A Penknife in My Heart Page 4

  They had a late and ample lunch, deliciously cooked by Stuart when he got back. Before and during the meal, he plied Ned with drink, talking about his own job in the Norringham factory. After they had washed up, Stuart said he was going to have a snooze.

  “I was wondering if you ever slept.”

  “Oh, I sleep when I need it, all right.”

  “Lucy chap.”

  And Stuart Hammer did in fact go to sleep, placidly as a child, having set the alarm clock in his brain for 6 P.M. For three hours Ned sat on the opposite bunk, glancing now and then at the recumbent figure of his companion as if to assure himself that it had not vanished into the thin air of a reality against which the spruce little cabin seemed hermetically sealed, but most of the time fingering in his mind the extraordinary remark Stuart had made to him last night. While Stuart was ashore this morning, Ned had begun to explore it. It could not possibly mean what he thought it meant: but in the context, what else could it mean? Like a tarantula in a glass case, it horrified yet fascinated him. He could not prevent his mind’s eye from reverting to it. He was safe from it, yet he wanted to let it out and see what followed. Gradually, though the grotesque loathsomeness of the idea remained, he was becoming acclimatized to its presence. Not once did he give a thought to the ostensible purpose of this trip: the smuggling venture was already back in the past, swallowed up by last night’s events.

  A gull cried—sharp, convulsive, rapid sounds, mounting, then dying away as the bird was swept to leeward over the sloop. With intense vividness, and a pain like that of extreme hunger, Ned remembered his last night with Laura. Her body had never been so sensual, so versatile. She was like a sea, rocking beneath him, drawing him deeper, curving above him; but at the end of it all, like the sea, she remained mysterious and unpossessed, withdrawing from him into her secret self. And so it always would be, he thought; and that is why no other woman will ever take her place.

  Stuart Hammer came wide awake at five minutes to six, swinging his legs onto the floor almost as soon as his eyes opened. “Well, opening time, or near enough. Whisky, I think.”

  He filled their tumblers and raised his to Ned. “Cheers. Have you given my project your attention?”

  “Your project?”

  “Yes. I propositioned you, as we tycoons say, that we should go into business together, you remember.”

  “But—well, I mean, you surely weren’t serious?” Ned laughed nervously.

  “Never more so, old man.”

  “About the—the disposal of each other’s rubbish?”

  “I see we understand one another. Yes. Why not? Mutual advantage, y’know—and for God’s sake don’t look at me as if I was a maniac carrying a bomb.”

  Ned swallowed. “Well, it is an absolute bombshell for me. Why, damn it, here you are—unless I’m off my rocker—coolly suggesting that we—”

  “Let’s keep calm and review the situation. Uncle Stu will tell you a little bedtime story. Once upon a time there were two characters—M and N, we’ll call them—who made life hell for all and sundry, but especially for two other characters, A and B. A would like to dispose of M: B has a similar yearning in respect of N. But for obvious reasons, neither A nor B feels like putting the job in hand. But wait, children! Suppose that A and B—”

  “For Christ’s sake!” Ned broke out, beginning to tremble all over his body. “If you must talk about this, don’t wrap it up in—”

  “Righty-ho. You want to get rid of your wife. I want to get rid of my uncle. I’m suggesting that we should do each other’s disposals.” Stuart Hammer’s tone was as jovial now as when he had been telling his bedtime story.

  “You obviously are crazy,” Ned muttered, not looking at his companion.

  “Do you really believe that? I wonder. Look here, old son. Tell me the honest truth—have you never thought of killing your wife?”

  “Oh, sometimes I’ve come damn near to strangling her. But not in cold blood, not—”

  “Never mind about the temperature. And what stopped you?”

  “Well, damn it all, surely that’s obvious. I just don’t happen to be a thug.”

  “I’ll tell you why you don’t kill her. You’re afraid of being hanged. That’s why I haven’t knocked off my uncle. In spite of all this sentimental cock talked by the people who want to abolish capital punishment, it’s fear of being hanged that stops—”

  “Oh, so you’re in favor of capital punishment?” Ned tried to smile, but his face had gone stiff as a board.

