Rum Affair (2 page)

I took out the key which came along with the note, and opened the non-drip primrose door.

It was warm inside, with a smell of sweet peas and pipe smoke and hot soup which was exactly Kenneth’s thoughtful but not extravagant identity on a sharp August night. The flat was small, over lit and vividly decorated, in the kind of thing popular about ten years ago, say in Kensington. I walked slowly past the green Morris wallpaper and looked at the six satin steel doorknobs, and called softly: “Kenneth!”

No reply.

“Kenneth? Where are you?”

Still no answer. Sleeping, probably. I began opening doors.

A bedroom, untenanted. Another bedroom, with towels, soap and a wardrobe full of clothes, none of which I recognised as Kenneth’s, although the bedcover was rumpled as if someone had packed or unpacked there, and the pipe smoke was very strong. Puzzled, I wandered on.

A bathroom, with the basin wet and still warm, and a grubby towel hanging. A kitchen, minuscule, with an electric cooker bearing a panful of canned soup. The can, empty, and a can opener. The cooker was switched off, although the soup was still warm. What then was the buzzing sound? I located it; a refrigerator with the door not quite closed. Inside were two raw steaks in paper, a packet of chips and a bottle of champagne, barely chilled. I shut the door guiltily, and moved on.

The last door led into the sitting room. The chairs were all ebonised and upholstered in burlap and lurex, and the pot plants could have done with a watering. In the hearth, a wood and coal fire burned brightly yellow and red, although coal had spilled on the swept tiles and recently smoked itself dead. Before the fire on a small table was a tray set for two, with champagne glasses standing ready. The chairs on either side of the table were empty. The room was empty. Kenneth was not there.

I did not at first quite believe it. The flat felt tenanted. The wood of a chair cracked. Coal shifted, distantly, in the grate. I went back, quickly, through all the rooms I had already visited, and opened a cupboard or two in addition. I called, then; and even unlatched the yellow front door and studied the street. There was a couple kissing in one of the doorways, and a man lighting a cigarette on the kerb glanced up momentarily, but of Kenneth there was no sign at all. I shut the door and came slowly back.

I considered. Kenneth had, perhaps, not yet arrived. Or, he’d gone out for some cigarettes. Or a friend had called and whisked him off for a drink. Or the owner of the flat had returned. The possible answers were many.

In the bathroom, the grubby towel fell off the rail with a slither, and I jumped, like a fool. Then I pulled off my raincoat and headscarf and, letting them drop on the floor, I sat down in front of that splendid fire and applied some common sense to the problem.

It was then that I noticed the little card on the mantelpiece. It was quite an ordinary card, a pasteboard die-stamped visiting card, with
Dr Kenneth Holmes
and his London address printed on it. I got up and took it down and turned the thing over. On the back, in Kenneth’s characteristic big writing, were three solitary words:
Darling, I’m sorry.

Darling, I was sorry too; and I ripped his goddamned pasteboard in pieces to prove it. But in a little while, when I recovered my temper, I also came to my senses. The deliberate farewell without explanation was not in Kenneth Holmes’ nature. Kenneth is, I suppose, the most painfully honest individual I have ever encountered. The argument we had before he would seduce me I shall never forget.

So he left suddenly. So he did not wish to compromise me. At the same time, nothing would give Kenneth more agony than the thought of my arriving tonight and finding him gone, with such a cursory message. Surely, somewhere, if I looked, I would find a clue to his sudden departure? Or another message, perhaps, somewhere else in the flat? I got up, took a deep breath, and began systematically to look.

Nerves are not one of my weaknesses, but I did not enjoy that search. Muffled by plastic foam underlay, my footsteps made no sound. Only, sometimes, in a room I had just passed, a floorboard would creak, or a door swing in some draught. For all its modern furnishing, the house was quite old. But although I did not like it, I searched that flat thoroughly, and I had my hand on the last door, on the wardrobe door in the hall, when the doorbell at my ear suddenly rang.

It was after midnight. In the empty flat, where all the lights still burned in the tenantless rooms, and the fire smouldered low, the noise shrilled with alarm. After a moment’s silence, it rang again, and went on insistently ringing. At the same moment, under my hand, the door of the hall wardrobe moved of its own accord, pushing against my hand, my arm, my shoulder and finally falling wide open, while from its depths something dark and heavy and silent suddenly moved.

