My Wife Melissa Read online

  I said swiftly, “I won’t hold you up in the least. Drive out of Town as you’d planned — I’ll sit alongside and have my say, then you can drop me off near a taxi stand when I’ve finished. It’ll be five minutes at the most.”

  He still looked reluctant so I simply walked over to his car and got into the passenger seat. There was nothing he could do about it.

  As he drove north, I talked. He was pretty evasive at first. I think he was scared I was going to accuse him of having had an affair with Melissa. Just what I thought about that particular possibility I was not yet ready to decide. I pushed it to the back of my mind and concentrated on the Dr. Swanson mystery.

  “It’s a perfectly straightforward question, Don,” I repeated. “Did Melissa ever talk to you about me?”

  “Well — er — of course she did. We frequently chatted about you, dear boy. I mean, that’s natural, isn’t it?”

  “Did she ever tell you I was ill?”

  “Ill?”

  “Yes. Unwell. Ill. Sick.”

  Don opened his mouth, changed his mind and pretended to be absorbed in the marvellous and intricate manoeuvre of changing from third gear into top. He had probably done it a million times before.

  “Well, did she?” I insisted.

  He nodded and swallowed dry.

  “When?”

  “It’d be about . . . oh, five weeks ago, I guess. She came to see me one afternoon . . .” His voice tailed off, nervously.

  “Go on.”

  “Look here, old chap, are you sure?”

  “I’m sure, Don. Go on, and don’t pull any punches.”

  Don sighed. “Be it on your own head, Guy. You realise this is damned awkward for me, don’t you? I mean, I counted myself a friend of both of you. Anyway, it was like this: Melissa told me she was worried about you. It was your nerves. She said you couldn’t sleep at night, that you had frequent irrational outbursts of bad temper and so on. I told her you ought to see a good neurologist, a man like Swanson. He has a place in Wimpole . . . what’s the matter, old boy, you feeling all right?”

  “Go on.”

  “Norman Swanson is one of the top men in his field, even though he’s quite young. Incidentally, did you go and see him?”

  “No, I did not, and that’s the extraordinary thing, because —”

  “You should have done, old son. He helped me no end. You remember that idiotic bit of trouble I had about a year ago? When I knocked an old chap down in Knightsbridge, and that damn fool of a taxi driver swore I was drunk?”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “Well, as you know, I was acquitted all right, but the whole silly business shook me up. It really did. My nerve damn nearly went. I didn’t say much about it at the time — if the rumour gets around in racing circles that you’ve lost your nerve, the sponsors will drop you like a hot brick. But Swanson’s treatment saved me. If it hadn’t been for him I’d have had it, professionally.”

  I let him prattle on, knowing he was largely doing so to cover his embarrassment; he didn’t like our conversation at all, but he couldn’t avoid me now I was in his car and I had no intention of getting out till I’d heard everything he had to tell me. I was convinced somehow that he was holding back on me.

  I tried again. “What did Melissa really say about me, Don?”

  He licked his dry lips and repeated his stock phrases about insomnia and so on.

  “And?” I insisted.

  “What d’you mean, ‘and’?”

  “What’s the rest of it, Don?”

  “Well . . . er . . . she said you were on edge, couldn’t sleep, and that she was . . . well, if you must know, she said she was frightened of you.”

  I don’t know quite what I had expected, hut it wasn’t this.

  “What?” I gasped. “Melissa frightened of me?”

  “I’m afraid so, old boy,” Don mumbled.

  I chewed over this appalling idea for some moments, then asked, “Is there anything else?”

  “Well . . . she said you’d changed, since the early days of your marriage. She said at times you were like a different person.”

  For one horrible moment a dreadful notion peered into my mind, like some ghastly unbidden spectre.

  Was I a schizophrenic?

  A Jekyll and Hyde? Were there two halves to my personality, a dark and a light, with periods of utter blankness when I did not know what I was doing? Periods, for example such as last night, when I thought I had spent three peaceful hours working on my current novel, and instead was . . . the thought was too horrible to contemplate.

