Six Against the Yard Page 20

  What might have been expected then took place. During the drive Blunt made his demand. They were old pals. Haslar had gone up in the world while Blunt had gone down. For the sake of old times Haslar couldn’t see his old pal go where he was now heading—to the Embankment seats or the fourpenny doss. Blunt didn’t want much. He had no intention of sponging on his friend. A tiny cottage and a few shillings a week for food were all he asked.

  Though Blunt had all gone to pieces and seemed suffering from senile decay, he was discreet enough in his conversation. He made no mention of the force which gave his somewhat maundering requests their compulsion. His only reference to it was veiled. ‘I hate talking of unpleasant things,’ he declared with his evil leer. ‘We’re good pals, you and I. Let’s not mention anything that’s disagreeable.’

  Haslar indeed was surprised at the man’s moderation, though as they talked he realised that the tiny cottage and few shillings a week were rather a figure of speech than an exact description of Blunt’s demand. However, what the man asked for could be given him with a negligible outlay. Haslar promised he would see to it.

  ‘But look here, Blunt,’ he went on, ‘this is an agreement for our mutual benefit. I’ll do my part if and as long as you do yours, and no longer. I admit that the information you have is worth something to me and I’m willing to pay for it. I’ll get you a small cottage and I’ll make you an allowance so that you’ll be comfortable on one condition—that you keep my secret. That means more than not telling it. It means that you must do nothing by which people might find it out. You mustn’t ever come near Oxshott. If you want to see me, telephone, giving some other name. What name are you going under now?’

  ‘Jamison. I reckon Blunt died in Edinburgh.’

  Haslar nodded. ‘So did Matthews. I’m now Haslar. Matthews is never to be mentioned. See?’

  Blunt, who appeared overwhelmed by his good luck, swore by all his gods that he would keep his bargain. Haslar thought he meant it. All the same he rubbed in his point of view.

  ‘I admit, Blunt, that you can injure me if you want to. You spill your story and this place gets too hot for me. I have to go. I don’t want to, so I’ll pay you as long as you hold your tongue. But talk: and see what else happens. I leave here and go abroad and settle down where I’m not known. My money goes with me and I remain comfortable. But your money stops. You hurt me slightly, but you destroy yourself.’

  In the end Haslar gave the man money to take a tiny cottage in a country backwater near Rickmansworth. He made an estimate of what it should cost him to live in reasonable comfort, including the daily visit of a woman to ‘do’ for him. To this sum Haslar added ten per cent. Handing over the first instalment, he undertook to pay a similar amount on the first Monday of every month. On his part Blunt expressed himself as well satisfied and pledged himself as long as the payment continued never to approach or annoy Haslar.

  It was bad, Haslar thought grimly when all this had been arranged, but it was not so bad as it might have been.

  II

  The arrangement between Haslar and Blunt worked well—for nearly a year. Every first Monday of the month Haslar folded ten £1 notes into a cheap envelope, bought each time specially for the purpose, and at precisely half-past one o’clock left a certain prearranged telephone booth in an unobtrusive position in Victoria Station. Blunt on these occasions was always waiting to telephone, and the envelope hidden in the red directory by the one was duly found by the other.

  But before the year was up Haslar’s fears were realised. Blunt made a fresh demand. One evening he rang up and asked in a surprisingly cultivated voice where they could meet. Haslar fixed a point on the Great North Road and picked the other up in his car.

  Blunt was cynically complaisant as he explained his desires. His manner suggested his certainty that he could have what he chose to ask. He was now so comfortable that he had grown bored. No longer faced with the need for work, time hung heavily on his hands. He wanted money to amuse himself. Not much—Haslar need not be alarmed. A very little would satisfy him. All he wished was to be able to go two or three times a week to the pictures, to take an occasional excursion on a bus, and to pay for his glass and stand his treat at the ‘Green Goat.’

