At first my secret activity had seemed to make no difference at all to my friendship with Hugo. Our talks continued, with all their old freshness and spontaneity, and our subject matter was inexhaustible. As the book grew and gained strength, however, it seemed to drain some of the blood away from my other intimacy. It began to constitute itself a rival. What had seemed at first an innocent suppressio veri began to grow into a very poisonous suggestio falsi. The knowledge that I was deceiving Hugo took the frankness out of my responses to him even in fields quite unconnected with this particular deception. Hugo never seemed to notice anything, and I continued to take great pleasure in his company. But when at last I had signed the contract and the book had gone away to the publisher I felt I could hardly any more look Hugo in the face. After a day or two I got used to seeing him, even under these conditions, but an awful melancholy began to hang over our association. I knew now that our friendship was doomed.
I wondered whether I dared, even at this stage, tell Hugo the truth. Once or twice I felt myself on the brink of a confession. But each time I drew back. I was unable to face his scorn and anger. But what most deterred me was the feeling that after all the thing was still not totally irrevocable. I could still go to the publisher and ask to be released from my contract. By offering him some pecuniary compensation I could probably even now get out of the thing altogether. But at the thought of this my heart sank. My only consolation lay in a dreadful fatalism — and the notion that I was still a free agent, and that the crime could still be avoided, was too intensely painful to entertain. The mere idea that Hugo might demand that I withdraw the book caused me such distress that I could not bring myself even to contemplate telling him of my action; and this was not because I had any longer a desire to see the book in print. The sweetness of this prospect had been killed for some time now by my desolation at the thought of losing Hugo. It was just that I could console myself with nothing except the dreadful certainty, which I hugged closer to myself every day, that the die was cast.
I fell during this period into such a melancholy that, although I saw Hugo as often as ever, I found it extremely difficult to talk to him. I would sometimes sit for hours in his presence, silent except for such brief responses as were needed to keep him talking. Hugo soon noticed my depression and questioned me about it. I feigned illness; and the more worried and solicitous Hugo became concerning my condition, the greater grew my torment. He started sending me presents of fruit and books, tins of glucose and iron tonic, and implored me to see a doctor; and indeed by this time I had made myself really ill.
On the day when the book was to be published I was beside myself. I had an appointment to meet Hugo that evening, on the bridge as usually. By about midday I felt that evidence of my treachery must be displayed in every bookshop in London. I thought it likely that Hugo would not yet have seen the book. But it could only be a matter of a short time before he would see it, as he often went into bookshops. Our appointment was at five-thirty. I spent the afternoon drinking brandy — and about five o‘clock I went out into Battersea Park. A sort of calm had descended on me, as I knew now that I should not meet Hugo that day, or any other day ever again. A tragic fascination drew me to the riverside, from which I could see the bridge. Hugo appeared punctually and waited. I sat on a seat and smoked two cigarettes. Hugo walked up and down. After a while longer I saw him cross the bridge to the south bank and I knew he was going to my lodgings. I lighted another cigarette. Half an hour later I saw him walk slowly back across the bridge and disappear.
I then returned to my room, gave in my notice, packed up my things, and left immediately by taxi. About a week later a letter from Hugo was forwarded to me in which he inquired what had happened to me and asked me to get in touch with him. I left the letter unanswered. Hugo is not a great hand at letter-writing and finds it very hard to express himself on paper at all. I received no more letters. Meanwhile The Silencer was being treated to a few lukewarm reviews. Such reviewers as undertook to say anything about it at all had clearly found it unintelligible. One of them labelled it ‘pretentious and obscurantist’. But on the whole no one paid much attention to it. It was a quiet flop. So far from its opening to me a career of literary fame, it did my reputation considerable harm, and I came to be regarded as a solemn highbrow with no powers of entertainment; and that in quarters where I had been at some pains to build up a quite other impression.
