“That if he’s in the right, or at any rate not in the wrong, then a man can stand on his own feet, even these days against the organisation. It doesn’t mean much, I suppose, to most people. But I’m a bit keen on the idea.”
When we parted she was more cheerful. If she wasn’t, she pretended to be. I didn’t tell her that her name had been mentioned in the last message. I didn’t truthfully think it was more than bluff. I suppose it was criminally wrong of me.
CHAPTER 12
There was nothing in my letter box when I retained to my flat, except the evening paper. I glanced through it before I went to bed. On one of the inside pages, a brief news item said that the woman murdered in Paradise Lane had now been identified as a spinster, aged forty-seven, called Mavis Battersby, of 247 Furleigh Road, London, N.W.1.
It didn’t seem to matter.
To me she would always be Poor Bunface, not Mavis Battersby. The real name meant nothing, does not mean anything now, and never will mean anything. I thought, think, and always will think, that she was killed because she knew a little too much, and because she was on the verge of cracking up.
When I undressed I went into the kitchen to get a glass of water. I always have a glass of water by my bed at night. Not a plastic tooth mug filled with water, but a real glass. Water tastes better in a glass.
I looked at the geranium in its pot on the window sill.
Its best summer blooms were past, but it still had one or two smaller autumnal flowers. It was leggy and some of the leaves had turned brown round the edges. I would cut it back in due course, and give it the minimum of water during the winter months, and next year it would flourish again.
Suddenly I felt extraordinarily tired; not physically tired, but spiritually exhausted. The temptation to lift the plant, take a few steps out of the kitchen and put it on the living-room window was irresistible.
I had felt all along that because the threat was seriously and efficiently operated, I could completely rely upon obtaining relief by carrying out their instructions. I was not faced with shifty little crooks whose word could not be trusted. This was something bigger; and, because it was coolly calculated, and, if my theory was correct, meant a great deal financially to the operators, then their terms would be honoured.
I turned away from the plant, and ran the tap to make sure the water would be cold, and as I waited, the feeling of spiritual exhaustion left me and was replaced by something more dangerous. It was a feeling of apathy. Exhaustion is a positive thing. You are conscious of it. You can try to do something about it.
Apathy is the negation of all effort and all emotion. Apathy means that if there is no way of avoiding action, then you take the easiest line.
I suddenly wanted to be left in peace.
Subtle voices spoke to me, pointing out that I was not engaged upon a crusade to save a large cross-section of humanity, but indulging in stubbornness and personal pride. Blackmail gangs always existed and always would, and the victims had only themselves to blame. Anyway, I couldn’t ever prove anything, and the police were not interested, and why should I be?
The subtlest voice of all argued in favour of a temporary surrender, until the heat had died down. This voice was a very crafty one indeed, and went into some detail.
The burden of its argument was that the people were intelligent enough to know that I was certainly not the only crime writer who would be interested, at some time or other, in the Pompeii murder. Although the Italian police might be content with current facts and clues, somebody, some day, would write the case up in great detail and with a full background. A black-out could not be maintained indefinitely. Therefore, the voice whispered, the black-out was being imposed for a limited period for some special purpose. So why not lay off now, and return to the fray later?
I picked up the geranium, and went out of the kitchen, feeling no sensation of defeat.
I turned right, into the bedroom, and put the glass on my bedside table, and went into the living-room, carrying the plant. The curtains were drawn, and I put the pot on the sill, preparatory to pulling the curtains aside.
But it wasn’t any use.
I remember I stood staring at it, thinking: there you are, boyo, on your hideous green saucer, representing the victory of the organised predators over the peasant who chooses to walk the trails alone. He thinks the Tribe can protect him, and sometimes it can, and sometimes it can’t, but it ought to be able to; and the more times it proves it can, the better for all peasants, but the peasants have got to lend a hand, they’ve got to fight back themselves, they’ve got to show willing, and if a peasant shows willing, in this day and age, then the peasant ought to be able to win through against the predators. He damned well ought to win through. Maybe he gets clawed down by that lot who slither along the jungle undergrowth beside him. Maybe he dies, and maybe he goes on, but he’s got to have a crack at it, God damn and blast everything and everybody, he’s got to fight back, because if he doesn’t bloody well fight back as an individual peasant, then the whole bloody Tribe is lost, because the individuals make the Tribe, it’s not the Tribe which makes the individuals, and damn all organised predators, and long live the peasant, I thought.
So it wasn’t any use, and I walked back into the kitchen and put the geranium in its accustomed place, and then went into the living-room and drew the curtains aside, so that by seven-thirty next morning my decision would be clear.
I went to bed, and slept reasonably well, and at seven-forty the next morning the telephone rang, and I naturally guessed who it was before I had lifted the receiver.
The voice was just the same as the first time, but he had now adopted a polite, but chilly tone.
“Well, now, this is most disappointing, isn’t it?” he said without preamble, and his voice was a sigh of regret at the intractibility of the human race.
“Oh, go to hell!” I said.
“Tell her to wear spectacles today, and at the wedding, if she’s there,” he said quickly and urgently, as though he were afraid I might ring off, and not answer the ’phone if it rang again.
“What do you mean?” I said sharply. I felt a jolt of fear in my stomach as sudden as an electric shock.
“What do I mean? I mean, I don’t think you are taking us seriously,” he said equally sharply. “That’s what I mean. That’s just what I mean, that and nothing more, nothing more than I said in the note you tore up. Got it? Remember what I said about a mark of disfavour? Got it?”
He asked questions, but he didn’t wait for a reply. He was speaking very rapidly indeed. It now occurred to me that he thought I might have made arrangements with the telephone authorities to notify the police of all calls to me from a telephone booth, as though he feared a police car might draw up outside his booth at any moment.
“Seven-thirty was the deadline. Seven-thirty this morning. I’ve been instructed to-”
In his haste he began to fumble for words.
“You’ve been instructed to do what?” I said as calmly as I could. “What have you-”
“I’ve been instructed to demonstrate that we mean literally what we say, so that-”
“Oh, for God’s sake be your age,” I broke in.
“Listen, I must go now, but-”
“Well, go then-I don’t want to talk to you-” I said brusquely, because I couldn’t resist the temptation to be rude.
“Don’t suppose you do,” he said quickly. “Don’t suppose you wanted to in the first place. Bad luck for you, isn’t it?”
Now for the first time the enamel was wearing thin. The politeness was departing. There was a quick, vicious tang to his voice.
“It’s too late now,” he snapped. “Too late for quite a while. But we’ll be back, see? Meanwhile, you’ll learn
