The Man Who Killed Himself Read online

  The first page said: ‘A Brownjohn, The Laurels, Fraycut, Surrey, England, Europe, The World.’ Below there was a little rhyme which he had once read and repeated, perhaps inaccurately:

  He who unbidden looks within

  Commits a fearful wicked sin.

  Peeping Tom, filthy fool,

  I bet you were a sneak at school.

  He opened the diary, read one or two of the entries, ran his fingers over an untouched white page, decided that he was too tired to write and locked the desk again.

  In the bathroom he paused while brushing his teeth to consider the face that confronted him. It was pale, thin-lipped, distinctly rabbitish round the nose and doggy about the eyes. Worst of all was the billiard-ball smoothness of the head. Arthur had started losing his hair at an early age, and by the time he was in his early thirties the whole lot had gone. He had once seen Yul Brynner on the screen and had tried to convince himself that baldness was attractive, but examination of his head in the glass had made it clear that the total effect produced by his features did not at all resemble that of Yul Brynner’s.

  He went into the bedroom. Clare was lying as he had known she would be, on her right side with her eyes half closed. Her face was covered with shiny cream. He kissed the top of her head, undressed and got into bed, turned out the light. In the darkness he repeated what he had said earlier. ‘I wish you wouldn’t say that about my drinking. I don’t like it.’

  She made no reply. Five minutes later she began to snore.

  Chapter Two

  The Affairs of Major Easonby Mellon

  On the following day Major Easonby Mellon turned into one of the side streets on the good – that is to say the Hanover Square – side of Regent Street, walked into an office block named Romany House and took the lift to the second floor. He used a key to open a door that said in black lettering ‘Matrimonial Assistance Limited, Major Easonby Mellon,’ and stepped inside. He was at once ankle deep in letters, a delicious sensation. He picked up the armful of letters and went into his office, which had a window looking out on to the street. There was a large chair behind his handsome desk, and a couple of other chairs for clients. Opposite to his desk stood a filing cabinet and also another smaller desk with a covered typewriter on it. Visitors assumed what seemed obvious, that this desk was used by Major Mellon’s secretary, but the assumption was wrong for the Major had no secretary.

  Major Mellon took off his pork pie hat, sat at his desk humming like a bumble bee and opened the post with a neat letter opener. There were nearly seventy letters, and some half of them contained cheques or postal orders. He was a dapper little figure as he sat behind the desk, occasionally whistling a little at what he read, for people write odd things to matrimonial agencies. He wore a suit in a dog-tooth check that was perhaps a little loud, gay socks, and well-polished brown shoes. His tie and shirt were reasonably sober, he had a good thatch of brownish hair with a tinge of red in it, and a neat beard. When he had read the post he carefully put all the cheques and postal orders into a drawer, separated the first applications from the follow-ups and went across to his filing cabinet.

  Matrimonial Assistance Limited operated in a manner similar to that of some other, although not the largest and most reputable, matrimonial agencies. The Major advertised in local newspapers and on dozens of newsagents’ boards. His correspondents received an encouraging letter saying that there were hundreds of bachelors, spinsters, widowers and widows on his books. A small remittance would bring the correspondent a list of a dozen names of ladies (or gentlemen, as the case might be) who wished, in the words of the duplicated letter, to assume ‘the sweet bonds of matrimony.’ The brief descriptions did not include addresses because, as the letter explained, it was a fixed rule that all introductions must be handled through Matrimonial Assistance. ‘This is our pleasure and your safeguard,’ the letter said. Letters came in and were forwarded, correspondents eventually met in the office (by appointment only, for the Major was not there every day), and marriages no doubt took place. It was not Major Mellon’s part, as he had sometimes to say firmly, to examine the antecedents of people who wrote to him. He credited them all with honesty and common sense, and if some were lacking in one or other of these qualities that was hardly Major Mellon’s business.

