Реймонд Маршалл - The Paw in the Bottle

She left the witness-box knowing she hadn’t helped Harry nor herself. The Counsel for the Defence had made her out to be a female Judas. She couldn’t bear to stay in court after that, and it was Wesley who told her later that Harry had been committed for trial at the next Old Bailey sessions.

The papers were full of the case, and she read and re-read the accounts, shrinking with shame when she read the veiled insinuations the reporters had made regarding her relations with Wesley. She realized, too, that Harry hadn’t a chance. Although no one actually saw him shoot Blanche, when the police had burst in they had seen him trying to escape. Only Julie and he were in the flat. Julie, as a police informer, had no motive for killing Blanche, but Harry had. He was, as the Counsel for the Prosecution had said, a rat in a trap. The whole thing appeared to be a foregone conclusion.

It was then that Julie really began to worry. Harry’s white, agonized face haunted her. She kept reassuring herself that he would be all right, that Wesley would give himself up, but when she realized what a hopeless trap Harry was in she began to fear that something might happen to Wesley. Suppose he was run over and killed? Then nothing could save Harry. Tormented by this idea, she went to Wesley.

‘Do you think I am utterly heartless?’ he said, laying down a sheaf of papers he was studying. ‘I thought of that weeks ago and there’s a signed statement at my bank to be opened after my death. If anything happens to me, he won’t suffer.’

‘How do I know you are speaking the truth?’

‘You should try to assess character, Julie. I don’t think you believe I’ll save Gleb. Do you?’

‘If you say so I suppose you will,’ Julie said sulkily.

One night, a week before the trial, Wesley called her as soon as he entered the flat. She hadn’t seen him for two days and she came from her room cautiously.

‘What is it?’

She stood just inside the doorway and looked suspiciously at him. He was pacing up and down, a frown on his face, his hands thrust deep into his trousers pockets.

‘I’ve seen Dawson, he tells me Dana French has come for-ward as a witness for the defence.’

‘But she will be arrested!’ Julie exclaimed; changing colour.

‘Apparently she is in love with Gleb.’

‘What do you mean?’ Julie demanded angrily.

‘She’s sacrificing herself because she thinks she can save him.’

‘But how?’

Wesley shrugged.

‘She’s willing to swear the gun belonged to Theo and that it was Theo who shot Blanche. She doesn’t realize that her evidence won’t save Gleb. But I thought it might interest you. It seems there are still a few people left who are unselfish.’

Julie clenched her fists. She was sick with envy and rage. To think that painted creature should have done that for Harry!

‘You hate me, don’t you?’ she exclaimed, facing him.

‘No, Julie, I don’t hate you. In fact, you interest me. Nothing would please me more than for you to go to the police and tell them the truth. It would prove to me that I was entirely wrong about you.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Yes, you do. Even now, when this girl has set you an example, you won’t risk the chance of losing your money.’

‘You’re just trying to be beastly. Harry won’t hang. You’ve promised me. Why should I give up everything for the sake of a few weeks? It’s you who are selfish and cruel. You aren’t going to let him hang?’

‘No, but it’s hard for you to believe, isn’t it? I’m beginning to think you wouldn’t sacrifice anything for him even if I did let him hang.’

‘I would! You’d better not try any tricks. It’s only because I know I can save him that I’m doing this. Why shouldn’t I have happiness and money? All my life I’ve had to do without.’

‘Happiness? Are you happy, Julie? I doubt it. And when you are on your own and have your money you still won’t be happy. A girl like you can never be happy. You’re chasing something that doesn’t exist.’

‘I’ll see about that. And while we’re on the subject just how much money are you leaving me?’

‘I was wondering when you were going to ask that. I thought two thousand a year would be enough.’

She wouldn’t get another chance, she thought, and said, ‘Two thousand? After all I’ve done for you? I want more. I want much more. Who else have you to leave your money to? If it hadn’t been for me you wouldn’t be able to finish your precious work. Isn’t that worth more to you? I want five thousand.’

‘Don’t be childish.’

‘I want it and I mean to have it!’

He looked at her, contempt in his eyes.

‘Has it ever crossed your mind, Julie, that I could get rid of you very easily?’

Her anger went like the blowing out of a match flame.

‘Frightened?’ he went on. ‘When a man has committed one murder, a second one doesn’t increase his punishment. What could be easier and more convenient for me than to wring your wretched little neck?’

She backed away.

‘And sometimes, Julie, I feel it would give me such a lot of pleasure. Unfortunately, I don’t seem to be a killer by nature. You may believe it, but I am sorry for what I did to Blanche. She meant nothing to me in the end; she deserved to die, but not at my hands. I shall regret her death as long as I live. The only thing that matters in life, Julie, is peace of mind. That I haven’t got; nor have you. And don’t look so scared. You’re quite safe. I don’t want your death on my conscience and, besides, I don’t fancy touching you. The more I see of you, Julie, the more I realize what an unpleasant young woman you are.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ Julie said furiously. ‘You’ll be sorry for that. You see if you aren’t.’

Wesley laughed at her.

Benton sat in the bar of a shabby public house near Charing Cross station. He sipped whisky and stared at the small, wet rings that decorated the wooden top of the table beside which he was sitting. There was a bleak, unhappy expression in his eyes and his thin body was shivering.

He was finished, he told himself. The best way out would be to shoot himself. He had been telling himself this for the past two weeks, but he knew he hadn’t the courage either to kill himself or to face his creditors. He was like a man on a high tight-rope who has lost his nerve and knows that if he makes a move he will fall. He had made up his mind to keep out of the way and do nothing until something happened that forced him into action. He had left his flat in Dover Street and for the last four or five days he had wandered the streets, sleeping at a different hotel each night. He had thirty-five pounds in his pocket and when that had gone there was nothing. He owed a lot of money. He wasn’t sure how much he did owe, but he thought it might be something like twenty thousand pounds. It might be more and he didn’t think it could be less. If they got hold of him they would make him bankrupt. The disgrace of bankruptcy hung over him like a soiled cloak. He would have to give up his club. Ever since his father had made him a member he had never lost the feeling of pride that he had when he entered the dignified portals and had used the big, silent rooms for the first time. He clung fiercely to tradition, knowing there was nothing else to cling to. His school, his club, his flat and the fact his father had been a general were the highlights in his life. They meant more to him than anything else; they and, of course, Blanche. Now he had lost everything and his pale hatred centred on Wesley.

Benton was not a violent man. There was no primitive spark in him that could be flamed to murder. His hatred was spiteful and vindictive but not violent, and as he sat in this dirty little public house he perfected a plan of revenge. It didn’t cross his mind to wreak a physical revenge on Wesley. A blind man would be easy to injure or even to murder, but it would only afford a momentary satisfaction. He wanted something more subtle than that. He wanted Wesley to suffer as he was suffering.