My Wife Melissa Read online

  “Heavens, yes! She has — had a musical voice full of charm, and her laugh was quite unmistakable.”

  “Then if it was Mrs. Foster — why did she misinform you on several points?”

  “Such as?”

  “She claimed she was speaking from Don Page’s flat, for instance.”

  “Well, so she was.”

  “No, Mr. Foster. She was never there. Any number of witnesses who did attend the party agree that she never turned up. After she got out of the Hepburns’ car to hail a taxi, no one ever saw her again till she was found strangled in the Park.”

  I shook my head in bewilderment, not making sense of this at all. I lit a cigarette while the Inspector continued.

  “Rather naturally, the Hepburns grew worried when she failed to turn up at the party, so they phoned back to your flat here, round about half past nine.”

  “They damn well didn’t!” I said indignantly. “I never left the flat all evening, and the only call I received was Melissa’s.”

  The Inspector nodded calmly. “That’s possible. Your phone appears to have been out of order. Mr. Hepburn failed to get any answer though the number was ringing. He tells me that he then conferred with his wife and that they decided not to worry, thinking that Mrs. Foster had probably come back here for her handbag, patched things up with you after the slight quarrel they said you had had and then probably persuaded you to take her out for a drink or something.”

  “All well and good,” I put in, “only Melissa did not come back to the flat, and I never went out.”

  Cameron started to say something, checked himself, lit a cigarette and went on:

  “Let’s get back to this telephone call from Mrs. Foster. Not only did she misinform you as to where she was phoning from but she also invented the presence of Mr. Walter Starr at the party. These are the facts: Don Page has never met Walter Starr in his life, Mr. Starr does not live anywhere near Regent’s Park and Mr. Starr is not even in the country at this moment. He has a town flat in Mayfair, a country home near Amersham and is at present on holiday in Nassau.”

  I drew deeply on my cigarette and considered all this. At length I said:

  “You keep using the word ‘misinform’, Inspector. That’s a polite way of saying a lie, isn’t it? You’re suggesting that Melissa took the trouble to get on the phone to me and spin a concoction of pointless lies. It’s nonsense. Why ever should she? Melissa wasn’t like that.”

  “What was she like, Mr. Foster?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I am asking you to describe your late wife . . . and your marriage.”

  I don’t know how most people would respond to a blunt question such as this, but I have to admit that it made me hesitate. The Inspector may have sensed my embarrassment, for he got up from his chair and began a casual stroll round the room, coming to a halt in front of the bookshelves which line one complete wall of the living-room. As if giving me time to collect my thoughts he said in a pleasant conversational tone:

  “Are all these books yours, Mr. Foster?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hm. They form quite a library, for one man — or are some of them Mrs. Foster’s?”

  “No, she didn’t enjoy reading.”

  “Not at all?”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “Fashion magazines, that’s about all.”

  Cameron grunted, fingering some calf-bound translations of the Greek and Roman poets, then wandered on to the record console which was still stacked with the Mozart LPs I had used as a background on the previous evening.

  “Ah, the Mozart C Major, Number 21.” Cameron said, taking the top record off the pile. “That’s my favourite.”

  “This one looks worn,” he went on. “What is it?”

  He had moved a pace to the side and picked up Melissa’s tune which I had laid on a side-table. I told him she had played it night and day.

  “There’s even a duplicate down at our seaside cottage at Lenton,” I added. “She was crazy about it.”

  “And about Mozart too?”

  “No, I’m afraid the classics were not quite her cup of tea.”

  Dazed as I was, I still did not see what he was driving at. Perhaps I was too busy collecting my thoughts, trying to make an honest appraisal of the woman I had been married to for over three years, the woman who was now dead. I told Cameron what I thought was the truth. I told him of the good and the bad in our marriage, inextricably mixed as they are in any relationship between two ordinary mortals. There was Melissa’s stunning beauty, her gaiety, and then there was her extravagance; there was my dogged plod-ding at the business of writing novels, and my stubbornness in refusing to go back to Fleet Street and get tied to a 9-5 desk. There was our clash in cultural taste, and our money quarrels, and the overwhelming fact that we had been in love. I admitted to our arguments, but I said that this was just a slightly choppy period our marriage had been going through and that I was sure we would have come sailing out into calmer waters pretty soon.