  He looked at his diary and saw that he had only two appointments, one at eleven-thirty, the other half an hour later. There was time to do some typing. The first applications received his duplicated letter, signed ‘Easonby Mellon’ with Major, RAC (retd.)’ beneath. Major Mellon signed these letters dashingly, with his left hand. Then came the follow-ups, from people who had responded to the duplicate letter and sent remittances. They got their list of names taken from the files with a request that they should not write to more than one name on the list at a time – although, of course, this request was not always obeyed. That left four letters needing more personal attention. He skimmed through one of them, in a woman’s hand:

  ‘…seemed a perfect gentleman, or otherwise as you can imagine I should never have invited him into my home, but as soon as he was inside he began to behave like a wild beast, I feel sure that you…’

  How foolish people were! He chuckled a little at the thought of it. The man described himself on his record card as ‘Poultry breeder (55) of loving disposition,’ and he lived in Norfolk. The Major reflected that he would have to write to the fellow seriously, and of course he must send a sympathetic note to the lady (‘Widow, petite, early 40s but attractive’), something about her fatal charm perhaps? It was now, however, time for his eleven-thirty visitors.

  These proved to be a Mr Lake, a gangling Australian with a terrible squint, and a nervous ageing spinster named Amelia Bonnamie. Could that really be her name? But there again, what she chose to call herself was not his concern. He said that his secretary had just gone out, expanded on it a little (‘To tell the truth I asked her to step out for a few minutes, thought it might be easier for everybody’) and talked briefly about the sacred bond of matrimony. They seemed pleased, with him and with each other. As they were going he tapped Lake on the shoulder.

  ‘Just a moment.’ He closed the door on Miss Bonnamie, leaving her in the tiny outer hall. ‘When an introduction is effected a small fee is payable by the gentleman. Three guineas.’

  ‘Of course. Sorry I forgot.’ The Australian almost fell over himself in his eagerness to get out the money.

  The Major took it, gave him a receipt and said with what might have been a twinkle in his eye, ‘I hope your intentions are serious.’

  ‘You bet,’ said Lake, and was gone. It was a nicely ambiguous reply.

  The other appointment – well, the Major drew down the corners of his mouth as he thought of that, and re-read the letter on his desk signed in a neat hand ‘Patricia Parker (Miss).’ The letter said that the writer was in her middle twenties – add ten years on to that, the Major thought – and unattached, and that she wished to meet a gentleman rather older than herself with marriage in mind. Miss Parker said that she had been a secretary, but was not working at the moment. She wrote from an address in one of London’s northern suburbs. In the last paragraph she wrote in her neat, rather characterless hand: ‘I understand the usual thing is to put applicants in touch by letter, but before deciding whether I wish to avail myself of this service I should be glad if I might see you personally, as there are certain points I would like to discuss with you.’

  Something about the stilted phrases had caught the Major’s attention. He knew from past experience that the point for discussion would probably be the revelation that Miss Parker had an old mother who would be expected to share the home of the married pair, or was handicapped in her search for a husband by a wooden leg, or wanted to put before him some other mental or physical problem that, so far as he was concerned, was insoluble. It was unwise to see her, no doubt about it. Yet there had been occasions in the past when such letters from women clients had led to delicious little romances of a personal kind.
There was something about this letter, although he could not have said what, that made him answer it. Now, as he re-read the letter and waited for Miss Parker, he told himself that he had been foolish. It was obvious that she was one of the wooden leg brigade.

  ‘Half an hour,’ the Major said aloud – he often talked to himself when he was alone. ‘Half an hour with Miss Pegleg and then a spot of lunch.’ And after lunch he would pay in the cash to the bank, an occupation which always gave him pleasure. The outer bell rang. He went outside, ushered in Miss Parker, asked her to sit down. As she sat opposite him, demure and not quite smiling, Major Mellon took a good look at her and was frankly bowled over.

  Patricia Parker did not look a day over twenty-five. Her face was pretty rather than characterful, but pretty it undoubtedly was. She had a beautiful skin, her brown hair shone silkily, her figure – well, it was not easy to judge when she sat in a chair but she was obviously shapely, and it was just as obvious that neither of the legs she displayed to him was a wooden one. Miss Parker was no dazzling beauty but she was a pretty young woman, and pretty young women did not often come Major Mellon’s way in the course of business. For a moment or two he goggled at her. Then he recovered.

