Salt is Leaving Read online

  ‘The man who rang me up from New York – Tommy Linsdale.’

  ‘Oh – that one. Are you in love with him?’

  ‘If it’s any of your business, Alan – no, I’m not. But I’m rather fond of him in a kind of cosy-boozy way. He’s a fake – but then, so am I. He puts on a show as a rough, tough, hard-driving salesman – American style – and he must be good at his job, otherwise Donnington, who doesn’t really like him, wouldn’t keep him on and pay him so well – but underneath all that roaring and bounce and drinks-all-round he’s about seventeen and terrified when he finds himself sober. But he was kind to me, after I thought unkindness had set in for ever. Really I owe him a lot – all this gracious living we’re sampling, for instance. And don’t think you’re not impressed by it, because you are. Just as you were struck by my appearance when you saw me in your shop. If I’d looked as I did just before I came to Birkden, you’d have given me one glance and then have gone to find a moth. Oh – I know – I’ll save you the trouble – my beautiful eyes, my charming nose, my delicious mouth – they’re what you noticed at once, perhaps couldn’t forget for days, weeks—’

  ‘Months,’ said Alan. ‘And it’s true. I couldn’t forget them, though I couldn’t really remember them either—’

  ‘And I still say, my sweet-talking friend, that if I’d looked as I did just before I came to Birkden, when I hadn’t the money to spend on my appearance, you’d have given me one look and forgotten me for the nearest moth – any moth.’

  ‘And I still don’t think so,’ said Alan. ‘Where were you before you came here?’

  ‘The great big city, dear – yes, London. And I’d had one of those affairs – one of those huge, disastrous, take-all-the-bloom-off-a-girl affairs—’

  ‘Like Maggie—’

  ‘I’m not surprised, now you mention it—’

  ‘She’d three years of it. Her chap was married—’

  ‘I haven’t even that excuse. Mine wasn’t – and was taking dam’ good care he never would be. And I couldn’t run fast enough to give him everything I’d got. And when some particular man wants it, what a girl’s got seems precious and wonderful to her. And when he doesn’t, she begins to wonder what the hell she thinks she has got, anyhow. This stinker took it all – yawned – vanished. It lasted a couple of years, but that’s just about what happened.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘The Retreat from Moscow in a West Hampstead bed-sitter with scrambled eggs and sniffles, gin and aspirin. Then a girl I knew told me about Tommy Linsdale and United Fabrics – she’d had a night out with him – so I spent my savings on a suit, hat, shoes and various aids to beauty, arrived here with about nine pounds in the world, and insisted upon seeing Tommy. I got a job in his Sales Department, and was soon doing all its more raffish female jiggery-pokery. I acted as hostess on those occasions when no wives and daughters were present. Then – parties at the Club, more intimate parties here—’

  ‘Does this flat belong to Linsdale?’

  ‘No. All these flats are owned by the Birkden Development Trust, and that’s controlled by United Fabrics. And if they decide they don’t like me, then I’m out.’

  ‘Perhaps it would be better if you were out—’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  ‘Do you enjoy going to bed with Linsdale?’

  ‘Oh – shut up.’

  ‘And what about these girls you round up for the parties?’

  ‘You heard what I said about them? I’m still saying it.’ She sprang up, flushed and angry. ‘I took enough from Dr Salt and your sister. If you’re starting now, I’m not having any. You’d better go.’

  He was up too, and now he moved closer to her.

  ‘Oh no, you don’t,’ she warned him.

  ‘Don’t what?’

  ‘Try to start necking. I’m not in the mood. This may not look like a wrestling ring, but that’s what it’s been all too often. Now either we sit down and talk – and that means no unpleasant questions or good advice – or you must go.’

  His long arms shot out and she found herself firmly held by the upper arm, so firmly that she didn’t attempt even a wriggle. ‘There isn’t going to be any wrestling or necking, Jill. I shan’t touch you again – not tonight nor any other night – until you ask me to. I’m a serious type.’ He released her and stepped back. ‘I didn’t come here for a night out.’

  ‘And you didn’t come to meet me either— Oh – blast!’ The doorbell was ringing. She went to answer it.

  Alan heard a girl’s voice: ‘Darling, it’s only me.’

