‘No,’ said Mary, ‘I’m not going to do anything like that.’
And will met will in the glances which were exchanged across the fireside, and Charlie Morris, the great Charlie Morris, was forced to give way to the firm decision in his wife’s eyes. He looked away uncomfortably and turned his gaze, as ever, back into the depths of the fire. His thoughts fled off once more round the circle of worrying pictures he called up among the glowing coals – of degrading work, and expense, and anxiety, and exertion, and of overbearing nurses, and sleepless nights, and humiliating helplessness before a crying baby. As if he had not enough to worry him at present!
His thoughts flew out of their vicious circle at an abrupt tangent. He had forgotten, with the shock of his wife’s news, all about Oldroyd, but now he remembered Oldroyd again. An hour ago, as he walked up from the station, he had been planning to kill Oldroyd. Oldroyd was a possible danger and a present annoyance at a time when he was pestered with annoyance. Morris set his teeth and began to feel a fierce satisfaction in the contemplation of the killing of Oldroyd. That would be some compensation for all his present trials. He felt he would like to tear Oldroyd to pieces with his hands, or stamp on him with his feet; he wanted to do something which would act as an outlet to all the irritation which was accumulating at high pressure within him. But that sort of violence was, of course, denied to him. It would be the equivalent of suicide on his part. He must not risk hanging just for the satisfaction of murdering Oldroyd in a comforting kind of way. He must devise some other plan for the abolishing of Oldroyd, even if it did not give him quite so much satisfaction. He must – and Morris straightway found himself plunged in a maze of thoughts leading, or designed to lead, to the same difficult end as he had had in contemplation when he was on his way home. Those thoughts did not lead him far. As has already been pointed out, one of the most difficult problems to a man living in a civilized town is how to plan a murder which will not incriminate him. Morris’s brain that night was not very fertile in expedients. He could not devise a plan which he could consider satisfactory. There was some excuse for him, because every now and again his train of thought would be roughly intruded upon by the memory of the new worry which the evening had brought him. Backwards and forwards went his thoughts from Oldroyd to Mary, and from Mary to Oldroyd, as unsatisfactorily and as irritatingly as they well could. There were moments when he was almost sorry for himself, but those instants of self-pity were short-lived. Morris had changed a good deal lately, and nowadays his opinion of himself was too inflated for him to feel self-pity for long. At every setback to his sequence of thoughts he only set his jaw harder and contemplated the difficulties before him with an unabashed eye.
Some folk might say that the fierce resolution and stern determination which he displayed were comparable with those of Drake or Wellington. They might (if they were the kind of person who always tries to find some good in everyone) say that Morris was displaying quite good qualities; that there was good stuff somewhere in Morris, and that it was a pity that his designs had taken a criminal turn. But it seems as if that argument is faulty. It seems much more probable that Morris was a born criminal, and solely a criminal, and that the ingenious plans he was able to form were only ingenious as long as he was inspired by hatred and irritation. It is hard to imagine Charlie Morris contributing to the good of the world. The ingenuity which killed Reddy and the resolution which killed Harrison have nothing in common with the daring which took the Golden Hind round the world, or the courage which held the squares together at Waterloo.
14
During the days that followed Oldroyd’s fear of Morris and his uncomfortable reaction towards the very unusual circumstances in which he found himself displayed themselves in a sulky, lazy insolence towards Morris which bade fair to disorganize the whole running of the Universal Advertising Agency. The other young men working in the room could not help but notice Oldroyd’s behaviour. Not unnaturally they tried to imitate it, and when Morris called them sharply to order they resented it, and sulked, and whispered to each other of favouritism. Mr Campbell, who noticed much more than an unobservant person would give him credit for, was early aware of this deplorable state of affairs. Matters were brought to a climax one morning when he suddenly appeared in the copy room and asked for some work which he had left to be done the day before.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Morris. ‘Oldroyd, have you got those keyed figures out yet?’
‘Not yet,’ said Oldroyd. He said it a little uncomfortably, because he had not known that the work was something which Mr Campbell had specially ordered.
‘Not done it yet?’ demanded Mr Campbell. ‘It ought to have been finished hours ago. What have you been up to since yesterday morning?’
‘Well—’ began Oldroyd doubtfully. He was not an accomplished liar. ‘I had one or two other things to do as well—’
‘Stuff and nonsense!’ said Mr Campbell with extreme annoyance. ‘I wanted them most particularly by this morning. I can’t imagine what you’ve been thinking about. Mr Morris, see that you bring them in to me, tabulated in the way I asked you, in half an hour’s time.’
Those tabulated figures were on Mr Campbell’s desk, sure enough, half an hour later – the result of half an hour’s work at high pressure by everyone in the copy room, driven on by the unsparing lash of Morris’s tongue.
‘Ah, thank you,’ said Mr Campbell, taking up the ruled slips and glancing through them as Morris put them on his desk. ‘Now, tell me, Morris, why weren’t they ready when I wanted them?’
He peered at Morris kindly across his desk with his short-sighted eyes, but Morris knew that the kindliness in those mild blue eyes could change at short notice to keen anger, and he chose his words warily.