  ‘My dear Miss Parker,’ he leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘I have sent my secretary out for half an hour. Unfortunately these offices are not as spacious as I could wish, and I thought that perhaps you had something confidential to discuss…’

  He left the sentence unfinished. Miss Parker said that was thoughtful of him. Her voice was low, pleasant, unemphatic.

  ‘You wanted to have a chat with me in person. Here I am.’

  ‘Yes.’ She seemed to find it hard to know how to begin, and Major Mellon continued. Suspicion had quickly replaced pleasure in his mind. Was this girl trying to play a trick on him? His next words were spoken bluntly, almost harshly.

  ‘Forgive me for saying so, but it surprises me that you should have any difficulty in finding a husband. I am here to help, but I doubt if there is anything Matrimonial Assistance can do for you that you couldn’t do quite easily yourself.’

  ‘Don’t say that.’ It was the first sign of emotion she had shown. ‘Please don’t say that.’

  The Major softened, but only slightly, and suggested that she should tell him about it.

  ‘It’s difficult. I don’t know if I can.’

  ‘Try.’

  ‘I can’t if you’re looking at me. Will you close your eyes – or look out of the window. Then I might be able to.’

  So Major Mellon swung round his chair, turned his back on her and looked at the people passing below in the street while he heard the story Patricia Parker told in her even voice. It was not, after all, such a very unusual story. Her name at birth was not Patricia Parker but Hildegarde Sommer. She was a German, and had been living in Germany with her mother – her father had been killed on the Eastern front – when the Russians swept in. As a child of five she had seen her mother raped by half a dozen Russian soldiers. Afterwards her mother had committed suicide. Hildegarde had been placed in a camp, and had come to England when she was in her teens to do housework. When she was twenty-one she had married a man named Parker, with whom she had been going out for some time. A week after their marriage he had asked her to do certain awful things – she did not specify their nature – and she had left him and later got a divorce. She had qualified as a secretary and could earn her living, but she did not feel it was enough to earn a living. She wanted to be married, and had gone out with several men. ‘But it was no good, you understand? Yet I feel that I wish to be married, I could make a good wife for a man who was kind, a man perhaps older than myself, do you understand?’

  ‘Can I turn round now?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you for listening to me.’

  He turned. She was staring at him as though he were an oracle. Was the story true or not? Upon the whole he thought that some of it was true and some invented, but it did not seem to him that this mattered very much.

  ‘Do you think you will be able to help me?’ she asked solemnly.

  The Major got up, came round the desk, and lifted one of the pretty hands that were crossed in her lap. She allowed it to stay in his hand and sat looking up at him.

  ‘I know what an effort it must have been to tell me that, Patricia – I may call you that, I hope, my dear? And if we can help you we shall. But I tell you what we’re going to do first of all. We’re going out together to have a spot of lunch at a little place round the corner, just the two of us. If I’m to help I shall have to know a little more about the sort of person you are. That is, if you’re free for lunch.’

  ‘I have no other engagement.’ Major Mellon was delighted with the simplicity and candour of her reply.

  As he was closing the door she remarked, ‘Your secretary has not come back.’

  The Major rode that one easily. ‘She has her own key.’

  The little place round the corner was also an expensive place, the spot of lunch included lobster thermidor and a bottle of excellent white burgundy. Pat – by the time that lunch was over he was calling her Pat – viewed it all with open-eyed wonder. She loved the alcove in which they sat, where the Major’s hand occasionally and as if by chance touched hers, she exclaimed upon the excellence of the service, she wondered at her host’s expertise in ordering the wine. Did a warning sense tell Major Mellon that there was something not quite right, not quite real, about Patricia Parker’s childlike delight at being taken out to lunch? Perhaps, but it seemed that any game she might be up to could not possibly affect him. And in any case he was charmed, scenting as he did a delicious little romance. When they parted it was with the assurance that she would come to the office again tomorrow, by which time he would have thought over the problem further, and might be able to suggest some correspondents who could be recommended as potential husbands.

  Major Easonby Mellon returned to the office in a daze of pleasure. He had three more interviews with couples during the afternoon which he handled rather absent-mindedly. At half past five he closed the office and went home.

