The names of various firms are displayed on the board just beside the entrance to the lift. Among them is “THIRD FLOOR – SIDGWICK & PARTNERS”. That company is currently being discussed by the lift operator, a chatty, cheerful man of about fifty, who’s letting Marker into the lift. “Mr Lawford?” he says. “That’s Sidgwick’s. Third floor, sir.” The lift man explains that Mr Lawford is still out at lunch at the moment. “Went out with the senior partner.” He presses the button, and the doors close. “Can’t see them getting back before three,” he chuckles, “not if he’s lunching with Sir John.”
Marker’s appointment is at three o’clock, 30 minutes from now, so he has time to kill. He asks if Mr Lawford’s secretary is in. “I want to have a word with her first, anyway.”
The lift man confirms that she got back at 2.15, and he can’t think of a better way to pass half an hour. “Lovely looking girl, Miss Wallis,” he declares. “Won a beauty contest last year. Fact. That stirred the place up a bit, I can tell you. I had the lift full of press photographers.” The lift doors open, and he points Marker in the right direction. “There you are, sir. Third door on the left. You can’t miss it.”
* * *
Deirdre Wallis’s office has a door to the corridor and another leading to Harry Lawford’s office. Deirdre, who’s currently on the phone, is cool, detached, and every bit as beautiful as her photo in the paper. She takes a message on behalf of her boss, then hangs up and begins typing.
Marker appears in the doorway. He looks at her for a moment before she sees him, then strides breezily up to her, deliberately putting on an act of confident masculinity. “Afternoon, Miss. Marker’s the name, Frank Marker. I’ve an appointment with Mr Lawford.”
Deirdre looks up. “Yes, Mr Marker, but –”
“Don’t say it. I’m early. Do you mind?”
Deirdre smiles, pleasantly. “Not if you don’t. Would you take a seat? Mr Lawford’s still at lunch.”
Marker nods as he sits down. “With the chairman,” he says. Deirdre looks surprised that he knows this. “Lift man told me,” Marker explains. “Don’t expect we’ll see him back this side of four o’clock. Business lunches – brandy and cigars, eh? That’s the life.”
“He’ll be back by three, Mr Marker,” Deirdre assures him.
Marker looks around the place. “So this is a stockbroker’s office, is it? Not so bad. I’d have expected something much more stuffy.” He offers Deirdre a cigarette, but she declines. “That’s the spirit,” says Marker, breezily. “Save your money, save your health. Still, we’ve all got to go one day, haven’t we? In the midst of life…” He pauses. “Not interrupting, am I?”
“No, no, Mr Marker,” Deirdre lies. She resumes typing.
“Tell me,” says Marker, with uncharacteristic chauvinism, “what’s a pretty girl like you doing hiding her lights in a dump like this? Lift man says you won a beauty contest once. Where was that? Don’t suppose the other girls got a look in!”
Deirdre plays it down. “It was only a stunt got up by some public relations firm last year. Nothing very grand.”
“Still, it must have given you a taste for the bright lights, eh? I’d have thought a girl like you would have been a model at least – maybe an actress, film star.”
“I’m quite happy where I am,” says Deirdre. Marker asks how long she’s been here, and expresses surprise when she tells him two years. “What’s so extraordinary?” she asks.
“Well, I mean to say. Stockbrokers? Paunchy, balding men in top hats? I bet this Mr Lawford of yours isn’t a day under fifty.”
“He’s 32,” Deirdre tells him.
Marker nods, interestedly. “Is he now?”
“And like most stockbrokers,” adds Deirdre, sardonically, “he never wears a top hat.”
Marker, however, is still on the subject of Harry’s age. “32, eh? Handsome type?”
“You could say so,” replies Deirdre, a little uncomfortable.
Marker grins. “Got a bit of a crush on him, have you?”
“What?” Deirdre is aghast.
“Oh, come now. Must be some reason you stick it here. Wouldn’t be the first time a secretary’s got a thing about her boss.”
Deirdre immediately starts typing again, obviously embarrassed. “If you don’t mind, Mr Marker…”
Marker rises from his chair and wanders around for a moment, then asks, “Is he married?”
