The Frightened Man

Denton was taking him to lunch; Denton answered that he thought that, as Hench-Rose was now rich, it was his turn. That seemed to delight Hench-Rose, who grabbed a black hat and led the way out, heading for his club. As they were going out, Hench-Rose said, ‘Ah!’ and turned around to stop Denton with a finger to his chest. ‘I’ve made up a quip. It’s rather good.’ He grinned.

‘Let’s hear it.’

Hench-Rose cleared his throat, the rigours of creativity making him flush. ‘All gals are divided into three parts: mothers, tarts and the ones we’re allowed to marry. Eh? Eh? Rather good, isn’t it? “All gals are divided”?’

Denton didn’t get it. It had to be, he knew, one of those references that Hench-Rose had learned in school, therefore must have something to do with Latin. He said, ‘I’ve told you, I left school when I was twelve. I don’t get it.’

‘“All gals” — get it? “Gallia est omnis divisa-” Eh?’ Hench-Rose could never accept the idea that Denton hadn’t been to an English public school. ‘“All Gaul is divided into three parts”! All gals!’ He chortled, but, seeing Denton’s in-comprehension, stopped, became deeply gloomy. Halfway through lunch, he explained his joke again, a process that he said was like taking out one’s own gall bladder, and he added — unwisely — that Denton lacked a sense of humour. Denton made the mistake of saying that he didn’t think that Hench-Rose’s joke displayed much sense of humour, either. Hench-Rose, now annoyed, said that Denton didn’t know any more about humour than he did about women, as shown by the fact that Denton ‘was wasting his time on some stupid bint who had got herself murdered.’

Denton’s jaw set and he was about to say something ugly when Hench-Rose, his face red, almost shouted, ‘And another thing! That Striker woman! She murdered a man, and you’re asking me about her as if you’re interested in her!’ His voice rose; heads turned towards them. ‘Everybody said the husband was as nice a chap as you’d ever want to meet, and she murdered him. Or as good as — she might as well have put the pistol to his head and pulled the trigger herself! She’s obviously an awful woman! Awful!’

Then Hench-Rose realized that he had been shouting and had committed that worst of crimes, calling attention to himself. He seemed to shrink in his chair and, with his face almost in his plate, he mumbled, ‘Fellow feels strongly about certain things. Things have to be said.’

And Denton, who liked Hench-Rose no matter what, felt his own anger evaporate, and he said in a gentle voice, ‘You said it for my own good, Hector. You’re a good fellow. Should I try the spotted dick?’

Chapter Eleven

‘I wash my hands of the whole damned business!’ Denton raged as he went up his own stairs. He meant Stella Minter and Mulcahy, but Guillam most of all, and Hector Hench-Rose into the bargain. He was angry about Guillam’s handling of the lists of names — days of work, money, tossed into a basket to moulder — and Hench- Rose’s lack of sympathy had made it worse. I wash my hands of it. His mood, if anything, was blacker than when he had left Guillam’s office; Hench-Rose’s easy brutality hadn’t helped, nor had the stodgy lunch and Hench-Rose’s going on about that joke. ‘Another joke about women, my God,’ Denton said out loud.

‘What’s that?’ Atkins was leaning out of the alcove to look at him as he came in the doorway; another head appeared, this one Maude’s; then, at knee level, the angular muzzle of the dog.

‘I wash my hands of the whole damned lot!’ Denton shouted.

‘Good enough for Pontius Pilate, should be good enough for you, Major.’

Atkins’s voice changed to a martial bellow as he began to order Maude about. Apparently the cleanliness of the alcove hadn’t been to his liking. After explaining that he didn’t give two hatpins whether Maude thought that cleaning was part of his job or not, Atkins said something disparaging about servants who thought they were too genteel to get their hands dirty; then he leaned into the sitting room again and said, ‘There’s mail for you.’ His voice took on a hectoring tone. ‘More bills, I’m sure.’

‘I wash my hands of them, too.’

‘Oh, no you don’t!’ Atkins came down towards him; Rupert padded behind, panting like a blacksmith’s bellows. ‘You neglect the bills, I’m on my way to the agent’s for a new position.’ He stood beside Denton’s chair, quite unembarrassed now by the hat’s sitting on the bandage, the Indian robe. ‘You wash your hands of Mulcahy and the dead tart, all well and good; best get to work on that book, then.’

‘You’re as good as a mother-in-law.’ Denton was opening bills and putting them with others he hadn’t paid. Soon, he’d have to write apologetic letters and ask for time. Bad. He opened a plain one that looked like a begging letter — he got those now and then; people thought writers were rich — and took out a note of a different size, scrawled in an almost illegible hand. It was from the woman he’d visited, Mrs Striker: he could talk with three young women if he would come to her office at five o’clock on the second.

Today was the second. It was barely two.

Telling himself No, I’m done with it, done with all of them, he slit another envelope with a finger without looking at its origin and realized only when he held the contents in his hand that it was from his typewriter and that the women she’d hired must have found more Mulcahys in the directories. More expense. With it was a mere phrase scribbled on a blank sheet — ‘As promised, the names from the adverts’ — and her bill. He crumpled that before Atkins could see it but couldn’t keep his own eyes from going to the total, which was startling.

‘Oh, no,’ Atkins said, reading over his shoulder. ‘Not more Mulcahy! Send it off to that copper, Guillam.’

‘Never again.’

‘You just said you’ve washed your hands of Mulcahy — didn’t you? You did; I heard it with my own ears. You’re done with Mulcahy!’

‘I’m more done with Guillam. I wouldn’t send him my old drawers.’ He was looking at the new list Mrs Johnson had sent. Only seven addresses, all businesses; four were far from the metropolitan centre, all suburban shops that seemed to offer him nothing. Of three closer in, one was a Regina Mulcahy, Fine Linens — not likely; one was a Richard Mulcahy, Processed Beverages, the Famous So-Do-Pep, Health Drinks for the Health Conscious — possible, but nothing leapt out at him; and one was a Regis Mulcahy, Now Proprietor of the Photographic Inventorium, Under New Management, the Famous Periscopic Lens, Patent Applied For. ‘Photography!’ he said.

‘Wash your hands of it, General!’

‘A camera, Atkins! That’s what he could have left behind in the closet — a camera! And that’s why the murderer went after him — he thought Mulcahy had taken a photo of him and had run out with the plate. And maybe he had! My God, no wonder Mulcahy was terrified!’

‘You’re making it up, General!’

‘It fits.’

‘You’re writing fiction. Go make money off of it.’

‘It all fits, damn it!’

‘I’ll have fits if we don’t pay some of those bills!’

Denton turned on him and was ready to say something ugly, but he was stopped by Atkins’s ridiculous costume and his ridiculous dog. He grunted, shook his head, said, ‘I’m going out.’

‘Oh, no — no, don’t, Captain! Bloody hell, you’ll be in it up to your elbows again!’

‘Just this once.’

Atkins groaned, but Denton was already grabbing up his mackintosh and hat. He grinned. ‘Don’t wait up.’

Atkins met him at the downstairs door with the overcoat he’d been working on. ‘You can’t wear a mac on a day like this — what would people say? Take it off.’ He took the Colt from Denton and demonstrated his handiwork: the revolver’s barrel slipped through a hole into the overcoat’s lining; a kind of envelope of canvas-lined tweed held it upright, the grip ready to the hand.

‘Ingenious,’ Denton said. He put the coat on. The pistol’s weight dragged it down on the right side, but he could draw the weapon easily without having to fumble for it as he had before. ‘And it’s practically invisible,’ he