  Stuart Hammer did not understand irony. For the first time, he sounded impatient. “Stick to the point. What have you against my proposal? Moral scruples? But we’ve agreed the world would be better off—”

  “For God’s sake! Can’t you realize how utterly fantastic this all is? You come along, a total stranger—”

  “Oh, hell, I quite forgot, we’ve never been introduced. Of course the whole thing is off. But seriously, old chap, don’t you see—the fact that we are total strangers is the nub of it all. Neither of us would have any motive, any connection with his victim whatsoever. Look at it this way. I dispose of—what’s her name?—Helena for you. You arrange to be a hundred miles away when it’s happening, so you’ve got a perfect alibi. Unless I bungle it, which I wouldn’t, I’m absolutely safe too; I’ve never met Helena: I haven’t any conceivable reason for—”

  “All right, you needn’t labor the point. I see the exquisite beauty of it all. I say,” Ned went on suspiciously, “was this what you had in mind right from the start, when we met at the Nelson Arms? But how on earth could you have known that I—”

  “Second sight, old man, second sight. Well, I don’t mind admitting the smuggling plan was a pretext to get you on board.” Stuart tossed the remains of his whisky down his throat. “I’m a great planner, y’know. In fact, when I found you had the right stuff in you, I turned Avocet round. We’re back in home waters.”

  Ned hardly heard this. His mind was full of bewilderment and fear, all adrift. He tried to get a grip on himself. “Well, you picked the wrong man, then,” he said, a shade too resolutely.

  “Ah well,” replied the other, after a pause. “That’s that, I suppose. No harm done. We go our separate ways. And Helena drives you into the nuthouse. Though I must say, if I had a girl like Laura to look forward to, I’d not let anything or anyone stand in my path. I thought she meant more to you than just an expendable pair of tits and what-have-you. You disappoint me.” Stuart spoke with a flick of contempt.

  There was a short silence in the cabin, darkening now with the twilight outside. Avocet stirred, rocking gently in the wash of a passing craft. Stuart Hammer refilled their glasses.

  “Apart from anything else,” Ned muttered, “how could you expect me to kill a total stranger in cold blood? I mean, for all I know, your uncle may be a thoroughly good sort of chap.”

  Stuart Hammer’s eye flashed and went out like an Aldis lamp at the hint of weakening in Ned’s voice. “Herbert Beverley a good chap!” he exclaimed. “If that’s what’s worrying you—look here, I’ll run us up some grub, and then I’ll tell you about my uncle.” Stuart’s experience of negotiating with shop stewards had taught him how to gauge the right moment for applying pressure or for relaxing it. When a chap’s just beginning to soften up—when in his own mind, no matter how strong his external resistance, he has made an admission and given ground a little—then is the time to break off for a while and let the rot spread: if you pounce on the weak spot right away, your opponent rallies all his forces to cover it.

  Grilling chops in the galley, Stuart Hammer thought out his next moves. First, he must present Herbert Beverley in the worst possible light, so as to weaken Ned’s moral scruples. This fellow Stowe is an intellectual, therefore probably a sentimental Leftist, a humanitarian, and all that sort of cock: so I must make Uncle Herbert a domestic tyrant, a bad employer and a totally unscrupulous businessman. Secondly, reasoned Stuart with considerable shrewdness, Stowe is a writer of sorts
, and writers must be particularly susceptible to words: if I discuss with him detailed plans for the two operations, on a hypothetical basis—this is how we’d do it if we were going to do it, but of course we aren’t really going to, it’s just as if we were collaborating over a play—then the fact of putting it into words will make it more real for him, more conceivable, more practical. And thirdly, there’s the problem of guarantees. I shall have to kick off: so I must have a hostage, to ensure that he reciprocates when it’s his turn. That’s a knotty one. The usual blackmail devices wouldn’t work, for obvious reasons.

  Stuart needed more time to think. He left the chops to keep warm on the stove, and set about preparing a treacle sponge. Presently he snapped his fingers. Yes, that’s his Achilles’ heel all right. And a singularly unpleasant smile dawned on Stuart Hammer’s face as he envisaged a further implication of the brain wave. That tasty bitch Laura, he thought—wouldn’t mind getting there myself: and it’d be like doing it with Stowe looking on, his hands tied.

