No Comebacks (17 page)

On the third day, plucking up all his nerve, he sat down and wrote his reply to her advert. He did it on a piece of plain paper from the office and it was short and to the point. He said 'Dear Madam,' and went on to explain that he had seen her advert and would very much like to meet her.

There was a centrefold in the magazine that explained how adverts should be answered. Write your letter of reply and place it, together with a self-addressed and stamped envelope, in a plain envelope and seal. Write the number of the advert to which you are replying on the back of the envelope in pencil. Enclose this plain envelope, together with the forwarding fee, in a third envelope and mail it to the magazine's office in London. Mr Nutkin did all this, except that for the self-addressed envelope he used the name Henry Jones, c/o 27 Acacia Avenue, which was his real address.

For the next six days he was down on the hallway mat each morning the instant the mail arrived, and it was on the sixth that he spotted the envelope addressed to Henry Jones. He stuffed it into his pocket and went back upstairs to collect his wife's breakfast tray.

On the train to town that morning he slipped away to the toilet and opened the envelope with trembling fingers. The contents were his own letter, and written on the back in longhand was the reply. It said, 'Dear Henry, thank you for your reply to my ad. I'm sure we could have a lot of fun together. Why don't you ring me at —? Love, Sally.' The phone number was in Bays-water, in the West End of London.

There was nothing else in the envelope. Samuel Nutkin jotted the number on a piece of paper, stuffed it in his back pocket, and flushed the letter and envelope down the pan. When he returned to his seat there were butterflies in his stomach and he thought people would be staring, but old Fogarty had just worked out 15 across and no one looked up.

He rang the number at lunchtime from a call box in the nearest subway station. A husky woman's voice said, 'Hello?'

Mr Nutkin pushed the five-penny piece into the slot, cleared his throat and said, 'Er ... hello, is that Miss Sally?'

'That's right,' said the voice, 'and who is that?'

'Oh, er, my name is Jones. Henry Jones. I received a letter from you this morning, about a reply I made to your advert...'

There was a rustling of paper at the other end, and the woman's voice cut in. 'Oh, yes, I remember, Henry. Well now, darling, would you like to come round and see me?'

Samuel Nutkin felt as if his tongue were of old leather. 'Yes, please,' he croaked.

'Lovely,' purred the woman at the other end. 'There is just one thing, Henry darling. I expect a little present from my men friends, you know, just to help out with the rent. It's twenty pounds, but there's no rush or hurry. Is that all right?'

Nutkin nodded, then said 'Yes' down the phone.

'Fine,' she said, 'well now, when would you like to come?'

'It would have to be in the lunch hour. I work in the City, and I go home in the evening.'

'All right then. Tomorrow suit you? Good. At twelve-thirty? I'll give you the address ...'

He still had the butterflies in his stomach, except that they had turned into thrashing pigeons, when he turned up at the basement flat just off Westbourne Grove in Bayswater the following day at half past twelve. He tapped nervously and heard the clack of heels in the passage behind the door.

There was a pause as someone looked through the glass lens set into the centre panel of the door, and which commanded a view of the area in which he stood. Then the door opened and a voice said, 'Come in.' She was standing behind the door and closed it as he entered and turned to face her. 'You must be Henry,' she said softly. He nodded. 'Well, come into the sitting room so we can talk,' she said.

He followed her down the passage to the first room on the left, his heart beating like a tambour. She was older than he had expected, a much-used mid-thirties with heavy make-up. She was a good six inches taller than he was, but part of that could be explained by the high heels of her court shoes, and the breadth of her rear beneath the floor-length housecoat as she preceded him down the passage indicated her figure was heavy. When she turned to usher him into the sitting room the front of her housecoat swung open for a second to give a glimpse of black nylons and a red-trimmed corset. She left the door open.

The room was cheaply furnished and seemed to contain no more than a handful of personal possessions. The woman smiled at him encouragingly.

'Do you have my little present, Henry?' she asked him.

Samuel Nutkin nodded and proffered her the £20 he had been holding in his trouser pocket. She took it and stuffed it into a handbag on the dresser.

'Now sit down and make yourself comfortable,' she said. 'There's no need to be nervous. Now, what can I do for you?'

Mr Nutkin had seated himself on the edge of an easy chair. He felt as if his mouth was full of quick-drying cement. 'It's difficult to explain,' he muttered.

She smiled again. 'There's no need to be shy. What would you like to do?'

Hesitatingly he told her. She showed no surprise.

'That's all right,' she said easily. 'A lot of gentlemen like a bit of that sort of thing. Now take off your jacket, trousers and shoes, and come with me into the bedroom.'

He did as she told him and followed her down the passage again to the bedroom which was surprisingly brightly lit. Once inside she closed the door, locked it, dropped the key into the pocket of her housecoat, slipped out of the latter and hung it behind the door.

When the plain buff envelope arrived at 27 Acacia Avenue three days later Samuel Nutkin collected it off the front door mat along with the rest of the morning mail and took it back to the breakfast table. There were three letters in all, one for Lettice from her sister, a bill from the nursery for some potted plants, and the buff envelope, postmarked in London and addressed to Samuel Nutkin. He opened it without suspicion, expecting it to be a commercial circular. It was not.

The six photographs that fell out lay for a few moments face up on the table while he stared at them in incomprehension. When understanding dawned, sheer horror took its place. The photos would not have won prizes for clarity or focus, but they were good enough. In all of them the face of the woman was clearly seen, and in at least two of them his own face was easily recognizable. Scrabbling furiously he scoured the inside of the envelope for anything else, but it was quite empty. He turned all six photographs, but the backs were unmarked by any message. The message was on the front in black and white, without words.

