A Suspension of Mercy

  “Hello?” Sydney said.

  “Mr. Bartleby? Inspector Hill here.”

  “Yes?” eagerly.

  “Can you come up to London this afternoon around six, Mr. Bartleby? I’d like to see you earlier, but I’m busy until then.”

  “Well—I’m busy also and expecting a couple of important telephone calls today. Would tomorrow—”

  “I’m sorry,” Inspector Hill interrupted in a tone that brooked no refusal.

  That, at 10 A.M., ruined Sydney’s day.

  The telephone did not ring again before he set out, early and restless, for Ipswich a little after three. He was in the foulest of moods—depressed, discouraged, and angry. Alicia had better surrender today or else, Sydney thought. And he had a vision of himself storming into the Lancing cottage or whatever they had there, dragging Alicia out by the hair, and throwing a punch en route at Tilbury with his free hand. He might go down to Lancing after the police interview today. Or if they got unpleasant enough at Scotland Yard, he’d give them the address of Mr. and Mrs. Leamans. Lancing, simple as that. Let the police do the rest.

  In the Ipswich station, Sydney wandered over to the newsstand after buying his ticket. He looked at the Evening Standard headline, MYSTERY WOMAN FOUND DEAD, and at the picture of a cliff with an arrow pointing to a light-colored blob at the bottom. The cliff was near Lancing, Sydney read below. He bought the paper. The story was on the front page also.

  It had happened late last night, the police believed, but the body had not been noticed until mid-morning.

  Then with a terrible pang in his chest, Sydney read the lines that confirmed his guess:

  Inhabitants of Lancing identified the dead woman as Mrs. Eric Leamans who had recently taken a furnished villa with her husband in the town. Mr. Leamans was not at the villa. Inspection of the villa disclosed only Mrs. Leamans’ clothing, none of her husband, and no papers that might have established her identity which is now in question, Mrs. Leamans’ hair was blond but tinted red, and this fact plus the initials A.B. on a keyring in her skirt pocket has led police to believe she may be Alicia Bartleby, 26, missing from her Suffolk home since July 2nd last. No handbag was found near her body or in the villa. Police are continuing enquiries as this goes to press.

  The story must have been broadcast on the radio since noon, and they must know by now that it was Alicia—even if her face had been badly damaged, Sydney thought, and winced.

  Had she jumped? Or had Tilbury pushed her?

  Mr. Leamans was not at the villa. He had evidently cleared himself out. Or had Alicia had a couple of drinks on a lonely night, in a blue funk about whether to go home to her parents or to stick it out a little longer, and thrown herself over the cliff? Sydney couldn’t imagine Alicia getting herself into such a state. But he could imagine Tilbury wanting her to give it up before she was found out—rather before he was found out and sacked from his posh job, and Sydney could imagine Alicia resisting that. They might have been having some fine battles. If Tilbury had pushed her, and was trying to get away with it, it was absolutely hopeless. Sydney gloated grimly over the welter of things that would trip him: fingerprints all over the house, the description of him by Lancing people, his steady absence from London lately on weekends, worst of all his attempt to clear the house of identifiable items. Since no pocketbook was found, it sounded as if Tilbury had been around last night, and he must have been in an absolute panic to be so stupid as to run. Sydney wondered if he had gone back to London last night and reported for work today as usual.

  Tilbury might have got through the day a little nervously, but still a free, unquestioned man. Sydney looked at his watch. Ten past four. In an hour or so, Tilbury might be on his way from his office to his flat in Sloane Street, if the police didn’t get onto his trail by then, and why, particularly, should they so soon? It was even conceivable that they wouldn’t get onto his trail at all, if Vassily and Carpie and Inez didn’t choose to talk.

  Sydney cursed Tilbury as he boarded his train. Whatever had happened in Lancing, Tilbury had mucked it up. He was suddenly glad to be going to London. He might be just a little late getting to Scotland Yard.

  On the train, he planned and replanned. Ideas built in his mind like clouds piling up in the sky, and just as quickly blew themselves away. It was lovely, planning, and his thoughts shot like lightning through the nebulous visions.

