Authors: Robert Goddard
But finding him was quite another matter. There was, in reality, nothing I could do to that end but go solemnly back to the cold and empty flat in Hay Hill and to wait, as the hours dragged slowly by, for the telephone to ring or the latch to yield to his key. But neither did. It was the second night since Charnwood's murder. And still Max kept his distance.
I have seldom had occasion to be grateful to politicians, but the morning of Monday the twenty-fourth of August was an exception. A crisis was in the air, with half the Cabinet threatening to resign if the Prime Minister insisted on cutting unemployment benefit, which the lucratively employed editors of Fleet Street regarded as essential to restore confidence in the pound. One consequence of this was that crime, even the murder of a prominent businessman, was given scant coverage. It became possible to believe that there were some, indeed many, for whom Charnwood's death was a matter of no importance.
I was taking some bleak comfort from such thoughts over a sparse breakfast when the post arrived, an unusual event in itself, since we generally received nothing. For a second, I wondered if it might be a letter from Max. Racing down to the door, however, I found an unpromising buff envelope lying on the mat, with my name and address type-written on it. Not until I was halfway back up the stairs did I tear it open.
As I pulled out the letter inside, an enclosure fluttered to rest on the next step. I stopped and picked it up, only to find it was Charnwood's cheque for a thousand pounds. Puzzled, I looked at the letter. It was from my bank, saying payment had been refused. The cheque was correctly dated and signed, drawn on a company account at one of Lombard Street's most reputable establishments. Yet the fact remained that it had been bounced. At first, I simply could not believe it. It was almost laughable. Dud cheques were my stock-in-trade, not Fabian Charnwood's. What could it possibly mean?
I reached the sitting-room, poured myself some more coffee and lit a cigarette. Then I sat down and re-examined both letter and cheque. But neither sense nor meaning were to be wrenched from dry banker's prose and one of the last pieces of paper Charnwood had ever put his name to. Was it some mean trick of his, perhaps? Had he directed his bank to refuse payment, calculating that I would be deterred from making a fuss by the fear of Max discovering what I had done? If so, the irony was considerable, for his death made it more difficult still for me to protest. If I did, the police might hear of it. And they might tell Diana. If my hands were to stay clean, I would have to bear the loss in silence. Re-present to drawer, instructed the letter. But the drawer was dead. And all I had by way of memorial was written proof of his fraudulent intent and of mine.
I was brooding on the invidiousness of my position when the telephone rang. I bounded across the room and snatched up the receiver, hoping against hope. But the caller was not Max. It was Aubrey Wingate.
"Good morning, sir. Any news?"
"I've been thinking about the flat." I took this to mean he had heard nothing from or about Max. "Your occupancy of it, that is." His tone sounded stiff and awkward, in bewildering contrast to his anxious intimacy of the day before. "I've decided I'd prefer you to move out."
"Move out?"
"As soon as possible."
"But.. . Yesterday, you said you were glad I was here in case Max '
"I've changed my mind. Your remaining there would be ... irregular."
"Well, of course, if '
"I'd like you to be gone by the end of the week." He was addressing me like some recalcitrant tenant rather than his son's best friend. The suddenness of the change left me too confused to respond. "Preferably sooner." He paused and cleared his throat, then added: "I don't wish to be unreasonable, but, in the circumstances, I must insist. I'm sure you understand."
"No. I don't. What '
There's no more to be said. Perhaps you'd leave your keys with Mrs. Dodd."
"But '
"Goodbye, Mr. Horton."
Mr. Horton? As the line went dead, that last phrase reverberated in my mind. Hitherto, he had always called me Guy. His abrupt descent into formality was as uncharacteristic as my eviction seemed pointless. From every side, I was assailed by incomprehensible events. The bounced cheque. The notice to quit. And Max's behaviour both on and since the night of Charnwood's murder. I had tried till now to believe some logic was at work, some sequence of cause and effect. But, if it was, it was not one I understood. Where it might next lead I had no way of predicting. But I felt uncomfortably certain that I would be carried along in its wake.