Samuel Nutkin was in the grip of a blind panic as he stuffed the photographs under the carpet by the fireplace where he found the magazine still lying. Then on a second impulse he took the lot outside and burned them all behind the garage, stamping the ashes into the moist earth with his heel. As he re-entered the house he thought of spending the day at home, claiming illness, but then realized that must attract Lettice's suspicion since he was perfectly well. He just had time to take her letter upstairs to her, remove her breakfast tray and run to catch the train to the City.

His mind was still whirling as he gazed out of the window from his corner seat and tried to work out the implications of the morning's shock. It took him till just past New Cross to realize how it had been done.

'My jacket,' he breathed, 'jacket and wallet.'

Old Fogarty who was studying 7 down shook his head. 'No,' he said, 'too many letters.'

Samuel Nutkin gazed miserably out of the window as southeast London's suburbs trundled past the train. He was simply not used to this sort of thing. A cold horror gripped his stomach and he could no more concentrate on his work that morning than fly.

In the lunch hour he tried to ring the number Sally had given him, but it had been disconnected.

He took a taxi straight to the basement flat in Bayswater but it was locked and barred, with a For Rent notice attached to the railings at pavement level. By mid-afternoon Mr Nutkin had worked out that even going to the police would serve little purpose. Almost certainly the magazine had sent replies for that advertisement to an address which would turn out to be an accommodation, long since vacated without trace. The basement flat in Bayswater had probably been rented by the week for the week in a false name and vacated. The telephone number would probably belong to a man who would say he had been away for the past month and had found the door latch forced on his return. Since then there had been a number of calls asking for Sally, which had completely mystified him. A day later he too would be gone.

On his arrival home Lettice was in a more corn-plaining mood than usual. There had been three calls, all asking for him by name, which had disturbed her afternoon rest. It was really not good enough.

The fourth call came just after eight. Samuel Nutkin shot out of his chair, left Lettice watching the television, and went into the hallway to take it. Nervously, he let the phone ring a few times before picking up the receiver. The voice was that of a man, but fogged as if by a handkerchief held to the mouthpiece.

'Mr Nutkin?'

'Yes.'

'Mr Samuel Nutkin?'

'Yes.'

'Or should I call you Henry Jones?'

Samuel Nutkin's stomach turned over.

'Who is that?' he queried.

'Never mind the name, friend. Did you get my little present in the morning's post?'

'What do you want?'

'I asked you a question, friend. Did you get the photos?'

'Yes.'

'Have a good look at them, did you?'

Samuel Nutkin swallowed hard with the horror of the memory. 'Yes.'

'Well, then, you've been a naughty lad, haven't you? I really can't see how I can avoid sending the same set to your boss at the office. Oh yes, I know about your office, and the managing director's name. And then I might send another set to Mrs Nutkin. Or to the secretary of the tennis club. You really do carry a lot in your wallet, Mr Nutkin ...'

'Look, please don't do that,' burst out Mr Nutkin, but the voice cut through his protests.

'I'm not staying on this line any longer. Don't bother to go to the police. They couldn't even begin to find me. So just play it cool, friend, and you can have the whole lot back, negatives and all. Think it over. What time do you leave for work in the morning?'

'Eight-twenty.'

'I'll ring you again at eight tomorrow morning. Have a good night.'

The phone clicked dead, and Mr Nutkin was left listening to the dialling tone.

He did not have a good night. He had a horrible night. After Lettice had gone to bed he made the excuse of banking up the fire, and item by item went through the contents of his wallet. Railway season ticket, cheque book, tennis club membership card, two letters addressed to him, two photographs of Lettice and himself, driving licence, membership card for the insurance company's social club, more than enough to identify him and his place of work.

In the half light of the street lamp shining from Acacia Avenue through the curtains he looked across the room at Lettice's disapproving face in the other twin bed — she had always insisted on twin beds — and tried to imagine her opening a buff envelope that had arrived, addressed to her, by second postal delivery while he was at the office. He tried to visualize Mr Benson up on the director's floor receiving the same set of photos. Or the membership committee of the tennis club passing them round at a special meeting convened to 'reconsider' Samuel Nutkin's membership. He couldn't. It baffled his imagination. But of one thing he was quite certain; the shock would kill poor Lettice ... it would simply kill her, and that must not be allowed to happen.

Before he dropped into a fitful doze just before dawn, he told himself for the hundredth time that he was simply not used to this sort of thing.

The phone call came on the dot of eight. Samuel Nutkin was waiting in the hallway, as ever in dark grey suit, white shirt and collar, bowler hat, rolled umbrella and briefcase, before setting off on his punctual morning trot to the station.

'Thought it over, have you?' said the voice.

'Yes,' quavered Samuel Nutkin.

'Want those photo negatives back, do you?'

'Yes, please.'

'Well, I'm afraid you'll have to buy 'em, friend. Just to cover our expenses and perhaps to teach you a little lesson.'

Mr Nutkin swallowed several times. 'I'm not a rich man,' he pleaded. 'How much do you want?'

'One thousand quid,' replied the man down the phone, without hesitation.

Samuel Nutkin was appalled. 'But I haven't got one thousand pounds,' he protested.

'Well then, you'd better raise it,' sneered the voice on the phone. 'You can raise a loan against your house, your car or whatever you like. But get it, and quick. By tonight. I'll ring you at eight this evening.'

And again the man was gone, and the dialling tone buzzed in Samuel Nutkin's ear. He went upstairs, gave Lettice a peck on the cheek, and left for work. But that day he did not board the 8.31 to Charing Cross. Instead, he went and sat in the park, alone on a bench, a strange solitary figure dressed for the office and the City, but sitting gnome-like amid the trees and flowers, in a bowler hat and black suit. He felt he had to think, and that he could not think properly sitting next to old Fogarty and his endless crossword puzzles.