A Fragment of Fear (6 page)

There was no signature.

Feelings merge, and blend, and overlap, and it is hard to sort them afterwards, but I think I can truthfully say that the thing which first impressed me, as much as the cumbersome threat, was the appalling heaviness of the phraseology, the awful resemblance to the style used by lawyers and civil servants.

Then I read it through again, and noted how the capital letter “I” was defective, and reproduced itself with the lower part missing, and how the “e” and the “o” were blurred and clogged, and I glanced at my own typewriter on the desk by the window, and remembered that for some time it had required overhaul, and cleaning, and repairs to the letter “I”; and when I held the paper up to the light and saw the watermark, “64
MILL BOND EXTRA STRONG
,” I hardly needed to look at the watermark on my own paper on the desk, or at the buff envelopes I keep in the letter rack.

It is all very fine to see these things on the films or television, but when they happen to you personally you experience the feeling you get when you completely mislay something you have seen only a few minutes ago. You wonder if you are going mad, or are in a dream, or even dead.

I stood still with a singing sound in my head, and this was mingled with the thumping noise of my heart, and with vague distant sounds of people laughing and talking loudly, and the sound of cars starting, which showed that the tavern down the road had shut.

After about two minutes, I heard the faint creak of a floor board from the spare bedroom which Juliet and I were turning into a dining-room. The door was closed.

I went into the hall and fetched a knobkerrie given me by an uncle. For those who do not know, in these post-Imperial times, a knobkerrie is a wooden stick with a large heavy knob, formerly much used by African natives. It could be flung through the air, or used as a club in battle, or for polishing off wounded warriors after battle. Its modern uses are limited.

It gives a psychological reassurance when faced with a closed door, but that is about all. I opened the door a couple of inches, groped, switched on the light, flung the door wide, and felt a fool.

There was nobody in the flat. Nothing had been disturbed. More particularly, when I examined the front door, there were no scratches round the Yale-type lock or round the paintwork on the door or windows.

I went to bed, tense, worried, and listening.

The attempts in Italy and England to dissuade me from probing into the case had till now seemed isolated incidents, reasonably civilised, and explainable on one pretext or another.

Tonight’s affair was different.

Although I had not the slightest intention of abandoning my plans, I was, I admit, getting jumpy. If somebody had been in my flat once, they could come into it again.

I record that I lay in bed in a very uneasy mood, thinking of Bardoni, Miss Brett, Mrs. Gray, that thick-set, muffin-faced old Tartar, and the sad, sad woman in the train and the message she had given me.

I had spoken to Mrs. Gray of senseless obstruction. There was obstruction all right, no longer negative but positive, and it could not be senseless. But what was behind it was as unclear as ever, and why they had gone to the trouble of entering my flat illegally and using my typewriter and paper baffled me.

At first I thought it was an attempt to gain their ends by melodrama, but I abandoned that line. It now seemed part of a detailed operation planned to overcome any stubbornness on my part. I noted that now, for the first time, I was thinking in terms of They and Them.

For the first time, too, the peasant realised he had caught a clear sight of green eyes, heard the sound of feline bodies, and the cracking of twigs, and become properly conscious of jungle peril.

It was unpleasant but it was not yet terrifying.

At one-thirty in the morning I was still awake. I got up, warmed some milk, poured an enormous slug of whisky into it, took two aspirins, and went back to bed. In fifteen minutes I was sound asleep, which is not surprising. Anyway, peasants usually sleep well.

I decided I would call in at the police station first thing in the morning, and fell asleep trying to think what I would say.

I need not have worried. I had a call myself, first thing in the morning.

A
t about six-thirty in the morning I was awakened by the sound of a car changing gear noisily and accelerating. An electric trolley hummed past, bottles clinking, to start a milk round. I did not think I would fall asleep again. I was out of routine.

It was light in the living-room but not in the kitchen. I switched the kitchen light on, made a pot of tea, carried it over to my desk and lit a cigarette.

When the ’phone rang at six-fifty, I realised it was early morning in Washington, about one-fifty by Juliet’s time. I felt sure it was Juliet ringing on her return from some farewell party.

The day was grey. I was eager to hear her voice. But as I moved to the telephone a depressing thought occurred to me. She would be due to leave soon. Would she be telephoning unless it was to say that her return had been delayed? I lifted the receiver.

“Mr. James Compton?”

I thought it was a personal call. So it was, in a way.

“Speaking.”

“I take it you got the note last night?”

It was a man’s voice: cultured, low pitched, rather pleasant.

“What note?”

I wanted time to think. I felt mentally numb.

“A note delivered by hand to you.”

“Oh, that,” I said.

“Yes, that. You’re up early. I saw your light go on.”

“Look,” I shouted, “I don’t give a bloody damn who you are, or what the idea is, but you can stop your bloody silly tricks!”

You could say that the numbness was wearing off.

“Listen to me.”

“I’ve no intention of listening to you.”

