“Her frock,” Anderson said. His voice was hoarse.
“Woollen. No pockets.”
“They must have been there for days.”
“No, you’d had the cellar cleaned out the day before, don’t you remember? Your charwoman gave evidence.
She’s
quite certain there was no box of matches down there then. It’s a problem. I don’t see where the box of matches could have come from, do you?” The Inspector’s voice rumbled softly; it was ridiculous to think that his eyes could ever have been vacant. “What the anonymous letter said about the five thousand pounds insurance – that was right, wasn’t it?”
Like a man emerging from water, Anderson shook himself. “Inspector Cresse, are you insinuating that I killed my wife?”
The Inspector looked astonished. “Why, what a question to ask! I came here about those anonymous letters.”
“Then why did you ask about the insurance? You know perfectly well that we each had an insurance on the other’s life. I am not short of money, Inspector.”
“Now now, Mr Anderson.” The meaty hand was raised, soothingly. “Nobody said you were. You don’t get the point. Nothing was mentioned about that insurance at the inquest. The person who sent that letter must know you pretty well. You might think it over and see if you can identify him or her. But the whole affair, that unfortunate business about the light that fused, and so on, raises what you might call a moral problem.”
“Oh yes, a moral problem.” Shall I say it? Anderson wondered, and then gripped the arm of his chair and spoke earnestly. “Tell me, Inspector, if I told you that I killed my wife, would you arrest me?”
“Ah ah.” Like gigantic scissors the Inspector’s legs shifted and were crossed from right to left instead of from left to right. “Precisely the moral problem.” Anderson poured out fresh drinks for both of them. When he passed the Inspector’s glass, however, some of the whisky splashed on to the hard, fleshy thigh. Anderson exclaimed in dismay, drew out his handkerchief and rubbed the offending spot. The Inspector, apparently unconscious of these ministrations, stared ahead of him at the pentagonal looking glass fixed over the fireplace. “Precisely the moral problem. You killed your wife, Mr Anderson.” Anderson sat perfectly still, holding his own glass, staring. “You killed her, I mean, in the sense that had you pursued some other course of action she would not now be dead. You might have taken her out to dinner. You might have gone down into the cellar in her place, might you not? And then perhaps when you found it in darkness, you might have mended the fuse – you are a handy enough electrician for that? Or perhaps you might have accompanied her to the head of the cellar stairs instead of reading the paper in the sitting room. Then you would have cautioned her, doubtless – you would have said: ‘Be careful of that slippery step halfway down.’ And then, who knows – perhaps she wouldn’t have slipped.”
“You attach blame to me? You think me guilty?”
“Ah ah,” the Inspector said again. He drank three quarters of the whisky in his glass. “That question is not for an ignorant policeman, but for an intellectual. A man like yourself. It is a problem of morals.” He spoke with gravity to which Anderson, his partner in this curious verbal knockabout, responded with restrained jocosity.
“So you will not arrest me?”
“Arrest you?”
“Even though I said
‘Mea culpa,
I confess my guilt.’”
Anderson beat his breast in mock despair. “What do you propose to do about it? Supposing I said that – just supposing!” With a revival of his earlier gadfly spirit, Anderson walked mincingly across the room to straighten a picture.
“What do
you
propose to do?” The Inspector’s features had lost altogether their joviality. The strong lines threw into prominence the great blunt nose; the loose lips were joined in an appearance of resolution. “We can do nothing without you.” He stood up and clapped the bowler hat on to his bald head. It was like the curtain coming down on a play.
“Nothing!” Anderson echoed triumphantly.
“Nothing.”
The sickly light of morning, filtering through pink curtains, illuminated Anderson asleep in a double bed. He slept in a position curiously contorted, one arm thrust over his head like a signal, the other holding a pillow tightly to his chest. His knees were drawn up like those of a man making a jack-knife dive. His yellow face looked younger in repose. The top of his pyjamas, opened, revealed a body surprisingly white.
