The Frightened Man (35 page)

‘Ah, well, y’see, I thought that as I negotiated, in fact
invented
and negotiated this arrangement, fifteen per cent seemed justified. For me. Of
a hundred pounds
, Denton! That’s eighty-five for you, man - any money troubles you had are over! Eh? Eh?’

Denton stared at him. Anger had hit him first, now was giving way to some sort of humour, perhaps hysterical, a reaction to the shooting. He found that he was laughing. The more he laughed, the more perplexed Harris looked, making Denton laugh that much more. Denton leaned against the wall, feeling himself light-headed and knowing it was nervous reaction; soon he would feel emptied, then despairing. Pulling a trigger is easy; the labour comes after. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said to Harris.

‘Sorry for what?’

‘Can’t do it, Harris. No deal.’

‘I can’t get you more than a hundred. I tried - I said, “A hundred guineas!” but they wouldn’t budge. It’s no good—’

‘
No deal.
I won’t do it. No. N-O.’

Harris’s voice was hoarse. ‘Why in the name of God not?’

Denton thought how best to explain it, saw that there was no way to explain it that would pierce Harris’s cynicism. He said, ‘I can’t make money from killing somebody.’

‘Why the hell not?’

‘I just can’t.’ Denton shrugged. ‘I just can’t.’

Outraged, Harris put his swollen eyes close to Denton’s face and shouted, ‘Don’t you try to give me any crap about honour!’

Below, an elegant motor car was slowly herding the newsmen out of the way as it pulled up close to the station entrance. He smiled at Harris. ‘I wouldn’t have the guts to try.’ He raised a hand.

Janet Striker had been put in the women’s ward. Denton had arrived out of visiting hours and had been made to wait for more than an hour; leaning back against a wall in a bent-wood chair, he had felt himself slide into that state that is like exhaustion but that doesn’t come from labour. It is the emotional collapse after a single instant of action, the body raised to a pitch, then everything released, the result an inanition that could last, he knew, for days. He had tried to explain a few times why anybody who could kill without affect was a monster, but he supposed you had to live it to understand it. In the dime novels, on the stage of people like Cody, killing was easy and there were no awkward emotions afterwards. Life was a bit different.

‘You may come along now,’ a sister said. She was young, sweet-faced, but severe in her manner. ‘We’re making an exception for you.’ He supposed this to mean that it still wasn’t visiting hour.

She led him along a tiled corridor and through a pair of double doors, seemingly into a different building - older, darker, a lingering smell of ether and carbolic. Ahead, a door was open and a trim, small man with a moustache was standing outside it. No introduction was made; he simply grasped Denton’s arm and turned him away from the open doorway, through which Denton had seen a small room, not much more than a closet, with a railed bed and a lot of white sheet.

‘We’ve brought her out here rather than have you on the ward. All-female, and so on.’ He was a lot younger than Denton but clearly in charge, certainly patronizing. ‘The police wish us to accede to your wishes as much as possible. You’re the husband?’

Denton had to swim up from his exhaustion to say, ‘A friend. I was there when she was hurt.’

‘It was my understanding you were the husband. This is irregular. Well, as you’re here—I’ll have to ask sister to stay in the room with you.’

A hard remark occurred to Denton, but he suppressed it.

‘She will have a scar.’

‘I know that.’

‘Her left hand is another matter. There is damage to nerves and tendons; I don’t know how much use of it she’ll have. We had to transfuse her twice - great loss of blood.’

‘You were there for the, whatever it is. Operation?’

‘I performed the surgery. I am a specialist.’

Denton couldn’t think of anything to say to that. Something seemed required - hosannas, perhaps. He said, ‘Can I see her now?’

The surgeon arched his eyebrows once and said a little stiffly that of course, if that’s what he wished. He steered Denton back into the tiny room.

The room was almost too small for the two men and the metal bed. The insistence on propriety - he couldn’t go on the ward out of hours - seemed stupid to him, wasteful. She was walled off from him by metal bars that were painted pale yellow and chipped along the upper edges, as were the head and foot of the bed. Her right hand, even against the white sheet, was pale. The left side of her face was covered with white gauze, secured under her chin with plaster; her left hand was entirely swathed. Behind him, the nursing sister muttered, ‘They gave her morphine. She’ll be going to sleep any time.’

She looked asleep now. Denton said, ‘Can I talk to her?’

