The Man Who Killed Himself by Julian Symons Read Free Book Online

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    ‘They’re talking about putting up five thousand quid for a twenty per cent interest. Could you meet that?’
    ‘I’m afraid not.’
    ‘Money’s not important,’ Tubbs said, rather to Arthur’s surprise, for he had gathered the distinct impression that the other was in need of it. Tubbs ran a hand through his hair so that it stood up like a golliwog’s, and stroked his rather indeterminate little beard. ‘What I mean, Brownjohn, I’d consider less cash and a bigger percentage for myself.’
    ‘If this stuff does all you say why don’t you develop it on your own, borrow from your bank?’ Arthur asked, with what he felt to be considerable shrewdness.
    Tubbs moved his glass of beer about uneasily. Then, as if coming to a decision, he looked up and met Arthur’s gaze. He had an intermittent pant like that of an exhausted dog, which he attributed to a weak heart, or in his own words a funny ticker. His eyeballs were enormous. ‘Must be straight. I’ve got a record.’
    ‘You’ve been in prison!’
    ‘Right. Bank won’t touch me, can’t get backing, wouldn’t be trying to sell Wypitklere if I could develop it myself. Strictly confidential, keep it to yourself, Jenner would have me out in a minute if he knew.’
    ‘What was the offence?’
    ‘I was accused of embezzlement. It was all a mistake.’
    Somehow this admission convinced Arthur of Tubbs’ good faith, perhaps because he felt that nobody would admit that he had been in prison if he were intending to commit a fraud afterwards. Money, however, was the problem. Payne had again spoken glowingly of the cream, but if money was to be borrowed from the bank Clare would have to know about it, and he knew that she would never agree. After much discussion Tubbs had said that he would take a thousand pounds for a twenty per cent share of all profits, but where was the money to come from? Easonby Mellon had to provide for two homes. There was very little money in his bank account, only just over five hundred pounds in the joint account Arthur shared with Clare. It was when he thought of the harmless deception that he practised in the role of Easonby Mellon that Arthur contemplated extending that deception. He flattered himself (or rather, he did not flatter himself) that he had some skill as a copyist, and Clare’s signature was almost as familiar to him as his own. She had recently received the quarterly bank statement for the money in her private account, which he knew to be a considerable sum. He signed Clare’s name to a cheque for five hundred pounds, which he transferred from her private to their joint account.
    Looking back afterwards he thought that he must have been temporarily mad, but at the time he could think of nothing but getting a share of Wypitklere, and he persuaded himself that the deception would never be discovered. By the time she got her next quarterly statement at the end of June he would be able to repay the money through a loan. He would even repay it with a hundred pounds’ interest, so that if she noticed the unauthorised withdrawal her anger would be changed to pleasure.
    The agreement was signed in the office of a solicitor named Eversholt, who had drawn it up. He appeared to regard Arthur, and indeed the whole affair, with an air of faint astonishment, and pronounced the name Wypitklere as though it were a bad joke. In the end Tubbs agreed to increase Arthur’s share of profits to twenty-five per cent. It seemed to him that he had driven a hard bargain, and he was pleased that Tubbs appeared satisfied.
    ‘Here’s my hand, partner.’ Tubbs’ hand was rather damp. ‘What are the development plans?’
    Arthur had not really considered this problem, beyond feeling that it must be possible to get backing for such an obvious winner in half a dozen places. Tubbs, however, did not seem disturbed by his vagueness. ‘We’ll be in touch then. Cheeribye,’ he said. It did not occur to Arthur until afterwards that there was