by Roger Bax
He caught Esther’s glance, quizzical and tender over the top of the glass, in which the moon glistened like a diamond. Hastily he recollected himself.
“I apologize,” he said ruefully. “I was being frightfully rude.”
“I like watching you when you’re thinking,” she said, “but I should like it even more if I knew what you were thinking.”
“May I tell you?”
“I’m all ears.”
“Well——”Garve stumbled and could not bring himself to say it. He reflected with a little sinking of the heart that at a time like this a man must always seem a bit stupid in a woman’s eyes. He knew that Esther knew that he wanted to ask her to marry him. She was so cool and self-possessed again—friendly enough, yes, even encouraging, and yet … He cursed silently. No doubt heaps of men had proposed to her. It would be almost a ritual with her now—and he had never proposed to anyone. In the jargon of his trade he felt that he was falling down badly on this assignment. Hundreds of times in almost every conceivable situation he had conducted delicate interviews with triumphant success. Hardly ever had he been at a loss for the right word, the right gesture. That was his job, and he was proud of his craftsmanship. Yet tonight …
“What about our swim?” he asked abruptly. “Do you feel like it?”
“I’m in your hands.”
“I’ll get the towels,” said Garve, but to himself he thought, “I wish you were in my arms.” He excused himself, and ran back to the car, boyishly eager not to miss a moment of her company.
He was back almost before she had risen from the table, and they walked side by side along the path of planks that led to the empty dressing-rooms. The moon provided all the light that was necessary.
Garve pushed open one of the little wooden doors. “There you are,” he said, “complete with shower, which you’ll find a boon after the dip, to get the salt away. See you by the water in three minutes.”
He walked away, humming softly, but Esther called him back. “Do you mind if I have my swim suit?” she asked, wickedly demure.
“Oh—sorry,” he said, and hastily handed the garment over.
“I know it seems a pity,” said Esther, smiling, and the wooden door was gently closed upon him.
“You’re a little devil,” Garve called over the top of the door, but he only evoked a gay laugh in response.
He marched with resounding footsteps along the bare wooden passage to the far end, nearest the sea, and began to undress in another of the tiny cubicles. He felt proud of his well-developed body as it shone naked in the brilliant moonbeams which struck through cracks in the wood. On such a night, in such a climate, it seemed a crime to cover it up. He was thankful that he had only to put on slips—that it was unnecessary for him to do as Esther must do, and imprison rippling muscles and silky skin in dead wool.
He found her waiting for him, sitting on the wooden step which led down to the salt-stained shingle and the sea. The warm night air was almost motionless, and, when it faintly stirred, its touch was a caress.
He sat down beside her on the step and let his left arm fall lightly round her bare shoulder. Her slight movement was towards him rather than away, and as she turned his other arm slipped round her too. Passion gripped him, and suddenly he bent and pressed his lips to her mouth. For a moment she lay quietly there while he kissed her, and then her own white arms crept round his neck with a little sigh and she kissed him with an ardour equal to his own. Motionless they clung together in the moonlight, their almost unclothed bodies strained together, their hearts beating sledge-hammer blows.
Esther stirred and took her lips away, but her head remained on Garve’s shoulder, and his strong, tender arms still gathered her to him. Her eyes shone with vivid happiness.
“I’ve been wanting you to do that all the evening,” she whispered. “Oh, so badly.”
“I wish you’d told me,” said Garve foolishly, “because it would have been no trouble to do it before.”
Esther’s mouth turned up at the corners in one of her own specially mischievous smiles. “You needn’t sound as though you’re being obliging, anyway. I know I’ve been a dreadfully forward hussy, but you really did seem to need a surprising amount of encouragement.”
“Only because it was you,” said Garve, who was still struggling back from heaven.
“You mean if it had been anyone else you would have done it without difficulty and without encouragement.”
“You know I don’t mean anything of the sort. The mere thought of kissing any woman but you revolts me. I’ve been fumbling about so stupidly all evening, because—well, because I—I love you, my darling—because I love you so much that I’ve become quite unusually humble and lost all my self-possession. Esther, sweetheart, tell me you’re not just flirting with me. Can I believe what your lips tell me? I’m deadly serious, Esther—I’ve fallen so completely and indescribably in love with you. I want to marry you and have you as my wife for ever. I’m just a lunatic about you. I think everything about you is marvellous, even your temper! Every little bit of you is unutterably precious to me—from your marvellous hair to your adorably pink toenails. Esther darling, you’re not laughing at me?”
“No, no,” she cried, and passionately sought his lips again, while on her lashes tears glistened like jewels in the moonlight. “I think I’ve loved you,” she said, rubbing her cheek against his chin, “ever since you were so abominably rude to me the first day we met.”
“You deserved it; but although I knew you were spoiled I couldn’t dislike you. Sweet darling, tell me again that you love me.”
She told him while he covered her mouth and eyes and delicate ears with kisses and caresses.
“And you will marry me?”