Deirdre looks a little exasperated. “How is it you’ve got an appointment with him if you don’t even know him?”
“Oh, I’ve just been recommended to him, that’s all. Got a spot of cash I want to have a flutter with, so my solicitor put me on to Lawford. John Fordyce. They’re chums, from what I gather.”
“Yes, I… believe so.” Deirdre returns to her typing, rather nervously.
Marker looks at her, shrewdly, then leans confidentially over her desk. “Bet he’s got a bit of a yen for you, anyway – even if he is married. What the eye doesn’t see, eh?”
Deirdre looks up at him, icily. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr Marker, I’ve got a lot of work to get through.”
Marker moves away from her. “Oh, come off it. He wouldn’t be human otherwise. Dish like you in the office? Finds it pretty hard to concentrate on his work sometimes, I bet. I know I would.” Deirdre is typing again, making mistakes, having to rub out, very flustered. Marker sees this and adds, with deliberate casualness, “Anyway, I hear he’s leaving soon.”
Deirdre abruptly stops typing. “What did you say?”
“Pushing off, getting another job.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“Fordyce. Yes, I’m sure he said Lawford was making a change – going elsewhere.”
Deirdre is caught completely off guard. “Harry? I mean –”
“Hasn’t he told you?”
Deirdre shakes her head. “No.”
Marker waves her concerns aside. “Well, most likely I got it all wrong. After all, he’d have told you if he was leaving, wouldn’t he?”
Deirdre thinks about this for a moment, then says, “No. Why should he? Nothing to do with me.” Very upset, she goes back to her typing.
Harry comes in. Marker introduces himself. Harry greets him, warmly. “How do you do? Friend of John’s, I think you said on the phone?”
“Well, not exactly,” replies Marker. “He just happens to be my lawyer, and I asked him to put me on to a good stockbroker.”
“Then we’d better have a bash at trying to live up to that,” beams Harry. He turns to Deirdre. “Anything come up?” he asks.
“No… no,” says Deirdre, still upset. It takes her a moment to resume her usual, ordered efficiency, at which point she remembers: “Oh, there was one call. Someone called Pat.”
Harry looks startled and embarrassed. “Rang here?”
“Yes. No message, but I said you’d ring back.” Deirdre looks at her notepad. “The number’s BAYswater 56 –”
Harry interrupts her, quickly. “I know the number.” Then he escorts Marker into his office. Deirdre watches them go, puzzled, then sits, miserably, at her typewriter.
* * *
Jean, in a smart afternoon dress, is putting on her make-up at the dressing table in her bedroom. Sonia, equally smart, sits idly in the armchair, smoking. They’re discussing Deirdre. Jean is convinced that the secretary is the object of Harry’s affections. “I bet it’s her,” she says. “Beautiful girl like that. With him all day long.”
“Haven’t much faith in yourself, have you, darling?” suggests Sonia. Jean shrugs and continues making up. “Or in Harry,” adds Sonia.
“I used to have,” Jean replies. “I thought I could keep Harry all right – Harry of all people. The idea that he would go and –”
“Go and what?” asks Sonia. “You haven’t got a single shred of evidence –”
“When I tried to leave him that night, he was relieved, Sonia. It was like a great weight off his mind.”
“Then why did you stay? How can you bear to be under the same roof with him?”
Jean ignores the question. Instead, she begins putting her cosmetics away, as neatly and tidily as everything has to be with her. “Shall we go down? The Cliffords will be here any minute.”
Sonia rises from the chair. “If he was really relieved, as you call it, you’d have done much better to have left him.”
“I’d never have seen him again.”
“He’d come round,” says Sonia, confidently. “Of course he would.” Jean is equally sure that he wouldn’t. “Well, if not,” argues Sonia, “all the more reason to… I mean, if he really doesn’t need you, love you –”
“He said he did,” states Jean, firmly. “He swore before God that he did. In church. Made solemn vows.”
Sonia looks shocked. “And you’re going to hold him to them, whatever happens?”
Again, Jean changes the subject. She rises from the dressing table. “Let’s go down, shall we? They’re coming up the drive.”