  His final plan was not quite safe—what plan was?—but a little daring would carry the day, he thought. He felt he had a nine out of ten chance to succeed, which was to say, to accomplish what he wanted to do without interruption, if he acted immediately. If he were interrupted before he began, then he was safe also. To be interrupted during it was not so safe, and would come under the heading of bad luck.

  He was in London by 5:20, and took a Kensington bus outside Liverpool Station. In Knightsbridge, he stopped at a chemist’s shop and bought, casually from a counter display, a large bottle of sedatives called Dormor. They were probably not strong at all, but it was the best he could do without a prescription, and he was hoping Tilbury might have something stronger at home. The chemist’s shop was busy, and he thought he wouldn’t be remembered. Sydney hoped he wouldn’t have to cut Tilbury’s wrists in the bargain, if Tilbury didn’t have anything stronger at home. Sydney wasn’t sure he could.

  By now, it was nearly six. Sydney walked into Sloane Street, and began to look for the number. It was a medium-sized building of four stories with two small formal stone pillars flanking the front door. Five names on the bell register, and one of them was E. S. TILSBURY. Sydney walked out on the pavement and looked in both directions to see if Dapper Dan were possibly in view, but he wasn’t. Sydney pressed the bell.

  No answer, and Sydney waited a good long while.

  He rang again, two firm blasts.

  At last, the release button came, and Sydney went into a polished, ornate foyer with carpeted stairs beyond. It was possible the police were with Tilbury now, Sydney thought, in which case, he’d just have dropped by to speak to Tilbury, because of rumors he had heard. The pills were out of sight in Sydney’s jacket pocket.

  Tilbury leaned over the stairwell. “Wha—who is it?”

  “Me. Sydney,” Sydney said pleasantly. Tilbury was on the third floor. “Good evening, Edward.”

  A woman came out of a doorway on the second floor with a dog on a leash, glanced at Sydney, and went on past. Bad luck, Sydney thought.

  Tilbury straightened and stepped back. His door was open behind him. He looked frightened and startled, and Sydney saw that he was drunk, or else in a very bad state of nerves. Tilbury’s jacket was unbuttoned, also his collar, and he had slid his tie down.

  “Got time for a few minutes’ talk?” Sydney said.

  “Yes—I suppose so. My goodness, yes. In fact—I wanted to speak to you.” Tilbury’s not very tall figure swayed a little as he walked through his apartment door.

  Sydney followed him into an impeccably neat, formal living room with Oriental carpet, books, and table lamps that looked like the Victoria and Albert Museum. Firewood was stacked by the black-and-gray marble fireplace so primly it didn’t look burnable. A half-finished highball stood on the coffee table beside an ashtray in which a dozen cigarette butts lay.

  “Of course you know about Alicia,” Tilbury said, glancing at Sydney with desperate, pinkish eyes.

  “Of course,” Sydney said.

  “Would you care to sit down?” Tilbury asked, gesturing toward the green satin sofa.

  “No.”

  Tilbury looked at him uneasily, started toward his highball glass, stopped, and opened his hands. “I . . . Excuse my—” He slid his tie up and adjusted his collar on his rather plump neck. “I came home from the office today about three. Couldn’t stand it any longer. I’m afraid I’ve had a few drinks.”

  “Oh—think nothing o
f it,” Sydney said. He was standing about five feet from Tilbury.

  Tilbury picked up his glass. “Oh, forgive me. Would you like a drink?”

  “No,” Sydney said with a slight smile. “Go right ahead.”

  Tilbury looked at the floor. “I owe you an apology. I mean, an explanation, of course. It’s very nearly done me in—last night. You see, last night—” He glanced up at Sydney. “I went chasing out into the night after Alicia. She was in a dreadful state, and I tried to get her to go home to her parents’ house. I mean, I’d tried to get her to before. Many times. She’d had too much to drink last night before I got there. She was unusually upset. Something had happened, she said, but she wouldn’t tell me what. Then she dashed out. I lost her for a while in the darkness. She was on that road that goes along the shore. I caught up with her—once—and actually had her by the hand, but she broke away again. She ran and threw herself off the cliff before I could do anything about it.” Edward’s free hand opened limply as he finished and looked at Sydney.