‘You can try.’

He leaned over the bed. Before he could speak, her eyes opened. They were unfocused, in fact not looking at him but at the ceiling. They swung towards him and she frowned.

‘I came as soon as they’d let me,’ he said.

She seemed to concentrate, to recognize him. ‘Did you kill him?’ she said in a hoarse voice.

‘Yes.’

‘Good.’

‘Well—’

‘It weighs on you?’

‘Yes.’

She drifted away, came back. ‘That’s good, too.’ Her eyes closed, and he thought she had fallen asleep, but after several seconds she stirred and even moved her right arm, as if to turn towards him. ‘They say I shall have a scar,’ she said.

‘It doesn’t matter!’

‘It does to me. Astonishingly. “Vanity, vanity…”’ Her eyes closed and her voice sank away.

He glanced at the sister, who looked annoyed. Mrs Striker’s breathing became slow and regular, then caught, and her eyes opened. ‘You’re still here.’

‘It hasn’t been long.’

‘You saved my life.’

‘No,
you
saved your life. You were - magnificent.’

She didn’t say anything for several seconds, her eyes narrowed as if she was perhaps seeing it all again, evaluating it. ‘Better a scar and no fingers than having my throat slashed.’

Denton laughed. He knew he shouldn’t have, because he heard the sister’s sharp intake of breath, but he laughed for the relief and the release of it. ‘You’re a tough bird,’ he said.

She smiled, winced as the smile pulled on her slit cheek and jaw. ‘A tough - sparrow—’ she said, and again her eyes closed and her breathing fell.

Denton waited. This time, he didn’t think she would come out of it. The sister said, ‘She’s fallen asleep, sir. She’ll sleep for twelve hours now. The morphine.’

‘Well—’ he began. Then Janet Striker’s eyes opened and searched for him; when they found him, she smiled again and winced again. ‘Come back,’ she murmured, and fell asleep for the night.

Denton rattled home in a cab for which he had barely enough money. He could, he thought, sleep for days. At the same time, a restlessness filled his brain with disconnected thoughts, now of money, now of the man he’d shot, now of Janet Striker. He should get to work. He needed money. He was a fool to have turned down Harris’s offer. Was there possibility in Janet Striker’s
Come back
? Perhaps he should sell his house. Perhaps he should go back to America. Could he have taken Satterlee alive - or had he wanted an excuse to kill him? And whom was he killing - was Satterlee only a stand-in for his own demons? He made a sound like a groan wound around a sigh. He needed something - wanted something—

His own house looked strange to him. The evening was dark now and cold; the morning’s frost had never melted where the shadows lay. A wind had risen, nosing around chimneys and skittering leaves and pieces of paper. He shivered.

He went up the stairs and let himself in and was astonished to see Diapason Lang sitting in his own green armchair. Denton stared at him stupidly.

Lang bounced out of the chair and rushed towards him. ‘Oh, my dear boy! Oh, you’re all right - are you all right? Oh, sit down, do sit down - brandy? Have brandy. Where’s that man of yours? Hoy! Was it horrible? Yes, of course it was. How horrible for you! Horrible, horrible!’ Denton was trying to get out of his overcoat; Lang was dancing around him, getting in his way; surprisingly, the man had tears in his eyes. ‘Brandy - servants quite useless when you want them—’ Lang had rushed to the table behind the armchair; something fell over with a crash. ‘There!’ Lang poured from the decanter, his hands shaking so that the neck rattled against the glass. When he handed it to Denton, the brandy slopped over their hands. ‘Oh, look what I’ve done! Oh, I’m such a useless old fool. Did the lawyer come? Are you a free man?’

‘Free, yes - he came—’ It seemed long ago.

‘I went right to Gwen as soon as I had your message. Gwen was a brick! “The best, we must have the best!” he said. I had no idea of such things, so I asked Frewn, you remember Frewn, crime is his hobby - he said Brudenell. Was Brudenell good? Frewn said that up to the moment you go into court, Brudenell’s the best man in England. Was he good? Did we do well by you?’ He had fetched a chair from farther up the room and carried it behind Denton and was pushing it against Denton’s knees, almost forcing him to sit. ‘Is that comfortable? Are you sure?’

