by J F Straker
Most of them have gone to bed now, she thought. She had heard them come upstairs and go to their rooms, and as each door had opened and shut she had tried to place it. But it seemed that there were new guests that night; some of the footsteps had led, she was sure, to unfamiliar doors. The one on the far side of Desmond’s room, for instance; that had hitherto been empty. She had heard Desmond say goodnight to the new occupant, and it had seemed to her that the answering voice had been that of Alan Torreck. But it couldn’t have been Alan. Her ears or her imagination had been playing tricks with her.
Or had it been due to her subconscious desire to hear his voice?
She tried to analyse her emotions honestly. After only four days of marriage to Desmond, was she now falling in love with Alan? Surely not. She had known Alan since she was thirteen; if she had been destined to fall in love with him it would have happened before now. Then why had he begun to monopolise her thoughts? There could be two reasons for that, Elizabeth decided; unsatisfied curiosity (she still did not know the truth about his reputed love for her) and the vacuum left in her heart by Desmond’s defection from it. She did not blame Desmond for that latter fact, but the result was the same. The vacuum demanded to be filled.
Not for the first time, she regretted the rash impetuosity which had led her into accepting Desmond’s proposal. In that she had wronged herself and him. Had she also wronged Alan?
The wind and the curtains and the rattling window had gradually formed a familiar background accompaniment to her musings; now it seemed to Elizabeth that a new sound had intruded itself into the nocturnal symphony. A shuffling sound; not the shuffling of feet, but as though a heavy body were slithering over the ground on its belly. And it came from beneath her window.
Instantly alert, Elizabeth turned on her back, pulled the bedclothes to her chin in an instinctive gesture of self-protection, and listened. The noise had stopped now; noises always did when one wanted to analyse them. She tried to picture what lay beneath her window; she knew the distant view, but had never consciously examined the foreground. The room was at the back of the hotel, overlooking the cricket ground. She had a recollection of out-buildings . . . a cobbled yard . . . the smell of horses . . .
Horses! That was it, of course. That low building to the right, the one with the sloping roof; that was the stables. In the past it had no doubt been well tenanted; but now there was only Gertrude, the elderly mare who pulled the roller. And it must have been Gertrude, rustling around in her straw, who had produced that alien sound.
Elizabeth relaxed. All the same, she thought, I’ll close that window before I go to sleep. There’s a drainpipe runs up to the ledge beneath my window. I don’t want any visitors that way.
She returned to her thoughts of Alan. Alan wasn’t in the same street as Desmond when it came to looks and charm. He was short and stocky, and rather clumsy in his movements; his hands were those of a worker, not of a dilettante, and his clothes appeared to have been chosen for their serviceability rather than with an eye to their esthetic value. He was not particularly well read, he had no outstanding social graces. But he had solidity and determination and tenacity, and a readiness to see the good rather than the bad.
Drowsily Elizabeth wondered what he would be like as a lover. Rather forthright, she thought; unable to speak fluently of his love, but eager to demonstrate it. Clumsy . . . but intense. Probably jealous and possessive . . . not always understanding . . .
The window continued to rattle, the curtains to murmur. Elizabeth did not heed them. She was asleep.
* * *
Alan was first in the room, with Desmond close behind. Even when she saw them Elizabeth did not stop screaming. She half sat, half lay in the wildly rumpled bed, both hands gripping the bedclothes, her eyes wide with terror — while scream after piercing scream split the silence of the sleeping hotel.
The two men ran to her, one on either side of the bed. ‘For God’s sake! Elizabeth!’ Alan implored, his arm around her shoulders. ‘What is it?’
He thought at first that reason had left her. Her eyes stared rigidly at the door, her body when he touched her was taut and hard. Then suddenly she stopped screaming and slumped heavily against him. Her body began to tremble violently; they could see her limbs twitching under the blankets. Her eyes were closed now.
Tears started to chase their way down the white cheeks, the trembling body became racked with loud, convulsive sobs.
Alan held her close as he looked with troubled eyes at Desmond. The latter shook his head in bewilderment. ‘It’s all right, Elizabeth,’ he said, as though soothing a frightened child. It’s all right.’