  Sydney did not know whether to believe him or not. If Tilbury had had her by the hand, why had he let her go? Because he wanted to let her go? Or was the story a cover-up for Tilbury’s having pushed her?

  “I don’t know what they’ll think of me at the office,” Tilbury mumbled, loosened his tie once more, and drank from his glass.

  The office was of course uppermost in Tilbury’s mind. “So you ran away. Last night,” Sydney said.

  “Well—”

  “Oh, I can understand, really. You tried to remove all the signs of yourself from the house.”

  “I was in a state of shock last night. It—might not have been the right thing to do, but I really didn’t know what I was doing.” Tilbury’s eyes seemed to plead for Sydney’s approval, or his forgiveness.

  “Well—the police haven’t questioned you yet, have they?”

  “No, and I—well, I hope they don’t. I’m horribly sorry about all this. I loved Alicia, you know. I never wished any harm to come to her. On the contrary, I—I tried to convince her we were getting you into trouble. Rather, she was, because she wouldn’t go back to her family. But Alicia’s death was none of my fault. I’d have saved her, if I could have done. Whereas if I’m dragged into it now, my career is ruined. Quite unnecessarily, you see.” Again the pink eyes looked at Sydney.

  “Oh, I don’t think you’re going to be dragged into it.”

  Tilbury looked at him in a puzzled, dubious way. Fatigue had made little puffy bags under his eyes, forerunners of what he would have in middle age, if he had been going to reach middle age. Tilbury was pale, his forehead glossy with a fine sweat. He went to replenish his glass from a bar cart in a corner of the room.

  “Does anyone else know about you and Alicia?” Sydney asked.

  “I don’t know,” Tilbury said with a glance at Sydney over his shoulder. “Some people might suspect. I’m not sure they’d say anything.”

  “You need a sedative, Edward. Put a sleeping pill or two in that drink.”

  “What?” Tilbury turned with his drink.

  “Sleeping pills. Have you some?”

  Edward smiled foolishly. “Yes, but—I don’t need them now. I take one before I go to bed. Didn’t do me much good last night.”

  “Try one now. I insist,” Sydney said, walking toward Tilbury.

  Tilbury didn’t know what to make of it. He stepped to one side as Sydney advanced.

  “Where are they? In the bathroom? Get them,” Sydney said.

  “Yes.” Tilbury walked obediently toward a door that led off from the living room. “I don’t really need them now.”

  “Yes, you do,” said Sydney, following him.

  In the bathroom, Tilbury opened the medicine cabinet door, hesitated, and said, “Looks as if I took the last one last night.” He closed the cabinet.

  Sydney opened it, and saw three or four plastic containers of pills among many little bottles. One with yellow pills in it looked promising because it was in front. “Aren’t these sleeping pills?” he asked, lifting the container out.

  “No,” said Edward, in a way that told Sydney they were.

  Sydney gave him a look.

  “Well, yes, they are,” Edward said with a fuzzy, frightened smile.

  Sydney shook one out on his palm, extended it, and said, “You need it.”

  “Oh, no.” Tilbury shook his head.

  Sydney grabbed him by the front of his jacket. “Take it or I’ll smash you to a pulp.”

  Trembling, Edward took it from Sydney’s palm, and put it into his mouth. He drank it with his highball.

  “Take another. Two’re better than one.”

  Tilbury demurred at the second on Sydney’s palm, but Sydney shoved his palm closer, his fingertips touching Tilbury’s chest, and Tilbury took it and swallowed it.

  “There.” Sydney smiled. “You’ll feel better now. Much better for you than scotch.” He walked out of the bathroom with the container of pills.

  Tilbury came back into the living room.

  “Sit down,” Sydney said.

  Tilbury was looking at the telephone. Sydney stood between him and the telephone. Then Tilbury turned and ran for the door.

  Sydney caught him before he touched it, and jerked him back with a strength that surprised himself and made Tilbury’s neck snap. “You see how nervous you are. Take a couple of these right now.” Sydney put his back to the door, and poured two more pills onto his palm.

