The Man Who Killed Himself Read Free

the slot racing layout, the tracks bending in a double eight with two exciting chicane sections where cars could really go all out. Spectator stands with people in them, car pits with engineers waiting for cars to come in, television camera crews, hay bales, banking at bends, were all in place. Four cars stood ready to start. He thought of racing them, but knew that the sound would keep Clare awake. The other half of the attic contained much china discarded from down below, framed watercolours painted by his mother when he had been a child, and his old roll-topped desk. He unlocked this with a key from the ring at his waist. A loose leaf book in a black cover lay on the desk. It was his diary.
    The first page said: ‘A Brownjohn, The Laurels, Fraycut, Surrey, England, Europe, The World.’ Below there was a little rhyme which he had once read and repeated, perhaps inaccurately:
     
    He who unbidden looks within
    Commits a fearful wicked sin.
    Peeping Tom, filthy fool,
    I bet you were a sneak at school.
     
    He opened the diary, read one or two of the entries, ran his fingers over an untouched white page, decided that he was too tired to write and locked the desk again.
    In the bathroom he paused while brushing his teeth to consider the face that confronted him. It was pale, thin-lipped, distinctly rabbitish round the nose and doggy about the eyes. Worst of all was the billiard-ball smoothness of the head. Arthur had started losing his hair at an early age, and by the time he was in his early thirties the whole lot had gone. He had once seen Yul Brynner on the screen and had tried to convince himself that baldness was attractive, but examination of his head in the glass had made it clear that the total effect produced by his features did not at all resemble that of Yul Brynner’s.
    He went into the bedroom. Clare was lying as he had known she would be, on her right side with her eyes half closed. Her face was covered with shiny cream. He kissed the top of her head, undressed and got into bed, turned out the light. In the darkness he repeated what he had said earlier. ‘I wish you wouldn’t say that about my drinking. I don’t like it.’
    She made no reply. Five minutes later she began to snore.

Chapter Two
     
    The Affairs of Major Easonby Mellon
     
    On the following day Major Easonby Mellon turned into one of the side streets on the good – that is to say the Hanover Square – side of Regent Street, walked into an office block named Romany House and took the lift to the second floor. He used a key to open a door that said in black lettering ‘Matrimonial Assistance Limited, Major Easonby Mellon,’ and stepped inside. He was at once ankle deep in letters, a delicious sensation. He picked up the armful of letters and went into his office, which had a window looking out on to the street. There was a large chair behind his handsome desk, and a couple of other chairs for clients. Opposite to his desk stood a filing cabinet and also another smaller desk with a covered typewriter on it. Visitors assumed what seemed obvious, that this desk was used by Major Mellon’s secretary, but the assumption was wrong for the Major had no secretary.
    Major Mellon took off his pork pie hat, sat at his desk humming like a bumble bee and opened the post with a neat letter opener. There were nearly seventy letters, and some half of them contained cheques or postal orders. He was a dapper little figure as he sat behind the desk, occasionally whistling a little at what he read, for people write odd things to matrimonial agencies. He wore a suit in a dog-tooth check that was perhaps a little loud, gay socks, and well-polished brown shoes. His tie and shirt were reasonably sober, he had a good thatch of brownish hair with a tinge of red in it, and a neat beard. When he had read the post he carefully put all the cheques and postal orders into a drawer, separated the first applications from the follow-ups and went across to his filing