And I stood there and just watched it topple towards me: the person of a slow, cold-eyed, powerful man who followed me onto the carpet, arms flailing, his brute weight flattening even my trained, resilient lungs.

I fell with his hair brushing my face, and the scrape of his unshaven chin on my cheek; and anger swallowed my fright.

I shoved hard. I held him off and drew breath to shout to the men who stood on the far side of that yellow front door, whose voices I could hear and under whose hand the bell was ringing, ringing above us both still.

I remember all that. And I remember the moment when I looked at my own clenched hand holding off his, and realised that his fingers were limp, his wrist cold, his limbs rubber. When I realised that my cold-eyed attacker was dead.

He lay on the carpet staring upwards from those pale open eyes while the doorbell rang and rang, and the round, black hole in his shirt showed how he had died. In Kenneth’s flat, from which Kenneth had fled. Outside the door, a voice said, distantly: “I don’t like the look of it, sir, if the lady’s in there alone.” And then, raising itself, it said: “Hallo! Will you kindly open up in there? It’s a matter of urgency. This is a police officer speaking.”

Instinct is a marvellous thing, I dare say; but I prefer to use my good sense. You, perhaps, with a strange man lying dead at your feet would have welcomed the police with an exhibition of nervous relief. I, on the other hand, kept my head.

I won’t pretend I had recovered. But I could isolate the two essentials. If I were to pursue the course I set myself, the name of Tina Rossi must not be involved in either scandal or killing. And Kenneth Holmes must, if possible, be protected from persecution and scandal as well. So I stood over the dead man, and drew a long steadying breath and shouted at half-pitch: “Hallo! I’m sorry, I must have dropped off to sleep. Will you wait a little while, please?”

And while the same voice on the other side of the door was saying, relieved: “Yes, of course, madam. Sorry to disturb you. Take your time,” I had the body gripped by one arm and a leg and was dragging it back to the wardrobe. I locked the door and dropped the key in my bag.

Then I put my dark glasses on, patted my hair, took one last look at the cupboard and, marching to the yellow front door, jerked it ajar. “Sorry to keep you waiting so long,” I remarked.

There were three men on that doorstep between the two bay trees, and two of them, thank God, were genuine policemen. Of the third I had a first impression only of a pair of bifocal glasses, their half moons bright in the light, and a smile of boundless vacuity. The senior officer said: “I hope you’ll excuse us troubling you, but it’s a matter of robbery with violence, and we’re making a door to door enquiry. Would you mind if we entered?”

They came in, stumping past the hall wardrobe and into the sitting room. The fire was almost out, and in front of it, the table with the two empty champagne glasses made one think of underfinanced operetta. I said: “Please sit down. Just how can I help you?” Dear God, dear God who looks after coloratura sopranos, they hadn’t recognised me. I could be Miss Smith from Blackheath, visiting my brother-in-law. I listened hard, while the sergeant intoned.

It was simple enough. Three flats in the nearby square had been broken into this evening, and Mr Bifocals, who rented one of them, had disturbed the thief and given chase, helped by the law. The fugitive had disappeared into Rose Street and could have entered two or three possible houses. This flat was one. Had I seen anyone, asked the police sergeant briskly? And would I object if they had a wee look, in case someone had come in unbeknownst? I was not, he enquired bluffly, the tenant? He was told that a Mr Chigwell normally lived here, although he sometimes lent it to friends . . . He was tactful in the extreme.

I had been seen to enter, obviously, by the neighbours. Perhaps Kenneth had even been seen to depart. The question was, when had he left? Before or after the beastly figure in the wardrobe had arrived? It occurred to me that, unshaven as he was, the man who lay bundled behind that locked door hadn’t looked like a layabout. Could the thief have committed the murder, in a panic, then shoved the dead man in the wardrobe and left? But no one had left. The sergeant was saying so, comfortably. “It seems pretty clear from the enquiries we’ve made, that if the chap came into one of these houses, he’s still there. These front door locks would present no problem to him. But you’ve heard nothing, Miss?”

I shook my head.

“And you’re alone in the flat? Might I ask when you came?”

I told him. He knew, obviously, already. A street of busybodies.

“And I’m told that the gentleman Mr Chigwell sometimes lends the flat to, left a little before that?”

