The Tumbled House Read online

  “Then why didn’t you use it in the first place?” asked Kathie.

  “My dear, one observes the courtesies. Anyway, I think he’s forgotten I’ve got it.”

  Michael let himself in, and they followed him up the stairs whispering now like conspirators. When Michael saw there were no lights anywhere he said: “It’s all right. There’s nobody here.”

  “Decorations need not be worn,” said Peter.

  They switched on lights in the living-room, then the three men went up the next flight to Michael’s bedroom. After a minute or two Kathie followed them, and then Pat; but Bennie sat in a chair in the living-room trying to steady her head.

  It was not so much that she couldn’t talk or walk properly as that she was on the verge of not being able to and couldn’t understand why. If she’d drunk a lot she would have understood it. But there wasn’t any such excuse, and she didn’t know whether she was going to feel worse or better in the next five minutes.

  There was plenty of laughter from upstairs and she heard Michael calling “ Bennie!” She answered and got up, but walked slowly about the room, trying to feel her feet again. She peered at the Delacroix drawing on the wall.

  A lovely room. She had never been here before, but everything about it spoke of good taste. There was no point in going up; they were already coming down again. She walked to the window and lifted the blind to look out at the waiting car, then went to peer at a tiny Italian painting on wood above the desk. She admired it for a moment or two, glad to fix her eyes on something stable, glad that some of her dizziness was passing. As she turned away to go to the door to meet the others with the radiogram she caught sight of a newspaper cutting lying attached to the top of some letters on the desk. She had no difficulty in recognising it because Don had showed it to her: it was the letter to The Times from the judge and the three barristers in defence of her father.

  Pleased that Roger too had cut it out, she was again going to turn away when she saw that the letter underneath, to which the cutting was clipped, was signed Warner Robinson, Editor.

  Last Friday Don had told her of an interview he had had earlier in the week.

  A tremendous crash behind: she swung guiltily towards the door. There were cries and shouts and she heard Michael’s voice: “You damned idiot, Kenny, what made you let go?”

  “I didn’t let go. The end slipped out of me fingers——”

  “Good job you got out of the way, darling boy; it would have crushed your ribs. Get hold of this end——”

  “My dear man, it’s completely wrecked!”

  “Don’t take on so. The man couldn’t help it. I’ll buy you a new one.”

  Bennie picked up the letter. The heading was “ Sunday Gazette. Editorial”, and was dated the previous Thursday. It ran:

  Dear Shorn,

  I think you can take space to reply to this on Sunday. We don’t want a long spiel, just enough to scare the pants off them. You might for once be rather dignified, not treading on the toes of the Aunt Ednas more than you need. A lot of letters from Marlowe fans, and some of them have already become ex-Marlowe. It’s a healthy sign.

  Yours, Warner Robinson (Editor).

  Chapter Eleven

  They were asleep when the telephone rang. Don woke more slowly than usual and fumbled the receiver to his ear.

  “Don, this is B-Bennie. Could I come round and see you?”

  “What time is it? What’s the matter?”

  “It’s only about half past two. I’ve been out and I wanted to see you rather urgently.”

  “What is it?” said Joanna.

  “It’s Bennie. Yes, you can come if you want to, my dear. Where are you?”

  “Back at my flat. We’ve b-been out and I felt I couldn’t sleep till I’d seen you.”

  “Of course come over. D’you want me to fetch you?”

  “No. I’ll ring for a taxi.”

  Joanna was sitting up when Don put the receiver back. “What’s the matter, Don?”

  He switched on the bedside light and pushed his fingers through his hair. “ Heaven only knows! She sounded upset. I couldn’t cross-examine her over the phone.” After two days of concentrated work with de Courville and Bellegarde he had been in a very deep sleep, and he could still hardly think straight.

  “Is she coming round now?”

  “Apparently. I expect that little Polish girl’s been getting into trouble.”

  “No,” said Joanna. “Bennie wouldn’t worry us over that.”

