Night Train to Paris, page 2
“Yes,” said the constable.
“Keep on keeping on,” said the sergeant.
2. Pepper And Spice
edwakd john logan, Merchant, had offices in Mincing Lane in the City of London where he dealt in coffee and spices. They were small dark rooms where the electric light burned continuously throughout the working day, and they were not very well ventilated, so that the air was always heavy with a harmony of ginger, nutmeg, cloves, mace, cinnamon and caraway seeds with the smell of coffee as a ground base. Samples of these were kept in a closet called the storeroom; every time the storeroom door was opened a fresh wave of piquancy drifted into Logan’s office. His secretary, Nancy Davie, used to say that it was necessary to change down to the skin and have a bath when she reached home at night in order to lose the scent of business and even then it clung to her hair.
Logan was a man in the forties, tall and well set up, dark-haired and with good features, but beginning to show that loss of elasticity which besets men who lead sedentary lives in stuffy offices. His physical reactions were slowing down and his mind was stiffening into grooves. He lived in an expensive flat near Regent’s Park with a manservant who was all that bachelors dream of and so seldom find. In a word, Logan was much too comfortable and was beginning to suffer for it
On a day about two months after the unfortunate Muntz disappeared into the dark North Sea, Logan returned to his office after lunch, put his gloves in his bowler hat, hung it up with his neat umbrella upon their usual peg and rang the bell for his secretary. She came in at once with her hands full of papers.
“Er—Miss Davie—oh, those are my letters, are they? Ill just sign them.”
He went through them hastily, signing one after another without reading them, and Miss Davie’s eyebrows went up. This was unlike Mr. Logan, but he had been unsettled in manner for several days. There was something in the wind, could he be getting married? Not very likely; this unsettlement was definitely not rapturous. No secret smiles, no song at the lips, no lightness in the tread.
“Mr. Cogsworth rang up; he would like to see you this afternoon if convenient,” she said.
Logan looked up at her. No, definitely not happy. His expression was worried, even hunted.
“Oh, I can’t see him this afternoon. Ring him up and ask him to come tomorrow, will you?” Logan pushed back his chair, locked the drawers of his desk, put the keys in his pocket and got up. “I have to go out this afternoon,” he added, taking down his hat and umbrella. “I shall not be back here today.”
“Very good,” said Miss Davie dutifully. Then something irresolute in his manner led her beyond the normal limits of office routine and she added impulsively: ‘I hope there is nothing wrong?”
“What? Oh no, nothing. At least, nothing that a little firmness will not cure,” he said with sudden acidity. “Good afternoon, Miss Davie—er—and thank you.” He smiled suddenly, put his hat on for the purpose of taking it off to her, hung his umbrella on his arm and walked out into the street.
“Dear me,” said Miss Davie thoughtfully.
Edward Logan was going to see his lawyer who inhabited offices so like his own that but for their being on the first floor and not smelling of spices he would hardly have noticed any change in his surroundings.
“Good afternoon, Logan, pleased to see you,” said the lawyer, and shook hands warmly.
“Good afternoon, Fenchurch.” Logan put down his hat, gloves and umbrella on one chair, sat down slowly on another and looked across the desk at his old friend.
“Well,” said Fenchurch, smiling, “what can I do for you?”
“I’ve been a fool,” said Logan abruptly. “What are you laughing at?”
“I thought you were going to say that. There is a faintly sheepish aspect about you this afternoon which is immediately recognizable to any experienced solicitor. It is almost invariably accompanied by the form of words you have just uttered. Or some equivalent synonym,”
Logan scowled for a moment and then laughed.
“No doubt you’re right. The world is full of people like me. You’ve got my will, haven’t you, Fenchurch?”
“Certainly. You want to look at it? I’ll have it brought in.” He touched a bell upon his desk, said: “Mr. Logan’s will,” to the clerk who answered it, and leaned back in his chair.