There were others in the room now: Inspector Pitt, still looking very much the policeman, despite his tousled hair and the surprisingly gaudy green and purple pyjamas beneath his raincoat; Sergeant Watkins, also in a raincoat, but with pyjamas of a more sober hue; an elderly couple whom Alan did not know. And behind them in the doorway other guests peered curiously into the room at the frightened girl, the ones at the back on tiptoe to see over the heads and shoulders of those in front.
‘What happened?’ Pitt asked.
Desmond looked up at him. ‘We don’t know. She hasn’t told us.’
The Inspector grunted. His observant eyes travelled quickly round the room, paused for a moment’s reflection at the open window, and returned to the bed. ‘Tell us what happened, Elizabeth,’ Desmond said gently.
‘What frightened you?’
Elizabeth opened her eyes. She looked from one to the other without turning her head and sighed deeply, shudderingly. Her lips were bloodless, although there was a faint smear of lipstick at her mouth.
‘A man,’ she said. ‘He — he tried to smother me with a pillow.’
There was a gasp from her audience. The two detectives stepped closer to the bed.
‘You mean it really happened?’ Desmond said. ‘It wasn’t just a nightmare?’
‘No.’ One hand went to her cheek and then moved slowly, tentatively, to her throat. ‘It wasn’t a nightmare.’
Alan had cramp in his arm. He withdrew it gently, and she lay back on the pillow that Desmond hurriedly pushed beneath her head. For the first time she seemed to be fully aware of them. She smiled at them faintly through the tears, but her body still trembled.
‘Can you tell us any more than that, miss?’ Pitt said quietly. His voice sounded official without being officious.
‘I don’t think so. Something woke me . . . there was a noise . . . I knew there was some one in the room, and as I opened my mouth to scream the . . . the pillow . . .’
She choked, shuddering at the memory. Pitt picked up a pillow from the bedside chair and examined it; its surface was smooth and freshly laundered. He replaced it without comment.
The little knot of people at the door parted, and Dulcie Rivers came in. She looked cool and fresh and provocatively beautiful. Either she hadn’t been to bed at all, thought Alan, as she came to stand beside him, or nothing so commonplace as a scream in the night was going to prevent her from dolling herself up before investigating it.
Elizabeth turned to Desmond. She said, forgetful of the fact that their marriage was still a secret, ‘Remember, I told you how I sleep on my stomach? I think that’s what saved me. I half twisted round when the board creaked, and then . . .’ She shuddered. ‘The pressure pushed me back, I suppose, so that my head was in the crook of my arm. I don’t know what happened after that. I must have fainted.’
Pitt said, ‘Lucky you did, miss. No doubt he felt your body go limp and presumed that —’ He coughed. ‘You’ve no idea who the man was?’
‘No.’
The elderly couple had by now advanced to the foot of the bed in their curiosity. Pitt shooed them away. ‘This gentleman’ — he indicated Jim Watkins — ‘and I are police officers, ladies and gentlemen,’ he told the cluster at the door, his tone authoritative. ‘I want you all to return to your rooms and stay there. If you wish to go back to bed, do so;
we may want to question you later, but that can probably wait until daylight. Or is there anyone who can say now that he or she has some information which might have a direct bearing on this unfortunate incident?’
He looked at them in turn, and they looked back at him. One or two shook their heads, the rest stared blankly. Slowly they drifted off to their rooms, talking softly but excitedly as they went.
Pitt turned to the two young men. ‘Can either of you throw any light on this?’ he asked. ‘Which of you was first into the room?’
‘I was,’ Alan said. ‘By a neck. The scream woke me. I tumbled out of bed, grabbed my raincoat, and ran. Desmond came out of his room as I passed the door. And that’s all I can tell you.’
‘Me too,’ Desmond said.
Pitt lifted the pillow from the chair. ‘Is this yours, Miss Messager?’ Elizabeth nodded. ‘Was it on the chair when you went to sleep?’
‘Yes. I put it there. I never have more than one pillow.’
‘And who would know that? Who would expect to find it on the chair?’
Elizabeth was a little shocked at the question. It seemed to imply that a number of men had access to her bedroom.
Dulcie said quietly, ‘I knew. And Mr Farrel. Both Mr Farrels.’