  “… And then there’s Barbara, his ward,” Stuart was saying some time later, as they ate the chops, “Nice girl. He leads her a dog’s life. She got a scholarship to Cambridge a few years ago, but he worked upon her so that she never took it up. He needed her to run his house and look after him—sickening old sod. Playing on her sense of gratitude and her affection for him. The fact is, he’s completely ruthless: well, I wouldn’t mind that if he didn’t cover it with the most bloody awful sanctimoniousness. Take an example. There was a decent bloke who’d supplied us with certain components for donkey’s years. My uncle found this chap’s son was making the running with young Barbara. So he arranged for the chap’s factory to be flooded with orders: chap couldn’t keep his schedules, had to break his contracts, and that was the end of him; and his son and Barbara—that was washed up too. Oh, it happens often enough. Business isn’t a game of ring-of-roses. But what turned me up was Uncle Herbert’s subsequent sermonizing—how distressing it all had been for him, but industry must be rationalized and superefficient nowadays if the country was to survive. God, what crap!”

  Stuart eyed Ned. Had he been piling it on a bit too thick? The level gaze Ned returned him was not, in fact, one of skepticism: Ned was feeling again the magnetic pull of Stuart’s personality, the spell under which he had fallen last night: his critical judgment was in abeyance. However, not knowing this, Stuart changed course.

  “Mind you, I don’t claim to be disinterested. I believe the old man is leaving me some dough. And I’m rather keen on Barbara myself. But I do know I could get a fairer deal for the chaps at the works once he was out of the way.”

  Stuart was rather understating the facts here. Actually Herbert Beverley was leaving him half his fortune and a controlling interest in the firm. Moreover, Stuart’s extravagance—his yacht, his Bentley, his expensive mistresses—had by now got him into a very awkward spot: he could not hold off his creditors many weeks longer. As for Barbara, his relationship with her was very different from the one he had lightly outlined to Ned: she could ruin him by a few words to her guardian—and she very likely would, if certain steps were not taken soon.

  “Herbert’s got a dicky heart,” resumed Stuart. “At present, everyone but himself seems to suffer for it. Yes, he’s bloody-minded all round. I’ve often been damn near to giving him the push. Like you and Helena. But of course I’d be the chief suspect from the start, coming in for so much money.” Stuart gazed meditatively over his companion’s head. “Actually, it’d be the easiest thing in the world. He’s a punctuality addict: Norringham sets its watches by him. Sharp at 10:45 every night, rain, snow or earthquake, he takes his dog out for a ta-ta. A hundred yards down the road, always in the same direction, and back. One would just have to be waiting with a car, bump into him, and his dicky heart would do the rest. Fill up your glass.”

  Glancing at Ned, Stuart surprised a new look on his face—the thoughtful, strained look of one listening to barely audible voices in his own head.

  “Your wife, now—but of course that’s different; she harms nobody but you, and herself.”

  “We can’t pretend it would be a public service to kill Helena, I agree.”

  Even the robust Stuart Hammer was momentarily shocked by the acrid sarcasm of Ned’s remark. Talks like a bloody schoolmaster, he thought, unaware that Ned had spoken in a sudden gush of self-loathing. And, as if this had released something reckless and destructive within him, Ned continued:

  “However, I’m not all that public-spirited. Let’s get this quite clear, Hammer, and have no bloody hypocrisy about it—if Helena’s to be put down, it’ll be because I want her out of the way, not because she’s a hopeless case, see?”

  “O.K., O.K., take it easy, old son,” Stuart protested, feeling as if he had turned a tap and produced a Niagara. Chap must be getting a bit tight, though I admit he’s not shown the effects till now. “You live in the country, I think you told me.”

  “Yes. Hampshire. Converted farmhouse just outside a village. Isolated. Helena has a daily woman, but she sleeps alone when I’m away. Curious. One thing she doesn’t seem to be nervy about.”

  “You’re sure she does sleep alone?”