* * *
Harry emerges from his office, with Marker. “Well, I’ll knock up a little portfolio along those lines,” he promises, “and you can see what you think. We have your address, have we?”
Marker hesitates slightly before replying. “Er, no.” He turns to Deirdre. “Care of Lloyds Bank, Davis Street, SW12.” She jots this down. Marker turns back to Harry. “Thank you very much, Mr Lawford. Been a pleasure. Bye, miss.” He gives a slight wink to Deirdre, and goes out.
Harry watches him go, suspiciously. “Care of a bank? Bit odd. I wonder who he is.”
“He seems to be quite well briefed about you,” says Deirdre.
Harry turns to her, sharply. “Me?”
“Told me you were leaving. That’s not really true, is it?”
“Leaving? When I’ve just been offered a partnership?”
Deirdre is thrilled. “You have?!”
“Not official yet. It’s still got to be formally approved by the Board.”
Deirdre goes up to him, impulsively, excitedly. “That’s super, I’m so –”
Harry abruptly, deliberately, moves away from her. “Why did he think I was leaving?”
“I… I don’t know,” says Deirdre, crestfallen.
Harry doesn’t notice her mood. He’s too busy staring at the door through which Marker left. “There’s something damned fishy about him,” he decides. “Marker. Frank Marker…”
* * *
The lift operator chats to Marker as they descend. “Oh, yes,” he boasts. “Not much I don’t know about any of them. Take ’em up and down in the lift every day. They tell me things they wouldn’t tell others. Fact.”
“What does Miss Wallis tell you, I wonder?” asks Marker.
The lift man looks disappointed. “Ah, she’s a quiet one. Never gives much away, Miss Wallis.”
“And Mr Lawford?”
“Not him, neither, come to that,” the lift man admits. “Still waters run deep – especially with him.” Marker asks him what he means by that. The lift man resists for a moment, but doesn’t need much persuasion to spill the beans. “Well, if you ask me, he’s a bit of a dab hand with the ladies.”
“Oh, yes?”
“Fact. Every now and then, he pushes off early and takes a taxi somewhere.”
“Like home, perhaps?” suggests Marker. The doors slide open, and he steps out of the lift.
“Oh, no,” says the lift man, determined to impress Marker with his insights. “It’s not London Bridge station that taxi takes him to. It’s somewhere up west. I’ve heard him give the cabby the address many a time.”
“A business engagement?”
“In Bayswater?”
This interests Marker. “Bayswater?”
The lift man nods, spurred on to impart more information. “14A Melbury Terrace, Bayswater. Always the same address.” The lift buzzer sounds, ending the conversation. “That’ll be Sir John,” says the lift man. “He slopes off early every day. Excuse me.” He presses the button to close the doors.
Marker is left standing outside, reflecting.
* * *
A few days later, in John Fordyce’s office, the solicitor is on the phone to his own secretary. Reluctantly, he tells her to send his visitor in. He replaces the receiver, not liking this at all, as Jean comes in, looking very smart in her coat and hat. Fordyce greets her with sudden, nervous effusiveness. “Jean, how nice. Would you like some tea? If you’re anything like Sonia on a trip to London, you’ve been rushing round shops, getting your hair done, missing buses, grabbing taxis –”
Jean cuts him off. “I’ve just come up to see you, John. By appointment.” She sits.
Fordyce returns to his desk. “Jean, I’ve known you and Harry for… what, four years now? And I just can’t believe that… I mean, it must be possible for you to patch things up somehow, surely. Let sleeping dogs lie, Jean.”
“Together?” says Jean, drily.
“Why does there have to be someone else?” argues Fordyce. “Just because he didn’t go down on his knees to you that night, why should that necessarily mean he’s got a mistress?”
“But he has, hasn’t he?”
“Harry’s a worried, disturbed man, Jean. This great act he’s always putting on at home, anyone can see that… Look, why don’t you go to your sister’s for a while? Then I can talk to Harry and try to find out what’s really troubling him.”
Jean laughs, bitterly. “Oh, John, I can just see it. Man-to-man talks across your newspapers on the 8.28 every morning? You? Why, you’re so scared of being embarrassed, you can’t even bring yourself to tell me what’s on your mind now – even though that’s what I’m here for.”