“I should, if I were you.”

“I’m not you,” I said, and regretted the schoolboy retort. Stratford Road is narrow, and outside I could hear two lorry drivers calling to each other.

“Hello?” I said, after some seconds.

“Don’t worry, I’m still here,” he said.

“I don’t give a damn if you’re there or not.”

“Then why are you hanging on the line?”

I slammed the receiver down, stared at it for a few seconds, and walked over to the tea tray. I swallowed some tea.

When the ’phone rang again, I put the cup down and went over and lifted the receiver. I was quite calm now.

“We got cut off,” he said, in his rich, imperturbable voice.

“Yes, I cut us off,” I said.

“I thought it was the operator. The service is so bad these days.”

“The service isn’t so bad. And it wasn’t the operator.”

I suppose he didn’t expect a counter-attack. I think he was accustomed to dealing with people who crumpled quickly. After a few moments he said:

“Hello? Mr. Compton?”

“Don’t worry. I’m still here,” I said, repeating his phrase.

“I don’t care if you are or not,” he said.

“Then why are you ringing again?”

“I think we ought to get down to brass tacks,” he said.

“Yes, do—do so now. I’m bored.”

“You’re not.”

“Let’s stop it,” I said. “Let’s assume
you’ve
been successful in this psychological warfare nonsense.”

“I have been successful,” he said.

“Good old you! Now what?”

“Now nothing.”

“Nothing?” I said. “What do you mean, nothing?”

“Nothing in regard to Lucy Dawson. From you or by you. That’s all.”

In an odd way I was enjoying the exchanges. I felt keyed up, alert, and this was at least a human contact, with whom I could get to grips.

“Are you a crook?” I asked pleasantly. “Are you a crook by any chance?”

“Sometimes yes, sometimes no. Like most of the citizenry. Are you God? Why hasten the Day of Resurrection? Mrs. Dawson needs no flesh and blood from your hands.”

“You’re the fourth person who has been on at me about this. Fifth, if you count that miserable woman in the train.”

“What woman in what train?”

“The one who gave me the note.”

“I thought it arrived by carrier pigeon.”

He gave a whinnying laugh. It sounded like a green woodpecker and contrasted with his well-modulated voice.

“That’s not funny,” I said. “It’s corny.”

“Not funny. Not corny. Evasive.”

“Mrs. Dawson can’t betray you,” I said. “She’s dumb for ever. What’s the matter with you? What are you afraid of? Who are you? Not that you’ll tell me, not that I expect you to tell me, I’m just keeping the social chit-chat going, Buster.”

“My name’s not Buster.”

“Surprise, surprise. Who are you? Not that I’ll believe you.”

“I am seven, like the devils in the Bible—seventeen or seventy—or seven hundred. Anything you choose, really.”

“Good luck to you all.”

“And you are one,” he murmured. “How much do you hope to make out of the story? Five hundred pounds? A thousand?”

“That’s not on,” I said.

“Used one-pound notes?”

“We aren’t speaking the same language.”

There was silence. After about five seconds he asked:

“What language
are
you speaking? How much?”

“I might have got fed up with the case,” I said, “if you hadn’t been so silly, all seven hundred of you. Now it’s a matter of principles.”

I heard a groan come over the ’phone.

“Dear God, dear God! A matter of principles! Poor, poor old hackneyed phrase! Last refuge of the obstinate who’ve run out of arguments, final defence of the dull witted, end of the line of reason. When our flanks crumble and our centre caves in, and the trumpets sound Retreat, what do we do but fall back on that last massive, mossy, hoary old citadel?”

“Well delivered, but too many similes and analogies. Any other prepared speech by you?”

He reverted to ordinary conversational tones:

“Well, it’s been nice talking to you.”

I heard a click and guessed he had replaced the receiver.

“Hello?” I said. “Hello?”

“Did you think I’d hung up?” He gave another of his green woodpecker laughs. “I was just pretending, like when one’s a dear little child. A d-e-e little, innocent little child. Did you used to play ‘Let’s pretend’ when you were a dee little, innocent little child? I bet you did, Jamie, boy. I bet you’re still a dee innocent little child at heart. Let’s pretend now.”

“You’re barmy. Mad,” I said, and meant it.

“Not barmy. Not mad. Cool, clear brain.”

“They all say that.”

“We all say that,” he agreed cheerfully. “My friends and I, we all say that. Cool, clear brains, we say. So let’s pretend.”

I had had enough. I wanted to be clear of him. There was nothing to be got out of this nonsense. He was a voice, only a voice, and would remain a voice.

“I’m going to report it to the police,” I said.

“Report
what
to the police?” he asked sadly.

“That message, typed on my typewriter, and my paper. And this ’phone call.”

“Oh, that. Yes, of course you will. Who wouldn’t? So let’s pretend.”

