The Walking Stick by Winston Graham
‘Do you live alone?’
‘No . . . I live with Mr Leigh Hartley, who rents the studio.’
The constable looked up slowly, but not at me, bit his pencil. Inspector Malcolm had a strong-boned face, close-cropped hair with a ridge where his hat came, a scar on his lip.
‘You’re – not married to Mr – er – Hartley? You’ll excuse these personal questions – one tries to fill in a general picture.’
‘Mr Hartley’s already married but separated from his wife. He’s at present trying to get a divorce.’
‘When you hope to be married?’
‘Yes. When we hope to be married.’
‘How long have you been living there, Miss Dainton?’
‘Since – it would be last October.’
‘Before that?’
‘I lived with my sister in Ennismore Gardens.’
‘How long have you known Mr Hartley?’
‘Since last April.’
‘What is his – what does he do for a living?’
‘He’s a clerk in Rodwell & Lloyd, in Margaret Street.’
‘Does the firm – this firm, I mean – know of your association with Mr Hartley?’
‘I don’t think so. It didn’t occur to me that it was their business.’
‘No . . . Your address, then, with them is still Ennismore Gardens?’
‘It may be my parents’ house in Hampstead. I lived at home until about June of last year.’
‘What is your father, Miss Dainton?’
‘A doctor. So is my mother. And my sister.’
‘Quite a medical family, eh?’ Inspector Malcolm plucked at his scar. ‘Do your parents mind your living in Rotherhithe?’
‘They have three daughters. We all live away from home.’
‘. . . Yes. It’s the general trend these days, isn’t it. I have a daughter myself who’ll soon be wanting to spread her wings. More’s the pity . . . Well, thank you, Miss Dainton – that’s about all for the moment. I hope you won’t mind having your fingerprints taken. We’re doing the whole staff including the directors – it’s a question of elimination, you see.’
‘No, of course not.’ I got up as he did.
‘Oh, Miss Dainton, one thing,’ as I got to the door. ‘Did you know how the alarm system worked?’
I turned, would have been glad for once of my stick for support. ‘The alarm system? I knew there was one.’ How hard to keep one’s eyes from that cupboard. Perhaps it would be more natural to let them stray. I let them stray.
He said: ‘Ah, I see you know where the switches were.’
‘I knew there were switches there. I didn’t know quite what they did. I was in this office at Christmas when Mr Greeley opened the cupboard and took out some bottles.’
‘What we’re trying to establish, really, is how many people are likely to have known how the alarms worked. It seems certain to us that whoever broke in had a very close knowledge of the whole set-up, and if a fair number of people in the office knew of it, aside from the directors, one or another may have talked – quite innocently – and given secrets away.’
‘I suppose we all knew a little,’ I said. ‘But I don’t think any of the girls knew enough to be really helpful to a thief.’
‘You’d be surprised what people can pick up,’ said Malcolm. ‘They go about mixing in a friendly way. They hear one thing here and another there; piece tiny bits of information together and gradually build up a picture and make a plan. The really good finger man, as he’s called, is very astute and very practised . . . Well, thank you again . . . Er – send in Miss Fent, will you, Rogers.’
At twelve Peter Greeley sent us all home. A surprise but I suppose one might have expected it. Once the staff had been interviewed they could only get in the way and hinder investigations. In the building there were at least six plain-clothes policemen; as well as a man from the forensic science laboratory, a photographer, a safe specialist from Pemberton’s, a loss adjuster sent by Lloyds and the Chairman of the Safeguard organization.
‘Opening tomorrow at the normal time,’ Peter Greeley said, smiling grimly at us. ‘Business then as usual. This is just one sale that won’t take place – at least for the present.’
All the directors were taking it philosophically – partly perhaps because they were fully insured, partly because there was no other sensible way to take it. I realized that in that Leigh had been right – burglary when it didn’t involve violence was an impersonal thing. Apart from McCarthy with his bruised head, nobody was suffering for this theft. It amounted to a transfer of money from an insurance company into the pockets of certain individuals who had risked their freedom for gain – who still risked it. There were no sorrowing widows, violated girls, aching hearts or desolate parents. This was the line Leigh had drawn at Sarah’s flat, and except for the one act of violence against McCarthy, they had succeeded without overstepping it.