The phone rings again – Marker’s arrived. “Ask him to wait a minute,” says Fordyce into the instrument. He hangs up and looks at Jean. “You’ve set a detective on your husband, Jean. Have you thought out the consequences of that? If Marker finds there is someone else, there’ll be no going back, no retreat.”
“Who is she?” is all Jean wants to know.
Fordyce gives up, goes to the door and lets Marker in, apologising for having kept him waiting. “You’d better tell Mrs Lawford what you know.”
Marker does so. “I called on your husband at his office, Mrs Lawford – made out I was a client recommended by Mr Fordyce.” He explains how he arrived deliberately early, in order to spend time with Miss Wallis. “There’s no doubt she’s carrying a torch for your husband.”
Jean turns to Fordyce, with grim satisfaction. “You see?”
“But I’m pretty sure her feelings aren’t reciprocated,” adds Marker.
Jean disagrees. “Of course they are. A girl like that throwing herself at Harry? He’d never have the strength to pass that up.”
“There’s someone else, Jean,” says Fordyce, who’s already received reports from Marker. “Someone called Pat.”
Marker takes up the story. “The name came up while I was there. There’d been a phone call – from a Bayswater number. And I found out later that every now and then Mr Lawford leaves the office early and goes to Bayswater by taxi.” Over Fordyce’s protests, Jean tells him to go on. “I followed him on two occasions,” Marker reports. “It’s a basement flat, and he stays about an hour and a half. So far, I’ve got no information about what goes on there, but –”
“Then get it,” snaps Jean. “Walk in on them, catch them. I want the flashlight photograph, the lot!”
“You just want to punish him, don’t you?” says Fordyce, accusingly. “You want revenge, your pound of flesh. You’ve no love for him at all.”
Jean turns to him, astounded. “No love? Me? Why else would I put up with the humiliation of living under the same roof with him – when I know he can’t stand the sight of me? I love him so much I just can’t exist without him.” Angrily and desperately, she turns back to Marker. “I want that proof, Mr Marker – or I’ll get it myself. I’ll walk in on them and catch him with that woman myself.”
“Pat’s not a woman, Mrs Lawford,” says Marker.
Jean just stares at him, blankly, absolutely stunned.
Marker’s appointment is at three o’clock, 30 minutes from now, so he has time to kill. He asks if Mr Lawford’s secretary is in. “I want to have a word with her first, anyway.”
The lift man confirms that she got back at 2.15, and he can’t think of a better way to pass half an hour. “Lovely looking girl, Miss Wallis,” he declares. “Won a beauty contest last year. Fact. That stirred the place up a bit, I can tell you. I had the lift full of press photographers.” The lift doors open, and he points Marker in the right direction. “There you are, sir. Third door on the left. You can’t miss it.”
* * *
Deirdre Wallis’s office has a door to the corridor and another leading to Harry Lawford’s office. Deirdre, who’s currently on the phone, is cool, detached, and every bit as beautiful as her photo in the paper. She takes a message on behalf of her boss, then hangs up and begins typing.
Marker appears in the doorway. He looks at her for a moment before she sees him, then strides breezily up to her, deliberately putting on an act of confident masculinity. “Afternoon, Miss. Marker’s the name, Frank Marker. I’ve an appointment with Mr Lawford.”
Deirdre looks up. “Yes, Mr Marker, but –”
“Don’t say it. I’m early. Do you mind?”
Deirdre smiles, pleasantly. “Not if you don’t. Would you take a seat? Mr Lawford’s still at lunch.”
Marker nods as he sits down. “With the chairman,” he says. Deirdre looks surprised that he knows this. “Lift man told me,” Marker explains. “Don’t expect we’ll see him back this side of four o’clock. Business lunches – brandy and cigars, eh? That’s the life.”
“He’ll be back by three, Mr Marker,” Deirdre assures him.