The imminence of Mrs. Dodd's arrival drove me from the flat. I was in no mood for her homilies. Instead, I tried to walk off some of my frustration by marching across London to Charnwood's bank in Lombard Street. I hoped to be told the rejection of my cheque was an administrative error, but instead I was coolly advised to refer to the drawer for an explanation. The cashier did not say whether he had read in his Sunday paper how the signatory had been found battered horribly to death in a Surrey wood. Nor would he reveal on what grounds the cheque had been returned. But he did favour me with some information I already possessed: the address of Charnwood Investments.
I left the bank and headed down one of the alleys that I knew led to Cornhill. For as long as it took me to reach the George and Vulture, whose doors had just opened, I actively contemplated seeking an interview with Charnwood's company secretary and trying to persuade him I was legitimately owed a thousand pounds. So I was, but I was sure he would not agree. The slim chance he might was not worth the risk of Hornby hearing about the approach. Biting my lip, I entered the George and Vulture in search of the only solace I was likely to find.
In this at least I was not disappointed. I sat there for two increasingly bleary hours, watching the red-faced denizens of the City gobble down their steak and kidney puddings and listening while they debated what I gathered was now the actual collapse of the government. Then I wandered down to Blackfriars Bridge and trudged slowly back along the Embankment.
My route took me across Whitehall, where the crush of people in and near Downing Street was at once apparent. With nothing better to do, I stopped to see what was attracting them. A sullen-faced fellow in a threadbare trench coat and flat cap glanced round at me as I joined the throng and cocked a knowing eyebrow. "Come to see the fun?" he asked.
"Is there any?"
"Depends what tickles you. The sight of our lords and masters scurryin' in and outa Number Ten like rabbits from a burra' puts a smile on some people's faces."
"But not yours?"
"Why should it? If I 'ad a job to go to, I wouldn't be standin' 'ere, would I?" A shout went up as the celebrated door opened and a stocky bowler-hatted figure emerged. It was Stanley Baldwin. "An' it's the likes of 'im what threw us all outa work. So don't expect me to raise a cheer."
Baldwin marched down the centre of the street and out into Whitehall, cradling his umbrella in his arm as if it were a shot-gun and he a squire patrolling his estate. A car had been drawn up in readiness and an aide now rushed to open the door for him.
"Looks like 'e's in, dun nit said my companion. "Just abaht all we bloody need."
I watched Baldwin stoop to enter the car. As he did so, my gaze shifted aimlessly to the section of the crowd beyond him. And there, standing almost immediately opposite me, was Max. He was wearing the dark grey suit I had noticed as missing from the flat, but the black trilby looked new and was pulled well down over his forehead. He must have been watching me for some time, because our eyes met instantly. Then he flung down his cigarette and turned away, elbowing past other onlookers to reach the open pavement.
"Max!" I shouted, but he paid me no heed. I started after him,
only for a policeman built like an oak tree to step into my path and lay a restraining hand on my arm.
"I don't think Mr. Baldwin wants to speak to you, sir."
"You don't understand. I was simply trying '
"Have you been drinking?"
Baldwin's car was drawing away. Beyond it, heading in the same direction towards Trafalgar Square, was a grey-clad figure, running hard. "Let me go!" I protested.
But the policeman's grip tightened. "Not until I'm sure you're going to be sensible, sir. Why don't you go home and sleep it off?"
"I'm not drunk."
"I think you are, sir. And unless you want me to decide whether you're also disorderly, I strongly recommend '
"All right, all right." Max was out of sight now. Once he reached Trafalgar Square, my chances of sighting him were nil. And from there he might head in any one of half a dozen directions. I shook the policeman's hand off and tried to compose myself. "I'm sorry, Constable. I don't want to cause any trouble. I'll go home, as you suggest."
But I did not go home, not least because, strictly speaking, I had none to go to. Instead, I wandered up Whitehall, pondering the ever greater mystery of Max's conduct. Why should he run away from me? Surely he could not have thought I would identify him to the police. If he did doubt my loyalty for whatever reason -why had he followed me? Follow me he certainly must have, for I could not believe he was in Downing Street by chance. No fugitive would emerge from hiding simply to check on the balance of political power.