I cared very little about this, however. I was anxious only to forget the whole business and to live the relationship with Hugo out of my system altogether. The Silencer went through only one edition which, after being conspicuously remaindered in Charing Cross Road, mercifully disappeared from the market. I didn’t retain a copy myself, and just wished most heartily that all could be as if the accursed book had never been. I stopped going to the cinema, and avoided looking at the more sensational dailies which tended to feature Hugo’s activities. It was about now that Finn turned up and attached himself to me, and gradually my life took on a new pattern and the powerful image of Hugo began to fade. Nothing had interrupted the fading process until the moment when Sadie so unexpectedly mentioned Hugo’s name in the hairdresser’s shop.
Five
I WALKED down the street in a daze. I bought a packet of cigarettes and went into a milk bar to think things over. The mention of Hugo’s name was in itself quite enough to upset me considerably, and for a while I was in such pain that I couldn’t put the matter to myself clearly at all. What did seem to emerge, as far as my present situation was concerned, was that Hugo’s involvement in the affair made it quite out of the question for me to accept Sadie’s offer or to have anything more to do with Sadie at all. My immediate impulse was simply to run away. After a while, however, I began to feel calm enough to find the situation rather interesting; and then, as I reflected more and more upon it, it became clear to me that Sadie simply couldn’t be telling the truth. I knew from of old that Sadie was a notorious liar and would tell any falsehood to procure herself even a quite temporary advantage. Also the sheer improbability of Hugo being in love with Sadie was, when I considered it, overwhelming. Hugo was never very forward with women, and tended anyway to admire the quiet home-keeping types. I just couldn’t see him behaving in the way Sadie had described. That there was some stratagem going forward which involved Hugo was very possible; but a more likely explanation of it was that Sadie was up to some professional caper which Hugo was trying to circumvent. I knew nothing about the film world, but I imagined it to be in a continuous ferment of personal intrigue. Indeed it was even possible that it was Sadie who was in love with Hugo and was trying to entangle him in some way. This, when it occurred to me, seemed a very plausible hypothesis indeed. I knew, from Sadie’s conduct towards myself, how easily she was impressed by men whom she imagined to be intellectuals; and whereas Hugo was not at all the man to love Sadie, Sadie was just the woman to be in love with Hugo.
When I had come to this conclusion I felt better. Somehow the idea of Hugo gone on Sadie had been extremely distasteful to me. This still, however, failed to illuminate a course of action for me. What was I to do? If I accepted Sadie’s offer I would seem to be enrolling myself on the wrong side in some sort of obscure battle with Hugo; and if I accepted the offer with the full intention of helping Hugo if possible and outwitting Sadie, this savoured of double-dealing. I still had besides a strong inclination to keep clear of the thing altogether, as I didn’t dare even to imagine with what sort of a head I could bring myself to face Hugo, should that dread necessity ever arise. On the other hand, I felt that by now I was somewhow involved myself, and I couldn’t help being fascinated by the way things had fallen out, and wondering what on earth would happen next. Some fate which I would not readily deny was leading me back to Hugo.
I thought the matter to and fro and up and down, and the morning passed without my having made a decision. I was becoming quite exhausted by the suspense, so I decided that, since work was out of the question in view of my ner
vous and excited condition, I might as well pass the afternoon in a useful routine way by going and fetching the radiogram from Earls Court Road. At this I found myself ruefully reflecting that while I was likely to get my neck broken at Welbeck Street by Hugo I was likely to get it broken at Earls Court Road by Sacred Sammy. I went to the telephone.
