Beyond this place (24 page)

"Down on your luck, eh?"

"I'm all right." Paul spoke in an automatic tone, his eyes still resting on the envelope, a queer, unformed premonition stirring within him.

There was a silence. The waiter shifted his feet.

"Well," he said at last, "I have to be going. All the best."

He shot a final inquisitive glance at Paul then he shrugged his shoulders, turned and made off down the street.

As the waiter disappeared from sight Paul was still standing in the dreary twilight, motionless. He passed his tongue over his pale lips. With the soiled paper tightly in his hand he hurried towards the nearest lamp-post and tore open the envelope. Holding up the letter to the flickering light he read:

Dear Mr. Smarty,

Seeing as how you thought you'd make a monkey out of me, as I've since been tipped off, I'd like fer you to know for your own information that I am going to be married, proper, in church, and don't need your attentions nor promises no more, fine sir. Arrangements has been made by Mr. Oswald fer me and my husbant to sail to

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New Zealand next month just like he done fer my friend Ed Collins what was here before me, who I expects to renew my acquaintance with when I arrives. So you can think on me in comfort and lucksury in a new land and I wish it makes you choke.

Yours,

Louisa Burt P.S. You didn't never kid me. I pity you.

Slowly, Paul lifted his disillusioned eyes. After all, it was nothing. And yet, strange thoughts were rising in his mind like mist above a sluggish pond. With a kind of aching wonder he floated in the twilight between reality and illusion. The street swam vaguely before him. There was a humming, a buzzing in his head. Then, as though his mind, dormant for these past weeks, had, in repose, gathered all its forces, he experienced a blaze of lucid power. Slowly the veils parted.

One shoulder dropping, an arm extended, towards the windblown light, he re-read the letter, so spiteful and stupid, so reeking with a cheap, offended vanity. That one phrase — vital, significant and terrible — stood out as though written in letters of fire: my friend Ed Collins . . . here before me. . . . His face wore, in the half light, an unnatural rigidity. But his eyes were glittering, and the pulse in his temple was beating fast.

Still holding the letter he hung on to the lamp standard as though crushed by an overwhelming weight. Why had he never dreamed of this before? While his brain still reeled he fought for calmness, fought to recollect his dizzy thoughts.

Louisa Burt had been in service with the Oswalds for twelve years — that in itself, though remarkable, was an innocuous fact. But this fact became at once exceptional and unique when coupled with the fact that Burt's co-servant in the household had been Edward Collins.

Ah, yes, how had it come about that these two young persons, the vital witnesses in the Mathry case, had both found positions with the Oswald family. Philanthropy might explain this. Yet it was a peculiar good heartedness which, as its ultimate manifesta-

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tion, sought to marry oft each of the two servants, and to ship them away to the furthest corner of the globe.

Paul felt his nerves vibrate and upon the screen of his sight there came a sudden vision of Enoch Oswald — tall and craggy of figure, his massive head sunk into those high, angular shoulders, the dark eyes glowing benevolently beneath their silvery brows. Could it be that this good man was involved, in some manner, in the case?

The tentacles of Paul's thought reached out, flickering and questing, keyed to an unnatural alertness. Why it should be so he could not tell but, at this precise moment, his whole consciousness seemed drawn and directed towards one extraordinary recollection — the sound of the voice of the man who had spoken with Albert Prusty on the dark stair landing that afternoon of the snowstorm, the landlord of Ushaw Terrace.

Like a beam from the darkness, fresh suspicion struck at Paul. He straightened in growing excitement. Since this was Thursday, the tobacconist's day of early closing, Prusty would almost certainly be at home. It was not yet five o'clock. Impulsively he squared his shoulders and set off through the rain.

CHAPTER V

TWENTY minutes later he was rattling upon the second-floor door of 52 Ushaw Terrace. At first there was no response, but after repeated knockings, the letter slot swung back and Prusty's voice came through.

"Who is it? I can't see anyone."

Quickly, Paul bent down and revealed himself.

"I have asthma," Prusty complained. "And I'm just turning in. Come back tomorrow."