  He put on his dressing-gown and offered her a cigarette. They smoked in silence until there was the sound of a taxi outside. Don went down and let Bennie in.

  “Hullo.” Obeying an unusual impulse, he bent and kissed her. “Nice of you to call round. We’re nearly always in at this time.”

  Her cheek was very cold and she shivered at his touch. She turned into the drawing-room but he said: “ Joanna’s upstairs.”

  He followed her up. In the bedroom Bennie slipped out of her coat, her short dark frock rippling as she sat on the edge of Don’s bed. He noticed that her fingers were unsteady.

  “Let me get you something to drink,” he said gently.

  Bennie shuddered. “Nothing for me, darling. I’ve only had three drinks since eight-thirty, but they’ve made me feel drunker than I’ve ever felt before.”

  She began to tell her story. While she told it her mind roamed in an unattached way over the evening, moving far from what she was speaking about, as if it did not need to direct the narrative. The letter, first in her bag, then, on her return to the remnants of the cocktail party, taken out and folded small in the cross-over of her brassiere. The broken gramophone, the attempts to mend it, Peter Waldo’s promise of a new one tomorrow or the next day; the end of the party, her longing to get away, but she could not leave without deserting Pat and Pat wouldn’t go. The cocktails had suited Pat and had made her sublimely happy. It was a lovely party and she wanted it to go on for ever.

  Bennie stopped in her story and put her hand down her frock and took out the cutting and the letter. She said: “It’s lucky it’s a paper-clip and not a pin; otherwise I should be tattooed for life.”

  Afterwards they had gone on to the Middle Pocket. Michael had been thoughtful, not pressing her to drink when he saw she didn’t want to. Boy Kenny had met some of his own kind who frequented the club, and he went off with them and wasn’t seen again. At last something Pat drank caught up with her and she went very white and threatened to pass out on them. From then on it had been easy. “No, don’t come, Michael, please. I’ll get a taxi, thank you for a lovely time. Yes, ring me, I shall be home all day Friday. She’ll be all right when she gets to bed. No, I have to go with her. Thank you, darling, thank you. Good-bye. Good-bye.”

  Don handed the letter to Joanna, who had been watching him with sleepy green eyes. She took it and stared at it and didn’t seem

  to see it.

  “Cigarette?” Don said to Bennie.

  “No, thanks. I’m smoked out.”

  He lit another himself.

  When she finished reading it Joanna didn’t speak. She put a hand

  up to her cheek, rubbing it as if it hurt.

  Don said: “ I just can’t believe it.”

  Bennie said: “ I didn’t know what to do. I felt I had to let you

  know.”

  “Perhaps this is still part of a nightmare,” Don said wryly. “ If

  so I shall be glad to be wakened up.”

  Joanna said: “I can’t believe it either. There must be some mistake.”

  “I suppose the mistake has been ours.”

  But Bennie was watching Joanna.

  It being mid-week the Hanover Club was crowded for lunch next day. When Don went up to the dining-room he chose a place between two strangers so that he should not have to talk.

  Roger was usually in on a Wednesday, but of course one could never be sure. In spite of everything Don was not looking forward to this meeting. His angers when
they came were impulsive ones, quick to grow and quick to spend themselves. A deliberate anger was to him a contradiction in terms.

  Also, in between waves of resentment, he was hurt and upset—and genuinely curious and puzzled. A man devoid of malice himself, he could not understand it working in others. At the back of his mind, contrary to reason, was still a feeling that somehow there had been a terrific misunderstanding—that somehow it could all be explained away.

  “Will you pass me the pepper, please?” said the man next to him as Roger came into the room.

  Odd that presence. So much in command of himself, so well turned-out, handsome, amusing, cultured, so much more like a diplomat than a diplomat; where was the flaw?

  Roger saw him and raised a friendly hand. Don nodded back. Roger went across the room and sat at a small table where a distinguished surgeon and an American First Secretary were lunching.