They looked at her in surprise. She had been so still that for once most of them had forgotten her presence.
‘So we did,’ Desmond agreed. He turned to Elizabeth in explanation, though more for the benefit of his listeners than for her. ‘We’ve all popped in at one time or another to see how you were.’
But Elizabeth had abandoned the question for its implication. ‘You mean that was the pillow he — he used, Inspector?’
Pitt either did not hear or preferred not to answer. He was gazing at the small glass bottle on the bedside table.
‘Sleeping tablets?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Did you take one last night?’
‘No.’
‘But some one might expect you to take one, eh? They would know you usually do?’
‘No,’ Elizabeth said firmly. ‘I’ve never taken one in my life.’
The Inspector’s eyebrows lifted slightly. ‘Then why —’
She hastened to explain. Her nerves were steadier now. It was a relief to talk, to dispel in talk some of the terror that had been hers. ‘Mr Farrel — Mr George Farrel —gave them to me yesterday. They’re his. I told him I couldn’t sleep because of this bump on my head, and he thought they might help.’
The Inspector pulled thoughtfully at his lower lip. Help whom? he wondered.
Jim Watkins went across to the open window and flashed his torch at the sill and the ledge beneath.
‘But you didn’t take one?’
‘No. I meant to, but I forgot. I was lying here thinking, and I suppose I just drifted off to sleep without it.’ A faint tinge of colour came to her cheeks as she recalled those thoughts, and she looked rather shyly at the pensive Alan. ‘That was lucky, wasn’t it?’
‘Very lucky,’ Pitt said drily. ‘I notice your father isn’t here, Mr Farrel. Is his room on this floor?’
‘Yes. Near the head of the far stairs.’ Desmond frowned. ‘I’m surprised he didn’t hear the rumpus, though.’
‘Perhaps he took one of his sleeping tablets,’ Pitt suggested.
‘Yes, perhaps he did.’ Desmond had been on his knees by the bedside. Now he scrambled to his feet. ‘I’d better wake him. He ought to know what has happened.’
The Inspector stopped him. ‘Not yet, Mr Farrel.’
Jim Watkins’ large body was half-way through the window now. Alan watched him, fearful that at any moment the pyjama-clad legs might tilt upward and disappear through the window after the body. But the legs remained firmly rooted to the floor. Presently they were joined by the body, and the flushed face of the Sergeant surveyed the group by the bed.
His expression obviously signified something to the Inspector, for the latter went over to him immediately. They talked together in whispers; and then it was Pitt’s turn to lean perilously over the window-sill and peer out into the night.
He did not peer for long. He came back into the centre of the room and said, ‘You will all stay here with Sergeant Watkins, please, for the present,’ and then walked briskly from the room. A moment later he reappeared, looked thoughtfully from one to the other of the two young men, and said, ‘I’d like you to come with me, Mr Torreck. I may need help.’
Alan obeyed with alacrity.
There were lights in the corridors, lights on the stairs and in the hall, but no people — although from behind some of the bedroom doors came the sound of excited voices in conversation. ‘Know your way around?’ asked Pitt. ‘How do we reach the rear of the building?’
Alan took him through the dining-room and out by the French windows. The darkness closed in on them as they moved away from the circle of light. Looking up at the building, Alan saw that there were lights in most of the bedrooms on that side.
They’ll dine out on this for weeks to come, he thought.
Pitt headed away from the main block, picking his way by the light of his torch. As they rounded the end of the stables, a long, low building jutting out at right angles, Pitt said, ‘How did you come to be spending the night here, Mr Torreck?’
Alan was glad of the darkness; it hid the discomfiture which he knew must show plainly on his face. ‘I stayed rather late last night, and it didn’t seem worth while going home. Didn’t fancy it, either; my father’s away, and I hate being on my own.’
It sounded weak and somehow rather sissy, but there was nothing he could add to improve it.
Gertrude was restless in her stall, and she neighed loudly as they passed. Alan looked up at the bedrooms again, trying to pick out Elizabeth’s; he knew it must be something the police had seen from her window which had prompted this expedition. But he was unsure of his geography, and there was a similarity about the windows that confused him.
