“Syd?”
“I’m still here.”
“So you carried her out in the carpet.”
“But I buried her in a different place, and they’ll never find it. There go the pips, Alex.”
Alex paid no attention to the pips. “Where’d you bury her, Bartleby?”
“Why should I give them any more clues? I led them to the carpet.”
“Not very accurately, Bartleby. But can we quote you on that? You buried her somewhere else?”
“Yup. Rolled her out and buried her somewhere else.” Sydney loosened his tie in an agony of boredom. “I’ve got to sign off. This has already cost you two half crowns.”
“What did you really tell the police?”
“Alex, I’m tired—”
“Well, Syd, I rang up to say I’m staying home this week to wind up this next script. Hittie’s at Clacton with the kids since Saturday. So if you want to ring me about anything, I’m here.”
“Okay, Alex, thanks. I’ll remember.”
“Shouldn’t be too difficult,” Alex said with a chuckle, “Bye-bye, Syd.”
It was very noble of Alex to spend a week of his two-week vacation alone in London just to work on The Whip, Sydney thought.
He put on his old trousers with an idea of trying to work, but instead flung himself down on the bed in the bedroom. Mrs. Lilybanks was dead, and he was sorry indeed that he had caused that. She had been killed by an attitude, he thought, an attitude on her part: she thought he had killed Alicia, therefore he had come into the house to kill her. This attitude had been caused by his attitude. Both things were quite false, yet had important and very real effects. Mrs. Sneezum had an attitude, one of suspicion. Her conventions were attitudes, too, just as false as heathenism and the worship of pagan gods (or as true), yet since hers tended to maintain law and order and family unity, they were the attitudes this society endorsed. Religions were attitudes, too, of course. It made things so much clearer to call these things attitudes rather than convictions, truths, or faiths. The whole world wagged by means of attitudes, which might as well be called illusions.
He got up and took his brown notebook from the drawer in his table, made a note of what he had been thinking, then took the notebook downstairs and put it in the inside breast pocket of his jacket, beside his wallet.
21
The next morning’s Times, Monday’s, gave the carpet story four inches. Most of the item was devoted to a recapitulation of the circumstances of Alicia’s disappearance. “Her husband, Sydney Bartleby, 29, is an American and a free-lance writer of fiction,” the column concluded dryly, which gave Sydney the feeling the Times thought him also a free-lance inventor of fiction in private life. Never mind, Sydney thought. The carpet might have been empty, but millions of people would fill that carpet in their imaginations, because they wanted to fill it. For example, the readers of the Daily Express, who were often the same people as the readers of the Times.
He went off in the car to the Roncy Noll tobacco and candy shop, which sold newspapers, to buy a Daily Express. The fat proprietor, who had the broadest Suffolk accent of any of the tradesmen, used not a syllable of it in his transaction with Sydney, only handed him his two pennies change from his six-pence with his lower lip firmly clamped over his upper. Mrs. Hawkins had already faithfully made her rounds, Sydney supposed, and reported Mrs. Lilybanks’ death.
Back at home, Sydney seated himself on the sofa and perused the Daily Express’ write-up.
. . . The carpet story came out when Bartleby’s next door neighbor, Mrs. Grace Lilybanks, 73, at last told police what she had seen through her field glasses while bird-watching on the morning of July 3rd . . . If a wife is missing, it would seem unwise for a husband to bury anything, even a mothy carpet. Big Brother may be watching!
Sydney sat down at his desk and went to work on his Paddington Snatchers’ synopsis. Plummer had had the third finished script for nine days, according to Alex’s last note, and a synopsis of the fourth and fifth stories. Sydney felt Plummer might make up his mind before Alex finished his current script, and Sydney wanted to have as many ideas as possible to show, if The Whip was bought. And in America, Sydney’s agent had had The Planners for about a week, and it was probably at Simon and Schuster’s by now. News on that any day now, too, because Sydney had asked his agent to inform him of a rejection as well as an acceptance. He finished his synopsis, and began to break it down in scenes. His breakdown, he thought, couldn’t have been better if Alex had been with him. When he finished it at three, he put a new sheet of paper in the typewriter, and wrote:
ACT ONE
followed by a list of characters and sets, then:
SCENE ONE: A scrofulous exterior of Paddington Rachmanite dwellings.