There was no reply from Madge’s number, so I judged that the coast was clear and set off. I still had my key to the flat and I let myself in, wondering what was the best place to store the radiogram, whether at Dave’s or at Mrs Tinckham’s. I bounded into the sitting-room, and was well inside the door when I saw a man standing on the other side of the room with a bottle in his hand. It needed but one glance to tell me that this was Sacred Sammy. He was dressed in tweeds and had the look of an outdoor man who had lived too much by electric light. He had a heavy reddish face and a powerful spread of nose. His hair was only slightly grey. He held his head well and the bottle by the neck. He looked at me now with a calm bland dangerous look. It was evident to me that he knew who I was. I hesitated. Sammy has his name in lights, but he used to be a real race-course bookie, and there was no doubt that he was a tough customer. I estimated the distance between us and took a step back. Then I took off my belt. It was a rather heavy leather belt with a strong brass buckle. This was only a feint. I have seen Guardsmen do this before a fight and it’s an impressive gesture. I had no intention of using it as a weapon, but prevention is better than a fracas and Sammy, who perhaps didn’t know that I was a Judo expert, might have it in mind to start something. If he came at me I had already planned to give him an old-fashioned flying mare.
While I was performing these manoeuvres I saw Sammy’s face soften into a look of affected incomprehension.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he asked.
I wasn’t quite ready for this, and felt let down. ‘Don’t you want to fight?’ I replied, with irritation.
Sammy stared at me, and then broke into a roar of laughter. ‘My, my!’ he said. ‘Whatever gave you that idea. You’re Donaghue, aren’t you? Here, have a lotion.’ And quick as a flash he put a glass of whisky into my free hand. You can imagine what a fool I felt, with the whisky in one hand and my belt in the other.
When I had reorganized myself, I said, hoping that I didn’t sound sheepish, ‘I suppose you’re Starfield?’ I felt thoroughly at a loss. I suspected that it ought to be up to me whether we fought or not. I certainly didn’t want to fight, but I had let Sammy get the initiative now, and no mistake, and I hated that too.
‘That’s me,’ said Sammy, ‘and you’re young Donaghue. Well, what a fire-eater!’ and he went off into another explosion of laughter. I took a gulp of the whisky and put on my belt, endeavouring to wear the expression of one who, contrary to appearances, is master of the situation. The films provide one with useful conventions of this kind. I looked Sammy up and down with deliberation. He was rather a handsome creature in the style already indicated. There was a crude power in him, and I set myself to see the Sammy whom Madge saw. It wasn’t difficult. He had humorous triangular blue eyes, which noticed my scrutiny with amusement and returned it with mock seriousness.
‘You’re quite a young fellow!’ said Sammy. ‘You know, I could never get much out of Madge about you.’ He refilled my glass.
‘I expect you’re fed up about being fired out,’ he added in a completely unprovocative tone.
‘Look here, Starfield,’ I said, ‘there are some things a gentleman can’t discuss coolly. If you want to fight, good. If not, shut up. I’ve come here to fetch some of my things, not to chat with you.’ I was pleased not to be feeling afraid of him, and I hoped he was aware of it, but I knew that my speech would have sounded better if I hadn’t been drinking the man’s whisky. It also occurred to me at that moment that Sammy might dispute my ownership of the radiogram.
‘You’re a touchy fellow,’ said Sammy. ‘Don’t be in such a hurry. I want to look at you. It’s not every day I meet a writer chap who talks on the radio.’
I suspected he was mocking, but the mere thought that Sammy might find me a romantic figure amused me so much that I laughed, and Sammy laughed too in sympathy. He seemed to want me to like him. I was drinking my second glass of whisky and beginning to think that perhaps after all Sammy was rather a peach.
‘Where did you meet Madge?’ I asked. I wasn’t going to let him make all the running.
‘Where did she tell you I met her?’ Sammy countered.
‘On a number eleven bus.’
Sammy let out his roar. ‘Not likely!’ he said. ‘Catch me riding on a bus! No, we met at a party some film people were giving.’
I raised my eyebrows.
‘Yes, boy, she was just beginning to get around.’ Sammy wagged his finger at me. ‘Never let them out of your sight, that’s the only way!’
This mixture of triumph and solicitude nauseated me. ‘Magdalen is a free agent,’ I said coldly.
