Within the air was warm, delicious; he shivered with ecstasy in his thin raincoat; his shoes sunk in rubbery pile. From the walls, as an epauletted attendant conducted him towards Mecca, looked down benevolently the gods whose names were music, whose words were law, whose look was love – Astaire, Iturbi, Goodman, Dorsey, Bogart, Cagney, Scott and Ladd, Turner, Stanwyck, Lockwood, Bergman. Under different names from those given them at birth, serenely fixed in one attitude, displaying forever a smile or a fist, the gods watched the progress of this neophyte in the service of reality.
Upon the screen, when Anderson first saw it, enormous faces met, blonde and dark hair mingled, Benny Baily’s voice, right, warm, American, said to Lucy Lalange
Everything is going to be all right.
But everything was not all right. The music emphatically discordant, recorded the progress of Benny Baily, sitting grimly at the steering wheel of a long, lean car. Rain drove at the windscreen, scenery slipped by, Benny stared ahead, moving the steering wheel rapidly from time to time as the car shaved others by the width of a coat of paint. Round and round, ceaselessly, Benny’s jaw moved, masticating the juice of the healing gum. Now a barrier had been placed across the road to stop him – poof, he was through it without so much as a batted eyelid, his jaws moving a little faster to indicate strain. And now a rapid patter of shots came from behind bushes, the windscreen glass splintered. Benny drew a revolver from under his armpit. Crack, crack, crack through the car window and a villain, his face distorted ludicrously, staggered and fell. Round the hairpin bend – and far, far below, another car was visible racing along the ribbon of road. For a moment Benny stopped chewing.
But back in the city two men had come for Lucy Lalange. Flashing badges beneath their coat lapels, they pushed her into a car and drove away. Pug-nosed, cauliflower-eared, hard lipped, squint eyed, they were not the cops Lucy in her sophisticated innocence had taken them for, but gangsters. Out of the car and through a back door they hustled her (a quick cut revealed the front of the building as an exclusive night club), and into a room containing a safe, a settee, and a carpet. In this room a thinly moustached man sat picking his teeth.
Now Benny’s jaws were at work again. His long greyhound of a car nosed its way round bends, skidded with two wheels the edges of precipices, ate up the shiny road. Slowly, and then quickly, it gained on the other car, whose occupant, weak and shifty-eyed, looked nervously back at overtaking Nemesis.
Shifty turned the car into a side road and scrambled down a hillside, clinging to bushes with one hand, holding in the other a bag. But Benny is after him, now he is on him, he grasps Shifty round the neck. Shifty struggles, however, writhes and writhes, brings up his knee to a vital part. Benny staggers, falls to his knees, drops to the ground, and Shifty draws back his foot for a kick that will send Benny half a mile down the hillside to the rocks below. We see the look of pleasure on Shifty’s face, cut to the root in its heavy steel-tipped boot drawn back to kick, cut back to see dismay replace Shifty’s gloating expression. Benny has his teeth sunk deep into Shifty’s calf, Benny has him down, Benny gives Shifty’s neck one quick backhand butt with the heel of his hand. Shifty’s neck is broken, head hangs sideways, tongue drops out. He is no good any more. Benny pitches him down on to the rocks, looks in the bag, nods to show that the bonds or jewels are still there and says reflectively “Where’s my gun?” The audience laughs, Benny finds his gun and starts chewing again.
(Anderson became aware of a pressure against his left leg. Without looking away from the screen he pressed back.)
Back in the gangster’s office Lucy Lalange has been tied up. She is required to tell something or do something; it is not clear which. It is abundantly clear, however, that she refuses. Her head shakes from side to side, her great eyes roll about in terror. Pug-nose One, thin lipped, hits her across the face, quickly back and forth. The chief goes on picking his teeth. Pug-nose Two, who lights a gas ring, chuckling. Benny, looking
“Aw chief, gimme a chance – why don’t you gimme a chance?”
(A hand found Anderson’s hand. Pointed nails dug into his palm.)
In police headquarters the superintendent puts down the telephone. A car is out, two cars, three cars, a whole fleet of cars screaming along the road. The gangster chief nods to Pug-nose Two, who lights a gas ring, chuckling. Benny, looking at the loot, has somehow discovered the gang chief’s complicity. Jaws moving faster than ever, he is on his way back. Quick cuts show Lucy’s rolling eyes, the police cars racing, Pug-nose Two heating curious instruments over the gas flame, Benny racing and chewing, the gangster chief picking his teeth.