  Inspector Cameron stopped prowling and came to a standstill, listening to me and scrutinising a large photograph of Melissa which I always kept on my desk. She had it done when she was trying out for the theatre. When I finished speaking, he seemed unable to pull his eyes away from the photograph. At length he turned abruptly, stubbed out his cigarette and went out into the hall. He came back with a medium-size suitcase, and placed it on my desk, his thumbs on the release springs. He did not open the case.

  “Mr. Foster, I am sorry if I sound repetitive and tedious, but I must ask you once more: you have said that your wife forgot to take her handbag with her to Don Page’s party. You have confirmed having noticed it, resting on top of the hatbox which you say was on the hall-table. Mr. and Mrs. Hepburn have told us that Melissa left their car with the express purpose of coming back for her handbag. You say that she never did return here, and that you did not leave your flat all evening.”

  “That’s correct.”

  Cameron sprung the release-catches of the suitcase and lifted the lid.

  “Then how do you account for the fact that Mrs. Foster’s handbag was found ten yards away from her body in Regent’s Park?”

  I gaped at the familiar black bag inside the suitcase.

  The Inspector’s voice had a rasping edge. “This is her handbag, is it not?”

  Unhooking the bag he poured its contents on to my desk: lipstick, compact, nail-file, keys, ball-point pen, engagement diary.

  Cameron’s voice continued inexorably. “There is something else I have to ask you, Mr. Foster — something that has been puzzling me all morning. I cannot understand why it hasn’t occurred to you to wonder when your wife was killed.”

  I stared at him. “Is it important? I mean, no doubt from your point of view it —”

  “It’s quite vital from your point of view, Mr. Foster. Would you like to hazard a guess as to what time the medical authorities have indicated?”

  I did not like the tone of his voice. It was obvious he was leading up to something, but I could see no path other than to tell the truth, as honestly as I could.

  “I said my wife phoned me at twenty minutes to eleven. It must have been all of five or ten past eleven by the time I bumped into that young policeman near Walter Starr’s place —”

  “Walter Starr does not live there, Mr. Foster!”

  “Be that as it may,” I snapped angrily, “the answer to your question is, I imagine Melissa was murdered sometime between twenty minutes to eleven and eleven o’clock.”

  Cameron’s reply came like the thudding blows of a drum at the end of an ominous refrain.

  “Your wife died at half past nine, Mr. Foster — give or take ten minutes either way. Half past nine . . . the very time a friend phoned you and received no answer, though he says the phone rang steadily.”

  “I tell you, the phone did not ring!”

  “I suggest it did, but you did not answer it and you did not hear it because you were out!”


  “Damn it, man, how many times do I have to tell you I never left the flat all evening!”

  “So you have said. Then why didn’t you hear the telephone ring, sir?”

  “It must have been out of order.”

  “You’re contradicting yourself, Mr. Foster. An hour later you say the phone was working well enough for Mrs. Foster to be able to get through to you.”

  “My wife did get through to me.”

  “She couldn’t have done, Mr. Foster. She was dead. She had been dead for one hour at least. Dead people don’t make telephone calls.”

  I had risen in my seat, almost in defence at this sudden onslaught.

  In a quiet voice Cameron continued:

  “What have you to say now, Mr. Foster?”

  I sank back into my chair. I had nothing to say. Like a backward child who realizes at last the answer to a simple question, it had finally dawned upon me that I was being suspected of the murder of my own wife.

  Chapter Two

  How many minutes Inspector Cameron gave me to recover from the shock of being, in so many words, accused of having strangled Melissa, I really do not remember. All that I recall is that he had another surprise or two up his sleeve before he finally left me that morning.

