The 12.30 from Croydon (15 page)

He soon found that any attempt at palming was out of the question. It was, he learned, a difficult achievement, only to be attained by long practice. For him to try it meant disaster.

But he was encouraged by the author’s next remark, namely, that palming was unnecessary except for certain small sleight of hand tricks. An open exchange of small articles could be made, if only the attention of the audience were directed elsewhere. The essence of tricks of this kind, went on the book, was in their build-up of ‘business’ and ‘patter’. Something else should be done at the moment of the exchange upon which the attention of all would be concentrated. Then the essential movements would be lost.

For another hour Charles wearily pondered this advice, and then at last he thought he saw his way. He could now go to bed. If opportunity were afforded him on the morrow, or rather on that day, for it was long past midnight, he would be ready to act.

When Charles got up that morning he felt well satisfied with his progress. He had now only to exchange the bottles of pills and the horrible affair would be complete and he could get away on his cruise.

Having crushed into a shapeless little block of tin the box which had contained the poison, he threw it into the Gayle on his way to the works. His next step was to obtain an invitation to a meal at The Moat. With this in view he rang up his uncle shortly before lunch.

‘I’ve got some good news for you, uncle,’ he began as cheerily as he could. But for the moment he could not go on. Unexpectedly he experienced a painful revulsion of feeling. He had always ridiculed the idea of conscience, but the effort to be cheery now made something very like conscience grip him. He felt he simply could not talk in an easy, friendly way to this old man, whose life he meditated taking. Suddenly he got a glimpse of what he was really doing, and he felt a little sick. He felt dirty also, somehow soiled, as if he were a traitor, about to stab his trusting friend in the back. For a moment Charles hesitated, wondering if this was the first tiny indication that he was going to have to pay for his action. Then he thought of his works and his workers, of Matthews with his motherless children, of old Gairns without a job, of himself without a job, of Una. As he did so he hardened his heart. In the same cheery way he went on: ‘I’ve managed to get hold of some money. I want to tell you about it. Could I see you if I were to come out some time?’

Andrew Crowther sounded less cynical than usual as he replied that he was pleased to hear the news. He added that, as Charles knew, he was not over-occupied, and he would be glad to see him any time. What about tea to-day or to-morrow?

Tea was not what Charles wanted. He therefore said he was occupied in the afternoons, but that if it would suit his uncle he would go out after dinner on the following evening. ‘That is, if you’re going to be alone, uncle. I can’t talk about money if you’ve company.’

This produced the desired reaction. Andrew answered that they were alone and that Charles might as well come to dinner. Charles hesitated to the correct extent, then said he would be delighted.

Well, that was that. Charles must now settle about his absence from the neighbourhood. He saw that while he must not hurry away immediately, he must leave reasonably soon. To-morrow would be Friday, the 25th. Suppose he were to start on the Tuesday or Wednesday of the following week?

He turned to Messrs Cook’s advertisements, which he had displayed prominently on his desk when he came in. At once he saw the very thing.

The Purple Star Line were running a twenty-one-day cruise with their 25,000-ton boat, the
Jupiter.
It was a round trip from Marseilles to Marseilles, calling at Villefranche, Genoa, Naples, Messina, Malta, Tunis, Algiers, and Barcelona. Passengers left London on Wednesday, the 30th. If he succeeded in changing the bottles next day he would go on this cruise. In fact he might begin preparations at once. If the trip fell through he could announce a change of plans.

‘I’ll be off on Wednesday,’ he therefore said to Gairns, when a little later the chief clerk put a deprecating head round the office door. ‘A sea trip for three weeks. This money business has upset me, and I feel stale. But now that things are all right again I think I may treat myself to a holiday. As a matter of fact I hadn’t one last year.’

Gairns was delighted, as delighted as if he had himself been going. Now that his ghastly dread of poverty was removed, all was well in this superlatively excellent world. Mr Charles was certainly entitled to his holiday. He had worked hard and saved them all.

Charles found that time dragged more slowly than he could have believed possible during the remainder of that day and the next. His nerves were on edge and he could settle to nothing. His reaction to his dreadful enterprise kept on altering. Sometimes he felt that he was carrying through a necessary, if not indeed a meritorious, action – obtaining the gain of the many at the expense of the one. At others he glimpsed the result to himself: that for the rest of his life he would have to carry the knowledge of his guilt, and the lurking dread that somehow something would become known. It was a relief when seven o’clock next evening came, and his period of inaction was at an end.

