Deception Read online

  About a month after their return from Marrakech, on a wet and rainy afternoon in March, Mr Buggage was reclining comfortably in his office with his feet up on the top of his fine partners’ desk, dictating to Miss Tottle some details about a deceased and distinguished admiral. ‘Recreations,’ he was saying, reading from Who’s Who, ‘Gardening, sailing and stamp-collecting …’ At that point, the door from the main shop opened and a young man came in with a book in his hand. ‘Mr Buggage?’ he said.

  Mr Buggage looked up. ‘Over there,’ he said, waving towards Miss Tottle. ‘She’ll deal with you.’

  The young man stood still. His navy-blue overcoat was wet from the weather and droplets of water were dripping from his hair. He didn’t look at Miss Tottle. He kept his eyes on Mr Buggage. ‘Don’t you want the money?’ he said, pleasantly enough.

  ‘She’ll take it.’

  ‘Why won’t you take it?’

  ‘Because she’s the cashier,’ Mr Buggage said. ‘You want to buy a book, go ahead. She’ll deal with you.’

  ‘I’d rather deal with you,’ the young man said.

  Mr Buggage looked up at him. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Just do as you’re told, there’s a good lad.’

  ‘You are the proprietor?’ the young man said. ‘You are Mr William Buggage?’

  ‘What if I am?’ Mr Buggage said, his feet still up on the desk.

  ‘Are you or aren’t you?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’ Mr Buggage said.

  ‘So that’s settled,’ the young man said. ‘How d’you do, Mr Buggage.’ There was a curious edge to his voice now, a mixture of scorn and mockery.

  Mr Buggage took his feet down from the desk-top and sat up a trifle straighter. ‘You’re a bit of a cheeky young bugger, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘If you want that book, I suggest you just pay your money over there and then you can ’op it. Right?’

  The young man turned towards the still open door that led to the front of the shop. Just the other side of the door there were a couple of the usual kind of customers, men in raincoats, pulling out books and examining them.

  ‘Mother,’ the young man called softly. ‘You can come in, Mother. Mr Buggage is here.’

  A small woman of about sixty came in and stood beside the young man. She had a trim figure for her age and a face that must once have been ravishing, but now it showed traces of strain and exhaustion, and the pale blue eyes were dulled with grief. She was wearing a black coat and a simple black hat. She left the door open behind her.

  ‘Mr Buggage,’ the young man said. ‘This is my mother, Mrs Northcote.’

  Miss Tottle, the rememberer of names, turned round quick and looked at Mr Buggage and made little warning movements with her mouth. Mr Buggage got the message and said as politely as he could, ‘And what can I do for you, madam?’

  The woman opened her black handbag and took out a letter. She unfolded it carefully and held it out to Mr Buggage. ‘Then it will be you who sent me this?’ she said.

  Mr Buggage took the letter and examined it at some length. Miss Tottle, who had turned right round in her chair now, was watching Mr Buggage.

  ‘Yes,’ Mr Buggage said. ‘This is my letter and my invoice. All correct and in order. What is your problem, madam?’

  ‘What I came here to ask you,’ the woman said, ‘is, are you sure it’s right?’

  ‘I’m afraid it is, madam.’

  ‘But it is so unbelievable … I find it impossible to believe that my husband bought those books.’

  ‘Let’s see now, your ’usband, Mr … Mr … er …’

  ‘Northcote,’ Miss Tottle said.

  ‘Yes, Mr Northcote, yes, of course, Mr Northcote. ’Ee wasn’t in ’ere often, once or twice a year maybe, but a good customer and a very fine gentleman. May I offer you, madam, my sincere condolences on your sad loss.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Buggage. But are you really quite certain you haven’t been mixing him up with somebody else?’

  ‘Not a chance, madam. Not the slightest chance. My good secretary over there will confirm that there is no mistake.’

  ‘May I see it?’ Miss Tottle said, getting up and crossing to take the letter from Mr Buggage. ‘Yes,’ she said, examining it. ‘I typed this myself. There is no mistake.’

  ‘Miss Tottle’s been with me a long time,’ Mr Buggage said. ‘She knows the business inside out. I can’t remember ’er ever makin’ a mistake.’

  ‘I should hope not,’ Miss Tottle said.

  ‘So there you are, madam,’ Mr Buggage said.

  ‘It simply isn’t possible,’ the woman said.

  ‘Ah, but men will be men,’ Mr Buggage said. ‘They all ’ave their little bit of fun now and again and there’s no ’arm in that, is there, madam?’ He sat confident and unmoved in his chair, waiting now to have done with it. He felt himself master of the situation.

  The woman stood very straight and still, and she was looking Mr Buggage directly in the eyes. ‘These curious books you list on your invoice,’ she said, ‘do they print them in Braille?’

  ‘In what?’

  ‘In Braille.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, madam.’

  ‘I thought you wouldn’t,’ she said. ‘That’s the only way my husband could have read them. He lost his sight in the last war, in the Battle of Alamein more than forty years ago, and he was blind for ever after.’

  The office became suddenly very quiet. The mother and her son stood motionless, watching Mr Buggage. Miss Tottle turned away and looked out of the window. Mr Buggage cleared his throat as though to say something, but thought better of it. The two men in raincoats, who were close enough to have heard every word through the open door, came quietly into the office. One of them held out a plastic card and said to Mr Buggage, ‘Inspector Richards, Serious Crimes Division, Scotland Yard.’ And to Miss Tottle, who was already moving back towards her desk, he said, ‘Don’t touch any of those papers, please, miss. Leave everything just where it is. You’re both coming along with us.’

  The son took his mother gently by the arm and led her out of the office, through the shop and on to the street.

  Vengeance is Mine Inc.

  First published in More Tales of the Unexpected (1980)

  It was snowing when I woke up.

  I could tell that it was snowing because there was a kind of brightness in the room and it was quiet outside with no footstep-noises coming up from the street and no tyre-noises but only the engines of the cars. I looked up and I saw George over by the window in his green dressing-gown, bending over the paraffin-stove, making the coffee.

  ‘Snowing,’ I said.

  ‘It’s cold,’ George answered. ‘It’s really cold.’

  I got out of bed and fetched the morning paper from outside the door. It was cold all right and I ran back quickly and jumped into bed and lay still for a while under the bedclothes, holding my hands tight between my legs for warmth.

  ‘No letters?’ George said.

  ‘No. No letters.’

  ‘Doesn’t look as if the old man’s going to cough up.’

  ‘Maybe he thinks four hundred and fifty is enough for one month,’ I said.

  ‘He’s never been to New York. He doesn’t know the cost of living here.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have spent it all in one week.’

  George stood up and looked at me. ‘We shouldn’t have spent it, you mean.’

  ‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘We.’ I began reading the paper.

  The coffee was ready now and George brought the pot over and put it on the table between our beds. ‘A person can’t live without money,’ he said. ‘The old man ought to know that.’ He got back into his bed without taking off his green dressing-gown. I went on reading. I finished the racing page and the football page and then I started on Lionel Pantaloon, the great political and society columnist. I always read Pantaloon – same as the other twenty or thirty million people in the country. He’s a habit with me; he’s more than a