Only Smith-Williams seemed to take the robbery as a personal loss. He had persuaded Whittington’s to employ the Safeguard organization, and he’d been responsible for the general precautions; it was an affront to his own competence that all this had failed, and his manner implied that the staff had in some way failed too.
Mary Fent was delighted at having the day free and, as we fended off several reporters, suggested we should have lunch together and then try to get in at the matinee of the latest musical; but my head was still throbbing so I made an excuse and left for the East End by bus.
Very tempting to ring Leigh and tell him I was free and suggest lunch; but I had a feeling that I was still on sufferance, still being observed by some God-like eye trained on me from Scotland Yard, and that the least variation from the norm was best.
So I sat in the bus and read the midday edition of The News. ‘West End Jewel Haul. Night raiders grab £200,000 from strongroom safe at Whittington’s. Guards coshed.’ While the bus bumped and bobbed, my eyes fled over the print – foolishly surreptitious, as if as a member of the staff concerned I should not be fascinated anyhow. ‘Effected an entry by means of first-floor window – daringly planned – inside knowledge – alarms jammed and then cut – four masked men – guards overpowered – code messages continued to be passed – strongroom dynamited and safe smashed – Gwalpur emeralds – Plouth diamonds . . .’
I knew it all.
‘Police under Detective Inspector Malcolm conducting extensive inquiries . . .’
I knew that too. But where would it stop? Not for weeks. Not for months. Patiently, quietly ferreting.
River full, a welcome sight after being invisible for three days. I pulled the curtains of the studio back farther to let in more of the wintry light. It was a fluid, shimmering light such as you get nowhere else in London, born of sky and reflected river. Wind was blowing the low clouds gustily across, but here and there were streaks of green of a quite improbable colour as if put there by an inspired artist – the way Bach in the midst of formality makes his point by a sudden discord.
The studio smelled dank again, and I put on a fire and kicked off my shoes and warmed my feet. But it was my heart that needed warming, and not even Leigh could do that.
For I had realized that in this enterprise neither he nor I had seen far enough. How could we buy the shop in Lambeth, how could we put down even the deposit with a promise of more to come, while the police were searching and ferreting as they would be now? At this stage they wouldn’t actually suspect anyone in the firm, and they might never do so; but a young woman who had just gone to live with an artist-cum-clerk in Rotherhithe, who had thrown over her family and connections for this rather sordid entanglement, would be much more under their eye than the same young woman going home dutifully each night to her doctor parents.
Supposing, then, she and the man appeared to have no money, and suddenly produced seven thousand pounds to buy a shop, wouldn’t they ask where it came from? This was the eternal problem of the thief in modern society: if he stole money, how spend it without rousing sus
I went in stockinged feet to the window, sat there for a time watching the wind licking the river, watching cloud and smoke mingling in grey-brown wraiths and wafting away. Somewhere the gulls were crying.
Headache threatening again. I went into the kitchen and put on the kettle. While doing so I cleared the breakfast mess which we’d both been too preoccupied to tidy up. Then I lay on the bed and drank tea.
The tea was like new courage seeping into my veins. It was like a shot of morphia after pain. Anxieties began to relax. They were all there just the same but they hadn’t such power to hurt. The police might suspect much but they would first have to prove. They might even never suspect at all . . . It was so easy to find yourself guilty when you knew you were.
I must have fallen asleep and dozed for upward of an hour. The bell woke me. Half past two. I started up: too early for – but police – or telegram – or baker – or . . .
As I opened the door a woman was turning away. She stopped and looked at me, startled. She was the woman I had seen here once before, Leigh’s father’s next-door neighbour.
I smiled in relief. ‘Did you want Leigh?’
‘Oh – er – well . . . I just called . . . Is he . . .? He’s not in, I suppose?’
‘No, he won’t be back till about five-thirty. Can I give him a message?’
‘Well, no . . . that is, yes . . . I left a note . . .’
She seemed scared. Good-looking, as I realized before, fortyish, fresh young skin, good eyes with very clear whites, brown hair with curls round her forehead. Navy blue twin-set with tweed skirt, navy mohair coat.