"No, no ... I must see you now ... I must."

Paul was not to be denied and finally, after much grumbling, the tobacconist opened the door and admitted him to the hall,

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which was very hot and filled with the pungent aroma of burning stramonium powder. Wearing only shirt and trousers, Prusty wheezed spasmodically as he gazed at Paul, his cheeks slightly congested, his expression justifiably incensed.

"What the devil do you want?"

"I won't keep you a minute." Paul spoke hurriedly. "I only wanted to ask you . . ." his mouth suddenly was parched, he swallowed dryly, "who is the landlord of this house?"

In the close and overheated passage, Prusty's irritable wheezing seemed almost stifled by surprise. He peered at his visitor.

"Why, you heard me talking to him that afternoon. It's Mr. Enoch Oswald."

Again Paul felt weak, as though struck by a hammer of ice. He supported himself against the lobby wall.

"I didn't realize it was Mr. Oswald."

"Well it was . . . and it is. He owns all the Terrace . . . like his father did before him. He's one of the biggest property owners, and one of the best, in Wortley. He's not raised the rent on me once in ten years. And he's kept my flat in nice repair."

"And the flat upstairs," Paul said in a strange, suppressed tone, "he's kept that nice too?"

"Of course he has," Prusty answered warmly. "The man has a sense of decency and respect. What the devil has got into you?"

"I don't know. Have you still got the key?"

"Yes, I have. And I have the asthma too. You'll have to go. I can't stand here in my shirt tails any longer."

He began to press Paul towards the doorway.

"Just a minute. You remember you promised I could look at the flat upstairs. Well, give me the key."

Prusty's face was a study in annoyance. He seemed about to refuse. Yet he did not wish to go back on his word and he wanted to be rid of Paul. Abruptly he went into the kitchen and returned with the key.

"Here!" he exclaimed, curtly. "Now leave me in peace."

He banged the door shut.

On the landing Paul stood, in the half darkness, hearing Prusty draw the bolt behind the oak panels. His eyes were tensely

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raised towards the flight of stairs which led dimly to the flat above. But as he took the first step upwards, a better, and more immediate course of action flashed across the screen of his mind. He checked himself, reflected further, then slipped the key into his pocket. Not yet, he thought. He swung round sharply and went down.

Outside, he turned up the collar of his coat against the bitter wind, and hurried off. A dreadful suspicion was forming steadily in his throbbing head. In his calmer moments he would have dismissed it as sheer insanity. But now he was driven beyond all calmness, and this thought, this thing within him, grew from nothing, grew with an urgency beyond his control, until it filled and suffocatingly possessed him. Enoch Oswald ... it was he who owned the flat which Mona Spurring had occupied. Since he conducted his business personally he must have seen her at least every month when he collected his rents. And if he had called upon her oftener, who would question his comings and goings? He was the landlord, free of the common entry, a person no more noticeable than the postman, or the grocer who delivered her daily stores. If Mona Spurling had been this man's mistress who would have suspected it? If he had murdered her . . .

A shuddering convulsion swept over Paul. This was lunacy perhaps, yet his tortured mind would not, could not, let it go, but kept piecing together, like links in a preposterous chain, the singular actions of this man of property. Even his public benefactions now seemed a sham, or at best, a form of atonement exacted by an unconquerable sense of guilt.

Almost running now, Paul reached the centre of the city and, breathlessly, entered the reference department of the Leonard Library, that dim and musty room where, months before, his first groping and uncertain strivings had begun.

Mark was no longer behind the counter, a young woman was in attendance, and in response to his pressing request served him with intelligent civility. Bearing the load of books she gave him to a remote corner table, he applied himself with feverish energy to a rapid perusal of their pages.

The first volume, the national Who's Who, contained no more

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than a few lines of condensed information relating to the parentage, official titles, and present address of Enoch Oswald. Two others were equally brief, equally useless for his purpose. A fourth gave no more than a lengthy list of the charitable foundations supported by the Oswald family. But finally, in a local publication issued in paper covers by a firm of Wortley printers, entitled Wortley and its Notables, Paul, with a gasp of satisfaction, came upon a full biography of the city's most prominent philanthropist. Avidly, with the speed of lightning, his gaze flashed across the conventional and flattering paragraphs.