A series of innocent, everyday incidents, a woman shouts a message from a window to a small boy going off for a pitcher of beer from the local, exchanges gossip with a neighbor also leaning out the window. An old man tries to entice a cruising prostitute upstairs, prostitute refuses to climb stairs. Cut finally to GREEN-O, the sixteen-year-old member of Paddington Terrors, who leans like the others from a window, but gives a message of sinister import.
A robbery was being planned. Within seconds of script time, the Terrors struck in the heart of W 1, using a stolen Rolls-Royce for their approach and getaway. Sydney was on Scene Two and banging away merrily, when a knock came at the door. The laundry, he thought at once, and he hadn’t stripped the bed.
Inspector Brockway stood at the door.
“Afternoon, Mr. Bartleby. Sorry not to have rung first, but I was on the road and didn’t pass a call box. Can you spare a moment?”
“Yes, of course,” Sydney said, opening the door wider.
“Dr. Thwaite refused to give a certificate of natural death for Mrs. Lilybanks last evening,” Brockway said.”I thought I should let you know.”
“What does that mean?”
“That means there’s got to be a post-mortem and an inquest. It means that Dr. Thwaite thinks Mrs. Lilybanks’ death might not have been due to entirely natural causes.”
“Oh. She died of a heart attack—from what I could see.”
“The doctor thinks you might have scared her. Inadvertently, perhaps, but . . . What do you think?”
Sydney knew what the Inspector was driving at, and also knew the police probably hadn’t finished looking for a body in the woods. The policemen were probably digging this minute, because Mrs. Lilybanks’ death had made a body in the woods more likely. “I could have, of course. But I knocked on the door, then called her name as I came in.”
The Inspector drew up a straight chair. “What exactly were you going to tell her?”
“That there was nothing in the carpet. And that I didn’t mind that she’d told you about it. I told you that last night.”
“Yes.” The Inspector looked Sydney up and down quickly, and seemed to be pondering his honesty.
Sydney took a seat on the sofa.
“Well, the weeks go by, and your wife doesn’t communicate.”
Sydney wiped his forehead nervously. “I’m beginning to think she’s with someone—a man—and doesn’t want to admit it. She’d have to admit it, if she came forth now.”
“Or had you rather believe that—now? the Inspector asked in a kindly tone.
“I don’t know what she’s doing for money unless she’s with someone. Or working under another name, but I don’t think that’s likely.”
“M-m. I had a look through the binoculars from Mrs. Lilybanks’ window also,” said the Inspector. “At dusk one evening. It might be possible to make a mistake about what was in a large carpet—something or nothing.”
“Well—what did Mrs. Lilybanks say she saw?”
“Oh, if she’d said she saw anything, I’d have told you,” said the Inspector,
showing his teeth briefly. “She said later, she supposed something could have been in the carpet. But she was that kind of woman, you know, reluctant to tell me of the carpet in the first place, consequently very reluctant to tell me of any unpleasant doubts she may have had.”
Sydney was calm now, listening.
“You might have carried a body out in the carpet, and buried the body somewhere else.”
“I suppose that’s possible. But not the same morning, as I said before. I’d have been too tired. Two holes, you know.”
Inspector Brockway smiled patiently. “Why do you say, ‘I suppose that’s possible’? Your answers are strange.”
“The story is possible. But not for me physically . . . Are they still digging in the woods?”
“We’re still digging, yes. I’m afraid from the police point of view, that’s the logical thing to do. We’re still looking in Brighton and vicinity, of course.”
“And maybe the logical thing for me to do is look in Brighton and vicinity, too. If she’s changed her hair-do, I think I’d be more likely to recognize her than anybody else.”