Esther laughed. “Do you want a promise to-night? I can tell you I love you with an easy mind, but marriage is a horribly complicated thing, and I don’t want to be serious yet. Will you make do with my love—just for a little while?”
“Make do!—oh, my sweet, what a phrase to use. If I live to be ninety I shall never hope to know such happiness as this again. I have read of love, and written of it, and made fun of it, but I never dreamed what a revolution it could bring about in one’s whole being.”
They lay silent for a moment in each other’s arms, till Garve said, “I could willingly stay here with you till dawn and after.”
Esther smiled. “I know, but we mustn’t—I promised father I wouldn’t hang about all night. Shall we swim?”
“In a moment,” said Garve. “First kiss me once again.”
Her lips moved softly, moistly, under his, and her small hand lay flat on his bare chest. His right hand tenderly caressed her body, and as it found the shapely contour of her firm, round breast, she gave a little shiver and clung closer.
“Oh, Philip Garve, I love you so,” she breathed in an ecstasy of happiness, and he knew then that he could do anything with her. But not to-night—not for the world would he give her cause for the faintest tinge of regret.
He dragged himself away from her and ran quickly down to the sea, so that she should not notice how much he desired her. He waded in, the water lapping warmly at his waist, and turned to watch her. She stood on the tideless verge, where the pebbles glistened with salt crystals, and he saw for the first time the perfection of her figure. Truly, nature had been gracious to her, for her head alone would have given her distinction, with its bunch of red-brown curls, its proud carriage, its sweet features—and there she was, with a body as well that any woman would envy or any man covet—firmly proportioned with its slim waist and wide hips, and poised with the dignity and grace of a young goddess.
She looked a little dubiously at the viscous water, smooth as silk and strongly sulphurous. Gingerly she dipped her foot in it and watched the powdery layer of salt spread over it as it dried.
“Come on in,” Garve called. “It’s marvellous.” He came to meet her, and took her back with him.
“You must be careful,” he s
aid. “It’s almost impossible to swim in it, and if you get a spot in your eye it will make you shout. The best way is to treat it simply as a bed, and lie on it.”
“What fun!” cried Esther exultantly. She lay back on the water and gazed up at the moon. Her head rested on the salt-laden liquid as on a cushion; her body was half out of the water, her feet would not sink. Garve, floating beside her, took her hand.
“You could go to sleep like this,” he said, “and take no harm.”
“I’m going to try to swim,” said Esther, with a flicker of her old stubbornness. She turned over with an effort and a splash, the heavy beads of brine falling from her naked shoulders like quicksilver. She struggled and began to laugh. To keep one’s legs in the water was like trying to hold down a balloon. She splashed helplessly and ineffectively on the surface for some minutes, and then got a little in her mouth and choked.
Garve drifted over, paddling gently, and patted her back. “I like to see you tasting a new experience,” he said with a grin.
“It’s beastly,” said Esther, still spluttering. “Like sulphuric acid.”
“I know,” said Garve, sympathizing in a useless sort of way. “The hills round here are full of salt, and they’re gradually being washed down into the sea.” He floated idly away and back again. “Feeling better?”
“Not noticeably. Let’s go ashore and have another drink.”
“That suits me,” said Garve. They waded out and ran for their towels. It was so warm that they decided to have their drinks before they dressed.
Garve went off with a towel round his shoulders, and returned quickly with two glasses of amber liquid on a tray. Esther swallowed a mouthful and gave a long sigh.
“That’s better.” She leaned against the wooden doorpost and stared up at the moon.
“Tired?” asked Garve.
“Not a bit; but I think the moon’s gone to my head a little. Have I said a lot of very foolish things to-night?”
“Nothing you need regret. Nobody’s taken a shorthand note of them, and they’ll never be called in evidence against you—if you want to change your mind.”
Esther sat down beside him on the wooden step and began to stroke the back of his hand. “You’re such a dear, aren’t you—so kind and calm and philosophical. I shan’t change my mind, Philip—I know that I love you, and I just couldn’t do without you now.” She pointed suddenly to the water. “The moon’s sinking—look, it’s made a silver bridge across the sea. Where do you think it leads to?”
“If the stories are true,” said Garve unromantically, “it leads to Sodom and Gomorrah, which are supposed to be buried at the bottom. The water is frightfully deep; I once talked to an R.A.F. man who swore he’d seen the ruins plainly from ten thousand feet.”
“It would be fun to walk on it, anyway,” said Esther. “It looks so solid—do you think it would bear my weight if I ran across it quickly enough.”
Garve’s fingers gently ruffled her hair. “You’re not much of a burden, my dear, but you’d need the agility of a fire walker.”
Esther continued to regard the water speculatively. “Do you know what I’d like to do, Philip? Something quite dreadful.”
“Put a little in a bottle and take it home,” said Garve promptly.
Esther laughed. “Nothing so proper.” She wiggled her bare toes. “I should like to have a last swim with nothing on.”
“You’re not drunk, are you?” asked Garve anxiously.
“Sober as a high court judge,” Esther assured him. “Wouldn’t it be lovely, though? I’ve always longed to swim naked in moonlit water, but somehow the opportunity has never occured.”