‘I don’t think Oldroyd thought there was any need for hurry yesterday, sir,’ he said; ‘he was a bit rushed with several jobs on hand.’
‘What jobs?’ demanded Mr Campbell.
He launched the question on the tail of Morris’s last words, a shade too quickly even for Morris, who was playing for time. It was not surprising that Morris faltered before replying, nor that Mr Campbell noticed it.
‘I don’t believe a word of it,’ said Mr Campbell. ‘In my opinion that boy’s bone lazy. It may be decent of you to stand up for him because he’s an old friend of yours, but it’s not business. I wouldn’t mind seeing him out of this office for good and all. He’s upsetting the rest.’
Mr Campbell drummed with his fingers on his desk while he eyed Morris keenly to see how the suggestion would be received. Into Morris’s mind’s eye there flashed an instant picture of Oldroyd, fiercely on the defensive, with his upper lip curled back from his teeth, snarling out ‘King’s Evidence!’ in reply to Morris’s threats on just the same subject some time before. Oldroyd would do that, he would go and blurt out the whole affair to the police, if he were pushed to it by dismissal. At all costs the risk must not be run.
‘Oh, no, sir,’ said Morris, ‘I shouldn’t do that, sir. He’s as good a copy clerk as you’ll get anywhere. I’m quite satisfied with him.’
It irked Morris, the keen advertising man, inexpressibly to stand up in this fashion for the man who was disorganizing the whole office. His hatred of Oldroyd became more embittered than ever in that instant.
‘M’m,’ said Mr Campbell. ‘It’s your funeral, after all; it’s you who has to run the copy room, not me. And I suppose you know Oldroyd better than I do. If you care to put up with him a bit longer I won’t say no. But, mark my words, I don’t think you’re right about him. And the next time he does anything which puts me out, like what happened this morning, it’s the sack for him. You’d better tell him so.’
‘Right,’ said Morris. ‘I will.’
He had no intention whatever of doing so, however.
It is possible that all these accumulated worries had unsettled Morris, or that he would not have been, however advantageously situated, a good en
ough actor to conceal his emotions at this time. Oldroyd glanced sharply round at him as he came back into the copy room; he saw the cloud on Morris’s brow, the thick eyebrows drawn together in the fierce scowl which (Oldroyd was well aware) boded no good to someone. And if Morris were plotting mischief against anyone, the chances were overwhelming that his intended victim was Oldroyd. That, of course, meant nothing particularly novel to Oldroyd. He was well enough aware of Morris’s enmity. He had gone for weeks now with the knowledge that Morris would gladly see him dead. That knowledge, and the oppression of guilt and danger on account of the consequences of Harrison’s murder, had done much towards unsettling Oldroyd in his work. He could not divide his life into watertight compartments as could Morris. He could not shake off his premonition of trouble; it disturbed him and interfered with his capacity for consecutive thought. Then his hatred and dislike for Morris was another disturbing factor. He could not apply himself with any zest at all to work which had been given him by Morris’s thick hands. He even found that he could not work in the same room as Morris.
It would not have been so bad if the work-table had been so arranged that he faced Morris. Oldroyd could stand up to any danger he could see and guard against as well as any man; but it was a strain to sit at his table all day long with the knowledge that Morris was sitting only a few feet behind his back, eyeing him, most probably, and planning mischief. To Oldroyd’s mental eye the pictured form of Morris’s thick-shouldered body swelled sometimes to immense proportions. He seemed to Oldroyd to become like some huge poisonous spider, gorged with blood, crouching at his desk plotting the destruction of further victims. Oldroyd sometimes felt Morris’s gaze piercing into the back of his head. He learned – although he did not know it – the meaning of the expression ‘creeping of the flesh’, for when he had the impression that Morris was staring at him from behind he felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck and the muscles beneath his skin tauten without his volition. It says much for Oldroyd’s fear of unemployment that he was ready to endure this slow torture, and not resign from the office and seek a job in another where he would not be subjected to this kind of trial.
The point was that Oldroyd was influenced by another factor still. His sturdy north-country obstinacy was roused. To leave the office would have been a meek yielding to Morris, because Oldroyd knew that there was nothing Morris would like better than to see him go. Oldroyd’s determination crystallized at the thought. Whatever it cost him, he would cling on to his place in the Universal Advertising Agency, and he would thwart Morris’s plans at every opportunity. No wonder there was small tranquillity in the copy room.
This morning the tension was obvious to everyone. It must have been conveyed telepathically to Howlett and Lamb and Miss Campbell and the others, because they were acutely aware of it. Everyone felt uncomfortable and fidgeted in their chairs. It was with a sigh of relief that Miss Campbell rose to go out to lunch with her father.
‘You can spare my daughter’s services for an hour, Mr Morris, I take it?’ said Mr Campbell with his usual jocularity.
Morris did not display his usual appreciation of Mr Campbell’s kind condescension. He merely nodded, with hardly a glance at his employer. His chin was on his hand, and he was staring straight in front of him at the window, evidently deep in thought. Mr Campbell believed that his thoughts were directed towards the betterment of the Universal Advertising Agency, and was accordingly gratified. But he was wrong; Morris was forming other plans entirely. The creative mood was on him. The few glances he directed at Oldroyd’s back would have told a keen observer the object of the plans he was making.