(The hand moved up Anderson’s arm, nails tearing at the skin. A foot found his foot.)
The gang chief stops picking his teeth, walks over to Lucy, looks at the nails on her hand, sighs and motions to Pug-nose Two. Lucy rolls about like a sick cow, Benny arrives at the back door. The police draw up in the front. Pug-nose Two advances on Lucy, drooling a little.
(A heel dug at the side of Anderson’s leg, stripping away – it seemed – the flesh.)
Benny breaks down the back door, rushes up the stairs and into the room. He kicks Pug-nose One in the stomach and jumps on his hand as it reaches for a gun, catches Pug-nose Two round the neck and throws him toward the gang chief, who has drawn his own gun. The gang chief’s shots go through Pug-nose Two, who is still holding his instruments of torture. Enraged, Pug-nose Two lurches forward against the gang chief pressing him against the wall, pushing the hot irons into his eyes. The gang chief screams.
(Hand and leg were withdrawn. Anderson felt his wrist tenderly.)
And then the formalities: the police, congratulations, bag handed over, Pug-nose One confessing, Pug-nose Two dead, the gang chief blinded. Another close-up of the dark head and the fair. Benny pushes his gun to the side of his cheek and winks. Lucy, her eyes cast down in a maidenly manner, looks up suddenly and winks, too. Curtain.
The lights went up. Anderson turned to his left. There he saw, with a shock of surprise almost equal to that given him by the sight of a bowler hat and an overcoat in the Stag, a small suburban woman in her late forties. She wore horn-rimmed glasses and had on no lipstick and very little powder. Her dark brown coat was dowdy. As Anderson stared at her unbelievingly she turned to him full face for a moment and bestowed upon him a mild, dull gaze. This failure of correspondence between the visible and the imagined struck Anderson most unpleasantly. He got up hurriedly and went out.
As he was crossing the rubber floor of the foyer he heard his name called: “Andy.” An obscure connection with the incident in the cinema made him walk on faster. “Andy, Andy.” He recognized the voice, and turned.
Elaine Fletchley advanced towards him, swinging a little umbrella in one hand, the other resting lightly on the arm of a young and fierce looking Guards officer. “At last, Andy. Wherever did you get to at lunch?”
“I had an international lunch in several Chinese restaurants. They told me to look for you there in El Vino’s.”
“Not Chinese, darling – Turkish. Bonzo was with me, and we waited and waited. He didn’t like it.” She patted the stiff Guard’s arm. “This is Bonzo. He’s a good dog.” Bonzo growled unintelligibly. “Andy, I’ve got to talk to you. Bonzo darling, you must go.” The guardsman growled again. “Now, don’t be silly. Andy and I have got some business to do, that’s all. Oh, I haven’t introduced you. Bonzo, meet Andy. Andy, meet Bonzo. Now you’re friends.”
Anderson’s hand felt as though it had passed under a steam roller. Elaine Fletchley pinched her lip. “Bonzo, go home and collect the baggage. I’ll meet you at the station in half an hour. If you’ve been a good dog I’ll give you a biscuit.” The guardsman growled again, but the growl was hesitant. Under the great peaked cap his face was round, pink and immature. She swung the umbrella lightly against his buttocks. “Go on, go on, don’t be foolish, Bonzo.” The guardsman growled again. “I shall be all right. I’ve known Andy for years.” The guardsman raised a hand to the peaked cap in a half-salute, about-turned and strode away, moving with the mechanical precision of a toy. Elaine watched admiringly until he had turned the corner. “What do you think?” she said. “Not very intelligent, but he has such beautiful shoulders.”
“We were going to talk.”
“My God yes, we must talk. I’ve wanted to find you all week, Andy. Where have you been hiding yourself? And where shall we go? Let’s go to the Corner House; it’s handy and I’ve got to be quick. Did you like the film?”
“Not much.”
“It gets you where you live, I think. At least, it got Bonzo. He was mad about it. We’re going to get married.”
“Married!” Anderson said incredulously.
“I’m not married to Fletch, you know. We never got that far. That’s why he’s so madly jealous, jealous of you even. That’s half of the trouble, I think.”
“Jealous of me. But he hadn’t any cause.”
“Since when do you need a cause to be jealous?”
“What do you mean half of the trouble?”