“Little sensualist!” said Garve. “But I share your longing. Clothes in water are really a very fatuous concession to modesty. “What do you propose to do about it? I’m willing to do anything gentlemanly to assist within reason.”
“Would it be an awful effort to shut your eyes? It sounds very silly, I know, but I don’t think I’m brazen enough——”
“It would be an effort,” said Garve solemnly. “If I had my old school tie I’d bandage my eyes with it. I’ll tell you what. I’ll turn round while I count twenty, like this—one—two—three—four … By that time you should be in the water. But I warn you I shall look at twenty!”
“I’ll bet you will,” said Esther wickedly. There was a demon of naughty laughter in her eyes. “Mind you don’t fracture a vertebra turning your head. What happens after that?”
“Then you close your eyes while you count twenty-five,” said Garve, “and I’ll join you in the water.”
“Why do I have to count twenty-five? You’ve less to take off.”
“You’re more impetuous and you’ll count faster.”
“You flatter yourself, sir. Anyway, I shan’t peep. Are you ready? Then count.”
She dropped a kiss lightly on the point of his chin and ran gaily down to the water. Garve controlled his head but failed to curb his imagination. In a second her swim suit lay on the stones, and she was wading out along the silver bridge, her slim white body a diminishing divinity.
Across the water she heard Garve’s voice counting with a little curl of laughter. “Eighteen, nineteen, twenty. I’m coming.”
“Wait,” cried Esther in sudden panic. She was bobbing about in the heavy water like a cork. “Please, Philip, don’t come. Please, Philip, I’d forgotten this water was so buoyant. It’s quite impossible to get into it.”
“A bargain’s a bargain,” Garve teased her.
“You’re to go away at once. I shall hate you for ever if you don’t. Do you hear?”
Garve chuckled. “At last you’ve found a place where you can’t stamp your foot. Now, listen, young woman. I think you’re treating me abominably, but I’m willing to negotiate a fair and honourable settlement. I’ll go away—at a price.”
“What price?” asked Esther.
“Forty kisses—to be given before midnight.”
“You make them last so long,” Esther protested. “And it’s eleven now. There wouldn’t be time. Won’t you make it twenty?”
“All right, Lady Godiva.” Garve moved off cheerfully. “I’m going to dress—though there’s thousands as wouldn’t.”
He walked, whistling, back to his cubicle, and turned on the shower.
13. The Ambush
It was much darker when Esther again joined Garve. The moon was sinking behind the high hills, and though the stars were slowly coming into their own, they provided only a faint illumination. With the passing of the moon some of the romantic zest went out of the night, and sombre thoughts began to creep back into Garve’s mind. As he struck a match for Esther’s cigarette and noted once again the firm beauty of her features by its light, a sudden fear for her safety in the days to come shot through him like a pang of physical pain.
She rallied him. “Too tired to claim your forfeit, Mr. Sobersides? I always like to pay my debts, you know.”
His arm stole gently round her and he kissed her with infinite tenderness, as though she were his child. “When you’re away I start to think,” he said. “I wish you were on a boat for England.”
“I should love it—if you were there too.”
Garve sighed. “When this job’s finished, I will be—with luck. We’ll be homeward bound together; but who knows what will happen before then? If I thought I could persuade your father to send you back at once——”
“You couldn’t, and, anyway, I’m not a parcel to be sent home carriage paid. You know, I wouldn’t go. If, as you’re so certain, there’s danger for us all, I’ll be happier sharing it with you. But you may still be wrong. Tell me, Philip, now that we’ve started being serious, what happened in the quarries last night?”
“Hayson tried to kill me because he’s in love with you himself,” said Garve. “He arranged everything so that I should get lost.”
Briefly he told her some of the things which hitherto he had told no-one, and she listened in rapt and silent horro
r.
“Murder!” she breathed, as though she could still hardly believe it. “Cold-blooded murder. And yet—he’s like that—he has it in him—I’ve felt all the time that there was something ruthless and cruel about him.”
“Go on believing that,” Garve beseeched her. “Don’t ever put yourself in the position where he can be alone with you. It won’t be for long—I swear we shall all be out of this—or dead—before many days are past. But until we are, be careful, sweetheart.”
Esther gave a little shiver. “He frightens me as no one ever has done. He’s so intense. Oh, Philip, to think that I once admired him!”
“I have had moments,” said Garve, “when I could not help admiring him myself. He has personality—terrific personality—and there is something admirable in that alone—yes, even when it has a criminal twist. I still can’t understand him—I find it easy enough to believe that he could do murder, but somehow, not murder from mere jealousy. Have you ever noticed the shape of his head? It’s the head of an idealist, not a criminal. But phrenology is an uncertain science, and he’s obviously got the wrong stuff under his bumps.”
Garve glanced at his watch and scrambled to his feet. “The time has come, the walrus said’ … It’s ten to twelve, and we must go.” He kissed her again. “Thank you for the most heavenly night of my life.”