He stumbled over uneven paving, righted himself with a muttered oath, and took a few unsteady paces forward. Then he stopped. The Inspector stood slightly to his right, the beam of his torch steady on something that lay close to the wall.
It was the body of a man. He lay spreadeagled on his back, and his staring eyes eerily reflected the light from the torch. There was blood on his forehead and in his hair.
‘Good God!’ Alan said. ‘It’s Bruce!’
Chapter Fourteen
A Homily on Pillows
‘Oh, no!’ whispered Elizabeth. ‘Not Bruce. It couldn’t be!’
The room was crowded. George Farrel had joined them, and Sergeant Cole, and outside in the corridor Constable Williams stood on guard. Dulcie had gone very white at the news; they thought, when she slumped limply on to the bed, that she had fainted, but she shook her head when Desmond and Jim Watkins went to her aid. Of the two girls Elizabeth looked the more composed; but her hands gripped the blanket more tightly, and some remnant of the terror which had formerly possessed her was back on her face.
Desmond and Alan seemed the least surprised. ‘I knew he was up to some devilry,’ the latter said, after he had told Pitt of Bruce’s visit the previous evening, and of his own belief that Bruce had hidden somewhere in the hotel. ‘But from what he said I thought it was Desmond he was after, not Elizabeth. He was supposed to be fond of Elizabeth. Why, he even wanted to marry her.’
Pitt turned an inquiring eye on the girl. ‘Is that true, Miss Messager?’
‘Yes.’ She remembered what Desmond had said — that Bruce was a snob, that it was money and social prestige that had attracted him to her. She remembered, too, his interest in Dulcie. ‘At least, it’s true that he asked me to marry him. But I can’t be sure, of course, that he was in love with me.’
That was something, thought Pitt, that most girls would be sure of above all else. But he had seen the speculative look she had given Dulcie as she spoke, the way her fingers had tentatively touched her throat and then returned to gri
p the blanket, and he did not ask her to explain.
‘He must have fallen while he was getting out of the window,’ Alan said. ‘I wonder why he went that way? Perhaps he was still in the room when Elizabeth screamed, and knew he’d be spotted if he tried to escape through the building.’
‘He probably came in that way as well,’ Desmond said. ‘Climbed up the drainpipe. I never had much faith in your theory that he was inside the hotel.’ He turned to the Inspector. ‘Wouldn’t there be marks on the pipe?’
‘There should be if he used it,’ Pitt agreed. ‘Would you be able to say if he came via the door or the window, Miss Messager?’
‘No. I told you, he was already in the room when I woke up.’
‘And before you went to sleep? Did anyone try the handle of your door? Did you hear anyone moving about outside in the yard?’
‘I don’t remember hearing anyone at the door. And outside — well, there was Gertrude. Or I thought it was Gertrude. A kind of slithering noise.’
‘What time was that?’ Pitt asked.
‘Just before I went to sleep. After midnight.’
‘Bruce,’ Desmond said. ‘I bet you that was Bruce trying the drainpipe.’ He looked at Alan. ‘I knew you were wrong, Alan. I knew he couldn’t be in the hotel.’
Sergeant Watkins was at the window again; it seemed to draw him like a magnet. He said, ‘What kind of shoes was Poulton wearing, Inspector?’
‘Rubbers.’ Pitt turned to Desmond. ‘Mr Farrel, what was the ostensible purpose of Mr Poulton’s visit here yesterday evening?’
‘I don’t know. He told Alan he wanted to see me, but he didn’t give a reason.’
‘You knew it wasn’t a friendly visit?’
‘According to Alan he didn’t seem particularly friendly,’ Desmond said cautiously. ‘I can’t imagine why.’
‘Can’t you?’
Pitt’s voice was suddenly crisply accusing. He was no longer the polite investigator, he was a prosecutor facing a hostile witness. They were all aware of the change, and the tension in their looks and attitudes reflected their awareness. Dulcie jerked stiffly upright from a half-recumbent position on the bed; George Farrel’s eyes narrowed as he looked from the Inspector to his son; Elizabeth, startled at first into rigidity, sank back on to the pillow with a deep sigh, a troubled look in her grey eyes.
