Free 31st Of February by Julian Symons Page B

hairpins in the bed, I am oppressed by an extraordinary sense of loss. Not loss of Val exactly – that seems not to enter into it. Rather, part of myself seems to have disappeared. I feel like one of those insects – that goes on living even after being cut in half.
    On Monday, February 4th, we went to work as usual. Val sang “Berkeley Square,” out of her repertory of out-of-date songs, in her bath. I had a worrying day at the office.
     
    There the writing ended. Anderson’s perfect absorption in the black book had been such that he had forgotten to turn on the electric fire, and he now became conscious that he was cold. He was sitting also in an uncomfortable position, so that something in his pocket pressed sharply into his side. He put his hand in his pocket, drew out the pot of Preparation Number 1, and placed it upon a red-topped table with chromium legs. He flicked a switch, and the firebar glowed. But there was some other cause for disturbance – what was it? Sickly-sweet chimes sounded in the room. Of course! Val’s musical doorbell. Anderson put the book back in the small secret drawer, and closed and locked the desk. Then he went to the front door, and opened it to reveal a burly figure. The street lamp cast the shadow of this patiently waiting figure into Anderson’s hall. The face was left dark, but Anderson recognized Inspector Cresse by his bowler hat.
    “Come in,” Anderson said with self-mocking gaiety. “Come in, Inspector.” With a catlike, almost mincing step, he led the way into the room he had just left. The Inspector followed more deliberately. Under the tubular lighting his face showed large, blue-white, slightly dented, with two strongly marked lines running from nose to mouth. The whole face was flattish, the nose a large, blunt wedge, the mouth broad and shapeless, but turned down slightly at the corners in an expression both clownish and severe. But the balance of these heavy features was changed altogether when the Inspector took off his bowler hat, revealing a great white head that was completely bald. What had been menacing now appeared ludicrous; and such sudden changes of appearance and gesture appeared to be part of the Inspector’s stock-in-trade. He had presented, Anderson thought, a quite farcical figure at the inquest; and yet at odd moments there was something in the firm fit of his clothes and his blank forward-looking stare that gave an impression of intellectual strength, though not of subtlety. Behind the figure of farce lay the man of power, behind the man of power lurked the irrepressibly clownish comedian. The comedian was uppermost when the Inspector took off his hat, and placed it, with a wonderfully whimsical gesture, upon the red table by the pot of cream.
    “A drink?” Anderson almost danced round the thickset figure. “A cigarette? Sit down. It’s rather cold in here, I’m afraid.” He shivered in an exaggerated manner.
    The Inspector sat in one of the chromium-armed chairs, his hard bulk filling it without overflowing. His voice was rich and thick, and at times he did not articulate with absolute distinctness. “I’ll take just a little whisky. Thank you, Mr Anderson. Nothing in it.” He held the amber liquid in one large blunt paw. “I called earlier this evening.”
    “Fletchley told me. You wanted to know the width of his pyjama stripes. You Gallup Poll policeman!” Soda water sizzled in Anderson’s glass. He almost giggled.
    “We had a little chat,” the Inspector said vaguely. “He’s a man with a sense of humour, which is something I always enjoy.” On another chromium chair, bent deferentially a little forward, Anderson smiled agreement, rocked by an obscure secret merriment. “A nice idea of his, to write those cards for birthdays and Christmas. Ingenious, too.”
    “A nice sentiment.” Anderson rocked again.
    “That’s right. Or don’t you think so?” A vacant orb, emptied of expression, the Inspector’s eye rolled.
    “I’m