An alarm clock rang by the side of the bed. Anderson opened his eyes. They stared at his wife’s photograph, which stood beside the alarm. While a hand silenced the alarm clock, Anderson continued to stare. His wife, head slightly to one side, eyes melting, lips bent upward to a smile, seemed joyfully to meet his gaze. Anderson’s stare shifted from the photograph to the pink curtains, to the pink quilt on the bed, to the china knick-knacks on the mantelpiece, to the pink ribbons tied round the top of the dressing table, back to the photograph. A slight film seemed to be spread over the glass. He touched it gingerly, and exclaimed: “Dust,” remembering the Inspector. The flat had not been dusted or cleaned since his wife’s death. Groaning slightly, Anderson got out of bed, ran a bath and put two slices of bread in the electric toaster. Plates and dishes with small pieces of food in them stood in the sink. He bathed quickly and looked at his face in the shaving glass. Magnification made the pits of removed blackheads look like craters of the moon, but he stared particularly at the blue growth on and underneath the chin. Each hard bristly hair was plainly distinguishable; the total effect was exceedingly unattractive.
Anderson put his watch in front of him and then, like a nervous bather, dipped a finger in the pot of Preparation Number 1. Gingerly he smeared the stuff onto his face. He felt at first nothing at all, then a prickling and burning that was not unpleasant, then again nothing. Obviously, the stuff had failed to work. He checked by his watch, waited another half minute to give the preparation a chance, then damped a washcloth and wiped his face. He looked to see the blue stubble. It had gone. His face was absolutely clean to the eye, and to the touch of fingertips felt babyishly soft. The preparation, in fact, did exactly what had been claimed for it; Anderson, an advertising man accustomed to publicizing goods that did perhaps a quarter of what was claimed for them, gasped with astonishment at such a consummation.
2
The swing doors hissed behind Anderson. Miss Detranter was reading from notes, ticking off each item as she read. “Flowers,” she said to Jean Lightley. “Flowers for the directors’ rooms. Flowers for Mr Anderson’s room. Flowers for each department. Secretaries’ typewriters neat and tidy. Tell the Studio they must get straightened up. All of them working, but everything bright and clean. Tell the production boys to get blocks stacked one side of them and proofs the other. Tell Miss O’Rourke—”
Anderson stared and listened. The black book with marbled corners, the Inspector’s visit, belonged to another time and world; within these doors he was an advertising executive, a man with a purpose in life. “Hey,” he said, “that’s my secretary.”
“VV’s orders,” said Miss Detranter sweetly. “He rang up in a flap and said get all the girls to work on it. I can’t leave Reception. Jean won’t be half an hour, will you, Jean?” Jean looked startled.
“Flowers in February. What’s it in aid of?”
“Mr Divenga’s coming round.”
“And who’s Mr Divenga?”
“I simply haven’t a clue,” said Miss Detranter. Anderson made his way down the corridor. As he turned the corner, he heard: “– Tell Miss O’Rourke she must have some vital statistics on hand. Charts and graph on the wall—”
Anderson went into his room! Figures scurried past in the corridor. Reverton’s secretary, Miss Flack, came in with a duster. “Just dusting,” she said with a smile and flicked rapidly at cupboard, chair back, hatstand and desk. “Mr Divenga’s flown over,” she added with a bright smile, and went out. The telephone rang. “Oh, Mr
Anderson,”
the operator said,” Mr Vincent said to tell you that Mr Divenga’s coming in this morning.”
“I’ve grasped that.”
“If you have an outside appointment, will you please postpone it if possible. If it can’t be postponed, please let me know. Otherwise will you please be available.”
“I’ll please be available.” The operator giggled. “Who’s Mr Divenga?”
“I don’t know him from Adam, I’m afraid, Mr Anderson.” The operator giggled again.
Anderson sat down in his chair. As he did so he noticed that Miss Flack, when she dusted the desk, had shifted a letter at the bottom of his pile of mail, so that it was out of place. His hand moved to replace it, and then he noticed the handwriting. It was a letter from Val.
