“Professional standing? A silly television series?” Edward had heard through Vassily, who had heard through Inez and Carpie, that Sydney had sold The Whip.
“You told me he wrote books.”
Alicia was not thinking about Sydney. She gazed miserably across the room at her best painting, the best and biggest she had ever done in her life—six by eight feet, an abstract of sea and flowers. With Edward, she could paint. Somehow his solidity, his very conservatism, brought out her imagination more than Sydney’s kinkiness ever had. She knew the kind of life Edward led, knew the kind of friends he had, the kind of house he kept, with good antique furniture in it and a daily who kept things waxed and dusted. She hadn’t seen his flat, but she could imagine it. That was the kind of life she wanted, the kind she had been brought up to lead, after all, just as her mother said. Now, because of Sydney’s antics, that lovely future with Edward was spoiled, could never start smoothly, if it ever started at all. What excuse could she make for herself, that was the main thing. That she had been afraid of Sydney? That was the only halfway honorable out. What she most of all dreaded was that the police would insist on knowing where and how she had hidden herself away for two months, under what names and with whom. Her parents would never forgive her. And it would ruin Edward’s career.
“I can’t go back, Edward,” Alicia said, and put her face down in her hands on her lap. “I can’t face it.”
24
Of the two problems, Alicia and Alex, Alicia seemed the bigger. When Sydney tried to think about Alex, Alicia intruded, and forced Sydney to think about something he had always shrugged off, taken for granted, and tried not to think about. That was the relationship between Alicia and himself. He had been loyal to Alicia during the year and ten months of their marriage. Because he had not thought about it before, Sydney did not know if he had been loyal because he really loved Alicia, because there had been no temptation, or because he was naturally loyal. Sydney had always supposed natural loyalty was an attribute more of women than of men. He had seen lots of pretty girls, even met them at parties, and had thought briefly of how it would be to go to bed with a few of them, but it had never crossed his mind to make any efforts in that direction. He had even said to Alicia a few times, “Gosh, isn’t so-and-so a knock-out? and Alicia hadn’t been jealous, and Sydney hadn’t expected her to be. Alicia had said now and then, “Don’t you think so-and-so’s attractive? He’s what I’d call my type—if I had a type,” and she’d smile at Sydney, and that had always been the end of it. Sydney had taken it for granted Alicia was loyal, because she was very conventional really, and had been rather primly brought up. Women like her just didn’t have extramarital affairs, he thought, unless something went awfully wrong with their marriage, or with them. Since Alicia seemed fairly all right in the head—though a bit neurotic—Sydney had to conclude something had gone horribly wrong with their marriage. They had certainly used to make love more often than they had in the past six months, but that was of course a result not a cause of anything. Sydney had been worried about money and about his writing. The Planners had piled up five rejections in England, and that hit not only at the bank account but at the ego, which hit the bed department. He couldn’t muster much passion, or even affection, for anyone, if his ego was low. And one of his theories was that murderers had little or no sex life. Well, he wasn’t a murderer and he certainly had a sex drive and a sex life, but since he had been trying to imagine that he had killed Alicia, he’d had no stirrings toward her or anyone else. Not even toward Prissie Holloway; he had simply appreciated her, he felt. He thought of making a note about all this, then remembered the lost notebook. He went upstairs and looked around the bedroom, then in his study, even in the desk drawer where he used to keep it. He looked under the bed. Definitely, he had lost it somewhere outside the house. He went into his study and made the note about Prissie and himself on a piece of paper which he put into the drawer.
Then he went downstairs and opened his bag which was still in the middle of the floor, and carried his three dirty shirts to the laundry basket in the corner of the junkroom beyond the living room. It was 11:20 P.M. Saturday night. He got the London directory for the T’s from the telephone table, and tried Edward S. Tilbury of Sloane Street.
