Chapter 11.4

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"James Ambrose?"

"Yes."

"May we come in?"

"Of course."

The policemen followed the young man into his apartment. They entered a living room and rubbed their hands together in the warmth, for it was mid-winter and bitterly cold outside. The windows on each side of the empty fireplace opened out onto a mossy brick wall. An old alarm clock stood on the mantelpiece. A sofa, an armchair, a column heater, and a bare light bulb suspended from its cord, were the only other features of the room.

"Have a seat," James said, pointing at the sofa with his cane. "Can I get you a cup of tea?" There was an undercurrent of tension in his voice.

"No thank you," the older policeman said. "We won't bother you for long."

James lowered himself into the armchair and lay his cane across his knees. His face was drawn, cadaverous. It accentuated his high cheekbones and darkened his eyes, giving him a gaunt handsomeness, which along with his moustache made him seem older than his twenty-three years.

The older policeman glanced at the cane. "Where were you?"

"New Guinea" A pause. "You're here about Bob."

"Yes."

There was a silence, broken only by the column heater's slow tick.

"Robert Fletcher was discovered this morning in his apartment."

"Dead?"

"I'm sorry."

James said nothing.

"It appears he took his own life," the policeman went on. "He left a note. He mentioned you in it. Would you like to see it?"

James nodded without looking at the policemen. He seemed to have shrunk into the armchair.

The older policeman removed a folded piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to James. When James had finished reading it he folded it up again and handed it back.

"Do you mind if we ask a couple of questions?"

James made a slight movement with his head that seemed to indicate consent.

"How long have you known the deceased?"

"We went to school together."

"Did you stay in touch with him afterwards?"

"Mostly by letter. He accepted a scholarship at a conservatory in Paris. After that he travelled the world. He didn't come back here often. When he did he would always come and see me. But then, the war."

"He was a concert pianist, wasn't he?"

"Yes. A brilliant one."

"You both served in New Guinea?"

"Different battalions. We wrote to each other for a while, but then his letters stopped. I found out from my sergeant that Bob had been wounded. Then I was injured," he glanced at his leg. "When I got home I went looking for him. He told me the rest. He'd taken a bad fall, compound fracture in one arm and a deep cut in the other. The wounds turned gangrenous. It took eight days for them to get out of there. They couldn't save his arms."

"How did he seem?"

"Fine, considering. He'd found a stray dog and was looking after it. He seemed happy."

"Any family?"

"He never spoke of them. Didn't like to."

"Did you see him at any other time after you got back?"

"I'd go there once a week. We'd have a drink and listen to records. Seemed every time I went there he had a new stray – he ended up with five or six of them. He loved those dogs. They'd all sleep on his bed with him. After a while I – noticed he was drinking heavily. He couldn't get work anywhere – nobody has any use for a man with no arms. He had his pension, so he wasn't going to starve, but he was never the kind of bird to stay caged. Hated school for the same reason. Hated the army."

"Was he gambling?"

James shook his head. "He only asked me for money once. I didn't ask him what he wanted it for. Next time I went to his place there was a piano there. He never said anything about it, and I never saw the lid open. It took a while but he paid me back. I don't know why he bought the piano. Maybe he was teaching the dogs how to play." He smiled at the policemen, and they smiled back, in an official kind of way.

"Did he ever talk about taking his own life?"

James shook his head.

"I guess this has come as a shock to you."

James swallowed. "He had a hard war."

"I'm sorry to bring you this news, Mr. Ambrose. We'd best be off. Thank you for your time."

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