  But what did I really know about schizophrenia? No more than the average layman. Only a specialist could tell me what the word really meant and if it in fact applied to me. A specialist such as Dr. Norman Swanson, MD of Wimpole Street.

  I asked Don to stop, thanked him and got out. I looked at my watch. It was late, but with a bit of luck I might just catch the doctor before he left his surgery. I hailed a taxi and promised the driver double fare if he hurried.

  I leaned on the door bell of Dr. Swanson’s house and positively willed someone to answer it. The plaque on the green door indicated that it was long after visiting hours, but I took a chance of his still being there, possibly busy on paper work after the last of his patients had gone.

  I heard the click of high heels. The door opened and an attractive young girl in a white uniform stood there, smiling at me.

  I said, “I want to see Dr. Swanson. It’s urgent.”

  For a moment the girl hesitated, frowning. Then she said, in a pleasant voice, “It’s Mr. Foster, isn’t it? I’m sorry, I didn’t recognise you at first.”

  I just stared at her, open-mouthed. I had never set eyes on her before in my life.

  She said, “But surely your appointment is for some day next week, Mr. Foster?”

  “Appointment? I . . . er . . . I didn’t know I had one.”

  She gave me a warm smile. “I expect it’s just slipped your memory. We arranged a day next week, when you were last here . . . when was that, round the end of March wasn’t it?”

  I struggled to bring my reeling thoughts into focus.

  “Look, I’ve just got to see Dr. Swanson! It’s terribly urgent.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Foster, but the doctor’s out of Town for the evening. He won’t be back till tomorrow afternoon.”

  I swore under my breath. Then I added:

  “Tell Dr. Swanson I’ve got to see him, it’s a matter of life and death. I’ll be here on the doorstep at five o’clock tomorrow.”

  I turned on my heel and marched away, scarcely knowing where I was going. It was a long walk back to my flat but I decided to walk it. I hoped the cool evening air might clear my brain.

  I was, however, no nearer a solution when I finally turned the key in my front door and let myself in. The evening post had come; two or three circulars and a letter from my publishers lay on the mat. I picked them up, hardly glanced at the circulars and eagerly ripped open the letter. My eagerness faded when I read the depressing figures of the sales of my last novel.

  Gradually, something else inched its way into my consciousness. The letter fluttered to the floor as I realised that the flat was almost vibrating with sound. “Melissa’s tune”! It was coming from the living-room.

  I moved quickly towards the door. God knows what I hoped to find. Did I think Melissa was to be delivered back to me? Would it prove to be merely a ghastly dream, a case of mistaken identity, had someone else been murdered and had it really been Melissa who had spoken to me on the phone long after she was supposed to be dead? For several seconds I hoped for a miracle.

  But there was no miracle. The room was empty. So was the entire flat. The only sign of life was the tiny green bulb that glows when the record console is on. The strident beat of an electric guitar was submerged by the lilt of saxophones, then the bizarre overtones of a Hammond organ filled the room. I rushed to the machine and stared mesmerised as “Melissa’s tune” came to an end and the automatic pick-up lifted from the well-worn grooves.

  Dazed as I was, I still had enough presence of mind to realise that record-players do not switch themselves on. I cleared my throat and in the eerie silence called out:

  “Who the hell put this on?”

  No answer came. I searched the flat. It was empty. But someone had been there because on my writing-desk, in a neat space between my typewriter and the glamorous portrait of Melissa, stood the crimson and gold-striped hatbox with the colossal silk bow. Tossed carelessly on top of the box were two expensive chamois leather gloves.

  Chapter Three

  I am not quite sure why he had done so, but Inspector Cameron had left me two telephone numbers, one at Scotland Yard and one private, where I could reach him if ever I needed to. I looked at the gloves (but did not touch them), I looked at the striped hatbox, then dialled his private number.

  Cameron lived at Swiss Cottage. I told him the gloves had turned up. He let out a startled exclamation and said he’d be with me inside half an hour. He sounded, as far as the amiable-walrus-type ever does show any emotion, moderately excited.