Anderson sat quite still. His head seemed to be the centre of a whirlpool, going round and round and round and round. He closed his eyes, and in the whirlpool there were faces – the round bland face of Lessing, the square dependable face of Reverton, the triangle of VV’s great forehead and small pointed chin, the long chalky nose of Molly O’Rourke. Anderson opened his eyes again, and gripped the sides of the chair to stop himself from falling. When he felt better he picked up the letter and read the hastily scribbled lines “My darling. I love you so much, and it seems so long since I held you in my arms.” Somebody has stolen the letters she wrote to me, Anderson thought with a bitter anger that surprised himself. And then, as he turned the page and read the unfamiliar words, he realized suddenly why this letter had been put on his desk. This was not a letter Val had written to him; it was a letter she had written to somebody else. “I love you
dearly”
were the last words, and then came the scrawled signature “Val.” Val had loved Anderson – or so he had always thought; but she had never ended a letter “I love you dearly.” And yet this letter, written in the light blue ink she used, on dark blue paper, was unmistakably in her writing.
Anderson sat looking at the letter for a period that might have been seconds or minutes. Then he pushed it clumsily into his pocket, and almost ran out of the room. As he slammed the door the telephone rang. With blundering emphasis Anderson moved along the corridor, head down. His swinging arm struck something soft, and a voice said “Good morning.” Anderson looked up to find Mr Pile regarding him severely through his rimless pince-nez. “Is anything the matter?” Anderson muttered. ‘You don’t look well, Anderson. Perhaps you had better go home.” Mr Pile’s tone made it clear that he did not care for executives who were unwell and went home.
“Mr Divenga,” Anderson said.
A withered smile passed over Mr Pile’s face. “Ah yes, he is coming round this morning. But he won’t expect to see our senior men rushing about head down. Are you quite sure you feel all right?” Anderson nodded. Mr Pile stood still, fumbling for the true and appropriate phrase. At last he found it. “Well, more haste less speed.” He passed on.
Anderson went into the Copy Room. The neat brown-suited figure of Greatorex rose to receive him. “I put that list of names on your desk—”
“Where’s Lessing?”
“I haven’t seen him this morning, Mr Anderson.” Greatorex was apologetic. “Shall I ask him—”
“Doesn’t matter.” Greatorex looked at him in surprise. Outside the door of the Copy Room, Anderson stood and wiped his hand over his forehead. Anger and urgency drained away, and his body felt simply weak. He walked along slowly and aimlessly, turning right and left, until he came to a door marked RESEARCH DEPARTMENT. Molly O’Rourke’s head popped out. “Oh, it’s you,” she said. “Come in.” He went in. “You can lend a hand with this chart. Just pass it up to me, will you.” She stood on a chair, and he passed up to her an enormous chart made up of different blocks of colour. Above each colour block, on the left-hand side of the chart, was a percentage figure. The centre part of the chart was divided into geographical areas. The blocks on the right-hand side were split into months of the year and had cash figures over them. “Take this,” she said. He held one end of the chart while she pinned it to the wall. They both stood looking at it. “In case you wonder what it all means, it tells you the percentage of cakes of Happiday Soap sold in England in comparison with all competitors. It gives you an area breakdown. It relates advertising cost to sales returns in all districts. It tells you—”
“Wonderful,” Anderson said. “And when you’ve got it what have you got?”
“You haven’t got much and that’s a fact. This is all two years out of date. Fortunately the date was at the bottom and we’ve cut it out. It looks good on the wall. Part of the red carpet for Mr Divenga.” She stared at Anderson. “You look terrible. What’s the matter? Here, never mind, take a nip.” She drew out a bottle from the drawer of her desk. Anderson looked round for a glass. “Ah come on, drink it like a man.” He took out the stopper, tilted back his head, and drank until tears came into his eyes. “My my,” said Miss O’Rourke, “that must have put several hairs on your chest. What’s the matter? Tell mamma.” Her black curls shook, her chalky nose was near to his face.
“Look, Molly,” Anderson said. “Did you see anybody go in my office early this morning?”
“Since I can’t see round several corners the answer, old cock, is No. Don’t tell me somebody’s been stealing your ideas.”
“Somebody’s playing a funny kind of joke on me, and I’d like to find out his name.”
“Sure it’s a him?”
Anderson fingered the letter in his pocket. “Quite sure.”
“Girls can play some pretty funny jokes sometimes.”