Despite his fatigue and his racing brain, Denton was touched. This was an utterly different Lang from the dry androgyne of the publishing office: now emotional, now unsure, now concerned, he was like a very nervous hen with too many chicks. Denton assured him and assured him again, and finally Lang fell back into the green armchair and took a sip of sherry and calmed himself. Then, abruptly, he sat up again.

‘Oh, you must think me insane! I haven’t told you what I’m here for. I’ve been here since four. Your man gave me sherry and biscuits. I may have drunk too much of the sherry. At any rate, I have a purpose that I’ve never told you!’ He nodded his head several times. ‘Good news!’ He banged his hand on the arm of his chair. ‘I’ve good news! I think. I hope you’ll think it’s good news. Oh, dear! I think it’s good news.’ He leaned towards Denton. ‘Gwen
loves
your idea!’

Denton wondered if he was drunk already. ‘What idea - the new book?
The Machine
?’

‘
By Motor Car to the Land of Vampires
! He absolutely loved it. I told you he’s a motor-car enthusiast, quite mad, he’s the money, of course, but noisy contraptions, smelly, too, but he
adored
the idea. “Lang,” he said, “row fifty for the minute on this one. Go all out! This is a twentieth-century idea!”’ Lang sat there and enjoyed his own good news. ‘Here is the arrangement: eight hundred pounds in advance against your usual royalty plus expenses plus the firm will provide the motor car. Between you and me and the gatepost, Gwen means to pick out the motor car himself but he was going on about making a trip to Paris with you to find absolutely the right one, because he believes the French make the best motor cars in the world, which is
not
very loyal, if you ask me.’ He sipped his sherry again. ‘Where was I? Expenses, the car - yes, subsidiary rights, ah, yes. We want to serialize - sixty per cent for you, the rights already sold in England - oh, yes, my dear, I moved quickly - to
Every Other Week
for three hundred pounds, including Ireland. I have a cable from Chapman at
Century
in New York - where is it, where is it—? Doesn’t matter, he’s offering ten thousand dollars for North America. I haven’t heard from
L’Affiche d’Aujourd’hui
or
Kunst
, but I will. You’re assured, in short, of at least three thousand pounds.’ He looked up with the guilelessness of a child. ‘Is that all right?’

‘All right?’ As Lang had talked, Denton had felt the black mood slipping away.
Everything’s going to be all right
, he thought.
Everything.
He jumped up and pulled Lang from the armchair and threw his good arm around him. The editor gasped; Denton tightened his grip into half of a bear hug. ‘Oh—’ Lang cried, ‘oh, this is too—Oh,
dear
—You Americans are
so
emotional—Really, you needn’t—’

And then Atkins was coming from the stairs, Rupert lumbering behind him. Atkins was shouting, ‘Congratulations, General! Well done, sir! No need now to go to the agent’s, nor did I want to—!’ Any pretence of not having eavesdropped was out of the window. ‘Three thousand pounds! Out of funds, my hat!’

Everything would be all right; he would be rich - and then he thought of Janet Striker, the injured face, the moment when he pulled the trigger, and he understood that if he accepted Lang’s offer he would be gone for months. What would she think of him? Or - what was worse - would she even care?

Denton let go of Lang, who fell back into the armchair. Atkins poured him another sherry without taking his eyes from Denton.

‘You heard?’ Denton temporized, his mind still on Mrs Striker.

‘I couldn’t help, the gentlemen having a rather carrying voice and clear enunciation.’

‘Transylvania,’ Denton said. ‘It’s a long way.’

‘In Europe, in’t it?’

‘By motor car. We’d be gone a long time.’ Thinking, we can write to each other; maybe it will be even better - get to know each other a different way—But he wanted them to get to know each other in the usual way - dinners, walks, then—

Atkins grinned. ‘Three thousand pounds!’

‘You’d have to learn to drive, Sergeant.’

‘How difficult can it be? Look at the fools what smashes them up all over London.’

‘To Transylvania, Sergeant. You’re willing to travel with me all the way to Transylvania?’ Wanting Atkins to say no, to cause him not to go. Knowing he had to go, had to have the money, and at the same time wanting that damned woman who lay in a hospital bed with her face slashed.

Atkins raised his head, pushed out his lips, then hesitated. ‘If there’s room for Rupert.’ He looked down at the enormous dog. ‘You’d like to see Transylvania, wouldn’t you, old fellow?’

The stump of tail thumped on the floor. Denton stared at it. He sighed. He would write her
lots
of letters.