“That is a point.”
Sydney felt disappointingly uninsulted by the Inspector’s attitude. He was reacting with impatience rather than guilt, and impatience was useless for his murderer’s notes, he thought. Or was it? “Would you have any objections if I went to Brighton for a few days?”
“Not if you kept in touch with the police there. Give me a ring first. If I’m not in, I’ll leave a message at Ipswich Headquarters. By the way, we should have the result of the post-mortem tomorrow at eleven, if you’re interested.”
Sydney really wasn’t, but he nodded politely. “Thank you.”
Sydney went back to work after Brockway left. At 6:45, just before the newspaper shop closed at seven, he drove to Roncy Noll to see what the Evening Standard had to say about the digging. If they were still digging, the reporters should be interested, he thought.
He was right. There was an article on page four, with a large picture of a police officer in shirtsleeves digging in the woods, and an unflattering picture of the Bartleby house, so dim and drab, it could easily be imagined the setting of a murder. The dustbin in foreground was a particularly sordid touch. Much was made over the depth at which he had buried the carpet, as well as the fact the police were unsatisfied and still digging. The Daily Express would no doubt carry on tomorrow morning. Sydney thought it strange the Sneezums hadn’t rung up about this, and then supposed they were leaving it entirely in the hands of the police.
The telephone was ringing when he got home.
The man’s voice on the other end said that he represented the Daily Express, and could he come to see Sydney? He was ringing from a call box near Roncy Noll.
“Sorry, not this evening and not tomorrow either.”
“If you’re innocent, sir, and I have no doubt you are, then a good newspaper story would help you. The Daily Express would like to be the first—”
“I have nothing to say besides what I’ve told the police.”
“The situation now doesn’t look so—comfortable for you, sir. I’ve spent the afternoon with the police in those woods.”
“Then make up a story from what they told you.”
“Have you any statement to make on the death of your neighbor, Mrs. Lilybanks, sir?”
Sydney put the telephone down.
He was up early the next morning, and went to the village for a Daily Express. This time, three early risers, one man and two women, stared at him in the shop as he waited to pay. The women edged away from him, but the man stood his ground boldly. Sydney knew them all only by sight, and perhaps he’d said good morning once or twice to all of them in the past, but there was no question of that now. Though one of the women smiled timidly, Sydney imagined her thinking with the others, “Murderer . . . The police are digging this minute for his wife’s body . . . The gravedigger of Roncy Noll . . .” Once more the buttoned lip from the fat proprietor. Sydney had forgotten his change in a pair of trousers at home, and had to break a ten-shilling note. A lad on the sidewalk, parking his bike, looked at Sydney with straightforward interest from under his tousled hair, however, and almost smiled. Sydney smiled at him, and then the boy smiled in return.
He went home before he opened the paper. He found an item five inches long about Mrs. Lilybanks’ doctor refusing to sign a certificate of natural death, because “in the best of my opinion, she was in quite good health, even so far as her heart went, on Sunday, August 14th, and I see no reason for her to have dropped dead without some external cause.”
Sydney Bartleby (the item continued), her next door neighbor, stated that he called on her Sunday evening for the purpose of informing her that the police had found nothing in the now famous buried carpet . . . Police authorities are still digging in the vicinity for a possible body, as Mrs. Alicia Bartleby has been missing since July 2nd. The sixty-hour search of the woods has so far revealed nothing.
Sydney spent the rest of the day and evening advancing his script of The Paddington Snatchers.
On Wednesday, Sydney drove to Ipswich, deposited his car in a parking lot, got twenty pounds from the bank, and took a train to London. He carried an overnight bag which actually belonged to Alicia, but was not too feminine for a man to carry. He thought he might be away two or three nights. In London, he realized he hadn’t rung Brockway, so he did this. The Inspector was not available at the Ipswich station, but the message was awaiting him: Call at the police station in King Street, Brighton, and speak to a Mr. MacIntosh. An appropriate name for a police officer, Sydney thought, and the Mister before his name implied a high rank indeed in the English system, or at least it did in regard to doctors, Sydney knew.