There were just the four of them at dinner – Charles, Andrew Crowther, Mrs Pollifex, and Margot. Andrew was in one of his good moods. He seemed better in every way – brighter, less maudlin, and with more of a grip on things. He was less lost in his own thoughts, and took a part in the conversation more in his old way.

Penelope Pollifex and her daughter were also in good form. Mrs Pollifex exerted herself to make the meal a success, and Margot for once forbore to be superior and discontented.

Only Charles found it impossible to be natural. Try as he would he simply could not behave as if nothing unusual were on his mind. In fact, he thought it advisable to call attention to his health. ‘I’m off for a holiday next week,’ he said when a suitable break came in the conversation. ‘I didn’t have one last year, and I’ve been feeling a bit fed-up with things lately. Three weeks I expect to be away.’

They were interested and plied him with questions. He detailed the itinerary, and the reasons why he preferred to go south rather than north.

‘I envy you,’ Mrs Pollifex declared. ‘There are one or two places on your list to which I’ve never been and which I’ve always wanted to visit. Capri, for instance. Shall you have time for it?’

‘Yes; we’ve three days in Naples, enough for Capri and Sorrento, Vesuvius and Pompeii, and for either the town of Naples or Baiae and Pozzuoli, whichever one likes.’

‘Naples and Pompeii I know, but not Capri. Some day I must do it.’

Charles had a sudden idea. Could he manage to get his aunt to accompany him? If so, it would upset the household at The Moat and would make more reasonable the verdict of suicide which he hoped would be found.

‘What about coming along, aunt?’ he said with genuine heartiness; ‘you and Margot? It would do you both good and you’d like it no end. There are pretty sure to be cabins left. Uncle Andrew wouldn’t mind for once. Would you, uncle?’

Mrs Pollifex demurred, though he could see she was pleased at being asked. ‘I don’t think I could manage it now,’ she said. ‘I’d rather go later if I went at all. The heat knocks me up. And Margot is going to Scotland in a fortnight. Lady Skye has asked her to their shooting-lodge near Dalwhinnie. Another time, perhaps, Charles, thank you very much.’

‘It’ll not be so hot on the sea,’ Charles persisted, ‘and couldn’t Margot postpone her visit for a week? It would be pleasant for me to have someone I knew on board.’

They would not agree, however. Only for the Scottish invitation Margot would have jumped at it, but the glamour of being a guest of the Countess of Skye evidently outshone a mere trip to the Mediterranean.

As dinner drew to an end and the decisive moment came nearer, Charles grew more and more uneasy and excited. He had taken rather more wine than usual, and this to some extent quieted his nerves. He believed his manner had not shown anything more than was accounted for by his plea of overwork. However, for the next hour or two he must pull himself together and keep his head. Everything depended on how he did so.

At last the ladies left the dining-room. Andrew was sitting at the head of the table and Charles at his right hand. Charles had foreseen this arrangement, as he knew that Margot sat on the old man’s left. Now he filled up his uncle’s glass and moved slightly nearer. They began to talk.

‘I told you, uncle, that I had managed to raise some money,’ Charles led off. ‘It was very simple and I don’t know why I didn’t do it long ago. I’ve popped the pictures.’

‘Your father’s pictures? I’m sorry to hear that, Nephew Charles; sorry to hear that. I remember’ – the old man leant back and became reminiscent – ‘I remember your father buying the first, as well as if it was yesterday. They wanted two-fifty for it, and it seemed to him a huge price. He spoke to me about it, and I said – eh – I said: “Pay the money, Henry. It’ll be an investment and it’ll always be there if you want it.” I was right, but – er – not in the way I thought.’

‘You were – absolutely right. I was sorry about having to get rid of them, too, but it’s only temporarily. With any reasonable luck I’ll get them back when things improve. I don’t want you to repeat this, uncle.’