“I want to tear it up,” said Logan energetically. “With my own hands.”
“Why not? It’s your will,” said Fenchurch. “It’s also my poor but honest way of making a living.” The clerk came back with the will and Fenchurch opened it. “It’s very short.”
“Give it to me,” said Logan, “and may I borrow your wastepaper basket? Thank you. Now,” said Logan, tearing the will into small pieces, “I suppose I’d better tell you the rest of the story since I want your advice.”
“There are three things,” said Fenchurch, taking off his glasses and rubbing them with a corner of his handkerchief, “about which men most commonly make fools of themselves: namely, horses, cards and women. People don’t bet on horses as they did, I suppose there isn’t the money, and cards have practically gone out compared to the customs of even fifty years ago. But by some dispensation of Providence which I may admire but cannot understand, there seem to be more women about than ever.” He put his glasses on and blinked through them at Logan. “Is that your experience also?”
“It isn’t the number of women that worries me,” said Logan. “It’s just one.”
“You’re lucky,” said Fenchurch, “it’s generally two. Well now, what about it?”
Logan explained that he had met Elizabeth Alton about three years earlier and was attracted by her calm manner and general air of competence, her clear mind and exact way of speaking. Fenchurch raised his eyebrows but did not interrupt. Logan said that they had seen a good deal of each other and that he had asked her several times, both verbally and in writing, to marry him but she had always put him off. Not a flat refusal, but a postponement; someday, not yet, not just now. They were not even formally engaged. “This has been going on for a Song time now,” said Logan indignantly, “more than two years, to be exact, and I’m getting very tired of it. Besides, to tell you the truth, I was desperately keen on it at one time but I’m by no means so keen now. It-it takes the edge off one’s enthusiasm to be continually held off and disappointed.”
Fenchurch nodded. “It does, it does. The lady never tells you what the impediment is, if there is one?”
“No. I asked her bluntly once whether she was married already and she assured me she was not. I believe her, I don’t think for a moment that she is. That is, of course, the obvious suggestion, but I don’t think it’s the right one in this case,”
Fenchurch said nothing and Logan went on.
“About nine—no, ten months ago I took her out in my car one Sunday; we went for a run down to Shere in Surrey. Well, as you know, Greene generally drives me—I don’t care for driving and I know I’m not good at it—but on this occasion I left him behind and drove the car myself. I was showing off, actually, no doubt,” said Logan with an embarrassed laugh. “Well, on the way back there was a misunderstanding at a crossroads and I ran into a lorry. The car was badly damaged but we were not much the worse, physically, that is; it was Betty’s nerves which were severely affected.”
Fenchurch imagined being driven in Sunday traffic in Surrey by a driver who himself admitted he was not very good. He sympathized with Miss Alton’s feelings even before the crash, but did not say so.
“She was under the doctor’s care for weeks and weeks,” said Logan. “She had to give up her employment—she was private secretary to a Member of Parliament—so, as it was all my fault that she couldn’t earn, I thought it only right to make her an allowance until she was quite well again.”
“I see,” said Fen church.
“I mean, it was just that and nothing more; I mean, it was my fault that she was incapacitated, it was merely a temporary arrangement during her illness—”
“I quite understand,” said Fenchurch.
“Well, so far as I can see, she is quite fit again and if I ask what the doctor says she says he is quite pleased with her. But she doesn’t seem to be making the least effort to get another post and I’m sure she could, she’s so extremely competent and well trained. I have a certain delicacy about the matter, but the fact is, Fenchurch, I’m beginning to wonder how long it’s going on.”
“I don’t wonder. I should do the same in your place.”
“Then there’s another thing. I said that I’m sure she’s not married, but I’m beginning to think there’s another man hanging about.”
“Ah.”