  Tilbury scowled at him.

  “Come on, no nonsense, take them,” Sydney said.

  Then Tilbury shrugged and said with an eerily successful attempt at unconcern, “You’ll only make me sick and I’ll throw them up.” He took them from Sydney’s palm.

  “Go sit down on the sofa,” Sydney said.

  Tilbury took a minute to cross the room in a slow, weaving way, as if he were debating every step. He picked up his glass from the coffee table, glanced at Sydney who had followed him, and swallowed the pills. Then he sat down on the sofa with a resigned, amused air.

  Sydney held the container up to see how many more pills were left—about thirty, he thought—and Tilbury got up and made a wobbling dash for the telephone. Sydney grabbed Tilbury’s wrist and twisted it, then put the telephone back in its cradle.

  “Nine nine nine will get you nowhere,” Sydney said, and shoved Edward back toward the sofa. He had a desire to beat Tilbury to a pulp now, but he realized that wasn’t the way. He also realized his fingerprints were on the telephone, but he was going to use the telephone in a few minutes. “Sit down,” Sydney said.

  Tilbury sat down uneasily on the sofa.

  Sydney went to the bar cart and returned with a cut glass bowl of canapé biscuits. “A little titbit,” Sydney said. He was afraid Tilbury might be sick.

  Tilbury took a handful, as if they might help him.

  Then Sydney sat down and waited a minute, while Edward looked increasingly worried.

  “I don’t know what you’re trying to do,” Tilbury murmured with an attempt at a cheerful smile.

  “Calm down. You know you need these . . . God knows, Alicia was difficult,” Sydney said in a soothing voice, pouring more pills out. “Now take these slowly one by one.” He gave Tilbury one, and went to the bar cart and got the soda dispenser. He put some soda into Tilbury’s glass and handed it to him.

  Tilbury took his pills. “I’m qui’ sure I’ll be sick.”

  The telephone rang.

  Sydney ignored it, and Tilbury might not have heard it, and finally it stopped ringing. Tilbury was making an effort to sit upright and keep his eyes open. Sydney shook out more pills, offered them on his palm, and as Tilbury looked reluctant, Sydney grabbed his throat, not tightly but in a crucial place. Tilbury opened his mouth wide for air as Sydne
y released him.

  “Don’t scream. If anybody comes in, I’ll tell them you’re taking the pills because you pushed Alicia over the cliff. You understand? . . . Of course you do.”

  “I’m not taking any more,” Edward said, and struck Sydney’s hand, knocking the pills off Sydney’s palm. Tilbury struggled up.

  Sydney caught him again by the throat and administered a light blow to Tilbury’s nose, not hard enough to make it bleed. “Didn’t you push Alicia? Didn’t you?”

  “No,” Tilbury said in a voice so shaking with fear it was not possible to tell whether he was lying or not.

  “You can’t get any help, Tilbury, and you’ll damned well take these pills,” Sydney said, still gripping him with his left hand by the throat, hard enough to hold him, but trying not to cause any bruises. “Come on, knock yourself out. It’s the easiest way. It’s an honorable way, Tilbury. A suicide pact between lovers . . . Or would you rather I said you told me you pushed her? I came in at six fifteen and found you well on the way, taking an overdose, and you told me you were taking the pills because you pushed Alicia.” And two things encouraged Sydney now: he believed Tilbury had pushed her, and he didn’t think he would have to cut Tilbury’s wrists, because he thought the pills were rather powerful. He pushed Tilbury back onto the sofa.

  Tilbury bounced and sat still, his hands hanging. He looked up with eyes suddenly full of fear again. “I’m not taking any more!” Then twisting, he flung himself off the sofa, onto the floor.

  Sydney picked him up as if he weighed no more than a life-sized doll, fixed him upright against the sofa arm, and got some more pills from the bottle. He crammed the pills into Tilbury’s mouth, and held the glass of weak scotch and soda for him—so quickly Tilbury might not have known what was happening. At any rate, the pills were in his mouth and Tilbury was drinking from the glass. Sydney sat beside him, holding him firmly by the shoulder and one arm against the arm of the sofa.