Read The Man Who Killed Himself for Free Online

similar kind but run by a different person? Acting was one of the few spheres in which he had shone at school, and he had always taken an obscure pleasure in dressing up.
    The idea presented several problems, but they were of a kind that Arthur took pleasure in solving. The name of Easonby Mellon, derived partly from the financier Andrew Mellon and partly from the hero of a book he had enjoyed as a schoolboy, was the least of them. The military rank seemed appropriate and the clothes, wig and beard were designed as suitable to it. The wig maker he went to appreciated the interest shown by his client. He was surprised when Arthur said that he did not want to match his original faded light brown colouring, but he asked no questions. Arthur had been keen on a red wig, which he felt would express Easonby Mellon’s personality, but he had been persuaded that a brown one with reddish tints would be far less conspicuous.
    ‘The usual problem of course, sir, is matching the natural hair colour at back and sides, but in your case –’ The wig maker coughed, and it was true that Arthur was quite remarkably lacking in hair.
    The wig was thick and curly and he was delighted by the fact that he could comb it so that (as he was shown with mirrors) perfectly genuine scalp would show through the invisible net foundation. ‘Nobody would know,’ he said exultantly.
    The wig maker, who had himself a splendid head of hair, was solemn. ‘Nobody at all, sir. I know husbands whose wives have no idea that they wear a wig.’
    ‘Is that really so? Even when –’
    ‘Even then, sir, certainly. And if I may suggest a small but possibly useful refinement –’
    ‘Indeed you may.’
    ‘It may be an advantage to have a trio, showing various stages of development.’ Arthur was baffled. The wig maker explained that he could have three wigs, Number One showing the hair cut rather short, Number Two of normal cut, and Number Three with hair growing rather long at the back of the neck. ‘I have a client whose wife tells him that he really must go to the barber when he is wearing Number Three. It positively makes his day, sir.’
    ‘I’m sure it does.’ He ordered Numbers One, Two and Three accordingly. The wig maker was less enthusiastic about the idea of a beard, saying that this would need great care when eating and shaving, in case it got wet and lost its shape. It seemed to Arthur, however, that a beard was an essential part of Easonby Mellon’s personality, and by having it cut well away from the mouth he managed to deal with it successfully.
    He was delighted with the result. ‘You are an artist,’ he said to the wig maker, a wizened, aged figure who perhaps proved his artistic nature by going out of business shortly after executing Arthur’s commission, and dying in poverty a few months later. A six line obituary appeared in The Times , referring to him as ‘a character of the theatrical world.’
    There was also the matter of renting an office and of opening a bank account. His first office was down a dingy side street but when a room in the Romany House block fell vacant he took it, signing the lease with his left hand and giving as reference Mr Brownjohn of Lektreks, who duly sent a letter certifying Major Mellon’s reliability as a tenant. He used his left hand also when providing a signature for the bank. It was Arthur Brownjohn, bald, rabbity and darkly suited, who left The Laurels each morning. In the Lektreks office he kept Easonby Mellon’s clothes, and he installed a mirror by the help of which, at first with infinite care and some difficulty, he fitted wig and beard. A perfect fitting took nearly half an hour, although under stress he could manage in fifteen minutes. After changing he went down in the self-operating lift and walked to Romany House, which was only a couple of streets and five minutes’ walk away.
    At first this double identity was a game, a way of safeguarding the shameful secret represented by the fact