I realized I was standing on a letter, picked it up, smiled again. ‘Is this for Leigh?’
‘Yes . . . I rang just thinking he might be just in. But I didn’t expect – to find – er – anyone else . . .’
She hadn’t expected me. ‘I’m never normally home at this time; but . . . You’re a neighbour of Leigh’s father, aren’t you?’
A shadow crossed her face. ‘Is that what he says?’
‘I thought he did. Do come in for a minute. It’s cold here.’
She hesitated. ‘I oughtn’t to. Leigh told me not to come round.’
‘Well, he won’t be home for hours yet, and I’ve just made a cup of tea. Like one?’ I felt a need for company, ordinary decent female company, and she seemed nice. You could talk to her about everyday things.
She still hesitated. ‘I don’t think I ought, Miss – er—’
‘Dainton.’
‘I don’t think I ought. You see, I don’t want to upset him.’
‘Why should you upset him? Anyway you can’t if he never knows you’ve been.’
She fumbled nervously with her gloves and looked round as if expecting someone at her elbow. ‘Well . . . I really don’t know.’
She came in. I put her letter, marked by my shoe, on the table where the post usually went, and encouraged her into a chair by the electric fire. Of course the tea was cold, but I put the kettle on again. When I came back she had slipped off her coat and was warming her hands, which had seen a lot of rough work. We discussed the fog until the kettle boiled, then I went and made the tea and brought it in on a tray and we sat and sipped together.
‘Is Mr Hartley not well again?’ I asked.
She flushed. Colour came to her face very easily. ‘Oh . . . Leigh’s told you that, has he? No, he’s not well. He gets bronchitis in the winter, and this year it’s been much worse. We wonder if he’ll be able to keep his job. He’s not due for a full pension yet for five years.’
‘D’you want Leigh to go and see him?’
‘Yes . . . that’s what I do want. He hasn’t been near us for nearly a year. Of course his dad didn’t approve of the way he was living, and said so; and it made for poor feeling; but I’m sure Joe – that’s my husband – would be glad to see Leigh to talk things over. I think it would really do him good just to meet him and talk to him again.’
Light dawning. ‘You’re not Mr Hartley’s neighbour then – you’re his wife? You must be his second wife – Leigh’s stepmother. I wonder why he never told me about you!’
The woman sipped her tea. ‘No, I’m not his second wife, I’m his first. I really don’t know why Leigh should be ashamed of me!’
Emotion then. Two women, both rather weepy – though I think she didn’t see mine for her own. Soothe her agitation while trying to soothe something in me. Alarm bell. Why, why? No sense, no reason. Teacups clattering shakily. I expect I misunderstood him, Mrs Hartley. No, no, that’s what he likes people to think; I shouldn’t have told you; he’d be furious with me. Well, he’ll never know.
A cigarette, perhaps? Well, a cigarette. Leigh’s packet on the mantelpiece, three left. No matches. Oh, thank you, I’ve a lighter. Click, click; flame flickering near moist eyes, draw in, hide behind the smoke. Do you not smoke, Miss Dainton? No; I did once for a bit but I gave it up. Joe doesn’t now, he used to; I don’t at home because it makes him cough.
Embarrassed silence. Another cup of tea? No, thank you, I really must go. Do stay a little longer; happy to have met Leigh’s mother.
She about half-finished the cigarette while I busied putting the cups back on the tray; then quite suddenly she said: ‘I really don’t think he’s ashamed of me. Not really, you know.’
‘I’m sure he isn’t. Why should he be?’
‘But he likes to make things up. He likes to feel different from other people. He likes to think things are different from what they really are. To be an orphan, to sound motherless. It’s an attitude. He was always a good boy but he used to make things up, still does. His schoolmaster used to say it was his way of escaping from reality. His dad used to get very cross – didn’t make allowances. I hope – I hope it hasn’t upset you, Miss Dainton, I hope you won’t let it get back to him.’
‘No, of course I won’t. But . . .’ clinging to a last disbelief ‘. . . you look too young.’
‘Oh, thank you. I’m forty-four. Maybe I haven’t gone grey; maybe that’s it.’