  “The pepper, sir, please.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  Don went slowly on with his meal. Men came and went at his table. He dallied over cheese and then ordered another beer. The American got up and paid his bill and went out. Roger was talking to the surgeon, who had finished his meal. A noisy quartet of late-comers blocked Don’s view for a minute or two while they decided where to sit; when they finally moved the surgeon was just leaving.

  Don rose with his half empty glass and went across to the table where Roger was eating alone. “Mind if I sit down?”

  Roger looked up and smiled. “Just the man I wanted to see. Throw that malt stuff away and have a glass of my wine.”

  “You wanted to see me? I wanted to see you. Who starts first?”

  By the tone of voice Roger had gathered there was something wrong. He raised his eyebrows. “You, by all means.”

  Don said: “Bennie was in your flat last night.”

  This remark was open to an obvious misconstruction. Roger said: “My dear Don, you must be crazy. I haven’t seen Bennie since the night of your concert.”

  “Michael took her. They went to fetch a gramophone of his. She found this on your desk.”

  He opened his pocket-book, fingered among the papers there, took out the clipping and the letter. Then he put it on the table in front of Roger.

  Roger took up a piece of toast and while he ate it he lifted the Press-cutting and read the letter underneath as carefully as if he had never seen it before. Two or three men went past towards the pay desk. One spoke to Don, but Don didn’t raise his head.

  Roger said: “Well, thanks for letting me have it back. I missed it this morning.”

  His face hadn’t changed much; there was a darker look to the sallow line of his jaw. When he raised his head his eyes were narrowed with the lower lids slightly wrinkled. He looked Don full in the face and picked up the letter and put it in his pocket.

  “It makes it a bit awkward for you, doesn’t it?” Don said quietly.

  “Life’s full of awkward situations. One doesn’t seek them out but … when they come along.…”

  “I think this one has come along.”

  “What d’you propose to do about it?”

  Don looked down at his hands and carefully put them under the table. “I thought you might answer a few questions.”

  “It depends what they are.”

  “You are Moonraker?”

  “Would you believe me if I denied it?”

  “We’ve been—pretty close for a good many years. Was there some reason for—picking on the Marlowe family?”

  Roger pushed his plate away. He looked at Don again as if he was meeting unexpected hostility from a stranger. “Reason? Not of that sort. I’m afraid one doesn’t always have reasons in journalism.”

  “Also I suppose one doesn’t have friendships.”

  Roger frowned. “ Of course one has friendships—and one tries to preserve them. But sometimes, however unfortunate it may be, it’s just not possible to allow them to stand in the way of obvious duties. If I——”

  “This was an obvious duty?”

  “Don, the Marlowe legend was obviously a subject for study. I studied it, as I would any other. It was my job. I came—regretfully—to certain conclusions. One really can’t say more than that. I’m sorry.”

  There was a pause. Roger had stopped eating but he sipped his wine. “If you’d ever worked on a paper you’d realise that no one is entirely a free agent, from top to bottom. Everyone moves at the dictation of the man next above him. One makes a living, one survives——”

  “So does the louse,” said Don.

  Roger’s face darkened and flushed, then he shrugged. “ Well … that’s true. I have nothing against the louse. We belong to the same planet. Our systems may differ in complexity but not fundamentally in design.”

  “Except that he lives off dirt but doesn’t spread it.”

  “That could be.”

  Don waited. Roger finished his wine. The room was now only half full. Don said: “That’s all you have to say? You don’t want to add or subtract anything—make any other explanations?”

  “What is there to say? If there was anything I could say that would help now, I would say it. Obviously I didn’t intend you should ever find out——”

  “I can believe that.”