Marker looks around the place. “So this is a stockbroker’s office, is it? Not so bad. I’d have expected something much more stuffy.” He offers Deirdre a cigarette, but she declines. “That’s the spirit,” says Marker, breezily. “Save your money, save your health. Still, we’ve all got to go one day, haven’t we? In the midst of life…” He pauses. “Not interrupting, am I?”
“No, no, Mr Marker,” Deirdre lies. She resumes typing.
“Tell me,” says Marker, with uncharacteristic chauvinism, “what’s a pretty girl like you doing hiding her lights in a dump like this? Lift man says you won a beauty contest once. Where was that? Don’t suppose the other girls got a look in!”
Deirdre plays it down. “It was only a stunt got up by some public relations firm last year. Nothing very grand.”
“Still, it must have given you a taste for the bright lights, eh? I’d have thought a girl like you would have been a model at least – maybe an actress, film star.”
“I’m quite happy where I am,” says Deirdre. Marker asks how long she’s been here, and expresses surprise when she tells him two years. “What’s so extraordinary?” she asks.
“Well, I mean to say. Stockbrokers? Paunchy, balding men in top hats? I bet this Mr Lawford of yours isn’t a day under fifty.”
“He’s 32,” Deirdre tells him.
Marker nods, interestedly. “Is he now?”
“And like most stockbrokers,” adds Deirdre, sardonically, “he never wears a top hat.”
Marker, however, is still on the subject of Harry’s age. “32, eh? Handsome type?”
“You could say so,” replies Deirdre, a little uncomfortable.
Marker grins. “Got a bit of a crush on him, have you?”
“What?” Deirdre is aghast.
“Oh, come now. Must be some reason you stick it here. Wouldn’t be the first time a secretary’s got a thing about her boss.”
Deirdre immediately starts typing again, obviously embarrassed. “If you don’t mind, Mr Marker…”
Marker rises from his chair and wanders around for a moment, then asks, “Is he married?”
Deirdre looks a little exasperated. “How is it you’ve got an appointment with him if you don’t even know him?”
“Oh, I’ve just been recommended to him, that’s all. Got a spot of cash I want to have a flutter with, so my solicitor put me on to Lawford. John Fordyce. They’re chums, from what I gather.”
“Yes, I… believe so.” Deirdre returns to her typing, rather nervously.
Marker looks at her, shrewdly, then leans confidentially over her desk. “Bet he’s got a bit of a yen for you, anyway – even if he is married. What the eye doesn’t see, eh?”
Deirdre looks up at him, icily. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr Marker, I’ve got a lot of work to get through.”
Marker moves away from her. “Oh, come off it. He wouldn’t be human otherwise. Dish like you in the office? Finds it pretty hard to concentrate on his work sometimes, I bet. I know I would.” Deirdre is typing again, making mistakes, having to rub out, very flustered. Marker sees this and adds, with deliberate casualness, “Anyway, I hear he’s leaving soon.”
Deirdre abruptly stops typing. “What did you say?”
“Pushing off, getting another job.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“Fordyce. Yes, I’m sure he said Lawford was making a change – going elsewhere.”
Deirdre is caught completely off guard. “Harry? I mean –”
“Hasn’t he told you?”
Deirdre shakes her head. “No.”
Marker waves her concerns aside. “Well, most likely I got it all wrong. After all, he’d have told you if he was leaving, wouldn’t he?”
Deirdre thinks about this for a moment, then says, “No. Why should he? Nothing to do with me.” Very upset, she goes back to her typing.
Harry comes in. Marker introduces himself. Harry greets him, warmly. “How do you do? Friend of John’s, I think you said on the phone?”
“Well, not exactly,” replies Marker. “He just happens to be my lawyer, and I asked him to put me on to a good stockbroker.”
“Then we’d better have a bash at trying to live up to that,” beams Harry. He turns to Deirdre. “Anything come up?” he asks.
“No… no,” says Deirdre, still upset. It takes her a moment to resume her usual, ordered efficiency, at which point she remembers: “Oh, there was one call. Someone called Pat.”
Harry looks startled and embarrassed. “Rang here?”
“Yes. No message, but I said you’d ring back.” Deirdre looks at her notepad. “The number’s BAYswater 56 –”
Harry interrupts her, quickly. “I know the number.” Then he escorts Marker into his office. Deirdre watches them go, puzzled, then sits, miserably, at her typewriter.