‘You were very young, then, when Leigh was born.’
‘Twenty-two. It seems young now.’ She saw something in my expression. ‘Did you think Leigh was older? I mustn’t talk any more. I shall say something I shouldn’t. I’m always talking too much, Leigh says.’
‘No, no. Go on.’ In spite of the tea my hands were very cold, circulation suddenly poor. ‘It doesn’t matter. Leigh and I are very fond of each other. This won’t – make any difference.’
She said: ‘What lovely hair you’ve got, Miss Dainton. Has Leigh painted you?’
‘Once or twice.’ I laughed dryly. ‘Not as often as he painted his wife.’ And waited.
The clock ticked. ‘Oh, Lorne,’ said Mrs Hartley, fumbling with her handkerchief. ‘D’you know I hardly knew her.’
So that was all right. Not just an excuse not to marry me. Hands out to the fire; but draw them back because they’re not awfully steady.
Mrs Hartley said: ‘Only twenty at the time. Very impulsive, but Leigh is impulsive. I met her – I met Lorne – for the first time at the church. It was awful.’
‘What was awful?’
‘Well, nine o’clock in the morning and only four people there, and the Catholic priest would hardly look at us because we were Protestants. It was over in five minutes. We might have been lepers.’
‘Was this in Swindon?’
‘No, a church near here.’
‘Do you live in Swindon – or in Clapham?’
‘Oh . . . In Clapham, Miss Dainton. I’ve been there all my married life.’
‘And Leigh lived with you?’
‘Yes – until he left home. His dad was against it, him leaving home at nineteen without a proper job. At least he didn’t think it a proper job, working part time for this man, Mr Foil.’
‘Did he work for Mr Foil?’
‘Oh, yes, before he came here. Didn’t you know? – Mr Foil has an antique shop. Leigh worked there.’
‘I didn’t know.’
‘His dad wanted him to go on the railways. Said it was steady and he could paint in his spare time. Leigh’s painting and drawing was always a bone between them. Joe never believed in it. But you think he’s a good painter, don’t you, Miss Dainton?’
‘Oh yes. He’s good.’
The sky had cleared while I dozed and the clouds were reflecting a reddening sun. The derricks on the other bank looked briefly like flamingos bending to drink at the edge of a lake. A string of barges moved downstream, sliding quietly with the tide.
‘His dad says I spoiled him, him being an only child; but I didn’t really, Miss Dainton, not really. He was brought up well, and well looked after, and that always shows, doesn’t it. He’ll make good yet, I’m always saying to Joe. Don’t worry, I say. Joe thinks because we had it hard, he has to.’ She drew at her cigarette uneasily. ‘I really must go.’
‘Where do you live, actually?’
‘Right overlooking the Common, the top floor. It’s a house that’s been divided up. No. 28, Albert Road. It was lovely tea. Thanks.’
‘Don’t go. I’ve often said to Leigh I wanted to meet his family. Did you say he was an only child?’
‘Yes. So was I. Perhaps it’s in the family, like. But he was luckier than me. My mum and dad both died when I was four. I was brought up in an orphanage. You wouldn’t think – or I hope you wouldn’t think . . .’
‘No, I certainly wouldn’t!’
‘I went into service, first. But then I got into a shop. John Lewis’s, it was. In Oxford Street. As an apprentice. I was doing very well. But the war came and I joined the ATS and after a couple of years I met Joe and we got married and I had Leigh. After the war Leigh was still a tiny baby and you couldn’t leave him all day long to go back into a shop. But after he went to school I went into service again. Not regular, of course. Daily woman, by the hour. You get paid quite well, and it helped out. We could buy things that we couldn’t have on Joe’s money. A fridge. Vi-spring mattresses. A bicycle for Leigh.’ She smiled suddenly. ‘D’you know, Miss Dainton, we’ve never had anything on the HP all our lives. It’s old-fashioned, I know, but we don’t believe in it. I still go out two days a week, and we save what I get till it’s enough to buy something. At Christmas we bought an electric toaster, chromium, one of those that pop up when the toast is done. But it doesn’t work too well. We joke about it. One side toasts pale and other side dark. Joe says it must believe in a colour bar . . .’