Fool Errant

by Patricia Wentworth

  The taxi went on and turned the corner; and Hugo ran after it. He turned the corner too, and there was the taxi drawn up at the kerb in front of a small restaurant. Miss Cissie was halfway across the pavement. She was bare-headed and wore a thick dark coat with a fur collar. She disappeared into the restaurant, and Hugo followed her. He found her sitting at a little table in an alcove.

  The room was very hot and full of the ghosts of dead meals. Cissie had slipped off her coat, and sat there in a very short, thin dress of a bright shade of petunia. A spotted mirror in a gilt frame behind her showed the set of her head with its carefully waved hair. She was made up to a startling pallor, and the lashes that surrounded her bright blue eyes had been heavily darkened. She gave a jump when she saw Hugo, and said “Oh!” with a sort of gasp.

  Hugo had wondered what he was going to say, but, to his surprise, he found it quite easy.

  “I s-say, this is ripping! I saw you get out of your taxi, Miss Leigh.”

  “You didn’t!” She had hold of the table edge, and her breath came quickly.

  “I d-did—really. I s-say, this is ripping—isn’t it?”

  Cissie was recovering her self-possession.

  “You quite frightened me.”

  “D-did I?”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “I s-say, won’t you dine with me?”

  Cissie looked at him sideways.

  “Did you think I’d come here by myself? Reelly, Mr. Hugo, I’m sure I don’t know what you must think of me! No indeed—I’m meeting a friend, and I shall have to be dreadfully angry with him for being so late—and you mustn’t stay talking to me, because he’s ever so jealous, and if there is an awkward thing, it’s a man being jealous of you in a restaurant.” She pronounced the “t” at the end of this word.

  Hugo wondered if the friend was Hacker.

  “You must go—reelly, Mr. Hugo.”

  “But when am I going to s-see you again?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Do you reelly want to see me?” Hugo got a very arch glance indeed.

  “Of course I do.”

  It was at this point that Cissie remembered that she ought to have a bad cold. She had been speaking in her natural voice, rather high-pitched, rather bright; and then suddenly she remembered about the cold and began to cough.

  Hugo wanted to laugh so badly that, like Mrs. Miles, he didn’t know how he “kep’” himself.

  “This horrible cold!” said Cissie. “Oh, Mr. Hugo, you reelly mustn’t stay. You don’t know what my friend’s like—you wouldn’t believe anyone could be so jealous.”

  Hugo had not the slightest desire to meet Hacker. He wondered whether Cissie would tell Hacker that she had met him. He only wanted one thing, and he wanted it very badly—he wanted Cissie’s address. He looked eagerly at her.

  “When can I see you? Give me your address, and I can write to you.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.”

  “Please,” said Hugo.

  He was not playing a part; he had really forgotten everything except how much he wanted that address.

  “If I give it you, you mustn’t come and see me. It wouldn’t do. You must promise you won’t come and see me.”

  “I promise I won’t come and see you.”

  “All right then.”

  She scribbled on the menu-card and tore off the written slip.

  “Don’t tell Jim Hacker, will you, Mr. Hugo.”

  “Of course not.”

  He thought she meant that; he thought she was playing her own game, not Hacker’s for the moment. He thought, with an odd little thrill, that she liked him—“reelly.” He felt a momentary softness towards Cissie.

  She gave him a little push.

  “Oh, do go! I don’t want him to see you,” she whispered.

  That sounded genuine enough. Hugo went away wondering what he should say if he were to meet Hacker on the doorstep. He certainly didn’t want to meet Hacker.

  He walked briskly along for a hundred yards or so, and then looked at the address which Cissie had given him. It conveyed nothing to him. He walked on until he came to a tobacconist’s, where he bought a box of matches and asked for information.

  The girl behind the counter was very affable.

  “Morrington Road? Why, that’s up off the Bayswater Road. I’ve got an aunt lives up that way, and this Lexley Grove must be one of the small turnings out of it. Oh, not at all—only too pleased to be any help.” This in response to Hugo’s stammered thanks.

  As he left the shop, he heard her remarking that she wouldn’t half mind taking up with a nice young fellow like that.

  He took a bus to the Bayswater Road, and then walked. He had a bit of thinking to do, because at every turn it seemed as if he had to find the one right thing amidst a hundred chances of doing the wrong one. He must see Loveday. But Hacker mustn’t know that he had seen her. He must be warned; but if it were known that he had been warned, the value of the warning would be gone. He must know, and not appear to know. If he went to the door and asked for Loveday, he ran the risk of Cissie finding out that he had called; and if Cissie knew that, she would also know that her pretence of being Loveday hadn’t deceived him. He couldn’t afford to take that risk; there was too much at stake. But he had to see Loveday.

  He decided to find the house and reconnoitre.

  Morrington Road was one of those streets which have gone down in the world. Its tall houses had once been inhabited by well-to-do people. They were now let out as tenements, and the pavement in front of them was crowded with children at play—very dirty and uncared for, some of them.

  Hugo found Lexley Grove at the less populated end of Morrington Road. It was a dark street with a row of tall houses on both sides, the even numbers on the right. The number Cissie had given him was fifty. He started to count the houses, for it was much too dark to read any number, and many of the houses showed no light.