  Ned took no offense. “Too damned sure. She’s a wife on principle, a virgin by nature. If she’d only have a lover, things’d be plain sailing for me. No, she’s as faithful as a burr—‘faithful it seemeth, and fond, very fond, far too damnably faithful,’” he misquoted. “She trained as a professional pianist, but she used to get seized up before concerts. Don’t you ever marry a failed pianist, Hammer, or you’ll get the Hammerklavier played on your psyche the rest of your life.”

  “Let’s have a spot of black coffee, old man.”

  When Stuart returned with the cups, he found Ned drawing a map. “Here’s the house, at a bend of the lane. Nearest cottage a couple of hundred yards away, there—market garden. Lane joins road to Marksfield. Runs through a wood quarter of a mile back. There’s a ride leading off the lane into the wood: good place for leaving a car, out of sight.”

  “Here’s your coffee. Let’s take this quietly, Ned. Now, supposing we come to an arrangement—”

  “‘Supposing?’ Isn’t your heart in it? What are we doing then? Making up a fairytale?”

  There was a wild, feverish look in Ned’s eyes, which made Stuart Hammer uncomfortable. Things were suddenly moving too fast for his calculations: he must get them under control.

  “Easy does it,” he said. “It’s on, then?”

  “You’re damn right it’s on.” The words came out like a cry of defiance, or despair.

  “Good lad.” Stuart clapped his hand on Ned’s shoulder and shook it in a comradely way. “Let’s get down to details.”

  For a couple more hours they talked. In a fortnight’s time, Ned was giving a lecture about television writing to a literary society in Bristol and staying there the night. Ten days later, Stuart had a Coastal Forces reunion dinner in London. Provided Helena and Herbert Beverley stayed put on those nights—and there was no reason to suppose they would not—these seemed the most suitable dates.

  Stuart now inquired closely into the Stowes’ ménage. At night, according to Ned, the back door was locked: the front door had a special anti-burglar lock, but no bolts: he believed that, when he was away, Helena secured the ground-floor windows before going to bed. Her bedroom door had an old-fashioned wooden latch, and no keyhole. He drew Stuart rough plans of the house, inside and out. The Stowes did not keep a dog; but he must remember to oil the hinges of the front gate, which at present screeched abominably.

  The main problem was, how should Stuart get in—“effecting an entrance, the police call it, I believe,” Ned commented with an edgy laugh that made the other man look at him sharply.

  “Forget the police,” said Stuart. “And I don’t propose to bring a ladder on the chance that one of the upstairs windows is open. Haven’t you a spare key to the front door?”

  “Yes, of course, never thought o
f that.” Ned took it off his key ring. “You’ll have to leave it behind—afterward.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, with these special burglar locks, one has to report at once if a key is lost. And the police will start asking about keys when they find the—the murderer didn’t break into the house.”

  “What it is to be a brainworker! But of course I shall try to make it look as if someone had broken in.”

  “There’s a secret drawer in Helena’s desk. You could leave the key there.”

  “I’m not prodding about for secret drawers, old son—not in the small hours.”

  “All right. Top left-hand drawer of my chest of drawers, opposite the bedroom window. Leave it under the handkerchiefs there.”

  The two men continued, meticulously checking details: position of shed where ladder was kept—Stuart would leave it against the house wall to reinforce the impression that the crime had been committed by a burglar breaking in: should he actually steal anything?—no, pointless, burglar surprised by Helena loses his head, then clears out in a panic, empty-handed: position of light switches, just in case—but it would be almost full moon that night: do the stairs creak? the bedroom door?

  Everything was arranged for, every contingency guarded against. One aspect alone of the problem remained untouched: by tacit consent neither man mentioned the weapon to be used upon Helena.

  They turned next to the arrangements for Herbert Beverley. Stuart briefed Ned thoroughly in the appearance and habits of his prospective victim. Every night at 10:45 Herbert walked his dog, a bull terrier, into Forest Road, crossed the road, turned right, walked a hundred yards, then returned. His movements were absolutely predictable. Forest Road was a high-class residential district, its houses set well back from the road, which was fairly deserted at night, for Norringham folk went to bed early. It would be, remarked Stuart Hammer, grinning in his beard, a pushover.

  “But there are street lamps, and there might be someone passing at the time. I don’t like the idea of using my own car. The registration number could be spotted.”