“I’ll tell you when we sit down.” Elaine trotted along with neat, accurate steps. She was a small woman of thirty-five who looked as if she were made of brass. Bright yellow hair was curled in great coils about her ears, her coat was richly yellow, and brass buckles gleamed on her shoes. These were hard, bright and shining. They attained a gloss that might be mistaken for wit, as her face achieved through cosmetics a freshness that might be taken for youth.
They sat with coffees at a check-clothed table. She stirred with a spoon and said: “I hate that policeman. He frightens me.” Quite irrelevantly she added: “Bonzo comes of good family you know. He’s the Honourable Roderick Manly. And he suspects because of Fletch. He’s a swine, that man. He knows about Bonzo and he couldn’t get back at him, so he got back at you. It’s not my fault, Andy, honest to God I had nothing to do with it.”
“To do with what?”
Elaine rarely listened to what other people were saying. “So now that policeman suspects.”
“Suspects what?” Anderson asked with extraordinary patience. “What does he suspect, Elaine?”
“He suspects you.” Anderson moved. “Don’t tell me, Andy, I don’t want to know anything about it. I don’t want to be mixed up. I’ve done the best I can,” she added absently: “He came to see me.”
“Who?”
“The policeman, of course. He came to the office and told me about it.”
“He came to the office,” Anderson repeated dully. “And told you. Told you what?”
“About the letters, the anonymous letters. Fletch sent them to the police.”
“Fletch sent them.” He gasped. Why had he not realized it before? Why had he not understood Fletchley’s own hints and the Inspector’s questions about an enemy? “But why?”
“Don’t ask me why. He’s not sane, that man. I tell you, he’s crazy with jealousy. He admitted sending them as soon as they asked him. But that’s not all. He told them about the switch.”
“What about the switch?”
Elaine Fletchley was busy stirring her coffee. This, the revelation, Anderson thought; when she has told me what she knows all my questions will be answered. “You told them,” she said slowly, “about the switch being fused. So that Val fell downstairs.”
“Yes.”
“That was at a quarter to eight.”
“Yes.”
“Fletch told them he went into the cellar at half past seven and the light was working all right then. Fletch said he hadn’t offered the evidence at the inquest because he hadn’t realized it was important. So then they came and asked me.”
“Asked you?” Anderson found himself simply unable to grasp the meaning of all this. “Asked you what?”
“If we were having an affair. I told them no, we’d never had an affair.” Flatly she said: “I don’t think they believed me.”
Suddenly she said: “What’s the matter with your face? It looks funny.”
His face was certainly taut with strain and tension. But his questions were not yet answered. “Elaine, you were Val’s best friend, weren’t you?”
“Well?”
“You’ll know then – you must know.”
She looked at her gold wrist watch. “I must be going.”
“No, no, you can’t go yet. There’s something I must know.” But it was difficult to ask the question, the final and decisive question. He moved uneasily on his seat. “Then you should have told me.”
The voice was now altogether brass. “Told you what?”
“Elaine, look here; you were her best friend, she trusted you.” Somewhere in Anderson’s mind was a terror of what he was going to hear. Among the checked tablecloths, the suburban families and the respectable clerks, some final sentence was to be pronounced. “You can tell me the name,” he said with difficulty.
“What
name?”
“The name of her lover.”
At the next table the waitress dropped knives and forks with a clatter. Elaine leaned a little toward him. “What did you say?”
Anderson put his hand to his throat He felt as if he were choking. “Her lover.”
The smoothness of her ageing forehead stayed uncreased, but her bright eyes stared at him with an unfathomable gaze. “Her lover?”
The waitress was apologizing to the young couple at the next table. “I’m ever so sorry,” she said. “It’s my nerves. It’s a dream I had last night. I’ve got a little boy and I dreamed I saw him in a coffin. Been upset ever since, I have.” The young couple looked at her doubtfully.
“You know who it was,” Anderson said. The checked tablecloth, Elaine’s wasp-yellow coat, and her intense stare – he sought for some kind of meaning in these things, and did not find it.
“But –” she said, and then looked again at her wrist watch. “I’ve got to go. I simply must fly.”
“No.” He pushed away the coffee cup, leaned over and caught hold of her wrist. “Not until you’ve told me.”
“For heaven’s sake.” She wrenched her wrist away. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, Andy.” The young couple picked at their food watching.
“What do you mean, the wrong tree? You know the name, I can see you know it. Tell me.”