  The first challenge was an innocuous-looking piece of paper. He took it from among the contents of Melissa’s bag and held it up, too far away from me to read.

  “Do you recognise this, Mr. Foster?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Tell me, Mr. Foster, would you say your wife was in good health lately?”

  “Yes. On the whole, definitely yes.”

  “But had she consulted a doctor recently?”

  “Not as far as I know. She never complained of feeling ill — at least, not to me.”

  “The reason I ask,” Cameron went on, “is that this torn piece of paper which I found in her handbag is part of a doctor’s prescription. The doctor’s name and the date are quite clear. The prescription was made out just over two weeks ago.”

  “Who is the doctor?” I asked. He peered at the prescription.

  “Norman Swanson, MD. Are you sure your wife never consulted a Dr. Swanson, sir?”

  “Not that I am aware of. I’ve certainly never heard of him.”

  Cameron shot me another of those piercing, uncomfortable looks of his and I instinctively braced myself for something unpleasant.

  “Mr. Foster,” he said slowly, “I don’t quite see why you should lie about this. There’s absolutely no reason why you should not have consulted a doctor if you were not feeling well.”

  He must have realised my surprise was genuine. “I consulted a . . . what on earth are you driving at? There’s nothing the matter with my health! Are you suggesting that I’ve been to see this Swanson character?”

  “That is my information, sir.”

  “Then your information is quite wrong!”

  Cameron shook his head. “Hardly, sir. I took the precaution of calling on Dr. Swanson myself before dropping in on you this morning.”

  “You must have been up damn early!”

  “Actually, I have not been to bed, sir,” came the dry retort.

  I lit another cigarette. I did not know what to make of this new turn of events. Was someone trying to prove that I had a faulty memory? For an uneasy second I even wondered if it were true, that I had been to a doctor and forgotten about it.

  “Inspector Cameron,” I said at length, “perhaps you’d be good enough to prove to me that I have either met, seen, or even heard of this mythical doctor of yours.”

  “Certainly, sir. As I said, I paid a call on Dr. Swanson in Wimpole Street this morning. He remembers you well. So does his secretary.”

  “He must have hundreds of patients,” I butted in. “He’s probably mixing me up with someone else called Guy Foster.”

  “Of the same address, sir? I took the trouble of showing the doctor and his secretary, separately from one another, your photograph — without saying who it was. They both named you instantly. I was then shown the appointments register; you called on Dr. Swanson about two weeks ago. I was also shown the prescription book; there was a note of the prescription which had been made out to you, and it tallied in all respects with this slip of paper found in your wife’s handbag.”

  “Since I never visited him, how is it supposed to have got there — courier pigeon?” I snapped with an attempt at irony I did not really feel. “Where does Melissa enter into this, anyway?”

  Cameron frowned. “Surely you remember, sir? It was your wife who persuaded you in the first case to consult Dr. Swanson. When she began to grow worried about your health, she sought advice and Dr. Swanson was recommended by a mutual friend.”

  “And who might the mutual friend have been?”

  “Don Page, the racing driver.”

  “And may I ask, what aspect of my health was it that impelled my wife to—”

  “She told Dr. Swanson, who incidentally is a neurologist of high reputation, that you had difficulty in sleeping, were of a jealous disposition and frequently quarrelled with her for no apparent reason. In other words your nerves were right down and she was afraid you —”

  “—might kill her?” I snapped.

  Cameron looked pained. “I was not going to say that, Mr. Foster. Nor did your wife. She was merely afraid you would have a nervous breakdown. That is all. And that is what Dr. Swanson treated you for.”

  “Oh, no, he did not! I’ve never seen him in my life! The whole thing’s a pack of lies,” I shouted, rising to my feet.

  Cameron eyed me warily and when he spoke his voice was patently soothing. “Try not to get too excited, sir. I think you have been under a far greater pressure recently than you realise, or than you are willing to admit.”

