expression of acute tension on his face as if he were trying to control his feelings and only by the greatest effort had succeeded. She felt sure that behind the black-lensed glasses which he was now wearing his eyes were frightened.

  At the time it seemed of no importance to her, just an odd, unexplained incident, but it made an impression on her mind and she was to remember it again later.

  II

  The West London Court was crowded when Harry Gleb made a five-minute appearance in the dock. Harry was stupefied when he saw the packed court. He had no idea that he was going to be the object of so many intent and curious eyes and he was badly shaken. After one horrified, shrinking glance, he kept his eyes fixed on the wall above the magistrate’s head.

  A great change had come over Harry since the night of his arrest. The charge of murder against him had knocked all the bombast out of him. He looked older; there was a wild, horrified expression in his eyes, as if he believed he was experiencing a terrifying nightmare and was making desperate efforts to wake up. His face was grey and lined and haggard. His mouth twitched and his hands trembled. If Julie could have seen him she would have been shocked. Ile was no longer the handsome, blustering swashbuckler she had known. He was a trapped, frightened animal with the smell of death in his nostrils.

  Before being remanded for a week he heard Detective Inspector Dawson admit ruefully that Mrs. French and her daughter had slipped through his fingers and were so far still at liberty. He heard the news with mixed feelings; relief and envy. Had he glanced round the court he would have had Dawson’s statement confirmed, for Dana was sitting only a few yards from him. It would have considerably cheered him to know that she had risked coming to the court to see him. He felt deserted, experiencing a frustrated rage to think that Theo had escaped all this by death.

  Dana wasn’t particularly worried about herself. She knew the risk wasn’t great. The police had no detailed description of her; she was not known to them, and she had taken the precaution to wear a pair of shell spectacles and to tuck her auburn hair out of sight under a close-fitting little hat.

  She thought Harry looked ghastly. He was obviously ill at ease and frightened and she scarcely recognized him. To see the way he gripped the dock rail until his knuckles turned white and to hear his quavering voice when he asked for legal aid sent a pang through her heart; for Dana had been in love with Harry for a long time.

  The magistrate seemed to be in a hurry to get rid of Harry. When Dawson asked for a remand he agreed with alacrity.

  Dawson said he hoped by the end of the week to have made further arrests. As Harry turned to leave the dock he caught sight of Dana who smiled cheerfully at him. He was staggered to see her there, and as the police urged him away he gave her a frightened, haunted look that worried her.

  “He’s in a bad way,” she thought, as she pushed through the crowd to the street. “But they can’t hang him. He didn’t do it. Theo must have done it. He had the gun. I’ve got to get Harry out of this mess somehow—but how?”

  She wandered along the street deep in thought, but knowing at the back of her mind that there was nothing she could do for him. They had got him. Once they got their claws in you, you were finished.

  While she was wrestling with her problem, Inspector Dawson arrived back at his office to find Garson waiting for him.

  “Remanded for a week,” he said, in answer to Garson’s query. “We’ll have to catch ‘em by then.” He sat down at his desk. “Any news?”

  “Not of Ma French and Dana. They’ve hidden up some-where pretty snug. No sign of them.”

  Dawson grunted.

  “What about the taxi driver who took Mrs. Wesley from the theatre to her flat? Found him?”

  “It doesn’t look as if she went by taxi. No driver’s come forward. And another thing, no driver’s come forward about taking Wesley home. That’s a bit odd, sir. A driver’s not likely to forget a blind man.”

  “Wesley said he came back by taxi, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, sir. I have his statement here.”

  “Leave that for a moment. Find out anything about Mrs. Wesley’s movements?”

  “Not a great deal, sir. The commissionaire at the theatre saw her get out of the taxi and enter the theatre while Wesley was paying the fare. She’s well known at the theatre, of course. She’s played there a number of times. She went to the bar. The commissionaire thought it was strange she should leave Wesley to find his way in. He showed Wesley to the entrance of the stalls and told him Mrs. Wesley was in the bar. He says Wesley didn’t appear to hear, but went down the gangway, where a programme seller took charge of him.”

  “I don’t see why he shouldn’t have heard. He’s not deaf. Well, go on.”

&nb
sp; “Mrs. Wesley went to the bar. The bartender said she seemed in a bad temper and scarcely spoke to her. The woman was disappointed as she looked on Mrs. Wesley’s visits as a bit of an occasion. She said Mrs. Wesley drank three brandies and a minute or so before the first bell rang, left the bar. The commissionaire was surprised to see her leave the theatre. She headed towards Piccadilly Circus and no one seems to have seen her again until she arrived at the flat.”