  When he arrived twenty-eight minutes later and stood staring at the gloves and hatbox his manner was subdued and benevolent as ever, but there was a gleam in his eyes that illuminated the rugged features.

  He asked me to explain how the objects got there. Of course I could not explain, but I told what little I knew. He quizzed me a bit, tried to trip me up once or twice, but in the end seemed to accept my version of the incident, crazy though it sounded.

  Then, wrapping the gloves carefully in a clean handkerchief, he set them to one side and gingerly opened the hatbox. I won’t claim that either of us expected to find a time-bomb in the box, but all the same I did
n’t quite anticipate the anti-climax that came. The hatbox contained a hat. Nothing else. Just a frivolous bit of satin and feathers with a scrap of black lace. Cameron made a note of the Bond Street firm who had supplied it, then replaced the hat inside the box.

  He indicated the chamois gloves. “I suppose you’ve no idea where your wife bought these, have you, Mr. Foster?”

  “Sorry, I can’t help there.”

  Cameron grunted and wandered towards the fireplace, standing with his back to me for several moments. He was an impressive figure of a man, tall, broad-shouldered, muscular and weighing a good two hundred pounds I estimated. Contrary to my previous notions of what a police officer would look like, he obviously took pains with his clothes. His suit of good dark cloth was stylishly cut and his linen was spotless and smart. It was only when he turned that you got the full force of his massive, fleshy, walrus-like face with the large, intelligent eyes and the sparse strands of hair smoothed, not back but forward towards the wide forehead a style adopted by Julius Caesar and modern disc-jockeys, but one that does not suit middle-aged Inspectors of Her Majesty’s Police Force. Only when one saw him face to face the contradiction of an ugly but benevolent man realised its full paradoxical impact.

  I had a feeling, as his gaze fixed me, that I was in for another session of kindly but deadly cross-examination. I sat down, lit a cigarette and braced myself.

  He said, “I had a phone call from Dr. Swanson about an hour ago, Mr. Foster. He sounded puzzled, which on the whole doesn’t surprise me. He says his secretary reports that you insist on seeing him tomorrow afternoon.”

  “I do indeed.”

  “Would you object to my being present at the interview, sir?”

  “Of course not. Since the man’s an obvious liar, I should actually prefer you to be there.”

  “You still maintain that you haven’t met Dr. Swanson, sir? That you have never consulted him?”

  “I most certainly do!”

  Cameron lit a cigarette, apparently prepared for the time being to let this theme drop. When he had blown out his match he veered in from a different tack.

  “When did you first meet Mrs. Foster, sir?”

  “About three years ago.”

  “In what circumstances?”

  “Paula — Mrs. Hepburn — introduced us. They met on the boat coming back from Cape Town. My wife was South African, I’ve already told you. Her parents died some time ago, and she has no relatives. She decided to come over here and try her luck on television or the stage.”

  “Did she have any success?”

  “I’m afraid I headed her off and married her before she could really get started.”

  “I see. And you were employed as a journalist at the time, I believe? You worked a number of years on the London Mercury, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Yes, nine years. Then it folded.”

  Cameron nodded. “What happened then, sir?”

  “I was offered a job with another outfit, but I turned it down. I had always wanted to write, to freelance, and this seemed to be my heaven-sent opportunity.”

  “Was Mrs. Foster happy about this decision of yours?”

  “Not very. She wanted me to have a steady job.”

  “Was that a bone of contention between you, Mr. Foster?”

  I shrugged my shoulders. There was no point in trying to deny what he had no doubt already heard from various quarters.

  “We had the occasional quarrel about it,”

  I said. “It was not our only source of disagreement. My wife was extravagant, stupidly extravagant at times, and the money was not all that plentiful. For example, she bought more hats than any woman I know, and yet she never seemed to bother to wear one.”

  “Odd,” said the Inspector. “Tell me, had your wife any money of her own?”

