silence. I carried it off calmly, in fact felt no anxiety whatsoever. I wonder if things would have been different had I been face to face with her? She asked me about Alicia’s post. Well, it is strange: Alicia left no address to which she wanted her post sent. Can I help that? The worst is yet to come, when A.’s monthly check will not be claimed on August 2nd. I’ll then have to manufacture a man she is staying with. And best to start now.
This gave Sydney a pleasant feeling of both creating something and of being a murderer. He would fill in the preceding pages, he thought, with an actual account of the murder some time when he felt in the mood, pushing her down the stairs, keeping the body overnight, carrying it out the next morning—and perhaps being seen by Mrs. Lilybanks, or only fearing that he had been.
Just before 5 P.M. , the telephone rang, and Sydney thought it was probably Mrs. Sneezum again.
“Polk-Faraday speaking,” said Alex.
“Bartleby the Scrivener scrivening,” Sydney replied.
“Syd, my friend, guess what?” Alex said.
Sydney guessed what, but he could hardly believe it. Hittie had just rung Alex at his office to say that Plummer of Granada would buy The Whip Strikes , if they could show one or two other finished scripts plus some synopses of equal caliber. Hittie had opened the letter and rung Alex immediately.
“I haven’t buzzed him back,” Alex said. “I’ll tell him an unqualified yes, no? We’ll deliver the goods.”
“Tell him we’ll produce an indefinite number of super Whips. Meanwhile, I hope that second story’s coming along?” It was the one about the murdered husband.
“It is, it is,” Alex assured him. “First draft nearly done.”
“I’ll get to work right away on a new synopsis.”
“Good. Want to come up tonight, old pal, and we’ll kick an idea around? Provided you’ve got an idea to kick around.”
Sydney was tempted, but he knew they’d roar around congratulating themselves and not get any work done. “Thanks, but it might be better if I stayed here and kept my nose to the tombstone. The grindstone,” he corrected, laughing.
Alex laughed, too. “Okay, but don’t be too much of a recluse. How’s Alicia? Sorry you two didn’t come up for the party that night. Alicia wanted to come, you spoilsport.”
“Yes. Sorry. I was working that weekend. She could have gone by herself. When I get this novel done—”
“Give Alicia our love.”
Sydney took a breath and said, “Alicia’s not here. She went off to Brighton again, I think.”
“Again? When’s she coming back?”
There went the pips.
“She might stay longer this time. A few weeks.”
“She’s getting fed up with your grindstone. I’ll sign off, old pal.”
Sydney stood by the telephone, dazzled with hope, turned slowly around, then looked at the telephone again. He wished he could pick it up and ring Alicia to tell her the news. But she’d hear about The Whip through their friends, if they sold it. Nonsense, she was dead and underground, he reminded himself, and smiling, he ran up the stairs back to his study.
12
M rs. Edward Ponsonby—otherwise Alicia—had installed herself in Brighton at a larger and more comfortable hostelry than the bed-and-breakfast place she had been in before where the curfew, or the landlady’s retiring time, had been 10 P.M. according to a sign inside the front door. She was in a real hotel now, the Sinclair, though it was a modest one and she had no private bath. Her monthly check of fifty pounds had come in July 2, the day she had left home, so she had cashed it in Ipswich. She and Sydney had a joint account at the Ipswich bank with about a hundred pounds in it, but she didn’t want to write checks on that and deprive Sydney, and a check would also betray where she was. She intended to live on her fifty pounds as long as it lasted, then perhaps take a job as a clerk somewhere, not in London but in a small town with a restful atmosphere.
This gave Sydney a pleasant feeling of both creating something and of being a murderer. He would fill in the preceding pages, he thought, with an actual account of the murder some time when he felt in the mood, pushing her down the stairs, keeping the body overnight, carrying it out the next morning—and perhaps being seen by Mrs. Lilybanks, or only fearing that he had been.
Just before 5 P.M. , the telephone rang, and Sydney thought it was probably Mrs. Sneezum again.
“Polk-Faraday speaking,” said Alex.
“Bartleby the Scrivener scrivening,” Sydney replied.
“Syd, my friend, guess what?” Alex said.
Sydney guessed what, but he could hardly believe it. Hittie had just rung Alex at his office to say that Plummer of Granada would buy The Whip Strikes , if they could show one or two other finished scripts plus some synopses of equal caliber. Hittie had opened the letter and rung Alex immediately.
“I haven’t buzzed him back,” Alex said. “I’ll tell him an unqualified yes, no? We’ll deliver the goods.”
“Tell him we’ll produce an indefinite number of super Whips. Meanwhile, I hope that second story’s coming along?” It was the one about the murdered husband.
“It is, it is,” Alex assured him. “First draft nearly done.”
“I’ll get to work right away on a new synopsis.”
“Good. Want to come up tonight, old pal, and we’ll kick an idea around? Provided you’ve got an idea to kick around.”
Sydney was tempted, but he knew they’d roar around congratulating themselves and not get any work done. “Thanks, but it might be better if I stayed here and kept my nose to the tombstone. The grindstone,” he corrected, laughing.
Alex laughed, too. “Okay, but don’t be too much of a recluse. How’s Alicia? Sorry you two didn’t come up for the party that night. Alicia wanted to come, you spoilsport.”
“Yes. Sorry. I was working that weekend. She could have gone by herself. When I get this novel done—”
“Give Alicia our love.”
Sydney took a breath and said, “Alicia’s not here. She went off to Brighton again, I think.”
“Again? When’s she coming back?”
There went the pips.
“She might stay longer this time. A few weeks.”
“She’s getting fed up with your grindstone. I’ll sign off, old pal.”
Sydney stood by the telephone, dazzled with hope, turned slowly around, then looked at the telephone again. He wished he could pick it up and ring Alicia to tell her the news. But she’d hear about The Whip through their friends, if they sold it. Nonsense, she was dead and underground, he reminded himself, and smiling, he ran up the stairs back to his study.
12
M rs. Edward Ponsonby—otherwise Alicia—had installed herself in Brighton at a larger and more comfortable hostelry than the bed-and-breakfast place she had been in before where the curfew, or the landlady’s retiring time, had been 10 P.M. according to a sign inside the front door. She was in a real hotel now, the Sinclair, though it was a modest one and she had no private bath. Her monthly check of fifty pounds had come in July 2, the day she had left home, so she had cashed it in Ipswich. She and Sydney had a joint account at the Ipswich bank with about a hundred pounds in it, but she didn’t want to write checks on that and deprive Sydney, and a check would also betray where she was. She intended to live on her fifty pounds as long as it lasted, then perhaps take a job as a clerk somewhere, not in London but in a small town with a restful atmosphere.
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