  Then Jill: ‘My God – it would be you, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Somebody’s with you. I’m jealous. Let me in, let me in, let me in!’

  The girl who came hurrying in ahead of Jill was in her early twenties and had a long narrow face that somehow seemed too loose. She wore an expensive fur coat over a black sweater and the usual faded-blue jeans. She stared at Alan with her mouth open. ‘Oh – a man. Well, that’s all right, darling – if you must—’

  ‘Alan Culworth – Erica Donnington.’ Jill was curt and cold.

  ‘A solemn square, I’d say, though not bad-looking,’ Erica told her. ‘But, darling, you know me – I couldn’t care less.’ She was obviously an excitable, neurotic type, and she looked and sounded about half tight. ‘Darling, can I help myself to a simply enormous gin and tonic?’

  ‘If you haven’t had too many already—’

  ‘Jill darling, they were all so filthy. I followed a girl into that loathsome Buzzy’s Club – you know – the one run by that fat buzz-buzz man. They’re not supposed to serve real drinks there – just lemon and orange muck – but if they know you they’ll slip you something in a flask. And the gin there is really very peculiar. I think old buzz-buzz must make it himself.’ She had now provided herself with a drink that was as much gin as tonic. She took a hefty swig of it. ‘Now this is quite different.’

  ‘You’re an idiot to go to that place.’

  ‘I told you why I went – only she turned out to be awful – a real untouchable.’ She went nearer Alan, who was sitting down again. ‘Now I’ll tell you something.’

  ‘Go ahead, Miss Donnington.’

  ‘Oh – don’t be such a square. Call me Erica – the whole town does. Some other towns too. Well, you must be wondering why Jill’s being so rude to me. Haven’t you noticed? You must have done. The reason is – I’m in love with her and she’s not in love with me.’

  ‘Sit down and shut up, Erica.’ Jill sounded severe but not nasty.

  ‘What’s your name? Alan? Well, Alan, has this ever happened to you? You love somebody – she doesn’t love you?’

  ‘Not up to now,’ Alan told her. ‘I’ve probably been too conceited. But I can see now that it might happen.’ He looked at Jill, who quickly frowned and shook her head. He felt she was warning him against saying anything worth listening to, here in the presence of Erica, who had now flopped into a chair. Jill was eyeing her with obvious distaste.

  Well, somebody had to say something. ‘Erica, is Sir Arnold Donnington your father?’

  ‘Yes – and that’s a scream, isn’t it?’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Don’t you know him?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘Do you know anybody?’

  ‘About five hundred – perhaps six hundred – people—’

  ‘Where – for God’s sake?’

  ‘Mostly at the University. I lecture there.’

  ‘I’ll bet you do. I nearly went there – to please my father – and then I thought why should I – he never tries to please me.’ Erica pulled a lock of hair down over her nose and then blew it away. ‘What are you doing here? Trying to make Jill while Tommy Lins­dale’s away?’

  ‘No, he isn’t,’ said Jill sharply.

  Erica waved the hand holding the gin and tonic and spilt some of it. ‘Don’t interrupt, darling. Aren’t you attracted to Jill? Most men seem to be. What’s the matter with you
?’

  ‘Nothing, I hope.’ But then the phone rang.

  ‘Yes, it’s Jill darling, Donald darling,’ she replied with ominous mock sweetness. ‘No, silly Dr Salt isn’t here. Silly Dr Salt gave us all one look and saw clean through us . . . Oh no, you don’t. It wasn’t just me. He gave me an exact account of what you and George thought you were doing – and weren’t, if you see what I mean. And another thing. If you think of any more little games, leave me out from now on . . . You’re dam’ right I’m frightened. I’m out of my depth and the water’s cold. Dr Salt isn’t the kind of man I know how to handle. . . . Aricson? Don’t believe it. Dr Salt is calling on him this minute. The best thing we can do, Donald dear, is to keep as quiet as mice. ’Bye now!’

  ‘What’s all that about, darling?’ Erica demanded.

  ‘Club business. You wouldn’t be interested.’

  ‘Who’s this Dr Salt you all keep talking about?’

  ‘Who are we?’