  He refilled Melissa’s handbag with the knick-knacks spilled on the desk and placed the bag inside the suitcase. Glancing at his watch he muttered an apology.

  “I’m sorry to have kept you so long, sir. I’ll be going now. Just one more question before I go. I understand from the Hepburns that your wife had a pair of gloves with her when she left for the party last night?”

  “That is correct. Chamois leather, rather expensive. They were a birthday present for Don Page.”

  “Have you any idea of what happened to them, sir?”

  “No idea at all.”

  “The thing’s rather a mystery. Paula Hepburn’s coat turned up, and so did the handbag, but we didn’t find these gloves anywhere.”

  “Are they important? She probably mislaid them somewhere. She was frightfully scatter-brained.”

  “I hope you’re right, Mr. Foster. There exists another theory which is far less pleasant to contemplate.”

  “And that is?”

  Cameron eyed me quizzically, then said in a quiet tone:

  “That the murderer was wearing them when he strangled your wife, Mr. Foster. Good-morning.”

  I did nothing all afternoon, and mercifully nobody troubled me, either on the phone or in person. The effects of the sedative I had been given had worn off and the slow acid of Cameron’s abrasive words, plus the full realisation that Melissa was dead, began creeping into my soul.

  Had I loved her?

  I thought so. But had I loved her enough? And how had she really felt about me? It was painful to admit, but I was forced to concede that, except for the physical side of things, we had never been really close. I think we had both married an illusion. Melissa thought she was getting a successful Fleet Street journalist who wrote brilliant novels on the side and mixed with important, interesting people and led an exciting life. I had imagined I was getting a beautiful girl who would be willing to mould her life to mine and fill out the rather sombre corners of my character with sympathy and understand-ing. Neither was willing to admit that the illusion was not reality. Melissa had gone her way and I mine, and seldom had our paths run parallel or intertwined. It might have been different if we had had children, but we were n
ot lucky. Whose fault was that? We had not got around to finding out.

  Now it was too late. Melissa was gone. There would be no children. Some crazy maniac, some dark distorted bastard had made sure of that. And they were hinting that I had done it. Guy Foster, they were whispering, you know old Guy — out of work for ages, can’t make a penny with those way-out novels of his . . . pressure of worry, financial strain, couldn’t keep pace with Melissa of the lilting, musical laugh people do strange things when the brain is under pressure, you know. Guy was often rather sarcastic about her friendship with smooth types like Don . . .

  Don Page. That was it! I jumped up, like a man coming out of a trance. That was a point from which I could start. I began to get dressed — I was still in my pyjamas and bathrobe — and if Inspector Cameron could have seen the expression on my face he’d probably have locked me up on the spot, for fear I was going to tear off to Don Page’s and blow the young Casanova’s brains out. But no such bloodthirsty plan was on my mind. I simply needed to start somewhere, to find a launching base. After all, it was Don, according to Inspector Cameron, who had put Melissa on to this Dr. Swanson chap. I thought a word with Don could do no harm.

  “Guy! You look dreadful! But we all feel the same,” he said when we met. “There’s nothing I can say which can possibly help.”

  He really did look distressed, I’ll give him credit for that. The only snag was, the abject sorrow on his face and on his glib tongue contrasted rather awkwardly with his shining silk tuxedo and the ruffles of his Spanish-style evening shirt. I must have been giving his sartorial elegance a rather pointed stare, for he blushed and hastened to explain.

  “I feel very bad about this, old man . . . I mean, putting on the glad rags so soon after . . . so soon. But you see, one of the top brass in the motor industry is giving a dinner in my honour and I’m supposed to be in Coventry by seven o’clock. I shall have to drive like the wind.”

  Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever met Don when he was not either going to a party or giving one, but I suppressed a sour comment and said:

  “I’ve got to talk to you, Don, it’s damned important.”

  “Well . . .” He glanced across the road to where his silver 3.8 Jaguar was parked at the kerb. He was clearly anxious to get away.