When I switched the telephone receiver from one hand to another I saw that it was glistening, and yet I didn’t replace the receiver on its cradle. I guessed that if I did the telephone bell would ring again soon, and if it didn’t ring, I would wish that it had done. One part of my mind tried to tell me he was unbalanced. But I knew he wasn’t, at heart I knew he wasn’t.

“Pretend what?”

“Pretend that you agree to drop the Lucy Dawson story.”

“I have no intention of dropping it.”

“I said, let’s pretend. So you drop the idea—as from now. So what happens? You’re in the clear. You’re happy and free to go ahead with your wedding and live happily ever after. Comparatively prosperous, and comparatively respected by all who know you. Right?”

“Not right,” I muttered. “Not respected by all who know me.”

“Who wouldn’t respect you?”

“I wouldn’t respect me.”

“Final?”

“Final,” I said, “unless you explain things more.”

There was another click, and this time I knew it meant the end of the conversation. I replaced the receiver and sat staring at the window. I keep a small bowl of water there for pigeons. I like all birds, even pigeons, which are supposed to be so destructive. A pigeon landed, bedraggled and dirty white, and strutted towards the bowl, flicking its head from side to side, looking for danger, knowing danger was around, but not knowing where.

I didn’t like the silence in the flat. I wished the telephone conversation was still going on. While I could hear the voice, even with its sneers, I knew I could cope, because I was in touch with whatever was afoot; intangibly, even negatively, but at least in touch.

Now there was only the interior quietness of the flat.

Somebody knew my movements, almost from hour to hour. He knew the train I would catch from Burlington, and had seen the light go on in my kitchen, when I got up to make tea.

We are seven, he had said, or seventeen, or seventy, or seven hundred, and you are one. I walked over to the window, and the white bedraggled pigeon flew off and settled on a roof guttering on the opposite side of the street.

I looked down into the street. Nobody was noticeably hanging around in doorways, but then they wouldn’t be. Not noticeably. Across the street it was different. Across the street there were a couple of dozen windows with curtains of different kinds, varying from heavy velvet curtains to light net curtains. All equally effective, from the point of view of concealed eyes.

It is a strange feeling standing by the window, openly, knowing that somebody is certainly watching you, not with personal interest, as a neighbour might, but with meticulous, business-like attention. Heartlessly, as the pigeon was doing.

I looked at the pigeon, and the pigeon looked at me. It was waiting for me to move away from the window before landing on the sill for a drink.

I turned and went to the bathroom and shaved and had a long bath. After I had dressed I looked at myself in the mirror as I tied my tie, and I did not much care for what I saw.

I was strongly built, admittedly, but on the short side, about five feet eight inches. Round, bullet head, due to a mixture of English, Irish and Boer blood. Crew-cut brown hair, and brown eyes. Complexion still suntanned from Italy but turning fawn. Face round, rather heavy, obstinate jaw and lower lip. Poor old Juliet, I thought.

I wasn’t proud of being obstinate. Far from it. I just knew that in some matters I never had the slightest intention of deviating one iota from my intentions. One such matter was Lucy Dawson. That was the streak of Boer blood in me. The trait that got the Boers through the Great Trek, and also into a lot of grave difficulties since.

Still, it was a great trek while it lasted.

I jumped like a scalded cat when the ’phone rang again. That’s my trouble, I look phlegmatic, but I’m not, I jump like that well known scalded cat sometimes. I strode over to the telephone and lifted the receiver and said loudly:

“Well, what do you want now?”

It was Stanley Bristow, my future father-in-law, ringing to confirm or amend previous engagements for that evening. He was like that, everything had to be checked at least twice.

“What’s up with you, old boy?” said Stanley Bristow’s snuffly little voice.

“Sorry, I thought you were somebody else.”

“Who? Your bookmaker, old boy? Being dunned? Can’t you pay, old boy? You can always plead the Gaming Act, old boy!”

“No, just somebody else. I’ll tell you sometime. It’s a long story.”

“Good. And I’ve got a story for you, when I see you, old boy. About a coloured American soldier, and three chorus girls, one Irish, one Scotch, and one English. Remind me to tell you.”

“I’ll remind you. If you forget, I’ll remind you,” I said.

“Just a minute. The wife’s gone out of the room. I can probably tell you now, if you like.”

“Well, there’s somebody downstairs at the door,” I lied.

Some dirty jokes are funny, but not Stanley’s. Never Stanley’s.

“All right. I just wanted to say that I’ve had another thought about tonight. I don’t think we’d better go by car.”

“You don’t?”

“No, I’ve booked a table at that little place in Charlotte Street. Impossible to park round there, old boy. Taxi’s the only thing.”

“Taxi,” I repeated.

“Taxi, old boy. So you could drop Juliet here at five-thirty, after you’ve picked her up at the airport, then drive back to your place and change, and then either drive up here and leave your car here, or come up on foot.”

“Drive up or come up on foot,” I said patiently.

“It’s not far to walk, as you know.”

“No, it’s not far to walk. I must go now.”

“See you this evening, old boy.”