“Once when I went there the room smelt of tobacco smoke. Betty smokes, but only mild cigarettes and not many of them. This was quite different, really strong tobacco. Another time when I called unexpectedly she was darning socks. Thick woollen socks, Fenchurch. When I asked her about them she laughed and said I’d surprised her in one of her little charities. Do women darn socks for charity, Fenchurch?”
“I’ll ask my wife, she is much occupied with what are called ‘good works.’ Knit, yes, I’ve seen her doing it, but darning I doubt.”
“So do I,” said Logan energetically, “In fact, I doubt a lot of things these days. One evening when I was there her doorbell rang. There are three floors of flats; each tenant has his own doorbell as usual, and Betty’s on the first floor. She went down to answer the door and while I was waiting I strolled to the window, quite idly, as one does, you know. A man went away from the door and as he left he turned on the pavement and waved his hand. Like this. Quite carefree and friendly, damn him. He didn’t raise his hat, he waved to her. Then she came upstairs again and said it was a man who’d come to the wrong address. I asked if it were anyone she knew and she said, ‘Oh no. A total stranger.’ He didn’t behave like a total stranger, that’s all.”
“Perhaps he was merely being impertinent,” said Fenchurch.
“It’s possible, I suppose,” said Logan sulkily.
“Tell me,” said Fenchurch. “Since you seem to he thoroughly tired of the whole business, is there any reason why you shouldn’t simply stay away? You could write her a letter saying that in consequence of her return to health, which delights you beyond measure, you propose to stop the allowance a fortnight from now. That will give her enough time to find another post if she’s as good as you say. If she doesn’t like it, there doesn’t seem to be much she can do about it. Is there?”
There was a short pause.
“I’ve written a lot of silly letters,” said Logan.
“Oh dear. Oh, dear me. How very unfortunate. But does it really matter?”
Logan looked at him. “I was, of course, thinking of a breach-of-promise case and all those letters being read out in court—”
“Of course you were. That’s how so many women get away with it. Now let me tell you that, if what you have told me is literally true, she wouldn’t have a leg to stand on. There was a time when bringing breach-of-promise actions was a lucrative side line for women; it isn’t now. They have to prove that they have lost substantially in either money or reputation. For example, if she’d spent money because she was going to marry you which she wouldn’t otherwise have spent-bought a house or furniture or even an expensive trousseau—you might be made to pay up.”
“She hasn’t,” said Logan.
“Or if she had had a child—”
“Great heavens, no. I told you I meant to marry her. One doesn’t—er—”
“Well, I’m quite sure you didn’t, anyway. What makes you afraid she would bring an action? Is she vindictive by nature?”
“Oh, I shouldn’t really think so,” said poor Logan. “It’s just that she is so very competent, I can’t imagine any situation with which she couldn’t cope and I was wondering how she’d cope with this one. That’s all.”
“Yes, I see. Get it into your head that an action for breach of promise which was merely vindictive would stand no chance at all of succeeding and no reputable solicitor would handle it. That is, if you have really given me all the relevant information.”
“I’m sure I have. She’s none the worse for me.”
“That’s the way to talk,” said Fenchurch. “Now all that’s worrying you is the letters, eh? Are you sure she has kept them?”
“No, But she did keep them; I mean, I know she used to store them up, she said so.”
“Since you really want them—”
“I want to do this with them,” said Logan, pointing to the wastepaper basket.
“Why not simply go and ask her for them?”
Logan stood up and said: “Right, I will.”
“Just a moment before you rush off. You have just torn up your will; I take it you will want to make another?”
“If I get run over on the way home—”
‘These things do happen,” said Fenchurch, “unfortunately.”
“Then the whole of my estate goes to my next of kin, doesn’t it? That’s my twin brother Laurence.”
“That is so, yes. But the Government claims heavier death duties in the case of an intestacy. Of course it may be that you wish to give the Government a little present—no? No, then don’t die intestate. Also, there were other legacies, weren’t there?”