  I laughed. “Not a bean. When we married she had about three hundred pounds but that was frittered away long ago.”

  The Inspector grunted non-committally, then, leaving his sentinel post by the fireplace he went out into the hall and returned with a slender attaché-case, much smaller than the one which he had used for Melissa’s handbag the previous day. This time there were no dramatics. He snapped the case open and took out a necklace, a ring, a brooch and a pair of earrings. Something tugged at my heart. It was the jewellery Melissa had worn to Don Page’s party. When the Inspector asked me if I recognised the pieces, I told him I did.

  Then he asked, “Did you buy them for her, Mr. Foster?”

  “Yes. That is to say, I gave her the necessary money. She never let me pick things for her — especially jewellery, she said I knew nothing about it.”

  “I see.” Cameron picked up the brooch.

  “How much is this worth, sir?”

  I thought for a moment. “She bought it last Christmas. I gave her thirty-five pounds.”

  “And the earrings, sir? How much did they cost?”

  “About the same, I think maybe a little more.”

  Cameron shot me a shrewd look, which changed into an almost pitying smile. “Your wife was right, Mr. Foster, I’m afraid you really do know nothing about jewellery.”

  He picked up the brooch again. “This is worth about three hundred pounds.”

  He picked up the earrings and the ring.

  “These two together about nine hundred pounds. The pearl necklace is genuine too, say another two hundred and fifty.”

  I stared at him. “Are you pulling my leg, Inspector? It’s absolute nonsense to suggest —”

  “I’m afraid it’s not absolute nonsense, sir. They’ve been examined by an expert at the Yard. The jewellery your wife was wearing last night was worth little short of fifteen hundred pounds.”

  He replaced the jewellery in the case, snapped it shut and went out into the hall to get his hat and coat. When he came back he went over to the desk and carefully placed the gloves inside the case.

  “I must get home, Mr. Foster. Even a police officer is entitled to one or two nights a week in bed. You look pretty drawn yourself, sir. I suggest you could do with an early night. There’s nothing in the world so valuable as your health, you know. Goodnight, Mr. Foster.”

  With that he was gone. I was not quite sure if there was a barb to his parting words. Quite a lot of people seemed concerned about my health. It would be interesting to see what Dr. Norman Swanson, MD, had to say on the subject when the Inspector and I confronted him at five o’clock the following day.

  I awoke the following morning feeling moderately refreshed, and after making myself a good breakfast strolled out into the West End and looked in the windows of places like Aspreys and Garrards.

  It was a trifle late in my life to try to acquire a knowledge of jewellery. I’m afraid I wasted a lot of time trying to decide if the tiny sparkling objects laid out on velvet and sporadically marked with apparently astronomical prices looked the slightest bit different from the costume jewellery on sale in Selfridges. Quite frankly, it was a foreign language to me; I could not tell the difference between the imitation and the genuine, and I knew I never would.

  Diamonds, Anita Loos once assured us, are a girl’s best friend. An instinctive ability to judge their worth was probably born in every woman since Eve. How, then, had Melissa’s friends failed to spot that she was wearing the real thing? I decided to question Paula Hepburn about this.

  I took a taxi to their flat in Eaton Square and found Paula and Felix in pyjamas and dressing-gowns dawdling over a protracted breakfast.

  After a slightly embarrassed greeting, Paula asked, “Have you had breakfast, duckie?”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  “All the same, let me get you a cup of coffee,” she insisted. She obviously wanted to cluck and fuss like a mother-hen so I didn’t bother to stop her. When she brought me coffee I came straight to the point of my visit.

  “Paula, I saw the Inspector again late last night. You know that jewellery of Melissa’s . . . well, apparently it’s worth far more than I ever thought. Each piece is the real thing. The brooch alone is worth three hundred pounds. All in all she was walking around with nearly fifteen hundred quid’s worth of jewellery on her.”

  Felix looked positively pop-eyed. “Well, I’ll be damned! Did you know anything about this, Paula?”

  We both looked at Paula. She seemed very absorbed with the task of stirring her coffee.