Death of a Salesperson Read Free Page B

afternoon.’
    When he had put the phone down, Geoffrey began wondering about Roger Michaels’s arrangements with Helen. Did they meet somewhere, then go on to the Durward together? That seemed likely. Had he been expecting to meet her last Thursday, and would he be waiting again today? Or had he, as the waiter conjectured, broken it off—disguising it, perhaps, as a temporary break while his wife was suspicious, but in brutal reality ditching her?
    By now he had made up his mind: at some time in the future he was going to have to have a talk with Roger Michaels.
    But first he wanted to suss out the lie of the land, sniff out the character of his everyday life. He found Grafton Avenue easily in his London A-Z. There was nothing to prevent him driving there at once. Half term had still some days to run, and doubtless any problems that came up were referred to the Deputy Head. When he got to Surbiton he found that at least here parking was no problem. There didn’t seem to be much else to be said for the place. He put the car in the next street and walked casually along Grafton Avenue. The Michaels’s house was not very different from what he had expected: a standard detached house, probably built in the ’fifties, with a tiny, neat front garden, and no character whatsoever. The same was true of all the houses in the street: suburbia personified. The only relief from the architectural monotony was a small square of public garden on the opposite corner of the avenue. Geoffrey walked in it for a bit, his eye on Roger’s house, but there was no sign of life.
    Was Roger a pub man, he wondered? Yes, it did sound as if Roger was probably a pub man. Men with streams of jokes usually were. Two streets away Geoffrey could see the outlines of a ’thirties roadhouse, brewery-anonymous instyle. Could that be Roger Michaels’s local? It seemed worth a try.
    It was still a good half-hour before the lunch-time rush, and the landlord was ready for a leisurely gossip.
    Thinking of moving round here, was he? Well, he always did say you couldn’t find a nicer area. Lovely houses—well, he would have seen that. Nice people too, if it came to that—a very good class , if Geoffrey knew what he meant. What line of business was Geoffrey in himself? Schoolmastering? Head master! Well, he could practically guarantee he would fit in perfectly. Did he have any connections in this area?
    â€˜Oh no,’ said Geoffrey airily. ‘Not really. Though I’ve just remembered I do know a chap who lives around here somewhere. Man called Roger Michaels.’
    â€˜Roger! One of the best. He’s one of our regulars—well, not regular, because these days he’s up North from Monday to Friday. But he’ll be in on Friday or Saturday, and he and his wife come in at Sunday lunch-time without fail. Come in about half past twelve, have a couple, then leave about half past one, when the roast is done.’
    â€˜Great chap, Roger,’ said Geoffrey, with painfully assumed heartiness.
    â€˜Lovely man. Really funny. I’d say he was a real wit. He gets a little circle round him when he comes in here, and he has them splitting their sides.’
    â€˜Bit of a lad too, I believe,’ said Geoffrey.
    â€˜Oh, we wouldn’t know about that round here,’ said the landlord with professional caution. ‘While he’s home his wife keeps him on a very tight leash. Between you and me—’ he leant forward over the bar, and hushed his voice—‘she has the reputation of being a bit of a b.i.t.c.h. . . . Mind you, if he has his fling now and then, I’m not alto geth er surprised.’
    â€˜No?’
    The landlord lowered his voice again.
    â€˜Couple round here had their Silver Wedding. Went tothe Savoy for a bit of a splash. They saw Roger there with a woman—a real corker, so they said. ’Course, it could have been his sister . . .’ The