The Beast Must Die (6 page)

‘Well, yes and no,’ I said, rather overwhelmed by this frontal attack. I couldn’t take my eyes off her mouth. She opens it eagerly when one begins to speak, as though she’s about to guess what one is going to say. A not unattractive mannerism. I really can’t imagine what Callaghan meant when he called her ‘dumb’: frivolous, no doubt, but not dumb.

I was floundering about, trying to say something to the point, when someone bawled out her name. She had to get back on the set. Despair. I saw it all slipping out of my hands. It was this that made me screw up
my
nerve and ask her if she’d have lunch with me some time soon, at the Ivy, I added, guessing her tastes. It worked like a charm. ‘Little lambs eat ivy,’ as the riddle goes. She looked at me, for the first time, as though I were really there and not an extension of her own fantastic little ego, and said Yes, she’d love to, what about Saturday? So that’s that. Callaghan gave me an ambiguous look, and the party broke up. The ice – though that is scarcely the correct word where Lena’s concerned – has been broken. But how, in heaven’s name, am I to get any further? Lead the conversation round to motor cars and manslaughter? Transparent.

24 July

WELL, SAY WHAT
you like, the expenses of this murder are going to be very heavy. Apart from the expense of spirit and the waste of shame involved in entertaining Lena, there are the actual bills. The girl eats with astonishing gusto – the little contretemps of last January does not seem to have impaired her appetite for long. Of course, I shall save a certain amount on ammunition and/or poison; I’ve no intention of using such crude and dangerous methods upon George. But the road to George, I can see, is going to be paved with five-pound notes.

You perceive, gentle but no doubt perspicacious reader, that I’m in good spirits as I write this. Yes, you’re right. I believe I’m getting warmer, I believe I’m really moving in the proper direction.

She turned up at the Ivy today in a sophisticated dress, black with touches of white, and one of those cute little eye-veils, all set to absorb lunch and admiration in equal quantities. I think I played up to her pretty well. No, let’s be honest, I had no difficulty at all in playing up to her, because she’s really quite a fascinating creature in her way and it will obviously pay me to combine pleasure with business, as long as I don’t get soft. She pointed out two famous actresses lunching there and said didn’t I think they were divinely beautiful creatures, and I said Yes, not so bad, suggesting with a look that they couldn’t hold a candle to Lena Lawson. Then I pointed out a bestselling novelist to her, and she said she was sure my books were much nicer than his. So that made us all square, and things were going famously.

After a bit, I found myself telling her all about myself – all about Felix, that is. My early struggles, my travels, my legacy and the fat income from my books (an important part of the saga, this). There’s no harm her knowing the size of my bank balance; my brass may succeed where my beard fails. Of course, I kept the story as near to my real life history as possible. No point in gratuitous embroidery. I was chattering away – the solitary with an audience at last, quite an agreeable sensation – feeling no urgent desire to force
the
issue, when suddently I saw an opening and took it. She asked me if I’d lived in London for long. I said, ‘Yes, off and on. I find it easier to work here. I really preser the country, though – I suppose that’s because I’m a countryman. I was born in Gloucestershire.’

‘Gloucestershire?’ she said, almost in a whisper. ‘Oh, yes.’

I was watching her hands. They tell more than the face, especially when it’s an actress. I saw the nails of her right hand – they are varnished red – bite into the palm. But that wasn’t all. The point is, she didn’t say anything more just then. There’s no doubt she was seen near our village soon after the ‘accident’, and there’s not much doubt that George lives in Gloucestershire. You see the point? If she hadn’t something to conceal, the natural thing would be for her to have said, ‘Oh, whereabouts in Glucestershire? I’ve got a friend who lives there.’ Of course, it might be simply an intrigue with George that she’s wanting to conceal. But I doubt it. Girls like her are not coverd with guilt and confusion nowadays by that sort of thing. What else but the fact that she had been in the car when Martie was killed could have made her go suddenly silent at the mention of Gloucestershire?

‘Yes,’ I went on. ‘In a little village near Cirencester. I’m always meaning to go back there, but I’ve somehow never quite managed.’

I didn’t dare mention the name of the village. That might have scared her off altogether. I watched her pinched nostrils and the strained withdrawn look in
her
eyes for a moment. Then I began to talk about something else.