No answer. He hadn’t expected any, and yet it bothered him, that meaningful emptiness of the flat in Sloane Street. It was bound to be the right Tilbury, Sydney thought, because the other three Tilburys were a dentist, a resident of a Camden Town street, and the Maida Vale dweller who hadn’t answered when Sydney rang from Sumner Downs. It could be the Maida Vale Tilbury, but Sloane Street was more likely. Sydney felt as he listened to the futile rings in Sloane Street that he really loved Alicia, and maybe loved her all the more because he had taken her for granted—just as perhaps she had taken him for granted, and Sydney didn’t mind that she had. He had taken it for granted that they loved each other, despite their quarrels, and they still did love each other, he felt. He hung up. Maybe Alicia was thinking the same things he was at this minute. Maybe her happy face had been an act she put on for Tilbury, or to try to convince herself.
But what were her intentions now, he wondered, to keep on hiding out until he got into a worse mess? Was that her way of getting back at him? And meanwhile, what should he do? Tell the police he had seen her, and where he had seen her? Should he tell them now, or two days from now, or in a week? Should he write to Mrs. Leamans, Angmering, and tell her he knew all, and would she like to come back to him or not? He could write that he forgave her, if she’d forgive him, forgive his foul quarreling and his practical jokes, and would she like to come back? Yes, he wanted her back, if she wanted him, and he could swallow his pride enough to ask her. Sydney was staring out the window, and suddenly the scene of unkempt lawn, picket fence (mended by him, painted white by Alicia), the old croquet mallet poking out from below a bushy hedge, the maligned dustbin with its lid askew, seemed to writhe with a life of its own like a Van Gogh landscape, and it was at once filled with Alicia and with her absence.
Sydney decided to let the Alicia situation go for twenty-four hours, and if possible to solve the Polk-Faraday dilemma. For twenty-four hours, he could imagine he had killed two people, Alicia and Mrs. Lilybanks, and imagine what the world thought of him, or suspected. And after twenty-four hours, he would have wrung that idea dry of what it might furnish in the way of story material, then he would decide what to do and act on it. If Alicia said she didn’t want to come back to him, he could at least help her to start divorce proceedings, which he was sure she was too afraid to begin herself.
He took some coffee up to his study and sat thinking. He tried to imagine Hittie’s attitude. She ought to disapprove of Alex’s stand, if Alex were honest enough to tell her what he’d said. On the other hand, one could never overestimate the loyalty of a wife, be her husband pimp, picklock, or priest married on the sly. Hittie might rationalize and join forces with Alex. Or she might really believe, as Alex was pretending to believe, that he had done Alicia in, and Mrs. Lilybanks, too, and might believe The Whip stories would be interrupted or even never get started. The first show would be sometime in October, Plummer had told Sydney and Alex weeks ago, if the series was bought. The thing to do, Sydney supposed, was talk to a lawyer, or directly to Plummer. The situation didn’t seem to be bothering Plummer now, and Sydney wished he’d had the wit to point that out to Alex in London. Alex giving him a deadline, an ultimatum! Of all the cheek, as Alex would say. Sydney got up from his desk and prepared for bed.
The tranquillity of Sunday morning and the newspapers was broken by a telephone call from Inspector Brockway. He had heard from Brighton that Sydney was back, and he “wanted to check” with Sydney.
“I heard you had a fruitless search,” said the Inspector.
“I’m afraid so,” said Sydney, a little amused by the word fruitless.
“May I come by and see you for a few minutes some
time this afternoon?” the Inspector asked.
They agreed upon between two thirty and three.
Sydney decided to serve tea, though it was early for tea. Tea would give a relaxed, domestic atmosphere to the unrelaxed and undomestic Bartleby household.
Inspector Brockway, in flannel plus fours and the blue and brown tweed jacket today, began pleasantly by congratulating Sydney on the sale of his Whip series.
“Thank you,” Sydney said. “How did you hear about it?”
“Your friend Mr. Polk-Faraday rang me up—oh—Friday morning, I think it was. Your collaborator, it seems.”
“He’s sort of a playwright, yes. More than I am, anyway.”
“He was a little worried about whether you’d be able to continue with the series, in case the situation worsens.”