  “Not entirely for the reason you suppose. But now that you have, it’s pointless and gutless to make excuses. And they wouldn’t really alter your feelings, would they? I shall be genuinely sorry to lose your friendship if that has to be. This thing came up, as I’ve told you. Your father was no great favourite with The Gazette, and one or two incidents arose which gave them cause to suspect his reputation. When that happens, is it a newspaper’s job to go on or draw back? At least it isn’t a journalist’s job to question the choice. Making an enemy of you is part of the price one pays. That’s why I wrote under the other name—unless one is anonymous one can’t move for fear of treading on someone’s toes. Well, I’ve trodden on yours, and I’m very sorry it had to be you. But there it is.”

  Don said: “And we can do nothing about it?”

  “Well, no … frankly, what is there you can do? My advice to you is to forget the whole thing, Don. No one will think the worse of you because they think less well of your father. In fact, it could be looked on as a good advertisement for you. All publicity is advertisement. If I mentioned your name adversely in my column for a year, at the end it would have done you more good than harm.”

  Don said: “Disregarding the ethics of the attack as such, are you telling me that if you’d said to Robinson, the Marlowes are friends of mine, put someone else on it, he wouldn’t have agreed?”

  Roger lit a cigarette. “ You don’t understand how newspapers work.”

  Don said: “ Gutter journalism stinks pretty badly in spite of all efforts to deodorise it. It’s interesting that you who want and appreciate the best of everything, music, books, wine, painting, should make the money to get these things by being a sort of anonymous Paul Pry. Incidentally, I always thought you had private money: I knew The Sentinel couldn’t pay you enough.”

  “My dear Don, I hadn’t your advantage of a famous father.”

  “Is that it? At least that reason makes sense. Otherwise there’s no sense at all but only petty and useless venom. John Marlowe never did you any harm— in fact according to you he befriended you.…”

  “Utter nonsense!” said Roger with a sudden spurt of anger. “ We have a right to question whether something has any title to exist. This overblown silly reputation that’s accumulated round your father’s name had no justification in fact whatever. It’s right and just that it should be shown up for what it is.”

  “With lies?”

  “With the truth.”

  “You believe it’s the truth?”

  “Of course it’s the truth. If you were not blind with ancestor worship you’d see it yourself.”

  Don said slowly: “I think you know you’re lying.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve an appointment at t
hree in Fleet Street.”

  “Tell Robinson I’ll see this through to the end.”

  Roger looked at him. “With what?”

  “With anything to hand.”

  “Give it up. Use your common sense.”

  Don said: “Listen, man. I promised myself that when I found out who Moonraker was I’d kick him round the block. That may be unsophisticated by your standards—but nothing you’ve said today has led me to change my mind.”

  Roger dabbed out his cigarette. “Don’t be silly, Don. You didn’t endear yourself to Robinson by the way you broke in on his luncheon the other day. You’re not just up against me; you’re up against a combine. Don’t provoke them further.”

  Don said: “ Go down to Fleet Street and stay there, Roger. For everybody’s sake I suggest you don’t come here again.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Don spent most of the afternoon writing letters. He wrote three, the first being to the Editor of The Times. In it he stated Moonraker’s identity and invited Roger Shorn, if he had proofs of what he had said in The Gazette, to publish them in a letter of reply. (On Thursday The Times telephoned Don; following this they rang Roger; on Friday they published the letter.)

  Don’s second letter was to the secretary of the Hanover Club. He again pointed out Moonraker’s identity and suggested that if Roger could not produce the proofs of his statements he should be invited to resign. His third letter was to The Gazette.

  Roger seldom went to The Gazette offices and he seldom met Warner Robinson. Neither of them had ever considered this as being done specifically to conceal Moonraker’s identity, but that was the end result. However, on Friday, Roger called in on his way back from the offices of The Sentinel and was shown straight up.

  Warner Robinson was sitting back in a swivel chair which put him in a good position for having a tooth out, and he continued to stare at the ceiling for a few seconds before raising his head and nodding Roger towards a chair.

  “Hullo. How are you? I see our friend Marlowe has succeeded in smoking you out. Does it matter?”

  Roger propped his umbrella beside the unlighted gas fire before taking a seat in the rexine chair on the other side of the acre of littered desk.