Margot Bennett - The Man Who Didn't Fly

“It must be in another pocket,” she whispered.

She began to feel in all his pockets, turning out the contents wildly and ramming them back again: pencils, notebook, cigarette case, lighter, handkerchief, small change. To reach the pockets on his left side she had to turn him a little. She drew back sharply as she saw the rosebud she had put in his buttonhole that morning; felt quickly in the pockets, and found keys, and the gun Harry had sold him. She dropped the gun, and stood up.

“Oh, I can’t find it,” she said. She wondered when she was going to scream.

“It’s of no importance. I can stop the cheque,” her father muttered.

“Oh, won’t you understand. The cheque must have been in that letter he gave to Uncle Joe. You can’t stop it if he’s dead. They’d know at once you’d killed him for the money. Father, it’s not the money. It’s the cheque. It mustn’t be found. Stopping it doesn’t help. Can’t you see?” Her voice was rising. All that she could see was her father accused of murder, perhaps sent to prison, perhaps… She tried to imagine herself disposing of the body, taking it to the woods. She shook her head wildly.

“Hester, if I’ve killed him I’ll tell the truth.”

“Father, leave this to me. I must find that cheque.”

Her father looked up.

“There’s someone outside,” he said.

She ran to the door and switched off the light. She waited, hearing the step on the path outside, not hearing her own heart, but feeling it rise and fall like the water inside a sea-cave in rough weather.

When the door-bell rang she thought she would not answer it, but Morgan was upstairs, and might come down.

“Stay there, Father,” she whispered back into the darkened room, and went along the hall to the door.

She turned the handle, and stood in the half-light, looking in terror at the hatless man on the doorstep, having only the impression of someone dark and aggressive.

“Good evening,” he said. “I want to see Maurice Reid.”

She recognised his voice at once. He was the man who had spoken to her in the garden.

“Maurice. He’s not here. He’s gone home,” she said hopelessly.

“He’s left his car,” the man observed. “I want to see him. My name’s Marryatt. I’ve spoken to you before.”

“Yes.”

“So you know I want to see him.”

“You can’t. He’s gone home.”

“Would you tell him I want to see him?”

Her father came along the hall towards them.

“What is it, Hester?” he asked in a flat voice.

“It’s a man to see Maurice. I’ve told him Maurice has gone home,” she warned him.

“Nothing could be clearer than that,” the stranger said. “Do you mind if I come in?” He came in, quickly.

“I do mind. It’s late. We were going to bed.”

He looked past her at her father. “Excuse me, but I want to see Maurice Reid.”

“You can’t see him now,” Wade said, uttering every word like a separate sigh. “The truth is—”

“No, it isn’t. Go to bed, Father. Go to bed. Oh, go!” Hester cried.

“If I can’t see him, I can’t. But I want to warn you directly, you – Wade. I was talking to a friend of yours, to Harry. I told you on the telephone, Miss Wade. I don’t think I made it strong enough. I don’t want to stand back, now. I saw him in London by accident and I came down here to get my hands on him. He robbed and ruined my mother. I saw him in London and I followed him down here, for my own purposes. Now I thought I’d put it as straight as I can, in case – in case he gets anything out of you.”

“Now you’ve told me. Thank you. Good night,” Hester said.

“But I still want to speak to him. If you don’t believe what I say, that’s the end of that. But I’m going to see him now.”

“Get out, please,” Hester said.

“I know he’s in the house. I’ll wait.”

“Make him go, Father.”

“I won’t do him any harm. I want to give him twelve hours to get out of the country. I want to tell him in front of you, so he can’t go with your money. Not because I care about you and your money. I want to see there’s no more easy money for him.”

“Tell him the truth, Hester,” Wade said. He groped for a chair, there was no chair, so he swayed against the wall. “Tell him the truth. Tell everyone the truth. There’s nothing else.”

“Maurice isn’t here. I’ve told you,” she cried.

“I’ve killed him,” Wade muttered into his chest.

Hester put her hands against Marryatt’s chest and tried to push him out of the door.

“I’ve killed him,” Wade repeated loudly, like a deaf man struggling to hear his own words.

The silence gathered for a moment, then Marryatt sighed, and Hester spoke wildly, crying that her father was ill and Maurice had gone home.

Marryatt ignored her. “You’re sure?” he asked Wade.

“I don’t know. I think I’ve killed him. All I want to do now is ring the police and tell them.” He still leant against the wall, not moving towards the telephone.

“Would you like me to see him? Before you ring the police?” Marryatt asked, looking at Hester.

“Do what you want,” Hester said.

“Don’t let yourself get worried,” Marryatt advised. “Hell, there might be nothing at all to get worried about.”

“He hit his head on the curb,” Hester said. “He attacked Father. There was a struggle, an accident.”

“No, Hester, I attacked him,” her father said.

“It was an accident,” Hester said.

“No, I was trying to hurt him.”

“In there.” Hester stopped at the door. She didn’t want to go in the room again, but he held her by the arm and she went with him, keeping her eyes from the spot where Maurice lay.

The Australian looked down, bent over him, picked up one of the slack arms with his fingers on the wrist. He dropped the arm again.

“He’s not dead,” he said. The relief on his face struggled weakly and then succumbed to hatred. “You’d better tell your father.”

He stood over Maurice, staring curiously at the square, solid face, with its wooden look of reliability now intensified by its absolute stillness. “In about ten minutes he’ll be fit to rob the first orphan he meets. Do you know what I’d like to do with this imitation corpse? I’d like to stamp on his face until I’d changed its shape so much that women would run away from him, screaming. I don’t want to see him dead. I want him alive, and suffering; working for a living until his back’s bent; turned out of mean lodgings because he can’t pay the bill; jailed for begging in the streets.”

“No. No,” Hester said. She turned and ran from the room, along the hall to where her father sat.

“He’s not dead. He’s all right, Father,” she said, bending over him and kissing him. “Father, you’ve nothing to worry about now. It’s all over.”

She caught hold of him, trying to make him stand up. His hands were cold and trembling.

“Father, you’ve had a shock. You must go to bed now.”

He shook his head.

“We can forget about it,” she insisted.

“No, we can’t. I’m glad, I’m thankful you and Prudence have been spared,” he muttered.

“But it’s finished. We’ve escaped. Maurice has escaped.”

“I tried to kill him. It wasn’t right,” he mumbled, his voice trailing away and losing itself in a fog of bewilderment.

“You must go to bed. When he wakes up I’ll send him away.”

“I can’t leave you with him alone. I tried to kill him.”

“I shan’t be alone. I’ll get that Australian to stay.”

“Hester, it wasn’t right. I – I shouldn’t escape. I should be punished for this.”

She helped him to his feet and guided him up the stairs. The power to control the physical processes of movement was deserting him, he walked slowly, like a wounded soldier lost in enemy territory. He didn’t speak while she took off his shoes and coat and laid him down on his bed. She put some blankets over him and then hurried downstairs again.