  “She could have taken the underground. Taxis aren’t easy to get these days.”

  “I think that’s what happened, sir. If she caught a train at once she would have arrived about the time she did.”

  “Let’s get back to Wesley. How does his statement compare to the actual facts?”

  “All right. sir, with two exceptions. One was the commissionaire told him Mrs. Wesley was in the bar and he says he didn’t know where she was. But then, of course, he might not have heard the man. But when he came out of the theatre after the curtain had gone up, the commissionaire offered to get him a taxi, and he refused. That seems a bit odd to me, sir. I have his statement here. He says, “It occurred to me that she might have returned here and I became alarmed. I had some difficulty in stopping a taxi. At last someone took pity on me and stopped one for me.”

  “Yes, very odd. If the commissionaire offered to get him a taxi and he was alarmed, why didn’t he let the man get him one? Why go blundering about the street? He surely would know he couldn’t hope to get a cab for himself. I think I’ll have another word with him about that. He’s not living at Park Way any longer. He’s moved into a flat in Vigo Street. He’s living with that Holland girl.”

  Garson showed his surprise.

  “That’s something that foxes me, Garson.” Dawson pushed back his chair, thrust his knee against his desk. “What’s the idea of a fellow like Wesley living with that Holland girl?”

  Garson grinned.

  “She’s a pretty nice-looking girl, sir. A fellow doesn’t worry too much about what’s inside a girl’s head these days so long as she’s got a good body and a pretty face. At least, not the fellows who want that kind of fun.”

  “What’s a pretty face to a blind man?”

  Garson blinked.

  “Yes, of course. I wasn’t thinking. No, you’re right, sir. I wonder what the idea is?”

  “I’ve had a man keeping an eye on them. Wesley’s throwing money away on her. They’re going everywhere : night clubs, theatres, bottle parties, dances, restaurants, even riding in the Row. He’s not going to the factory any more. For the past four days they’ve been everywhere together. I want to know what the idea is.”

  “Blackmail?”

  “I don’t think so. If it were blackmail why should she go around with him? A blackmailer likes to keep at a safe distance. And she doesn’t strike me as the type.”

  “Perhaps they’re in love, sir.”

  “Perhaps they are. I don’t know. All right, Garson, you concentrate on the Frenches. I want ‘em quickly. They’re holed up somewhere. Keep after them. I’ll have a word with Wesley. And keep after those taxi drivers. There’s still a chance one or both’ll come forward.”

  When Garson had gone, Dawson glanced at his watch. It was a few minutes after three o’clock. He’d call on Wesley about five, he told himself. If Wesley wasn’t in, he might get a chance to talk to Julie Holland.

  III

  Benton lived alone in a small but comfortable West End flat on the top floor of an old-fashioned building that contained three bachelor flats and was serviced by a housekeeper and a valet. Breakfast was the only meal provided, and this was served in the small alcove leading off Benton’s sitting-room.

  At eight o’clock each morning (nine o’clock on Sundays), the meal was set on the table. Benton rose at seven-thirty, bathed and shaved, and then, in pyjamas and dressing gown, had breakfast. He left the flat at nine o’clock for the factory.

  His breakfast consisted of cornflakes with watered milk, toast, a scraping of butter and strong coffee: it never varied. When he had finished the meal, he lit a cigarette and unfolded the newspaper that lay in a tight roll on the tray. No matter how important the news, he didn’t look at the paper until he moved from the table and sat in an arm-chair.

  On the morning following Blanche’s death he had bathed, shaved and breakfasted with his usual pale calm. His mind was preoccupied with the two main interests in his life : Blanche and money.

  He had met Blanche for the first time at her wedding, although he had seen her several times on the stage and had admired her from a distance. Wesley had given him no warning of his marriage. Wesley and he had been partners for a number of years. Together they had developed the Wesley-Benton Aircraft Factory from a small and experimental idea into four hundred acres of machine shops, runways and hangars. The drive admittedly had come from Wesley, but Benton’s contribution had been none the less important. In his quiet, pale way, he had a brilliant flair for organization. He could turn chaos into orderly efficiency with a stroke or two of his pen. He could handle difficult contractors, placate irritable ministers, soothe nervous and suspicious hankers. He undertook all the petty, irritating jobs (vitally important in spite of their pettiness) where Wesley’s temperament would have failed. The partnership had been successful, although each man disliked the other intensely, and where Wesley was concerned it had been profitable. Benton was never able to keep money for long. He was a spendthrift and his share of the profits was invariably lost in gambling and unsound undertakings which he could easily be persuaded to finance.