“This one was played by a man.” The house telephone rang. Molly said: “Yes, you’ve run him to earth. Yes, I’ll tell him.” She put the telephone down. “Birdseed is on your tail. Something about some drawings—”
“Christ!”
“But more important, Mr Divenga is on his way round. Will everybody please be in their rooms. You’d better run along. Feeling better?”
“Yes.”
Molly was casual. “Care to repeat the dose this evening if you’ve got nothing better to do?”
Anderson hesitated and then said: “All right.”
She put her hand on her heart and grimaced. “My, you just sweep a girl off her feet. Come here, your tie’s crooked.” She straightened Anderson’s tie and gave him a little push out of the door. On the way back to his room Anderson met Reverton, walking down the corridor pipe foremost, with a look of intense concentration. He raised his hand and would have gone on, but Anderson stopped him. “I say, Rev, who’s Mr Divenga?”
Reverton stared at him in surprise. “I thought you knew, old boy. He’s the managing director of Multi-African Products. Just flown over unexpectedly. Going to meet him now. Will you be available?”
“I’ll be available.”
“All a lot of bull, of course, showing him round, but you know how it is.”
“I know how it is,” said Anderson.
3
Falsely hearty voices roared along the corridor in waves. The door opened and they all came in, laughing. But where was Mr Divenga? “And this is Mr Anderson,” VV said. “Our copy chief. He will be in control of the creative side of your account – under me, of course – and if I may blow somebody else’s trumpet without immodesty, you couldn’t have a finer man on the job. Anderson, this is Mr Maximilian Divenga of Multi-African Products.” Anderson stood up and from behind the smiling Reverton there darted a little figure something less than five feet high. He was dressed in a tight-waisted lilac suit with a fawn waistcoat, he wore spats above crocodile leather shoes. But it was not these things that made Anderson gape at Mr Maximilian Divenga, nor his beaky nose, but the fact that the lower part of the little man’s large head was almost completely covered by a great black spade beard.
“You are happy, yes?” Mr Divenga asked, gripping Anderson’s hand with fingers like pincers. “Are happy in creation?”
“Mr Divenga thinks it most important that the creative minds in charge of an account should feel thoroughly integrated with the work they are handling,” said Mr Pile plummily. He turned to the gaily dressed dwarf. “That is a consideration we always bear in mind, my dear Mr Divenga. We pondered very seriously the problem of which of our creative minds should handle your account. Mr Anderson already has the whole question of shaving at his – ah – fingertips. He handled another shaving cream account with great success when he was – ah – working with a rival agency some years ago. Isn’t that so, Anderson?”
“Iss goot,” said Mr Divenga before Anderson could assent to this complete untruth. Then be turned menacingly on Mr Pile, and gave his chest several steely prods. “But iss not
another
shaving cream account. Preparation Number One iss not shaving cream.
Shaving iss finished.”
“Finished,” said VV triumphantly, and the others took up the cry. There was a short silence. Were they all thinking as he was, Anderson wondered, of Mr Divenga’s great black beard?
“I’ve been giving your preparation a test, Mr Divenga,” he said. “My chin’s pretty blue normally, but Number One leaves it smooth as silk.”
The little man stepped up close to Anderson, passed a hand over his chin and breathed “Ahh.” He turned to the three directors. “You have felt?” Obligingly VV and Pile touched Anderson’s chin and exclaimed in wonder, although as Pile retreated Anderson seemed to remark a slight frown behind the pince-nez. Mr Divenga turned to Reverton. “You have felt?”
“Don’t need to, Mr Divenga. Tried it myself yesterday morning. Absolutely miraculous.”
“Miraclus, miraclus,” said Mr Divenga. “Always in South Africa are performing miraclus. Have marketed many miraclus – clasp knife changes to tooth drawer, paper flower breathe on and opens, card of pretty girl with clothes on – hold to the light and is pretty girl without clothes on.” The three directors and Anderson laughed heartily, but with a trace of puzzlement, VV became oratorical.
“Engaging toys, Mr Divenga, but this is something different. I assure you, my dear sir, that I believe that we believe – your preparation to be the greatest boon ever brought to twentieth-century man. It is—”