  Home was Number 48 Elm Drive, Clapham, a street of solid grey Victorian houses leading off Clapham Common’s south side, which had so far escaped the maw of the developer. The Major and his wife had the upper part of the house, which was divided into two. When he opened the door he smelled cooking, a smell strong, spicy and not at all disagreeable. Joan was in the kitchen and Major Mellon crept up behind her and put his arms round her plump waist. She gave a delighted scream.

  ‘E. Supper’s not ready. I didn’t expect you yet.’

  ‘But here I am,’ the Major said gaily. ‘And very very hungry.’

  ‘You’ll have to wait.’

  ‘That’s not what I’m hungry for.’ He stroked his little beard. ‘I am a traveller in a desert who has just reached the longed-for oasis.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. I’ve got supper to look after, it will spoil. E, whatever are you doing? Put me down.’

  The Major, who had begun to carry her from the kitchen to the sitting-room, complied, for he was a small man and Joan was a fair weight. In the sitting-room he took her on his knee. ‘And what has my little lady been doing while I’ve been away?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. It’s what you’ve been doing that’s interesting. I think women have an awful time.’

  ‘Men must work and women must weep.’ He made an adroit move, and Joan found herself beneath him on the sofa. She protested.

  ‘Stop it, E, I said supper will spoil, there really isn’t time. Oh, not here please, let’s go into the bedroom at least.’

  ‘Here,’ said Major Easonby Mellon firmly. And there it was. It was enjoyable, and would have been more enjoyable still if the image of Patricia Parker (Miss) had not remained so persistently in his mind. Afterwards Joan sighed.

  ‘Trouble is I don’t feel like getting supper now. Shall we just go to bed?’

  ‘Certainly not. The labourer is worthy of his hire.’

&n
bsp; While they had supper she said, ‘Come on, what have you been doing? Tell me some of the things that have been happening, the way you always do.’

  In a way Joan was not unlike Pat, he reflected, the same sort of round face and almost the same shade of brown hair. And Joan, of course, had very good legs. But the likeness only showed how unwise it was to let yourself go to seed as Joan had done, because there could be no comparison in their attractiveness. Mark you, Joan was thirty-five, or was it thirty-six? But she could never have been in quite the same class as Pat…

  ‘What’s been happening, I asked you.’ Joan’s voice had a note of querulousness, and the Major brought himself back to matters in hand.

  ‘Let me see, now. Friday – on Friday the chief sent for me and said the job in Norway had fizzled out. Our chap over there, Bjornson, had been selling stuff to the Russians all the time, and this story about a new rocket device was just a plant he was trying on us.’

  ‘He was trying to trick you? To get you sent out there so that they could kill you?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t suppose so. Just trying to mislead us, you know, both sides are doing it all the time.’

  ‘And what have you done about him, this man, Johnson?’

  ‘Bjornson. Nothing much. I believe the chief’s making a higher bid for his services. We want him to go on working for the Russians, naturally, that’s the chief’s whole idea.’ The Major was familiar with the work of Mr John le Carré and Mr Deighton, and moved easily in this world of the triple- and quadruple-cross. In the manner of the masters he added, ‘Spying’s a dirty business.’

  He embroidered the theme. It had long ceased to be a matter of surprise to him that Joan accepted his inventions so readily. The first step, by which he convinced her that he was an agent, had been the big one. With that surmounted, why should she not believe the tales he told her about the dingy office in Soho and the erratic-tempered chief, the internecine warfare between the rival Department AX 15 and his own UGLI 3 which as he often complained occupied the greater part of their time, the troubles with men in the field and his own occasional trips abroad to rebuke one agent or bribe another, the very infrequent spurts of violence? He congratulated himself sometimes on the fact that he never pitched the stories too steep, so that there were no incidents which moved beyond his powers of invention or which seemed too outrageously unlikely. The struggles between the Chief and Birkett, who was the head of AX 15, were rather like those of a television serial in which different characters come out on top in successive weeks, and at one time Joan had got bored with them as a viewer gets bored with the repetitious activities of a favourite television character. Tonight she gave up after five minutes, and they went to bed.