The Judas Kiss (20 page)

"I needed that," he explained. "Had a bit of trouble."

"Then you'll do with another," Ben said genially, not having touched his own. "Poor stuff these days."

Mr. Inglis almost protested, but he believed in taking his chances. At Ben's suggestion they moved to a well-worn bench in the corner near the fireplace, though no fire was burning.

"S'pose you know Gore-Black pretty well," the tempter began.

"I'll say I do," Mr. Inglis replied. "At one time Black and me was like that." He interlocked the fingers of his two hands to indicate complete intimacy. "But that was before he wrote his crime stories. Then he got too big for his old pal."

"Did 'e now?" Ben said. "I've read a few crime stories myself; don't think I know his."

"Not much miss," was the bitter comment. "In the old days he was Vic Black and I was Bob Inglis, but when he blossomed out as an author he became Victor Gore-Black and, you'd hardly believe it, he got the idea of his first book from me. His best book too."

"Be that a fact? I 'ope 'e paid you well?" Ben said.

"Not a blasted penny, not so much as a thank-you. Put on side and hardly knew me. Before that we shared the jobs between us. Then he became Our Special Correspondent and he wrote Our London Letter. I got the odd jobs I could find for myself."

Ben was a shrewd judge of character. One man had gone up and one had gone under. Inglis was shabbily attired and his linen none too clean. His bloodshot eyes told their own story. His enmity for his successful rival was equally obvious.

"Works in Lunnon, does 'e?"

"Not he. Uses the telephone and sneaks bits from the London papers. That's the way with most of 'em."

"But his book made brass? Reckon I ought to read it."

"My book really," Inglis said. "'The Marmalade Murder.' Sold all over the world."

"Aye. I must get it. I always read the last chapter first. But maybe you could tell me."

"That is cheating and it spoils the fun. You should work out the solution yourself and see if you are right. But I'll tell you if you like."

"Sure I would."

"It was like this. I had an old aunt, a real terror she was, and one day I saw her making strawberry jam. She poured it into the pots and let it stand for a bit to cool before she put papers on top and tied 'em with string. I thought if someone put poison in one of the jars, while she wasn't looking, it would go on the shelf with the rest and weeks or perhaps months afterwards she would eat it and pass out. Serve her right too. The fellow who did it might be hundreds of miles away when it happened."

"What a plot!" Ben said admiringly. "Why didn't you write it yourself?"

"I might have done," Inglis said gloomily. "He was too quick."

"A wicked shame! How did it end?"

"The hero was suspected because he was staying in the house."

"Aye, they allus are. Go on!"

"A smart young female 'tee was in love with him and she noticed that the old woman always wrote on the paper cover what it was and when she made it. Strawberry Jam, April 16, 1954, that sort of thing. She asked who was there in April that year and so they got him."

"Gradely work," said Ben. He did not quite know what “gradely” meant but it sounded Yorkshire. "I thought you said it were the Marmalade Murder?"

"He altered it to that and worked out the ending. So I never got a bean."

"Dirty work. But you want another drink."

"Well, if you insist."

Ben went to the bar and brought it back. But Inglis, who had imbibed a little before his new friend arrived, was sober enough to wonder why this miracle was happening.

"You want Black?" he asked. "What for?" Could there be anything in it for him?

"Oop Hooddersfield way an old lady name o' Black died leavin' no will. Not much brass neither, but it's a question o' findin' who it should go to. Someone suggested Victor Gore-Black and I coom to make enquiries. P'r'aps you could tell me where I could find 'im."

Ben believed in the truth, but to hear the truth it was sometimes necessary to be inventive.

"Worth anything to me if I did?" Inglis asked.

"Nowt," said Ben. "I could get 'im at the office. Did 'e ever mention Hooddersfield?"

"Never. He is seldom at the office. He has two addresses."

"Two, 'as 'e? Might be worth a quid to save time and get home quick."

"It's like this," said Inglis artfully. "What you might call his official address is a flat in Prettyman Walk, highly respectable. That's the one the office knows. But I happen to know he has a little bungalow just outside the town. No one but me is aware of that and you can draw what conclusion you like." He winked. "You might learn more there, a lot more."