* * *
Jean, in a smart afternoon dress, is putting on her make-up at the dressing table in her bedroom. Sonia, equally smart, sits idly in the armchair, smoking. They’re discussing Deirdre. Jean is convinced that the secretary is the object of Harry’s affections. “I bet it’s her,” she says. “Beautiful girl like that. With him all day long.”
“Haven’t much faith in yourself, have you, darling?” suggests Sonia. Jean shrugs and continues making up. “Or in Harry,” adds Sonia.
“I used to have,” Jean replies. “I thought I could keep Harry all right – Harry of all people. The idea that he would go and –”
“Go and what?” asks Sonia. “You haven’t got a single shred of evidence –”
“When I tried to leave him that night, he was relieved, Sonia. It was like a great weight off his mind.”
“Then why did you stay? How can you bear to be under the same roof with him?”
Jean ignores the question. Instead, she begins putting her cosmetics away, as neatly and tidily as everything has to be with her. “Shall we go down? The Cliffords will be here any minute.”
Sonia rises from the chair. “If he was really relieved, as you call it, you’d have done much better to have left him.”
“I’d never have seen him again.”
“He’d come round,” says Sonia, confidently. “Of course he would.” Jean is equally sure that he wouldn’t. “Well, if not,” argues Sonia, “all the more reason to… I mean, if he really doesn’t need you, love you –”
“He said he did,” states Jean, firmly. “He swore before God that he did. In church. Made solemn vows.”
Sonia looks shocked. “And you’re going to hold him to them, whatever happens?”
Again, Jean changes the subject. She rises from the dressing table. “Let’s go down, shall we? They’re coming up the drive.”
* * *
Harry emerges from his office, with Marker. “Well, I’ll knock up a little portfolio along those lines,” he promises, “and you can see what you think. We have your address, have we?”
Marker hesitates slightly before replying. “Er, no.” He turns to Deirdre. “Care of Lloyds Bank, Davis Street, SW12.” She jots this down. Marker turns back to Harry. “Thank you very much, Mr Lawford. Been a pleasure. Bye, miss.” He gives a slight wink to Deirdre, and goes out.
Harry watches him go, suspiciously. “Care of a bank? Bit odd. I wonder who he is.”
“He seems to be quite well briefed about you,” says Deirdre.
Harry turns to her, sharply. “Me?”
“Told me you were leaving. That’s not really true, is it?”
“Leaving? When I’ve just been offered a partnership?”
Deirdre is thrilled. “You have?!”
“Not official yet. It’s still got to be formally approved by the Board.”
Deirdre goes up to him, impulsively, excitedly. “That’s super, I’m so –”
Harry abruptly, deliberately, moves away from her. “Why did he think I was leaving?”
“I… I don’t know,” says Deirdre, crestfallen.
Harry doesn’t notice her mood. He’s too busy staring at the door through which Marker left. “There’s something damned fishy about him,” he decides. “Marker. Frank Marker…”
* * *
The lift operator chats to Marker as they descend. “Oh, yes,” he boasts. “Not much I don’t know about any of them. Take ’em up and down in the lift every day. They tell me things they wouldn’t tell others. Fact.”
“What does Miss Wallis tell you, I wonder?” asks Marker.
The lift man looks disappointed. “Ah, she’s a quiet one. Never gives much away, Miss Wallis.”
“And Mr Lawford?”
“Not him, neither, come to that,” the lift man admits. “Still waters run deep – especially with him.” Marker asks him what he means by that. The lift man resists for a moment, but doesn’t need much persuasion to spill the beans. “Well, if you ask me, he’s a bit of a dab hand with the ladies.”
“Oh, yes?”
“Fact. Every now and then, he pushes off early and takes a taxi somewhere.”
“Like home, perhaps?” suggests Marker. The doors slide open, and he steps out of the lift.
“Oh, no,” says the lift man, determined to impress Marker with his insights. “It’s not London Bridge station that taxi takes him to. It’s somewhere up west. I’ve heard him give the cabby the address many a time.”