  ‘Well, you’re one, darling, and my father’s another. I could hear him on the phone before I went out last night, and he was Dr Salting it like mad. Who is Salt? Where is Salt? I could do with another doctor. I’m tired of boring old Bennett. Why don’t I send for Dr Salt?’

  Jill laughed, then suddenly checked herself.

  ‘Not funny – or what?’ Erica turned to Alan. ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘We’ve met. And I don’t think I’d try sending for him. Anyhow, he’s given up his practice here.’

  ‘Well, why is there suddenly all this yapping about the man? What was Jill saying to Donald Dews? Why should my father bother about him? But don’t tell me now – I’m going to the loo.’

  As soon as Erica had gone, Jill swept across to Alan, put a hand to his cheek, and whispered: ‘If you look as if you’re staying on, she’ll go quite soon. But if you go, God knows when I’ll get rid of her. So – you stay.’

  ‘Thanks for the compliment.’ But he put a hand up to cover hers.

  ‘I know. She’s just a pest. But – don’t forget – I’ve gone and touched you – our way of asking – so you can wash out your solemn vow—’

  So Alan stayed on.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Aricson – and Afterwards

  1

  Aricson lived in one of those houses they had passed on their way to the Club. A tall fair girl with a smile empty of all meaning – obviously some kind of Scandinavian – admitted them and led them across the hall to the sitting room. Maggie felt it was like walking into an advertisement. The room was just like that, completely and nicely furnished, just enough of everything, and somehow looking as if it were waiting for a photographer; and so were the Aricsons, who might have been carefully selected models, dressed and then posed during the last half-hour. Mrs Aricson, dark and rather haggard, was wearing blue velvet pants and a sort of Paisley coat and was doing needlework. Aricson had got into a casual-living rig-out for the evening and was examining an illustrated magazine through rimless glasses. He was one of those fair, clear-cut Scandinavian-cum-American types Maggie had often seen in London, both in and out of the office – somehow impressive, a trifle sinister, but never quite real as people.

  Dr Salt, she realized at once, was back in his role of the humble-man-trying-to-please. He apologized for calling so late, apologized for bringing her, and appeared almost ready to apologize for his very existence. Mrs Aricson was very gracious, but declared at once that she must talk to Elsa, who was new and still had much to learn. Mr Aricson was gravely-courteous-but-with-a-twinkle, and seated them as carefully as if they, too, might be photographed shortly. No refreshments were offered; Maggie couldn’t imagine any in this room; they were in a furnish-your-home and not a whisky advertisement.

  ‘Well now, Dr Salt – what’s the trouble?’ Rather as if he were the doctor and his visitor a patient. And in spite of his name and the general atmosphere, he spoke without a trace of any alien accent and must have been born and bred in England.

  Dr Salt stared at him quite hard. Maggie knew at once he had jumped out of his humble-man part. ‘Mr Aricson, where is Noreen Wilks?’

  But if he thought he could startle Aricson into making some admission, he was quite wildly wrong. ‘I’m sorry, Dr Salt, but I haven’t the slightest idea.’

  ‘You know who she is?’

  ‘Oh – yes. I saw her several times with Derek Donnington. Is she one of your patients?’

  ‘She was.’ Dr Salt then explained what Noreen was suffering from and why he was worried about her. ‘And, you see, Mr Aricson, she’s never been heard of since she attended that party of yours on September 12th.’

  ‘Not a party of mine, Dr Salt. You mean one of the UF parties at the Club, don’t you? Remember, I’m not responsible for them. I ought to be – as PR man – but Tommy Linsdale, who’s senior to me, insisted on taking them over. If he’s away – as he was on September 12th – Jill Frinton, one of his assistants, is in charge. But I understand that Noreen Wilks didn’t attend that particular party. Have you checked at the Club?’

  ‘I did that, earlier tonight.’ He added nothing, though Aricson obviously expected more.

  Forced to speak, Aricson said, ‘Well, didn’t you find she hadn’t been there that night?’

  ‘No, I found that she had.’

  Maggie saw at once what a clever stroke this was. No matter what he replied, Aricson would have to abandon his lofty detachment and occupy a weaker position.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Aricson’s surprise was nicely done. ‘I ask – because I rang up Dews and he said he would look at his Book, and then he told me she couldn’t have been there—’

  ‘Why did you ring him up?’ said Dr Salt softly.