Enoch Oswald, born 13 November 1861, only child of Saul Oswald and Martha Cleghorn. . . . Educated Wortley Grammar School and Nottingham University. ... At first was intended for a professional career but owing to ill health, after two years at St. Mary's Hospital, abandoned his studies as a medical student. . . .

A thrill passed over Paul as he realized the significance of these last two words. Scarcely breathing, he read on:

Thereafter . . . entered his father's business . . . prosperous and old-established . . . extensive property holdings in Eldon . . . began in exemplary fashion, at the lowest rung of the ladder, collecting weekly and monthly rents. . . .

Despite recurrent attacks or indisposition young Oswald was no milksop ... an interest in outdoor sports ... in particular cycling . . . and for some months . . . was an active member of the short-lived Grasshoppers' Club. . . .

The screed continued, but now the ill-set lines of print were blurred and twisted, Paul could no longer read them. He lay back, overcome. Amidst the grim reflections that poured like a torrent through his brain, Paul became conscious of what he must do next. With this supreme objective looming before him there was no time for hesitation or compunction. Charged again with preternatural energy, he pushed back his chair with a clatter and, leaving the books littered on the table, dashed from the room.

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Ten minutes later he entered Ware Place, ran up the steps to the door of Mrs. Hanley's house. It was Lena herself who answered his knock. Then, even as she welcomed him, he said in a tone which startled her:

"Lena ... I want your help . . . now, at once."

CHAPTER VI

STANDING in the hallway, heedless of her questions, and of the solicitous glances which she cast upon him, he outlined in detail what he wanted. His words were so laboured, his air so unnatural, she wondered if he had not momentarily been thrown off balance. Despite her anxiety, and the apparent absurdity of his requests, there was in his manner something deep and terrible which caused her to obey. She went into the kitchen and found a cardboard box, brown paper, string, a stick of sealing wax. From her bedroom she brought an old notebook with some pages still unused.

In the dim hall, her hand pressed against her side, she watched him as, methodically, he wrapped the box in the sheet of brown paper, then tied it up, sealing the string with the red wax.

Next he turned his attention to the slip book, selecting a clean page, filled in the first six lines in pencil with names and addresses.

"Oh, Paul," she exclaimed. "What on earth are you doing?"

He hesitated. Perhaps he had an inkling that his actions verged upon the fantastic. But shock had dulled his mental processes and, having fixed upon this plan, he clung to it tenaciously. One thing more he must discover . . . only one thing more.

"I'll explain later . . . now we have to go out."

She stood beside him, torn by feeling, scarcely knowing whether to obey. Yet perhaps in these trivial, almost senseless preparations, there lay something of importance.

"Don't worry," he said. "It's quite simple."

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"Simple or difficult, I'll do it."

He looked across at her. In a suppressed voice he went over what she was to do.

"You understand?"

"I think so. But Paul . . ." her voice shook, "there's nothing in the package."

A queer look came into his eyes.

"Nothing . . . yet everything." He glanced at the hallway clock which indicated a few minutes to nine. "We may as well go now. Are you ready? The whole thing won't take half an hour."

They went out together. They walked in silence along Ware Street in the direction of the Lanes, turned right down Northern Road, then left through the narrow passage known as Weaver's Alley. At the end of the Alley Paul drew up, his gaze searching the open triangle of the Corn Market. The canteen was open, the long line of men was already in motion, and, with a shrinking of all his flesh, he saw that Oswald had arrived. He stood at the tailboard, plainly visible under the hanging electric light, his silver hair gleaming, palely, like a halo, in the dusk.

Instinctively, Paul retreated a step into the deeper shadow of the alley. Deep in his mind lay the conviction that Oswald was aware of his identity. For this reason he had decided to refrain from showing himself lest he impair the validity of this crucial test. For a long time he stood motionless; then, with an imperceptible motion of his arm, he directed Lena towards the canteen.