  To Haslar the additional amount was negligible, but he was disturbed by the principle of the thing. He had never before been blackmailed, but all the tales he had read about it stressed the inevitable growth of the demands. What might be insignificant at first swelled eventually to an intolerable burden.

  During ten miles of slow driving Haslar considered whether he should not now, at once, make his stand. Then very clearly he saw three things. The first was that he couldn’t really make a stand. He could only bluff. If Blunt called his bluff, as he certainly would, he, Haslar, would be done for. He would have to give way. He would be worse off than he was now, for his weakness would have actually been demonstrated.

  The second point was that Blunt’s demands still remained moderate. In this Haslar could not but consider himself lucky.

  The third was that the proposal was really to his, Haslar’s, advantage. The more fully occupied was Blunt’s time, the less dangerous he would be. Contented, he would think of fewer grievances than if he were bored.

  Haslar decided that when he had already gone so far, he would be a fool to fight on so small an issue. But if he were going to give way, he must do it with a good grace. Blunt must not be allowed to suppose there had been any trial of strength. He still further slackened speed and turned to the old man.

  ‘I wasn’t hesitating about the money,’ he said pleasantly. ‘I don’t think what you want is unreasonable and I don’t mind the small extra. But I was trying to put myself in your place. With all that time on my hands I should fish. What do you think of that? If you’d like it, I’ll put up the outfit.’

  Blunt was obliged, though always there was that ugly sardonic leer in his eye. He considered himself lucky that his relations with his old pal were so satisfactory. But he was not and never would be a fisherman. If he had the other two or three little things he had asked for, he would be content.

  From this time the ten pounds a month became fourteen. The arrangement again worked well, this time for six months. Then Blunt telephoned for another interview. That telephone message was the beginning of Haslar’s real trouble. The amount asked for again was small: an extra lump sum of £20 to go a motor trip to Cornwall. Haslar gave it, but said in half joke, whole earnest, that he was not made of money and that Blunt must not forget it would only pay him to help his friend up to a certain amount. Blunt had replied by asking what was £20 to a man of Haslar’s wealth? and had stated in so many words that he was reckoning that to keep his present position would be worth many hundreds a year to his old pal.

  Four months later came a further demand: that the £14 a month should be increased to £20. This time the request took more the form of an ultimatum than a prayer. Moreover Blunt was at less pains to justify it. He simply remarked carelessly that he found he couldn’t do on the smaller sum.

  At last, Haslar felt, it was time to make a stand. He made it—with the result he might have foreseen, with the result that in his secret mind he had foreseen. Blunt for the first time showed his hand. He swept the other’s protestations aside. His demands, he declared, were over-moderate. The secret was worth vastly more than he was getting for it. He was surprised at Haslar being so unreasonable. Instead of asking a beggarly £250 a year he might have had a couple of thousand. And he would have a couple of thousand if there was any more trouble about it. He would have his £20 a month, or would Haslar rather make it £25?

  Increasingly Haslar felt his bondage. Not that the payments incommoded him. They had still to mount a long way before he would really feel them. But now fear for the future was growing. Blunt was not exactly an old man. He might live for another twenty years. And if his demands went on increasing—as Haslar believed they were pretty certain to do—how would things end?

  The
realisation of his power now seemed to intoxicate Blunt. His demands grew more frequent and they were made with less regard for Haslar’s feelings. Still worse, the old man ceased to show the scrupulous care to keep their meetings secret which he had done at first and which Haslar demanded. No harm had come through this, but it was disconcerting.

  Blunt’s first large request, not very politely worded, was for a fifty-guinea radio gramophone and a mass of records. The money again didn’t much trouble Haslar, though he could no longer say he was not feeling the drain. But he was beginning to see that this state of things could not go on indefinitely. Sooner or later the man would demand something which he could not give, and then what would happen?

  After an ineffectual demur, for which he despised himself, Haslar handed over the price of the gramophone. From that moment Blunt’s demands increased in geometrical progression. The more he was given, the more he asked. Haslar was now parting with quite a considerable proportion of his income, and he began to envisage either cutting down his own expenses or drawing on his capital. The former he wished to avoid at all costs, as at once his wife would have begun to suspect something amiss. The latter he could do for a while without feeling it, but not for very long.