‘To my secretary Miss Davie and my manservant Greene and one or two others. Yes, I see, I don’t want them to be washed out. Can I come and see you one day next week and in the meantime I’ll think it over?”
Fenchurch consulted an engagement calendar and said: “Will ten-thirty next Tuesday suit you?”
“Very well,” said Logan, backing towards the door, “I’ll be here at ten-thirty next Tuesday. Good-bye, Fenchurch.”
Elizabeth Alton’s flat was in a converted house in West Kensington; other tenants lived on the ground floor and the second storey, the caretaker and his wife in the basement. Logan walked up the two wide steps to the front door and rang the bell.
Nothing happened, so he rang again and yet again. Having screwed up his courage to face an interview he dreaded, exasperation seized him at being balked of it. If she was out he would wait. He opened the door—the main door of the house was only locked at night—and walked upstairs to Elizabeth Alton’s own private door. It had a small brass knocker which was a model of the Imp of Lincoln. Logan knocked repeatedly, received no reply, and lost his temper. He grasped the door handle and turned it; to his surprise the door opened. She must be at home.
He put his head in and called: “Betty! Betty, are you there?” There was no answer; he went in and closed the door behind him. There was no entrance lobby; in these converted houses the doors opened straight into the sitting room and the other rooms had been made to open off that.
On the table in the middle there was a sheet of white paper, very conspicuous on the dark wood, and on it a message in Betty’s neat writing: “Wait for me, I shan’t be more than half an hour.”
Logan’s first surprised thought was to wonder how on earth she knew he was coming since he had not warned her and at this hour he was normally still at his office. Then it dawned on him that of course the message was not for him but for someone else whom she was expecting. If it were some woman friend it would be awkward being found there, and he almost turned and fled. On the other hand, if it were a man—
He kid his hat, umbrella and gloves down upon the table, walked to the window and stood looking out through the thin net curtains.
Five minutes later a man came walking fast along the street, almost running. Logan, looking down, was nearly certain that this was the same man who, on a previous occasion, had waved to Betty as he turned away.
“If he comes here—” whispered Logan.
The man came up to the front door and turned in. Logan heard the door open and shut and the sound of steps running up the stairs.
Logan picked up his hat, gloves and umbrella from the table and bolted like a rabbit into an inner room which was obviously Betty’s bedroom. He looked wildly round for cover; there was a narrow built-in cupboard beside the fireplace with the door ajar. He sprang inside, crushing back dresses which hung there, and tried to pull the door shut; it would not quite close and there was no knob on the inside.
The second visitor knocked with the Lincoln Imp, waited a moment and then walked in, calling Betty’s name as he did so. Then the calling stopped—he had evidently seen the note—and Logan distinctly heard him say: “Damn and blast!” in an angry voice.
After that there was silence broken only by the scrape of a match and, a little later, the smell reached him of the same strong tobacco he had smelt there before.
By this time Logan was furious with himself as well as with Betty and the man out there. What had possessed him to panic like that and hide in a dress cupboard? What a fool he would look if he were found. Logan was not the first to find that it is much easier to get into a cupboard than to emerge from it. Also his bowler hat was in his way; there was not much room and it persisted in pushing the door open, so he put it on his head. If only the man would, get tired of waiting and go away.
3. Heirons
the outer door of the flat opened and shut and Logan heard Betty’s voice. “Hello, Steve! How did the business—What’s the matter?”
The man’s voice answered her, a deep voice with yet something light and reckless in its tones. “Don’t get into a flap, please. There’s nothing wrong that a cool head and a little ready money won’t cure. I must get away, that’s all.”
“Steve! Is it the police again?”
Steve laughed. “Well, it’s two lots actually, though it’s true the police force is one of ’em. Funny thing, that, the police chasing me for something I didn’t do.”
“If you can prove you didn’t do it, why run?”
“Oh, they know I didn’t do it.”
“Then why are they chasing you?”
“All these questions! Now I’ll ask you one. How much money have you got?”