Morris seemed to come to a decision. He sat back more comfortably in his chair.
‘You can go and get your lunch now, Oldroyd,’ he said ponderously, and, without a word, Oldroyd heaved himself out of his chair and began to put on his overcoat. Those two did not exchange more words than were necessary nowadays. As the door closed behind him Morris rose from his chair as well.
‘I’m going to get my lunch, too,’ he announced. ‘Howlett, you’re in charge. If that bally mustard man comes in tell him I’ll be back at two.’
Then he went out hastily, and, clattering down the stairs in a violent hurry, he overtook Oldroyd just as that young man was turning the corner to walk up the Strand.
‘I wanted to talk to you, old man,’ said Morris.
Oldroyd did not seem in the least delighted to hear it. He looked round at Morris and then continued on his way without a word. But he was thoroughly on his guard. He had seen the look on Morris’s face when the latter emerged from Mr Campbell’s room; more than that Morris was addressing him, ingratiatingly, as ‘old man’, and that, Oldroyd felt instinctively, was a sure indication of approaching trouble. He was keyed up ready to face danger, whatever that danger might be, although even Oldroyd had no idea how pressingly close the danger lay.
‘Old Mac’s cutting up pretty rusty, you know,’ said Morris, striding along beside Oldroyd. ‘He spoke about giving you the sack this morning, and he would have done it, too, if I hadn’t spoken up for you.’
Oldroyd only condescended to answer with a grunt and a quickening of his pace. The pavement was packed with lunch-time crowds, and the two had to thread their way along at the edge of the kerb, while the big red buses roared by at Oldroyd’s elbow – Morris had taken up a position on the inside.
‘Now look here, old man,’ said Morris pleadingly, ‘you mustn’t let us both down like this. It’s dam’ bad for the office when you slack about. You can take it for sure that if old Mac’s noticed it everyone else has, too. It’s bad for both of us.’
‘M’m,’ said Oldroyd; it was barely audible through the roar of the traffic.
‘Try and pull yourself together, old man,’ said Morris. ‘Look at me. I don’t let things interfere with my work, do I? Please, old man—’
He put his big right hand upon Oldroyd’s shoulder and strode along beside him, pushing past the sauntering crowd. The touch of his hand roused Oldroyd’s loathing. He shuddered a little under it, but he made no attempt to throw it off. He was still keyed up, looking for a trap in what Morris was saying, innocent though it appeared.
‘Please, old man,’ said Morris. There was humility in his tone, which set Oldroyd all the more on his guard.
‘Please,’ said Morris, and his hand on Oldroyd’s shoulder moved a little, as though settling itself more firmly. It was that which saved Oldroyd’s life in all probability. Morris had been stealing glances back over his right shoulder. For a space there had been little traffic; now a motor-bus came racing up close to the kerb, not a yard from Oldroyd. As it reached him Morris straightened his arm. It was a straight, well-timed push that he gave him; it would have been just enough, had not Oldroyd been on his guard, to send him off the pavement straight under the wheels of the bus. It would have been simple enough; people step in dozens every month off the pavements of London straight under motor-bus wheels, and the crowded state of the pavement would have appeared ample enough explanation of such a movement by Oldroyd.
Morris gave the thrust and whipped his hand back to his side; it was a carefully thought out movement, and no one of the disinterested crowd would have thought twice about it, not even if a fatal accident had resulted. But Oldroyd was not killed. That momentary settling of Morris’s grip on his shoulder had given him a subconscious warning. He staggered forwards rather than sideways when the thrust came. He reeled for a second on the brink of the kerb. The driver of the bus shouted and tried to swerve, but the danger was over before the driver could have done anything to forestall it. Oldroyd tottered for a moment and then came back well on to the pavement. His eyes met Morris’s, and he turned slightly sick at the glare of bestial ferocity which he perceived there.
Morris opened and shut his mouth, but he could utter no sound. In this early humiliation of his first failure he was not able to act impromptu. He was ready and prepared to be horrif
ied and afflicted when his dear friend was run over, but he could not change his part with ease at this short notice. It was four or five seconds before he had control over himself again.
‘Steady, old man,’ he said; ‘there’ll be an accident if you’re not careful.’
‘What in hell do you mean?’ spluttered Oldroyd.
‘Why,’ said Morris, ‘you nearly walked underneath that bus. You ought to look where you’re going. Really you ought.’
‘But you pushed me!’ expostulated Oldroyd. ‘You pushed me! You devil!’
They were still in the midst of the hurrying crowds of the Strand. Not one of the many scores of passers-by had the least idea that they had very nearly been witnesses of a brutal and well-planned murder. They did not know that the burly flamboyant young man with the tilted bowler had two dreadful crimes on his soul, any more than they knew that he had planned to make the slight little chap with the scrubby moustache beside him his next victim, or any more than they knew that the pair of them were in heated argument about the last attempt.
‘Hold hard,’ said Morris. ‘You mustn’t say such things about me. You mustn’t.’