  However, though Haslar was a good deal worried, he did not as yet consider his case really serious. So long as Blunt’s demands remained anywhere about their present scale, he could meet them and carry on. Any small retrenchment that might be necessary he could account for by saying that his shares had fallen.

  But now at last, within this very week, a fresh blow had fallen, by far the heaviest of all. It left Haslar stunned and desperate.

  Blunt had once again rung up and asked to see him. Haslar supposed it meant some fresh extortion, but always afraid that the old man might turn up at Oxshott, he had agreed to meet him at the rendezvous on the Great North Road. He had kept the appointment and had picked up Blunt in his car.

  At once to his horror he saw that the man was drunk. He was not hopelessly incapacitated, but he was stupid and maudlin and spoke in a thick voice.

  Here was a new and dreadful complication! To have his security at the mercy of an evil and selfish old man was bad enough: to have it in the keeping of a drunkard was a thousand times worse. In a certain stage of intoxication men of Blunt’s type grew garrulous. Even if Blunt’s intentions remained good, his actions were no longer dependable.

  Haslar for the first time felt really up against it. His home, his wife, his friends, his pleasant circumstances, all were in danger. Never had his mode of life seemed so sweet as now that it was threatened. Security! That was what mattered. His security was gone. What would he not give to get it back!

  And all this menacing misery and wretchedness would be the fate not only of himself but of his wife. Gina thought more of social prestige than he did. She would feel their disgrace the more. He had never told her he had been in jail. She would feel cheated. Not only would they be driven from their happy surroundings, but their own good comradeship would be gone. The more Haslar considered it, the more complete appeared the threatening ruin.

  And all of it depended on the existence of one evil old man: a man guilty of the loathsome crime of blackmail: a man whose life was of no use or pleasure to himself or to anyone else: a man who was an encumbrance and a nuisance to all who knew him. It was not fair, Haslar thought bitterly. The happiness of two healthy and comparatively young people should not be in the power of this old sot.

  And then the thought which for a long time had lurked in the recesses of Haslar’s mind, forced itself to the front. It was not right that he and Gina should suffer. It was his job to see that Gina didn’t suffer. Well, she needn’t. She wouldn’t—if Blunt were to die.

  When first the dreadful idea leaped into his mind Haslar had crushed it out in horror. A murderer! No, not that! Anything rather than that! But the thought had returned. As often as he repulsed it, it came back. If Blunt were to die. …

  It would be a hideous, a ghastly affair, Blunt’s dying. But if it were over? Haslar could scarcely conceive what the relief would be like. Security once again! An escape from his troubles!

  But could he pay the price?

  Haslar played with the horrible thought. But all the time, though he didn’t realise it, his mind was made up. Blunt was old, he must die soon in any case. He was infirm, his life was no pleasure to him. A painless end. And for Haslar, security!

  Then Haslar told himself that his solution mightn’t mean security at all. There was another side to the picture. He broke into a cold sweat as he thought of the end of so many who had tried to attain security in this way. The sudden appearance of large men with official manners; the request to accompany them; the magistrates; the weeks of waiting; the trial. And then—Haslar shuddered as he pictured what might follow. That was what had happened to so very many. Why should he escape?

  Escape depended on the method employed. From that moment his thoughts became filled with the one idea—to find a plan. Was there any way in which he could bring about his release without fear of that awful result? Could murder be committed without paying the price?

  He was convinced that it could—if only he could find the way.

  III

  Whatever Stewart Haslar undertook, he performed with system and efficiency. In considering any new enterprise, he began by defining in his mind the precise object he wished to obtain, so as not to dissipate his energies on side issues. Then he made sure that he had an accurate knowledge of all the circumstances of the case and the factors which might affect his results. Only when he was thus prepared did he begin to consider plans of action. But when at last he reached this stage he gave every detail the closest attention, and he never passed from a scheme until he was satisfied it was as flawless as it was possible to make it. Finally, like a general planning a campaign, he considered in turn all the things which might go wrong, thinking out the correct action to be taken in each such emergency.