‘Is it likely?’ Andrew returned, with more of an approach to his ordinary manner. ‘I’m not so overwhelmed with pride at my nephew’s actions as to wish to blazon them about the country. No, Charles, I’ll keep it hidden as I would a case of cheating at cards. Not that I suggest you would do such a thing. But all the same I’m disappointed. I think you might have done better than you have.’

At another time Charles might have felt annoyed by this plain speaking, but now it acted like a tonic to him. Every word of this kind the old man uttered made his task the easier. Once again Charles felt a wave of bitterness sweep over him. If his uncle had only acted with reasonable decency, this horrible enterprise into which he had been forced would have been unnecessary. Well, Andrew had only himself to thank. Charles hardened his heart.

As he did so his attack of nerves passed away, and he became calm and cool and efficient. And it was well, for now at last the moment was upon him. Andrew was taking his bottle of pills from his pocket. He opened it, slowly and deliberately – all the better, as it gave Charles time to do his part. As Andrew opened his bottle, so did Charles open his – under the table. Charles held it in the palm of his right hand, with the stopper towards his wrist. With his left hand he took a prepared piece of paper from his pocket. He waited, talking slowly about the money.

Andrew shook out two or three pills on to the tablecloth, just as he had done before. Then he stood the bottle upright on the table, and began picking up and replacing all but one. This was Charles’s moment. He must act now before Andrew picked up the bottle.

‘Here are the exact figures,’ he said, stretching out his left hand with the sheet of paper.

He did it with careful carelessness. His hand caught Andrew’s wineglass and turned it over towards Andrew. The red wine flowed across the table and down on to Andrew’s knees.

‘Oh, uncle, I am so sorry,’ Charles cried, and the agitation in his voice at least was genuine. He sprang to his feet, and leaning his right hand on the table near the bottle of pills, contrived with that hand to set down his own bottle and pick up his uncle’s, while with the left he caught the empty wineglass and set it up on its base. In a moment Andrew’s bottle was in his pocket, and with his handkerchief he was attempting to dry the wine off Andrew’s trousers.

‘I’d better ring for Weatherup, hadn’t I?’ he went on, while he continued to apologize for his clumsiness.

Andrew made light of the affair. Weatherup came in at once and cleared up the mess, wiping the old man’s trousers, putting a clean napkin over the stain on the cloth, and drying the little pool on the carpet. Then when the excitement was over Andrew took up the bottle of pills and its screw cap.

Charles suddenly had a bad moment. Suppose the bottles were not made to an absolute standard? Suppose the cap would not fit?

But the cap went on perfectly. Andrew screwed it down and put the bottle in his pocket, obviously having suspected nothing. Charles gave an inaudible sigh, and surreptitiously dried some little beads of moisture off his forehead.

‘You were going to show me some figures?’ said Andrew, and the incident was over.

Over? Or was it just beginning?

How Charles got through the remainder of that evening he never knew. His talk with Andrew Crowther seemed to him a ghastly nightmare. And when presently they moved into the drawing-room, things were little better. It was only with a supreme effort that Charles forced himself to remain till the old man went to bed shortly before ten. Then he made his excuses and drove home.

He was now in a position to settle the matter of the cruise. When he reached his office next morning he put through a telephone call to Messrs Cook. Five-and-twenty minutes later he had reserved a single cabin on B deck, at a cost of sixty-five guineas, including shore excursions and rail fares.

That afternoon he was to have another decisive interview – an interview indeed to which he looked forward with somewhat mixed feelings. It was Saturday, and he was going to the Crosbys for tennis. There he would meet Una.

Normally a meeting with Una was a somewhat chequered slice of heaven. With Una in a ‘good’ mood it was heaven. Una, however, was not always in a good mood, and then the heaven was chequered. This occasion, moreover, was not normal. He had not seen her since she had come very close to cutting him outside Oliver’s shop in Malton Road. He wondered how she would greet him this time.

Crosby, dressed in flannels, was standing on the steps of The Ingle, his pleasant Queen Anne house, as Charles drew up at the door. He was a man of about sixty, dry and precise, as is supposed to befit his calling. He was solicitor to most of the older families in the district. Amongst his clients was Andrew Crowther, though Charles gave his business to a more modern firm. This, however, Crosby recognized as reasonable, seeing that the interests of uncle and nephew might not always coincide. Crosby was a good fellow, straight and hard-working, and was universally liked and respected.