  ‘Why shouldn’t I?’

  ‘Well, look at it, Mr Aricson. You’re not responsible for those parties. And you’re certainly not responsible for Noreen Wilks, are you?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Then why suddenly ring up Dews to ask if she was there, at a party, three weeks ago?’

  If Aricson knew he was now being compelled to occupy a still weaker position, he gave no sign of it. But Maggie realized that the two men were fencing hard now.

  ‘There’s no mystery about that, Dr Salt,’ he replied quietly. ‘It was a Fabrics Club party – and, after all, I am in charge of UF public relations. I also happen to be very conscientious. All right?’

  ‘I’m afraid not – no. On September 12th a girl goes – or doesn’t go – to a party. Where do public relations come in?’

  Aricson gave him a thin smile. ‘Now you’re forcing my hand, aren’t you, Dr Salt?’ He looked at Maggie, perhaps to give himself more time. ‘I don’t understand your interest in this, Miss – er—’

  ‘Culworth – Maggie Culworth.’ She hesitated, but then out of the corner of her eye caught a nod from Dr Salt. ‘You see, Mr Aricson, we don’t know where my father is – and he’s not the sort of man to leave us worrying about him. I know now he came to Birkden on Monday to ask about Noreen Wilks. And Dr Salt thinks he may have called at your Fabrics Club on Monday, just as we did tonight – I mean, to ask about Noreen Wilks.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss Culworth, but all this is quite new and strange to me. I know nothing about your father – or anybody called Culworth – I do honestly assure you.’ And if he wasn’t being sincere, then, Maggie felt, he was certainly a marvellous actor.

  ‘I believe you,’ said Dr Salt, taking charge again. ‘But what’s in the hand I’m forcing? What have Noreen and that party to do with your public relations?’

  ‘In my opinion – and strictly speaking – nothing.’

  ‘Then why, after all this time, suddenly ask Dews if she was there?’

  ‘Because I work for Sir Arnold Donnington,’ said Aricson carefully. ‘He’s UF as far as this country is concerned. And I may say, I admire him. He’s an exceptionally fine type of big industrialist. He’s also unusually public-spirited, cares about this town, works hard for it. What will happen, Dr Salt, when yo
u leave Birkden?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You’re too modest. But if you took Sir Arnold out of Birkden, the place would start falling to pieces.’

  ‘I’ve sometimes thought that wouldn’t be a bad idea. But you’re ready to do anything for Donnington because you admire him – um?’

  ‘I do admire him, but I also want to keep my job. And he can be demanding. But UF pay me so well that now I have to hang on and daren’t let go. It’s a new kind of tyranny you may not have noticed, Dr Salt. It’s tyranny by over-payment. You’re paid more than you’re generally thought to be worth in the market. You live up to your income. You have to keep your wife and children in the style to which the advertisers tell them they’re accustomed. Now you’re clamped in. And that can make a decent easy-going man suddenly hard and unscrupulous.’

  Dr Salt was lighting his pipe. ‘I see. Very interesting,’ he said between puffs. ‘But why tell me?’

  ‘I thought you’d like to know how and where I stand—’

  ‘Almost a warning – um?’

  ‘Oh – no, not that. Miss Culworth, you’ll have to excuse all this—’

  ‘Oh – but I find it fascinating—’

  ‘I doubt that, but do believe me when I say I know absolutely nothing about your father. Now where were we, Dr Salt?’

  ‘You’d just given me a warning that you said wasn’t one. But why bother to tell me how you’re situated?’

  ‘Because now I see you’re a clever man – not some interfering, self-important little GP – but a clever man who’s behaving stupidly.’

  ‘Possibly. But why?’

  ‘That party on September 12th was no ordinary Club party – and for one very good reason. That was the night young Derek Donnington had an accident cleaning a gun. All right, he shot himself, committed suicide – but don’t try saying that in public or you’ll run straight into trouble. That’s why I think you’re behaving stupidly, because whatever you do or say you’re heading for trouble. It all hangs on Sir Arnold, of course. You see I’m being perfectly frank with you. The only son he had blew his brains out that night, so he’s jammed the lid on it. I don’t blame him – and you oughtn’t to—’