  In this latest and most dreadful effort of his life, the murder of Henry Blunt, he pursued the same method. Here also be began by asking himself what did he want to attain?

  This at least was an easy question. He wanted two things. First, he wanted Blunt to be dead. He wanted his tongue to be silenced in the only way that was entirely and absolutely effective. Secondly, he wanted this so to happen that no connection between himself and the murder would ever be suspected.

  The next point was not so simple. What were the precise circumstances of the case and the factors which might affect his results?

  First, as to his past dealings with Blunt. As things were, how far, if at all, could skilled detectives connect him with his victim?

  He considered the point with care, and the more he did so the better pleased he became. He had been more discreet even than he had supposed. There was nothing that anyone could get hold of. He had always insisted on his communications with the old man being carried out secretly. When telephoning, Blunt never gave his name, ringing off after making his call unless he recognised Haslar’s voice. Moreover, he always spoke from a street booth, so that his identity should remain untraceable. Haslar then had never allowed himself to be seen talking to the old man. Provided no one else was close by, he had stopped his car momentarily on an open stretch of the Great North Road, to pick Blunt up and set him down again. Sitting back in the closed car, he, Haslar, could not have been recognised even if there had been anyone to recognise him. During the drive it was unlikely that either of them would be recognised, but even supposing someone had seen them from a passing car, it was impossible that both should have been recognised, for the simple reason that no one knew both of them.

  Haslar had been insistent that neither party should write to the other, and the only further way in which they came in contact was during the monthly payments. But these meetings Haslar was satisfied could not under any circumstances become known. In the first place, nothing could be learnt from the banknotes. They were all of the denomination of one pou
nd and could not be traced. Moreover, Haslar never drew the whole £10 or £14 or £20 from his bank at one time, but collected the notes gradually. It was clearly understood that Blunt should not pay them into a bank, but should keep them at his cottage and use them for his current expenses. Finally, the method of utilising the directory in the telephone booth at Victoria was secrecy itself. Not only was the booth in an inconspicuous place and neither man went to it if another user were present, but also they never spoke or communicated with one another in any visible way.

  It seemed then to Haslar that so far as his dealings with Blunt in the past were concerned he was absolutely safe. But could Blunt have done anything which might call attention to him, Haslar?

  Haslar didn’t see how he could. Even if in a moment of carelessness Blunt had spoken of his rich friend, he would never have been so mad as to mention Haslar’s name. Blunt knew perfectly well that the revelation of the secret would end its cash value to himself, that to give it away would be to kill the goose that was laying the golden eggs. Nor had Blunt a photograph or any paper which might lead to an identification.

  Haslar again had been very careful not to appear in any of the negotiations the other had carried on. Blunt had bought the house and engaged the daily help. Except in an advisatory capacity and in the secret passing of one pound banknotes via the Victoria telephone booth, Haslar had had no connection with any of Blunt’s affairs.

  So far everything seemed propitious, but there was one point which gave Haslar very furiously to think. Had Blunt written anywhere a statement of the truth, perhaps as a sort of guard against foul play?

  This was a serious consideration. If such a document were in existence, to carry out his plan might be simply signing his own death warrant.

  Haslar gave the point earnest thought and at last came to the conclusion that he need have no fears of such a contingency. Blunt would not be disposed to put his ugly secret in writing, lest the document should accidentally be found. For the truth would injure him in precisely the same way as it would Haslar. Besides losing Haslar’s payments he also would personally suffer. If the circumstances under which he left Edinburgh became known, he also would be cold shouldered out of his little circle of acquaintances. He wouldn’t get a daily help or a welcome to the bar of the ‘Green Goat.’ Revelation would not be so disastrous as in Haslar’s case, but still it would be pretty unpleasant.