The Man Who Killed Himself by Julian Symons

cigarette at once but somehow her appearance on the bed, smoking and nearly naked, upset him. She looked, if he had to put the thing crudely, like a tart, and he wondered again why she had come to him. Sex, however, is a solvent for doubt, and by the time she had pulled him on to the bed and helped him to take off his clothes he was in no state to be concerned about her motives. He was astonished when she rolled off the bed and put on her knickers, which he had removed in the course of the scuffle. He was about to remonstrate when she jerked a thumb behind him. He turned.
    A man was in the room with them. He was tall, thin and dark, he wore a dark grey suit, and he was smiling disagreeably. There could be little doubt that he was the man Joan had described as Flexner. In his hand there was a tiny camera, which he put away in his pocket. He nodded to Pat, who put on her frock. Then he said amiably enough, ‘Hi. Time for you and me to have a talk. I’m Jack Parker, Pat’s husband.’
    Major Mellon felt at an enormous disadvantage without his clothes. He dressed quickly but in a fumbling manner, having difficulty with his trousers. His mind was empty of thought, he did not know what to say. Parker was quite at his ease.
    ‘Little club round the corner. I’m a member. No hurry. Talk round there when you’re ready.’
    Suppose I’m not prepared to come, suppose I say no to your little club, he thought. But he knew that he was not capable of this, that coming on top of everything else this misfortune had stunned him. He followed them obediently into a sordid basement club down a side street. The room was small and dirty, the barman was a Greek or Cypriot in need of a shave. Parker ordered three whiskies and they sat at a small table. He was completely self-possessed. He might have been talking about the weather.
    ‘I’ll put the position to you, Major, so that you know just where you are. First of all, the Major. You’re not entitled to call yourself that, there’s no Major Easonby Mellon in the Army List. Next your firm. You’ve got no licence to operate as you should have – I’ve checked and you haven’t got a secretary. You’re only in the office part time. It’s just a trick for making money. You’ve kidded your wife that you work for some mysterious Department or other, so I played along when I came last night.’
    ‘Outrageous.’ Major Mellon had found his voice, although it came through as a croak.
    ‘I thought you’d be pleased.’
    ‘How did you know where I lived?’
    ‘Followed you. Been keeping an eye on you ever since the day Pat came along. Careless of you not to notice. Another point, I just mention it in passing. You don’t go home to Clapham every night. I’m only making a guess, but do you know what it smells like to me? It smells as though you’ve got a little love nest tucked away somewhere else.’
    ‘He couldn’t have,’ the girl said. ‘He hasn’t got the guts.’
    ‘Shut up. Am I right?’
    Alarm struggled with relief, alarm that the man had got so near to the truth, relief that he had not discovered it. ‘Of course not.’
    Parker shrugged. ‘I could easily find out, but to me it doesn’t matter. This is a business deal.’
    ‘The badger game.’ He knew the phrase from books.
    ‘Not really.’ Parker smiled again. He looked like a large well-dressed rat. ‘I sent Pat along thinking you might put her in touch with a rich mark. She’s a clever girl. She spotted right away that you were a mark yourself.’
    He sipped the whisky. It tasted disagreeably of oil. ‘How do you mean?’
    ‘Suppose it got through to the Greater London Council – they issue your licence, I’ve done my homework – that you’re operating under a false title and without a licence. Suppose Pat makes a complaint about you and I back it up with these pictures you’d be for the high jump, agreed?’
    ‘You’d never dare to do it.’
    ‘We’re clean. We’ve never been inside. The point is,