“A business engagement?”
“In Bayswater?”
This interests Marker. “Bayswater?”
The lift man nods, spurred on to impart more information. “14A Melbury Terrace, Bayswater. Always the same address.” The lift buzzer sounds, ending the conversation. “That’ll be Sir John,” says the lift man. “He slopes off early every day. Excuse me.” He presses the button to close the doors.
Marker is left standing outside, reflecting.
* * *
A few days later, in John Fordyce’s office, the solicitor is on the phone to his own secretary. Reluctantly, he tells her to send his visitor in. He replaces the receiver, not liking this at all, as Jean comes in, looking very smart in her coat and hat. Fordyce greets her with sudden, nervous effusiveness. “Jean, how nice. Would you like some tea? If you’re anything like Sonia on a trip to London, you’ve been rushing round shops, getting your hair done, missing buses, grabbing taxis –”
Jean cuts him off. “I’ve just come up to see you, John. By appointment.” She sits.
Fordyce returns to his desk. “Jean, I’ve known you and Harry for… what, four years now? And I just can’t believe that… I mean, it must be possible for you to patch things up somehow, surely. Let sleeping dogs lie, Jean.”
“Together?” says Jean, drily.
“Why does there have to be someone else?” argues Fordyce. “Just because he didn’t go down on his knees to you that night, why should that necessarily mean he’s got a mistress?”
“But he has, hasn’t he?”
“Harry’s a worried, disturbed man, Jean. This great act he’s always putting on at home, anyone can see that… Look, why don’t you go to your sister’s for a while? Then I can talk to Harry and try to find out what’s really troubling him.”
Jean laughs, bitterly. “Oh, John, I can just see it. Man-to-man talks across your newspapers on the 8.28 every morning? You? Why, you’re so scared of being embarrassed, you can’t even bring yourself to tell me what’s on your mind now – even though that’s what I’m here for.”
The phone rings again – Marker’s arrived. “Ask him to wait a minute,” says Fordyce into the instrument. He hangs up and looks at Jean. “You’ve set a detective on your husband, Jean. Have you thought out the consequences of that? If Marker finds there is someone else, there’ll be no going back, no retreat.”
“Who is she?” is all Jean wants to know.
Fordyce gives up, goes to the door and lets Marker in, apologising for having kept him waiting. “You’d better tell Mrs Lawford what you know.”
Marker does so. “I called on your husband at his office, Mrs Lawford – made out I was a client recommended by Mr Fordyce.” He explains how he arrived deliberately early, in order to spend time with Miss Wallis. “There’s no doubt she’s carrying a torch for your husband.”
Jean turns to Fordyce, with grim satisfaction. “You see?”
“But I’m pretty sure her feelings aren’t reciprocated,” adds Marker.
Jean disagrees. “Of course they are. A girl like that throwing herself at Harry? He’d never have the strength to pass that up.”
“There’s someone else, Jean,” says Fordyce, who’s already received reports from Marker. “Someone called Pat.”
Marker takes up the story. “The name came up while I was there. There’d been a phone call – from a Bayswater number. And I found out later that every now and then Mr Lawford leaves the office early and goes to Bayswater by taxi.” Over Fordyce’s protests, Jean tells him to go on. “I followed him on two occasions,” Marker reports. “It’s a basement flat, and he stays about an hour and a half. So far, I’ve got no information about what goes on there, but –”
“Then get it,” snaps Jean. “Walk in on them, catch them. I want the flashlight photograph, the lot!”
“You just want to punish him, don’t you?” says Fordyce, accusingly. “You want revenge, your pound of flesh. You’ve no love for him at all.”
Jean turns to him, astounded. “No love? Me? Why else would I put up with the humiliation of living under the same roof with him – when I know he can’t stand the sight of me? I love him so much I just can’t exist without him.” Angrily and desperately, she turns back to Marker. “I want that proof, Mr Marker – or I’ll get it myself. I’ll walk in on them and catch him with that woman myself.”
“Pat’s not a woman, Mrs Lawford,” says Marker.
Jean just stares at him, blankly, absolutely stunned.