At once she started chattering away faster than ever. Relief will loosen anyone’s tongue. I felt oddly grateful and friendly towards her for that moment of self-exposure and laid myself out to please. Never in my wildest dreams have I imagined myself giggling and exchanging coy glances with a film actress. We both drank a goodish amount. After a bit of this, she asked me what my Christian name was.

‘Felix,’ I said.

‘Felix?’ She wiggled the tip of her tongue at me – ‘roguishly’ is the word, I believe. ‘I think I’ll call you “Pussy”, then.’

‘You’d better not, or I shall refuse to have anything more to do with you.’

‘You do want to see me again, then?’

‘Believe me, I don’t intend to lose sight of you for a long time,’ I said. The opportunities for tragic irony are becoming quite alarmingly plentiful; I mustn’t get into the habit of it. There was a good deal more of this kind of badinage, which I won’t embarrass myself by writing down. We’re dining together next Thursday.

27 July

LENA IS NOT
such a fool as she looks – or rather, as people of her appearance are assumed to be. She
certainly
gave me a nasty shaking-up this evening. It was after the theatre. She asked me to come in for a final drink – I’d taken her back to her flat. She was standing by the fireplace, rather pensive, and suddenly she swung round to me and said point-blank:

‘What’s the idea of all this?’

‘The idea?’

‘Yes. Taking me around and spending your money? What’s on your mind?’

I stammered out something about the book I wanted to write – getting ideas – the possibility of writing one suitable for film adaptation.

‘Well, when are you going to get started?’

‘Started?’

‘That’s what I said. D’you know, you’ve not said a single word about this book yet. Where do I come in, anyway? Am I meant to be the pen wiper, or what? I’ll not believe in this book of yours till I see it.’

For a moment I was paralysed. I felt she must somehow have guessed what I was after. Staring at her, I thought I saw something like apprehension, distrust, fear in her eyes. Then I wasn’t sure if it was that. But still, I think it was sheer panic which made me say:

‘Well then, it wasn’t just the book. It wasn’t the book. When I saw you in that film, I wanted you. The loveliest thing. I’d never seen –’

The fright she’d given me must have made me sound exactly like the confused, timid lover. She raised her
head
, her nostrils distended, a different look on her face.

‘I see,’ she said. ‘I see … Well?’

Her shoulders drooped towards me. I kissed her. Ought I to have felt like Judas? I didn’t, anyway. Why should I, though? It’s a business deal, give and take, we’ve both got something to gain by it. I want George and Lena wants my money. I realise now, of course, that the scene she was staging about the book was simpy a manoeuvre to make the timid admirer declare himself. She must have felt all along that the book was just a pretext on my part, and she wanted to bring me to the point. Where she went wrong was in her idea of what the book was a pretext for. Really, it’s turned out very well. Making love to her was like a whetting of my revenge.

After a bit, she said, ‘I think you’ll have to shave your beard off, Pussy. I’m not used to them.’

‘You’ll get used. I can’t take it off. It’s my disguise. I’m really a murderer, you see, in hiding from the police.’

Lena laughed prettily.

‘What a liar you are! You couldn’t hurt a fly, Pussy darling.’

‘If you call me that again, you’ll see if I can’t hurt a fly.’

‘Pussy!’

Later, she said, ‘It’s queer, me falling for you. You’re no Weissmuller, are you, my sweet? It must be the funny way you look at me sometimes, as if I wasn’t there, or transparent, or something.’

What a transparent little hypocrite she is herself! But nice. As a pair, we should win the hypocrisy stakes against all comers.

29 July

SHE HAD DINNER
at my flat yesterday evening. A very unpleasant thing happened. Luckily it passed off all right in the end, and if we hadn’t had the quarrel, maybe she wouldn’t have told me about George. But it’s a warning to me not to get careless. I can’t afford to make slips at this game.

I had my back to her. I was rummaging in the cupboard for drinks. She was wandering about, giving one of her quickfire monologues.

‘So Weinberg started to bawl me out, Whaddy’a think y’ are? An actress or a stuffed eel? I don’t pay you to go about looking like a stick of Edinburgh rock, do I? What’s the matter with you? Fallen in love or something, you dumb cluck? Not with you Father Time I said not with you so there’s no need to get all burned up I say Pussy what an angelic little room you do do yourself well don’t you? And oh,
look
! if it isn’t a teddybear – !’

