Two days after the events described in the previous chapter, a man looked about him with extreme circumspection before inserting one of his keys into the door at the rear entrance of the luxury fiats in Cambridge Way. The coast was clear. Apart from the uniformed police constable standing outside the front entrance, he guessed (and guessed correctly) that at last he was alone. He moved silently up the carpeted staircase and let himself into the room that faced the first landing; there was just one thing he had to do. Once inside the flat he fixed his rather ancient hearing-aid into his right ear (exactly as he’d done three days before), nicked over the lock on the Yale (a precaution he’d earlier omitted to take), and took from his pocket a newly purchased screwdriver-a larger, shinier, more effective instrument than the one which had bored its way through Gilbert’s spine. He’d known the truth, of course, on that previous visit; known it immediately he’d entered the main sitting-room. For, although the crates seemed all (quite properly) still unopened, from the mantelpiece Mercator’s head had stared at him accusingly…
After performing his grisly task-it took him only a few minutes-he retraced his steps to the rear entrance and let himself out into the bright afternoon sunlight, where he promptly hailed a taxi. He saw the driver’s eyes flick to the mirror as his hearing-aid began to oscillate; so he turned off the volume and took it out. It had served its purpose well today, and he put it away and sought to relax as the taxi threaded its way through the heavy traffic. But his mind could give him little rest… If only on that terrifying day… But no! Awaiting Gilbert had been an almost certain early retribution. Money! That was all that Gilbert had demanded – then more money. An odd compulsion (as it appeared to the man in the taxi); certainly when compared with the motivations that dominated his own life – the harbouring of inveterate hatreds, and the almost manic ambition, sometimes so carefully concealed, for some degree of worldly fame.
‘Here we are, sir: Paddington.’
Why Paddington? Why not Euston, or Victoria, or Liverpool Street? Why any railway station? Perhaps it was the anonymity of such a place-a place at which he could deposit the burden of his sin that lay so heavily in the supermarket carrier-bag he tightly clutched as he walked through the swing doors of the Station Hotel and turned right to the gentlemen’s toilet. No one else was there, and he closed the door behind him in the furthest of the cubicles that faced the open pissoir. Here, he lifted the plastic ring of the lavatory seat, climbed on to the circular fixture and lifted the covering of the porcelain cistern. But the water-filled cavity was far too narrow-and suddenly he was jerked into a frozen stillness, for he heard the door-catch click in a nearby cubicle. Something had to be done quickly. He felt inside the carrier-bag and took out a flat package wrapped round with a copy of The Times-a package which, judging from its shape, might have held two sandwiches, and which now plopped into the water and sank immediately to the bottom of the cistern.
Still carrying the bulk of his burden, he walked out of the hotel into the main-line station, where he drifted aimlessly about until he saw the planks and scaffolding at the furthest end of Platform One. He made his way slowly along this platform, intermittently turning his eyes upwards to take in Brunei’s magnificent wrought-iron roof that arched above him. He had already seen the skip-half-full of building rubble and general rubbish… Apart from a solitary orange-coated workman a few yards up the line, he was alone. Suddenly turning, he dropped his bag into the skip and sauntered back towards the unmanned ticket-barrier. He would have enjoyed a pot of searing hot tea and a buttered scone in the cool lounge of the Station Hotel, but he dared not trust himself. He was shaking visibly and the sweat was cold upon his forehead. It was time to return to base, to lie down awhile, to tell himself that the task he’d so much dreaded was now accomplished-if not accomplished well.
Crossing over Praed Street, he walked down to the bottom of Spring Street and entered a small hotel just off to the left. No one was on duty at the reception-desk, and he lifted the hinged board, took his key (Number 16) off its wall-hook, and climbed the stairs. Although he had now been in the same hotel for many days, he still felt some hesitation about which way up the key went in; and again, now, he fiddled and scraped a bit before opening the door and admitting himself to the small but neatly furnished room. He took off his jacket, placed it at the bottom of the single bed, wiped his forehead with a clean white handkerchief from the antique wardrobe-and experienced a vast relief at finding himself safely back in this temporary home. The Gideon Bible, in its plum-coloured boards, still lay on the table beside the pillow; the window, as he had left it, was still half-open, providing easy access (he was glad of it!) to the fire-escape that zigzagged down the narrow side of the hotel to the mean-looking courtyard below. Turning round, he saw that the door to the wash-room was open, too, and he promised himself (but in a little while) a cool and guilt-effacing shower.
For the moment he lay down on top of the coverlet, with that curious amalgam of elation that springs from defiance of danger and knowledge of accomplishment. As a boy, he’d known it when climbing Snowdon with a Scout troup: for all the other boys, the route alongside one precipitous face had seemed a commonplace occurrence-yet for himself a source of great and secret pride… It was strange that he should only have experienced that marvellous elation again so very late in life, and then so often in such a short period of time… He closed his eyes, and almost moved his mind towards some neutral gear, untroubled, disengaged…
But only a minute later his body was jarred into panic-stricken dread. Someone was standing over him; someone who said ‘Good afternoon’-and nothing more.
‘You! You!’
His eyeballs bulged in fear and incredulous surprise, and if either of these emotions could be said to have been in the ascendant, perhaps it was that of surprise. But even as he cowered upon the coverlet, the packing twine was cutting deep into his neck; and soon his frantic spluttering and croaking grew quieter and quieter-until it was completely stilled. So died George Westerby, late Scholar and Senior Fellow of Lonsdale College in the University of Oxford.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
It is a characteristic of the British people that they complain about their railways. In this case, however, there appears little justification for such complaint,
It was 9.50 a.m. the following morning when the winsome receptionist looked up from her desk and took the room-key.
‘Nice morning again, Mr Smith?’
He nodded and smiled-that distinctively lop-sided smile of his. Since he’d been there, she’d almost always been on duty in the mornings; often, too, in the evenings, when she’d taken his order for an early-morning pot of tea-and also for The Times.
‘I’ve got to leave this morning; so if you’ll make out my bill, please?’
He sat down in one of the armchairs just opposite the reception desk, and breathed in very deeply. He’d spent another deeply troubled night, fitfully falling into semi-slumber, then waking up to find his blue pyjamas soaked in chilling sweat. Throughout these hours his head had thumped away as though some alien fiend were hammering inside his skull; and it was only after early tea that finally he’d slept a little while. He woke just after 9a.m., his head still aching, yet now with a dulled and
torrable pain. For a few minutes he had lain there almost happily, upon the creased and tumbled pillow. But soon the same old host of thoughts was streaming through the portals of his brain, his eyeballs rolling round beneath the shuttered lids. And one thought fought a leading way through all the crowd- and one decision was made.