Sydney had to go from Liverpool to Victoria Station, which he did by bus and very slowly in traffic snarls, because he didn’t care when he got to Brighton. As much chance of spotting Alicia in a restaurant at 8 P.M. as there was on the beach in midafternoon, but Sydney didn’t think she was in Brighton proper, not with the police concentrating there. At Victoria, with a forty-five-minute wait until the next fast train, he telephoned Alex to see if there was any news about The Whip.
“What’re you doing in London?”
“I’m on my way to Brighton to join the search for Alicia,” Sydney answered. “I’m calling to see if you heard anything from Plummer.”
“Yes, old chum! It came in this morning. They bought it.”
“Good. And the price?”
“Eight hundred quid per story.”
“Um-m. Average, but I’m not complaining. I hope you’re still working madly?”
“Madly. Uh—you haven’t a few minutes to come by, have you?”
“I’d rather not. I want to get going. What’s on your mind?”
“Well—this whole police business. You know, Syd—it’s a wonder it went down so well at Granada.”
“What do you mean?” But as soon as Sydney asked, he knew.
“Your name’s on the script, too. What if you land in jail, old man?”
“I’m not going to land in jail. After all, suspicion isn’t jail,” Sydney said defensively.
“No, maybe not, but suppose it gets worse?”
“It’s not going to get any worse. That’s why I’m going to Brighton, to spot my errant wife.”
“Oh. Ring me from Brighton, would you? Call me collect, if it’s not convenient from where you are.”
“Okay,” Sydney said without enthusiasm. Then his spirits rose at the thought of their sale. “We’re set now, Alex. Have you told Hittie?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Bye-bye, Alex.”
“Bye-bye.”
Of course, Alex had rung Hittie. But he hadn’t rung him, though Sydney had been at home until nearly eleven. Sydney suspected what was o
n Alex’s mind. Alex was thinking that if he got into worse trouble, The Whip could be stopped, or The Whip would belong entirely to Alex. Or was it true Alex was thinking that? Sydney frowned. Take it easy, wait and see, he told himself. He walked slowly, with his overnight bag, toward platform nine from which the Brighton train would depart. So this is what it felt like to be successful, to have made a big money sale—comparatively speaking. Alex was certainly chirping about it. Sydney felt awful. The city drew him as if by force of its own mass, and he turned around. Who else could he telephone? Carpie and Inez, of course. He had to get more pennies from a newsstand. It took a long time.
Within two minutes, he had arranged to go to Inez’s and Carpie’s. Inez was out. Sydney took a taxi, because their place was such a long way from any bus stop.
Carpie, in sandals and a shapeless housedress, opened the door for him. “Welcome, Sydney! Come in and sit. It’s the children’s hour on the living-room floor. You won’t mind, will you?”
“Oh, no,” Sydney said pleasantly.
Two blankets were spread on the floor, reminding Sydney of the picnic, but now the babies were pushing plastic toys around instead of food.
“Can I get you some coffee, Syd?”
“Oh, no, thanks.”
“Sit down.”
He did, to get out of the way, sit down on the studio couch.
“Or a sherry? That’s all the house boasts just now. Boasts? You should taste it, yet.”
“Nothing, thanks. I won’t stay more than ten minutes,” Sydney said, though he thought he’d nearly miss the next train, anyway, and have another hour’s wait.
Carpie sat down on a square hassock of yellow leather. “How long will you be in Brighton?”
“Two or three days, I imagine. Enough to give it a good look. I think I can do a better job of looking than the police.”
“Tell me. About this digging. What’s up?” Carpie chuckled throatily. The hassock sagged under her great weight. It was astounding that anyone could be so mature in a womanly way at twenty-four, which was all she was. In fact, Carpie preferred to say she was a little older.