I jumped up. It was much too late. She came out of my bedroom carrying Martie’s teddybear, which I kept on the mantelpiece. I’d forgotten to put it away. For some reason, I lost my head completely.

‘Give it to me,’ I said, making a snatch at it.

‘Naughty! Mustn’t snatch! So little Felix keeps dolls. Well, we live and learn.’ She made a face at the bear. ‘So this is me rival!’

‘Don’t be such a damned little idiot. Put it back!’

‘Oh, oh, oh. Ashamed because he plays with toys?’

‘As a matter of fact, it belonged to a nephew of mine. He died. I was very fond of him. Now will you give—’

‘Oh, so that’s it.’ Her face changed. I saw her breasts heaving. She looked a holy terror and quite amazingly attractive. I thought she was going to scratch my face. ‘So that’s it. I’m not good enough to touch your nephew’s teddybear? Think I might defile it, do you? It’s me you’re ashamed of, is it? Well, take the bloody thing!’

She flung the teddybear down violently on the floor at my feet. Something flared up in me. I smacked her in the face, hard. She came at me and we fought. She was abandoned and furious, like an animal in a trap. Her dress got torn away from her shoulders. I was far too angry to feel any distaste for this extraordinary scene. After a while, her body went soft and she moaned, ‘Oh, you’re killing me,’ and we were kissing each other. She was flushed, but I could still see the mark of my hand on her face.

Later she said, ‘But you are ashamed of me really, aren’t you? You think I’m a common little spitfire.’

‘Well, you’re quite at home in a rough house anyway.’

‘No. I want you to be serious. You wouldn’t introduce me into your family circle, would you? The old folks at home wouldn’t approve. I know.’

‘I haven’t got one. For that matter, you wouldn’t introduce me into yours. What’s the point? We’re much happier as we are.’

‘What a cautious old thing you are! I do believe you think I’m trying to lead you up to the marriage lines.’ Her eyes sparkled at me suddenly. ‘Now that
is
an idea. I’d just like to see George’s face when—’

‘George. Who’s George?’

‘All right, all right. You don’t have to jump on me, jealous. George is just – well, he’s married to my sister.’

‘So what?’ (I’m learning the language, you see.)

‘Nothing.’

‘Go on. What’s George to you?’

‘Yes, you
are
jealous. A jealous, green-eyed Pussy. Well, if you must know, George used to try it on with me. I—’

‘Used to?’

‘That’s what I said. I told him I didn’t fancy myself as a home-breaker; though I must say Violet does ask for it.’

‘You’ve not been seeing him lately? Is he worrying you?’

‘No,’ she said, in a queer, wooden, stilted sort of voice, ‘I’ve not seen him for quite a bit.’ I could feel
her
body rigid beside me. Then she relaxed, laughing audaciously, a little wildly, ‘What the hell? It’d show George he’s not ev— Look here, suppose we go down there this weekend.’

‘Go down where?’

‘Severnbridge. Where they live. In Gloucestershire.’

‘But, my dear girl, I can’t—’

‘Of course you can. He won’t eat you. He’s a respectable married man, or supposed to be.’

‘But why?’

She gazed at me seriously. ‘Felix, do you love me? All right, don’t look so alarmed, I’m not trying to string you up. Do you like me enough to do something without asking a lot of questions?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Well then, I’ve reasons for wanting to go back there, and I want someone with me. I want you with me.’

Her voice sounded a little harsh and uncertain. I wonder how near she was to telling me everything; about George, and the accident that must have been haunting her. But I couldn’t trust myself to persuading her into a full confidence, and it would have been a bit too caddish just then, even for my present standards. Not that there was really much need. I seemed to sense behind her words a determination to have it out in the open, not with George, but with the horror she’s been running away from all these months. What did I say at the beginning of this diary about the murderer’s
compulsion
to return to the scene of his crime? She didn’t kill Martie. But she knows who did. She was there. She feels impelled to exorcise the haunting, deadly fascination of that moment, and she wants me to help her. Me! Heavens, what a savage piece of irony on the part of the Doomsters!

I said, ‘All right. I’ll drive you down on Saturday.’ I kept my voice light and uninterested. ‘What’s George? What does he do?’ I asked.