Sydney looked at the Inspector, who was rubbing his chin and staring at the floor as if he were talking of the weather worsening, of something incontrollable. “Well—has it worsened?” Sydney asked.
“No, but it is out in the open now, you might say. Even though there’s not something about your wife or you or Mrs. Lilybanks in the papers every day—not in all the papers, that is—the subject is not going to be dropped until your wife is found, dead or alive.”
“Haven’t there been cases of people who successfully disappeared forever? We have a couple of famous ones in the States. Judge Crater. Never found dead or alive.” He heard the kettle prepare to shriek.
“Yes, of course. We have them, too. But in this case we may need—simply closer investigation. Harder looking, if you like.”
They could use a bit of that, Sydney thought. The kettle’s note was ascending. He jumped up. “Excuse me, Inspector. I thought you might like a cup of tea.”
“Thank you,” said the Inspector. He brought his hand up to his mouth and gave a crate-breaking cough.
Sydney scalded the pot, measured the tea in teaspoons, just as Alicia would have done, except that there was no lemon to slice. He carried the tea in on a tray. After a proper interval, Sydney poured a cup for the Inspector and himself. Sugar. Milk. The Inspector took both.
“Your friend Mr. Polk-Faraday implied—or rather said, that there were some things that worried him. Have you any idea what he means?”
Sydney looked at the Inspector and shrugged slightly. “No.”
“If you think he means anything specific, I’d rather hear it from you than from him.”
Sydney rather doubted that. Why should he? “I don’t know what he could know that I haven’t told you. I mean about where my wife said she was going. It could be that she talked to Alex and said something else. Is that what he means?”
“I don’t know what he means,” said Inspector Brockway, watching Sydney closely.
Here Sydney permitted himself to register concern, nervousness. Or rather, he did register nervousness automatically, rattling his teaspoon in his saucer, sitting forward on the edge of the sofa. “Did he say Alicia had said something to him?”
“No. That he didn’t. It was more like a situation, I gathered. The situation here at home before she disappeared.”
Sydney passed a hand across his forehead and reached for a cigarette.
“The Polk-Faradays were frequent guests when your wife was here, I gather.”
“Oh—Once a month, something like that.”
“Even when you and Mr. Polk-Faraday were collaborating?”
“Yes. We did a lot of that by post. Still do.”
“Um. But if he heard you make any threats toward your wife, or overheard any quarrels, it’d be better if you told me about them.”
Oh, come, Sydney thought. Not better at all, possibly worse. The Inspector wanted to compare his story with Alex’s, that was all. “I’m sure the Polk-Faradays overheard a quarrel or two,” Sydney said. “There was one night I remember when Alicia dropped a glass and I shouted at her. Pretty loudly.”
“Did you ever strike your wife?”
“Yes,” Sydney said solemnly. “Once or twice. But not severely.”
“Did Polk-Faraday ever see you strike her?”
“No. At least I don’t think so. I don’t think we ever had any serious quarrels while the Polk-Faradays were here.”
“What do you mean by a serious quarrel?”
“One in which I hit her. Or one that goes on for a few days.” Sydney gripped his hand with the cigarette with his other hand. His trembling was genuine, but he was not trembling because of what they were talking about. He was thinking of Alicia with Edward Tilbury.
“I wish you’d talk to me about what’s worrying you,” said the Inspector in a kindly tone.
Sydney absolutely couldn’t have done that, and the thought almost made him smile. “Naturally—I’m worried about what Polk-Faraday might say to you. He wants The Whip series. He asked me yesterday to agree to a forty-sixty percent split in his favor. Or else he’d tell some stories to the police, he said.”
“Really? True stories?”
“I don’t know. I doubt it.”
“What stories could he tell me that are true?”
“I don’t know—except a couple about quarrels I had with my wife.”
“If he tells me anything, you may be sure I’ll check it with you before I believe it or pass it on,” Inspector Brockway promised, and set down his cup. “There’s one other matter which turned up while you were in Brighton. A notebook you left in the newspaper shop here in Roncy Noll.”