"Aye," said Ben slowly; "write down both addresses and the quid's yours."

"A quid each."

"Naw, lad. I can allus go to office And maybe 'e's not the man I want."

Inglis hoped he was not. He did not think he could be, as his former associate always boasted of his west-country family. Why should he get a legacy? But a quid is a quid. He wrote down the addresses.

Ben thought his story would have sounded thin to a more intelligent and a less thirsty man, but he decided to try the bungalow first. Inglis cadged for another drink but Ben would not be responsible for that. He had Major Bennion's car for the expedition and made his way towards The Beeches, Ivybrook Avenue, beside the gentle Orwell. He had little difficulty in finding it and left the car a short distance away while he went to reconnoitre.

At first he thought he had come on a fool's errand. The Beeches was apparently a four-roomed shack like many another and showed no sign of occupation. The blinds were drawn; no smoke from the chimneys; no milk bottles on the doorstep. There was a small, well-kept garden in the front, so it had not been long empty. It did occur to him that Inglis might have given a false address in the hope of more payment and more drinks. The whole story might be untrue, or the tenant might be out. Other bungalows were not far away; he could make enquiries there. Before ringing the bell he decided to have a look at the back.

Walking softly for so heavy a man, he followed the path to the rear. The windows there were also curtained, but a light was burning in one of the rooms. Odd at that time of day.

He went to the casement where there was a chink he could just peep through. What he saw astonished him.

A girl was in the room. She was still in her dressing gown, another odd thing. She was probably not ill-looking but the hard, set expression on her face made it difficult to judge. It was her actions that surprised him.

She had a cushion in her hand. She opened the door of the gas stove and put the cushion beside it. She crossed to the table and wrote a few words on a sheet of paper. She placed it on some pound notes that were plainly visible under the electric light burning, above them. She went back to the stove and turned on all the taps. Then, pulling her dressing-gown around her, she lay on the floor with her head on the cushion.

Ben was not slow to action. Beside the window was a door. He hurled all his weight against it. The fastenings were flimsy and yielded at the first impact. He staggered into the room, almost falling. The girl sat up; she had taken little of the fatal fumes.

"What do you want?" she demanded. "Go away!"

"What do you think you are doing?" he asked at the same moment. "Get up!"

He turned off the gas taps and seized her in his arms and carried her to the door.

"Who are you?" she asked weakly. "Why have you come?"

His eye had already seen the message on the table. It told him nearly all he wanted to know. Beside it there was an unused railway ticket for London.

'I am going, Victor, as you wished. Further than you thought. I shall not want your money.., Joy.'

Joy! What a name for a girl driven to so desperate an act!

"Listen to me," he said, and he spoke gently when he had a mind to. "I came to see Mr. Black. I suppose you are Mrs. Black?"

She did not reply. Nor did she struggle. Struggling would not have availed much in his mighty grasp.

"I came to ask Mr. Black some questions, but you can tell me the answers. And I think I can help you. You need not be afraid of me."

Satisfied that she was little the worse for what she had thought to do, he put her in a chair.

"I guess you could do with a cup of tea. Young women generally can most times of the day."

She sat limply where he had put her and watched him. The reaction was so sudden, she seemed incapable of word or movement. With unerring instinct he found the things he wanted; the teapot, the kettle, the tea, the milk and a cup and saucer. The little place was tidily kept and everything was where it should be. He filled the kettle and lit the ring on the gas stove.

All the while he kept an eye on her and he was talking. He had dropped his Yorkshire.

"You must never give up 'ope," he said. "Never. There was a niece o' mine about your age. Niece o' the wife's really." (He thought it well to let her know he was a married man.) "Trouble, my word, she 'ad a peck of it. Her young man treated her cruel and she thought life weren't worth livin'. 'The sun is shinin' behind every cloud,' I told her, 'you must give it time to shine through'. 'S'pose you think you're a guardian angel or something,' she said. 'Not likely, Peggy,' I told her. 'I'm only yer silly Uncle Ben, but I can't let a smart young lass like you make a fool o' yerself over a bit o' trash like 'im.' She began to listen and she pulled 'erself together. Within a year she was married to as nice a boy as you'd ever wish to see. Now they 'ave a little nipper o' their own and are as 'appy as the royal family itself."