I sat on a bench in Trafalgar Square and smoked my way through the remaining cigarettes in my case while the traffic whirled remorselessly round and the pigeons rose and landed and rose again. Was Max really following me? If so, why? And what would he have concluded from my visit to the City? I thanked God I had thought better of going to Charnwood Investments. But my relief was swiftly replaced by alarm. Had Max followed me into Charnwood's bank? Had he perhaps overheard my conversation with the cashier? The possibility was too horrible to contemplate. Stifling the thought, I ground out my last cigarette and headed for Hay Hill.
I paid no attention to the large black car parked a few yards beyond the door of the flat, but I should have, for, as I turned my key in the lock, Chief Inspector Hornby and another plain clothes detective appeared either side of me.
"May we come in, sir?" asked Hornby. "There's been a new development."
"You better had, then." I said no more. There had been so many new developments that I dreaded to imagine what else could have happened. But, as we climbed the stairs, I resolved to make no mention of seeing Max in Whitehall. At least he would not have that to blame me for.
"This is Detective Sergeant Vickers," said Hornby, pointing to his colleague as we entered the sitting-room. "My assistant." And a man, to judge by his build and expression, from the same mould as his superior.
"What can I do for you, Chief Inspector?"
"You can comment on this, sir." Vickers handed him a large envelope, from which he removed a folded sheet of paper. "It's a letter received this morning by Mr. Aubrey Wingate." He unfolded it as he passed it to me and I recognized the hand-writing immediately.
"It's from Max."
"So Mr. Wingate confirmed. Perhaps you'd like to read it."
I looked down at the letter resting in my hand and noticed at once the absence of either date or address. Then I read what my friend had written.
Dear Father,
You will know by now of what I stand accused. I want you and Mother to understand that I am innocent of Fabian Charnwood's murder. I do not know who killed him or why, but it was not me. I cannot give myself up because my friends have turned against me. Nobody will believe me except you. Do not trust Diana or Guy. They have betrayed me. I cannot write more till I have discovered the truth. But I will discover it.
Your loving son, Max.
"Well, sir?"
I was scarcely aware of Hornby's question as I sank into the nearest chair and re-read the letter. Now I knew why Aubrey
Wingate had given me my marching orders: because his son had denounced me as a traitor. But it was impossible for him to have learned of my one act of treachery, unless it was from Charnwood's own lips. And he had accused Diana along with me. Surely she at least did not deserve such harsh words.
"What do you make of it, Mr. Horton?" asked Vickers.
"I... I don't understand. What does he mean?"
"We were hoping you could tell us that, sir."
"The letter was posted yesterday afternoon," said Hornby. "In Banbury."
"Banbury?"
"Yes. Know the town, do you?" Something in Hornby's face, some narrowing of his gaze, suggested he was well aware of my recent movements including my departure from Banbury railway station aboard the London train less than twenty-four hours before. If I was right, the police had been following me. And so had Max. This was no time to risk a lie.
"I caught a train there yesterday afternoon."
"Really? That's a coincidence, isn't it?"
"Is it?"
"Well, if it isn't, I have to ask myself why you and Mr. Wingate should both be in a town neither of you have any connection with on a Sunday afternoon. If you were both there, of course."
"I've just told you I was. And the postmark proves Max was as well."
"Not quite. It proves a letter written by him was posted there. It doesn't prove he posted it."
"Then who are you I broke off as the drift of his reasoning became apparent. "I've not seen Max since Friday night."
"So you say."
"It happens to be I stopped. How much did Hornby know? If his men had also seen Max in the crowds at Downing Street, they would surely have arrested him. Of course, it would not have been as easy for them to recognize him as it was for me. Perhaps they had missed him. But, even if they had, they could not have missed me crying out his name. "As a matter of fact, I thought I caught a sight of him in Whitehall a few hours ago."
"What?"
"It was .. . just a glimpse. I '
"Were you intending to report this?"
"I'm reporting it now, aren't I?"
Hornby frowned darkly. Before he could say any more, Vickers produced a note-book and pencil. "What exactly did you see, sir?" he asked.