‘Not any more she isn’t!’ said Sammy.
I looked at him with sudden loathing. ‘Look here,’ I said, ‘are you really going to marry Madge?’
Sammy took this as an expression of friendly incredulity from a well-wisher. ‘Why not?’ he said. ‘Isn’t she a beautiful girl? Isn’t she a turn up for the book? She hasn’t got a wooden leg, has she?’ and he dug me in the ribs so violently that the whisky splashed on to the carpet.
‘I don’t mean that,’ I said. ‘I mean do you intend to marry her?’
‘Oh, you’re asking about my intentions,’ said Sammy. ‘That’s a body blow! You ought to have brought your shotgun!’ He roared with laughter again. ‘Here,“ he said, ’let’s finish the bottle.‘
By now I had just sufficient whisky in me not to care much one way or the other.
‘It’s your affair,’ I said.
‘It is. Believe you me,’ said Sammy, and we left it at that.
Sammy now began to rummage in his pockets. ‘There’s something I’d like to give you, young fellow,’ he said. I watched suspiciously. He produced his cheque-book with an ostentatious flourish and opened his fountain pen.
‘Well, now,’ he said, ‘shall we say a hundred pounds, shall we say two hundred?’
I was open-mouthed. ‘Whatever for?’ I asked.
‘Well, let’s say for removal expenses,’ said Sammy, and winked.
For a moment I was completely baffled. Then it dawned on me that I was being bought off! How had such an idea got into Sammy’s head? It took but another moment to conclude that Magdalen must have put it there. This further proof of the tortuousness of Madge’s mind left me gasping. This must have been her strange notion of how to put a good thing in my way. I was both extremely affronted and extremely touched. I smiled at Sammy with a sort of gentleness.
‘No,’ I said, “I couldn’t possibly take money.‘
‘Why not?’ said Sammy.
‘First, because I really have no claims on Madge,’ I said. I thought he might understand this point better, so I put it first. ‘And secondly because I don’t belong to a social class that takes money in a situation like this.’
Sammy eyed me as one eyes a clever debater.
‘First you say there’s no situation,’ he said, ‘and then you say it’s not a situation where you take money. Let’s be grown up about it. I know the conventions as well as you do. But what do chaps like you care about your social class? Chaps like you are always short of money. If you don’t take the cash you’ll regret it tomorrow.’ And he began to write a cheque.
My awareness that his hypothetical statement was true added but the more passion to my cries of ‘No! I won’t take it! I don’t want it!’
Sammy looked at me with an interested ad hominem look. ‘But I’ve done you an injury,’ he said in an explanatory tone. ‘I wouldn’t feel straight with my conscience if you didn’t take something.’
He sounded really concerned for me, and I began to wonder what sort of picture Madge had given him.
‘What makes
you so damned sure you’ve injured me?’ I asked.
‘Well, your being so set on marrying Madge,’ said Sammy.
I took a deep breath. This rather had me cornered. It seemed a disloyalty to Madge to declare that nothing was further from my mind than the idea of marrying her - especially as it now occurred to me that Madge might well have been using my alleged aspirations as a lever to make up Sammy’s mind. In any case, I could see that Sammy was determined not to believe a denial.
‘Well, maybe I am injured,’ I said grudgingly.
‘That’s a generous fellow!’ cried Sammy, delighted. ‘And now let’s say a couple of hundred quid!’
I wondered what to do. Sammy’s curious ethical code did seem to demand a settlement. I needed the money. What prevented the closure of this mutually rewarding deal? My principles. Surely there must be some way round. In similar fixes I have rarely failed to find one.
‘Don’t interrupt, Starfield,’ I said. ‘I’m thinking.’ Then I had an idea.
The mid-day edition of the Evening Standard was lying on the floor at our feet. I turned to the back page and looked at my watch. It was 2.35. Racing that day was at Salisbury and Nottingham.