Then the tea was made and he added the milk. "Sugar?" he asked as casually as if it was a normal tea party. She shook her head but he made her drink.

His story, his niece and the nipper, were entirely mythical, but it was the best he could do on the spur of the moment to get her attention and her confidence. He could see she really was pretty now that the drawn expression had relaxed.

"Who are you?" she asked in a low voice. "Are you from the office?"

"Me a newspaper man?" he said, with his natural beaming smile. "Do I look like it? Just imagine I'm your Uncle Ben. Or a guardian angel if you like that better, though I doubt angels are quite my shape. Just tell me yer trouble and I think I can help. I suppose it's all about this Gore-Black?"

She nodded. "You know him?"

"Can't say that, but I know of him."

Slowly she seemed to melt, to become more natural. Perhaps after being a lot alone she was glad to have someone to talk to, someone who seemed to understand. Her story, told in short jerky sentences, was unhappily all too similar to many another.

She had been employed as a typist and general assistant in a shop. She met Victor and he had taken her to cinemas and dances. Then he had told her he was an author and wanted a typist. He would pay her more than she had been getting and he had a cottage where she could live and work for him. After a time he lived with her. She thought he loved her and she was happy. Then, then he told her he was getting married and she must clear out.

"The scoundrel!" Ben said. "How long had you been with him?"

"Six months."

"And you not more than twenty?"

"I'll be twenty-one next January. He said he would marry me then, but he never meant it. He had had other girls, "

She was not weeping. Ben was glad of that. Perhaps her tears had all been shed.

"Have you any people you could go to?"

"No. He knew that. My mother is dead. I never knew my father. Vic said I must go today. He gave me, he gave me ten pounds and told me to go to London. If I was not gone before to-morrow he, he would put me out and I would get nothing. So I thought, "

"Never mind that. What is your right name?"

"Joy. Joy Austin."

"Now listen to me, Joy. I am not really a guardian angel but I'm not a blackguard neither. I am what is sometimes called a gentleman's gentleman. Not much of a gent meself, but he's the real thing. He is interested in this Black. I will take you to him and if he and his wife cannot help you, it'll be the first time they've failed. Of course it means you've got to trust me. Can you do it?"

She looked at him for some moments. Then she nodded. His friendly manner had not been without effect.

"My wife, she's the best wife in the world, she will help too. Ever been up in an aeroplane?"

She shook her head.

"It doesn't matter. I was in the Air Force for a time and it teaches you one thing. Clouds are mostly sham. You fly through 'em and over 'em, and there is the blessed sun shinin' as bright as ever. Don't forget that. Now this is my idea: if you think it daft it is better anyway than your idea."

She was listening and seemed to be taking in what he said. He went on, "Go and dress yourself proper. Give yer hair a do, but don't be too long about it. Then pack everything that is yours, only yours, nothing of his, and we clear out as he said. I've a car round the corner, the Major's car, not mine, and I'll take you to him and his wife. How quick can you be?"

"I won't be long."

"Good! And no tricks?"

"No tricks." She almost smiled.

"Good again, and take the money. I don't suppose he paid what he promised?"

"No. You see, "

"Of course I see. I know his sort." He thrust the notes in her hand and she went into the bedroom. It had been in his mind to tell her he was taking her to the house next the one where the girl lived that her Victor was to marry and where he so frequently called. It presented dramatic possibilities and appealed to his sense of mischief. But he decided against it. It might frighten her from coming and in any case it would be up to the Major. He busied himself repairing the broken door.

She was ready sooner than he expected. She was wearing a neat dark costume and a long coat. She really was pretty and there was a new light in her eyes. She carried two suitcases.

"I'll take the bags," he said, "and I've got that note you wrote. Nothing else you want to write?"

"Nothing."

"Then we'll be off. I s'pose he has a key, but it don't matter."