Sydney’s start was practically a shudder, and his tea slopped into his saucer. It wasn’t the notebook, but the place, and that suspicious proprietor. He remembered now, breaking a ten-bob note there the morning of the day before he left for Brighton. Sydney pushed his fingers, damp with tea, through his hair, and said, “Oh, yes, I wondered where I’d lost that.” And the proprietor must have seen him not pick it up from a stack of newspapers, Sydney thought, and had decided not to call his attention to it, because he wanted to have a look at it.
“Mr. Tucker said he would have returned it to you that day, but you weren’t home.”
“No,” Sydney said, but he had been home that day, and left for Brighton the next day. “It’s—well, it’s not important, just some notes. Notes for stories.”
The Inspector smiled understandingly. “Mr. Tucker thought it was a diary. Of course, it looks like a diary, with the dates in it.”
Sydney glanced at the pockets of the Inspector’s jacket. He didn’t see the notebook.
“Notes for fiction, you say?”
“Yes. Imaginary, all of it,” Sydney said, realizing once again that the truth sounded guilty as sin.
“Some sounds like fiction and some doesn’t. However, considering you’re a writer, it could all be fiction, I suppose. That’s not the way the average person would take it—like Mr. Tucker—the account of the murder, pushing her down the stairs and all that.” The Inspector smiled quickly, and pressed large, knuckly hands together.
“Yes. Well, as you probably gathered, I was trying to imagine all of it.”
“Some of it, yes, certainly sounds imaginary. Well, for safety’s sake, we have the notebook at headquarters in Ipswich. No one has seen it but me up to now, except Mr. Tucker and his wife. Nevertheless, considering the nature of it, Mr. Bartleby, I’m afraid I must show it to Inspector Hill who’s coming down from London next week. The Sneezums have insisted on Scotland Yard looking in.”
Sydney grimaced and stood up. “May I pour you some more tea, Inspector?” he asked, reaching for the pot.
“No, thank you very much. I must be off. Golf appointment at four o’clock over at Aldeburgh.” He stood up also. “I’ll say good afternoon, Mr. Bartleby, and thank you for the tea.”
“Good afternoon, Inspector.” Sydney watched him walk along the short stretch of driveway
to the road where his conservative black car stood, a bag of golf clubs visible in the back seat. Sydney closed his own door.
An hour later, Inez called. “I had a hunch you’d be home. When’d you get back?”
“Last night. In answer to your first question, I had no luck,” Sydney said, feeling he had to ward off the question.
“Oh, Syd,” she said sympathetically. “Well, my gosh, if the police can’t find her and they’ve got a whole platoon at work . . . You didn’t happen to see Edward Tilbury?”
Sydney laughed. “If I’d seen him, I’d have followed him.”
“Because Carpie and I found out he’s not home much lately. Especially weekends.”
“Really. Tell me, is he the Tilbury in Sloane Street?”
“Yes, I think so. I remember Vassily mentioning Sloane Street. Carpie and I didn’t make a big point of it, but we asked a couple of people how he was, because we hadn’t seen him in quite a while, and we heard he’s away every weekend. He told Vassily he’s visiting friends in Surrey or Sussex somewhere. It’s like playing detective, you know?” Inez chuckled. “And as Sherlock Holmes would say, maybe it isn’t logical to draw a conclusion just from this, but there’s something you could do, Syd, if you’re really interested, and that’s trail him from his house one weekend, see what train he catches and maybe go with him. Or trail him from his office. They can’t arrest you for trailing somebody.”
“No.” Sydney hated the conversation. “Inez, if the police talk to you and Carpie again, I’d just as soon you wouldn’t mention Tilbury. First of all, we don’t know, and it isn’t at all wise to—”
“But they could find out if it’s true. Easier than we could. It’d help you.”
“I realize that, but—it’s hard to explain over the telephone, and I don’t mean to be telling you what to do, but—” Now he was almost in a sweat. “I’d just appreciate it if you say you still don’t know any more than you did a month ago.”