There was a question in the voice. The champagne glasses, of course. “He’s my brother-in-law,” I said. “We were to meet here for a drink, but I found a note saying he’d been called out. I waited a bit in case he came back.”

I held my breath but he didn’t pursue that. He was only concerned with the man he was chasing, after all. I gave him the name and Edinburgh hotel address of a fictitious Miss Smith of Blackheath and then stood like a dummy while he shut up his notebook and announced that he was now going to search the flat.

“But there’s no one in it,” I said. “I would have heard them. I’m absolutely sure.”

“Well now,” said the sergeant. He had a bass baritone voice of a kind I particularly dislike. “You were asleep for a bit, didn’t you say? And he’d make much less noise than a doorbell. You can be quite sure of that.”

“It won’t take long,” said the other policeman brightly. He was a tenor. “And you’ll feel a lot safer, I guarantee, afterwards.”

I could hear my voice rise a little. “But I’m not staying here anyway. I meant to leave long before this.” I followed the sergeant into a bedroom. “Look, do you need me any more now? It’s late. I’d like to go off.” They had moved into the kitchen.

Someone took me by the arm and I jumped. A pair of bifocal glasses, topped by two black eyebrows, shone into my face. “They’ll only look under a few beds and then go off,” said my third visitor kindly. “Routine, you know. Why not let me make you a cup of tea while they do it, and then I’ll find you a taxi?” And, while I drew breath to answer, he had the effrontery to press my hand. The bifocals flashed.

“You dropped this, Madame Tina,” he murmured. And closed my fingers, gently, over the pieces of Kenneth Holmes’ card.

My mind, I think, was perfectly blank while I sat there in front of the almost-dead fire staring at the champagne glasses and listening to the hiss of Bifocals filling the kettle in Mr Chigwell’s neat kitchen, and the soft sounds of the policemen moving all through the flat. Bedroom. Bedroom. Bathroom. Now there was only the hall. In the kitchen, I heard the rattle of cups. Since he had given me Kenneth’s torn up card Bifocals had spoken to neither policeman: why? He knew I was Tina Rossi, it seemed. It was to be expected. I am famous. He now knew, for the fragments were all too easy to read, with whom I had an assignation for tonight. Still, he showed no haste to expose me.

I didn’t know whether my money or my virtue was in jeopardy, and I didn’t, immediately, care. I could deal with bifocal gentlemen if I must. I couldn’t deal with the law.

And the law were now in the hall. Every nerve in my body heard that wardrobe door rattle and pause.

“Miss Smith!” It was the sergeant. “D’you know why this door is locked?”

I got up and went through. The hall wardrobe stood firmly locked as I had left it, the key in my bag. “No. I haven’t locked it,” I lied. “Mr Chigwell must keep it shut.”

The sergeant rattled the door again. “It’s a sort of cloakroom, isn’t it? Funny place to keep locked.”

“Keeps his golf clubs in it, I expect,” advised a mild voice from the kitchen. The bifocals appeared, pot of tea nursed in its hands, and leaned against one of the doorposts. “Amazing who’ll walk off with a golf club when you lend your flat to a pal. It’s like books. Some chaps have no conscience.”

The policeman rattled the handle again. “All the same, it’s a roomy place: just the spot a fellow would hide in.”

“It is, of course.” Bifocals, laying down the teapot, advanced and peered at the lock. The two policemen peered at the lock. I could not look. Almost anything now was going to give it away. A trickle of blood on the carpet: a blow on the door that would dislodge the body inside . . . The smell of blood, even . . . Except that there had been almost no blood. The sergeant said: “It’d be an easy lock to force, that,” and fetched a piece of wire out of one pocket. The telephone rang.

It rang insistently, as irritating in its way as the doorbell had been, and as incongruously welcome.

It rang steadily until the sergeant, listening, suddenly said: “That might be for me, Miss,” and got to his feet just as I fled through to the sitting room with another thought in mind: Kenneth. It might be Kenneth, with God knew what story to tell, and the police listening, here in the flat. I got to it first, and said: “Hallo?”

It wasn’t Kenneth. It was a policeman, to say that they thought they had apprehended the thief. In two minutes, before my heart had stopped thudding, the two policemen were trading courteous farewells and admonitions. Bifocals, returned to nursing the teapot, enquired whether I should find it offensive if he remained to share a small cup of tea, assuming the law would allow him to identify the miscreant later.