  Some six years ago Wesley had wandered into Benton’s office and had announced casually that he was getting married. Benton offered his congratulations and was curious to see the bride; curious and inclined to sneer. Who in the world would want to marry a cold fish like Wesley, he wondered. Probably some horsey-looking woman whose only claim to fame was an occasional photograph in the Tatler or Sketch. Benton loathed that type of woman. But when Wesley introduced him to Blanche he had the shock of his life.

  Benton was a profligate. His headmaster had once said before the whole school that he had a mind like a body full of sores.

  That was when Benton had been involved in a particularly unpleasant scandal and had been publicly expelled. Women were as necessary to him as drugs to an addict. He had admired Blanche when he had seen her on the stage; at close quarters she bowled him over. He hadn’t been in her company for long before he was obsessed by her. She had a sensual, animal magnetism that caught him by the throat. This was no passing infatuation; no idle lusting after a pretty woman. It went much deeper than that. It was like a virulent germ in his blood; a craving that tortured him; a suffocating feeling every time he heard her name; a pounding of blood in his ears at the sound of her voice.

  When Wesley volunteered for the Royal Air Force, Benton, unfit for any of the Services, did not hesitate to take advantage of his absence. By then Blanche was drinking heavily and Benton willingly became her drinking partner. Drink had no effect on him, but it rotted Blanche mentally and physically.

  Somewhat to Benton’s surprise his obsession for Blanche showed no signs of waning. He had felt like this before with other women, but once he had become intimate with them the desire for their company wilted. But not so with Blanche. The more he saw her, the more intimate they were, the more he desired her : it was like throwing petrol on a smouldering bonfire. He would have married her if he had had the money. Blanche was willing and kept urging him to put his money affairs in order, refusing to use her own money so long as she could use Wesley’s.

  From a grimy, erotic beginning, their association developed into an odd but deep-rooted kind of love. Benton led a lonely life. He was not popular and had no friends. There was something about him that other men distrusted, and Blanche was his only companion.

  When he unfolded the newspaper and saw Blanche’s photo-graph staring at him from the printed page and read the banner headline that told of her murder, he went deathly pale. He sat mo
tionless, the paper gripped in his long, rather beautiful fingers, his eves closed.

  He remained still for a long time. His mind paralysed by the sense of his loss. When eventually he did move it was to walk with slow, halting steps to the sideboard. He poured himself out a glass of brandy, drank it and refilled his glass. Then he returned to his chair and re-read the account of the murder. And while he read his face went to pieces and he wept.

  Later, he telephoned Wesley’s flat, but there was no answer. He put through a call to the factory and learned that Wesley hadn’t arrived. There was nothing else he could do, and he sat staring at the wall opposite, his teeth chewing on his pale underlip, his hands clenched in his lap.

  He was still sitting in the same position an hour later when Wesley telephoned.

  Wesley was curt; his voice without feeling. He asked Benton to look after the factory.

  “I shan’t be coming out for some time. You can get on without me. There’s no urgent work. If you want me you can reach me through my club.”

  Benton was stupefied that Wesley should suddenly shirk his responsibilities. He dared not let him know how stricken he was at the news of Blanche’s death. He imagined that Wesley had no idea of his relations with Blanche. Wesley could make things awkward for him if he liked. He was guaranteeing a big overdraft at Benton’s bank. If he ever got wind of what Benton and Blanche’s relations had been, Benton reasoned, he might easily withdraw the guarantee.

  Benton had intended to make some excuse and take a few days off. The thought of going to the factory sickened him. He wished to remain in his flat and mourn for Blanche. He couldn’t even bring himself to express sympathy for Wesley’s loss. Neither of the men mentioned Blanche, and as soon as Wesley had made sure that Benton would look after the factory he rang off.

  Benton had but a vague idea of how he got through the next two days. He took no interest in the affairs of the factory although he was at his desk at his usual time. He looked ghastly; white, drawn and dazed. Fortunately, he had capable assistants who realized he was suffering from a shock of some kind and relieved him of all work except where his signature was essential.