“No, no, no!” he was saying. “I want somebody discreet. Not some clodhopping retired bobby. Somebody—”
He looked across the desk at Rooke. “Damn it, man, can’t you knock before you come in?”
“I did knock, Mr. Railton.”
Later that afternoon Rooke and Dwyer left together as usual. They were in earnest conversation, and Railton could guess what they were talking about.
The one uncooperative factor was Bernard Saunders himself.
Several times since the dance at Lord Vardy’s place, Railton had suggested that he should come round to the house for dinner, but Saunders had offered excuses and made it quite plain that after working hours he was interested neither in Railton’s home nor in Railton’s wife.
But that was only a minor snag. Railton was now planning the endgame.
Agnes had gone to see a movie. He went to her bedroom and spent a cautious half hour among the fripperies he found in her wardrobe, the tallboy, and her dressing-table drawers. He worked to a meticulous plan, smiling sourly as he handled his wife’s more intimate garments. He chose carefully, packing into her lightweight weekend bag only such things as she was not likely to miss within the next day or two — two dresses, a silk nightgown, stockings; he had made a list of everything she would be likely to take. He concealed the bag in his own room, and proceeded to the next item on his criminous agenda.
This was Bernard Saunders’ briefcase. In it he placed a number of securities, quietly accumulated at various times within the past few months. Their theft would be possible to Saunders, for Railton had kept them in a locked drawer of his desk, and at the last moment he would break open that drawer, as Saunders could easily have done.
When the briefcase too was safely hidden, he poured a liberal helping of whiskey and made himself comfortable in front of the fire. He projected himself into tomorrow, thinking of it as a third-person story. Closing his eyes, he visualized it exactly the way it would happen. He heard the words, felt the emotions. And realized the deep satisfaction that he would experience when the whole plan was fully carried out.
Tomorrow afternoon he would go to London and take a room at a small hotel where he had often stayed before. Shortly before five o’clock he would ring the factory and ask for Saunders.
“You, Saunders? Yes, I know you’re busy, but I’ve got Mellars here. He’s talking about another modification on his duct system. I’ve told him we’re all tied up and it’s out of the question at the old contract price, but you know how he is. Could you come up and talk him out of it?”
Saunders would look at his watch, grunt a reply.
“I know, Saunders, it’s a damn nuisance. Still, you could come up on the 8:10 and be home again by midnight. Yes, at Russell Court — I’ll have Mellars in the bar, well-oiled if possible. Okay? Oh, and by the way, could you drop off at my home and ask my wife for the large manila envelope I left on my desk? Some figures relevant to Mellars’ complaint.”
Another grunt from Saunders.
“It won’t be far out of your way — drop off on your way to the station. Unless you’re going to drive into London, of course — If anything turns up at this end and I can save you the trip I’ll phone you at my home. I’ll phone at 7:55 sharp — that’ll still give you time to make the 8:10 if I can’t manage without you.”
Saunders would know what sharp meant — Railton’s sharp. Not six minutes to eight, or four, but five.
Railton would then have a light snack, check out of his room, and make his leisurely way out of London. And within a couple of hours he would be a sorrowing widower.
For the final scenes he had aimed at absolute simplicity. Guns, poisons — all such comparatively tricky methods were out. Agnes was to be killed by her lover, Bernard Saunders, an unscrupulous rascal who had broken open his employer’s desk and stuffed his briefcase with the securities he knew, through Agnes, would be there. He had induced Agnes to pack her most attractive night attire, ready for a quick getaway. Then, the two lovers would quarrel…
Perhaps Agnes would have last-minute qualms, and Saunders would lose his temper with her. Railton had to kill his wife in such a way that an intelligent Coroner would credit Saunders with her death. So, how does one kill in a lovers’ quarrel?
One shakes the shoulders, makes a grab for the throat, and almost before one is aware of it the vital spark is quenched.
That was how it would be.
Then, hide behind the curtains. Wait for Saunders, innocently calling for that manila envelope and hoping that a phone call at 7:55 sharp will save him a trip to London. Saunders coming in, rushing to the body prostrate on the carpet, dropping on his knees beside it.
Then, enter the avenger. Agnes dead, Saunders bending over her. The poker snatched from the hearth… What temporarily demented husband would do less?
Strike at Saunders, again and again. Now draw the dead Agnes’ nails down Saunders’ face. Pull a button from Saunders’ coat and place it between the woman’s clenched fingers.
Nothing much else. Only the lightweight bag with its frothy fripperies to put in the hall, the loaded briefcase beside it, both ready for the romantic flight that had ended before it began.
Then Railton, crazy with grief, dazed, bewildered, blundering into the police station. The desk sergeant staring. “Well, it’s Mr. Railton! Good evening, sir.”
Looking with bloodshot eyes at the sergeant. “It… it’s my wife. Dead… I came back from London… unexpectedly. She was dead. Strangled. He was bending over her. He still had his hands on…”
“Steady, sir! Steady on, now!”
“I hit him with the poker. Who? You won’t know him. Fellow named Saunders. Works at my factory. Must have been going on for weeks, months, behind my back…”
“Now, sir, if you’ll begin at the beginning—”
“I hit him with the poker. But she’s dead, she’s dead…”
Railton poured another whiskey. Pretty good, considering that his wife and Saunders scarcely knew each other. What would happen? Justifiable homicide? A nominal sentence for manslaughter?
One couldn’t quite organize that. But Roger Railton was sure that he would be eating his next Christmas dinner at home.
And everything went according to plan.
He left for London shortly after noon, and spent an agreeable afternoon waiting for zero hour. He took a single room at his usual hotel and ordered dinner. At 4:55 he phoned the factory.
He was put through to Saunders, who was curt, saying that he was in the main assembly shop and up to his eyes. Railton explained the position, and waited for the grunt. It came.
“Can’t you deal with that fool Mellars yourself? It’s a bit late in the day for him to be coming along with major modifications.”
“That’s what I want you to tell him,” Railton said, and mentioned the manila envelope.
“Okay,” Saunders said in a resigned voice. “Large manila envelope on your desk, and you’ll ring at five to eight if I’m to cancel the trip.”
Railton put down the phone and ordered a light snack. An hour later he was checking out. The room clerk looked down his nose. “Sudden change of plan, Mr. Railton?”
“Say a sudden premonition,” Railton said. “A feeling that something’s wrong.”
“I know, sir. Like somebody walking over your grave.”
Railton nodded and made his way to the hotel garage. He was driving up Finchley Road when the odd train of thought occurred to him…
It was going to happen!