  Hugo did not like the street; he did not like to think of Loveday living there. He had counted sixteen houses, when he saw that the row on the other side had been interrupted; some dozen or more houses were gone, and in their place a dim street lamp showed a hoarding and dark, gaunt scaffolding poles.

  He counted on. At twenty a policeman passed him—at least he guessed it to be a policeman from the measured tread. He had reached the twenty-fourth house, when he heard steps coming from the opposite direction. Someone ran up the steps of number fifty and put a key in the latch. Hugo heard it grate, heard the door swing in and the man enter. He heard these things, but he didn’t see anything; it was too dark to see; the opening door showed no light within.

  All the way along the street Hugo had been wondering what he was going to do—thinking. Now he didn’t think at all. He ran up the steps, pushed the door, and found it, as he knew he would find it, ajar. He came into a dark hall, and heard hurrying footsteps on the stair above him. The man who had entered must be very familiar with the house, for he was running up the stairs without a light.

  Hugo felt his way forward. It was black dark, and it was a darkness that could be felt. The house gave out darkness. He groped, and his hands touched the balustrade, his foot struck the bottom stair. He went up, moving quickly, quietly, listening for the steps that climbed above him. The man had left the door ajar—he had not waited to strike a light—he ran. These things meant great haste and the probability of as hasty a return.

  Hugo turned a bend in the stair and, looking up, saw a narrow yellow beam of light high above him. Somewhere at the top of the house a door had opened. The hurrying steps had ceased. He heard voices.

  He kept his hand on the banister and went on up the stair. It was uncarpeted, and he had to take the greatest care to move quietly. He came on to the landing immediately under the half-open door from which the light still streamed; and as he stood there, the door was drawn to. But the murmur of voices still went on; he heard a woman say, “How long?” and he heard a man answer her, “Ten minutes will be safe. You’re sure she’s
off? We don’t want a row.”

  Hugo stood in the dark, and was afraid for Loveday.

  The man spoke again; he had a foreign accent.

  “Answer me—is she asleep?”

  The woman cringed and answered him, “I don’t know—I gave it to her.”

  “Then she’s off—and so am I.”

  He came running down the stairs. Hugo slipped across the landing out of his way, and the man passed, hurrying down, down into the darkness. The front door banged, and overhead the woman gave a sort of gasp and began to sob. Hugo heard her whisper, “I can’t—I can’t!” and then he heard her fumble at the handle. The light streamed out again.

  He ran up a dozen steps and came on to a narrow landing. A door on the left was open about a foot. The light was within, and he saw the woman’s shoulder and arm against it. She turned with another gasp.

  “Why have you come back? They haven’t come—already? Oh, don’t—don’t!”

  Hugo had his hand over her arm. It was very thin. She clutched at him with a hot, dry hand.

  “Don’t let them come! Don’t—who—who are you? I thought—” The terrified whisper died in her throat.

  “Where’s Loveday? Is she here?”

  “Who are you?” She was trembling violently.

  “I’m Loveday’s friend. What’s happening?”

  Her hand tightened on his.

  “They’re going to take her away.”

  “Who?”—he felt her tremble—“Where?”

  She spoke in a dry whisper.

  “They’re going to take her away. If you’re her friend, why didn’t you come before? They’ll take her away and get her on board the ship, and no one will ever see her again. And she looks like Min!”

  Hugo shook the arm he held.

  “Where is she? I’ve come to take her away.”

  “You can’t—they’re watching the house. They’ll wait till the policeman’s out of the street, and then they’ll come. She knows too much.”

  “Where is she? Quick!”

  He was remembering that the policeman had passed him just as he reached the house.

  “In there.” She pointed across the landing.

  “Is she drugged? What have you given her? I heard—”

  She wrenched her arm away sobbing.

  “I couldn’t do it. She looked like Min. He said, ‘Put it in her coffee.’ And Cissie went out, and I gave her the coffee—but I threw the stuff away—I thought I’d give her a chance—Min didn’t have any chance.”

  Afterwards he wondered who Min might have been. He had no time to wonder now; whilst she was gasping out her broken sentences he was across the landing trying the other door. It was locked.

  “Who’s got the key?”

  “I’ve got it—but—”

  “Give it to me!” He ran back and took her by the arm again. “Quick! Give it to me! Is there a back way out?”

  “Yes—but they’ll kill me.”

  “Come too!”

  He had the key and was half across the landing, when they both heard the front door open; there was a sound of feet, a sound of voices.

  “It’s too late.” It was the most agonized thread of a whisper.

  Hugo turned the key in the door, and as it turned, he felt the woman snatch at it.

  “He’ll kill me!”

  The steps and the voices were coming up. There was a flashing light below. Hugo wrenched open the door and stumbled into utter darkness; for a moment he lost his balance. And in that moment the door was shut and locked behind him.

  CHAPTER XVI

  The jerk with which he recovered his balance and the click of the turning key came together. As he stared into the blackness, he heard a sobbing breath from the other side of the locked door and the soft patter of the woman’s hurrying feet; he heard her door shut, away across the landing.

  He called into the darkness.

  “Loveday! Loveday! Loveday!” And then, on the same low urgent note, “Loveday, it’s Hugo Ross. Are you there?”

  Ahead of him a door was pulled open.

  “Loveday, are you there? It’s Hugo Ross.”

  The door opened wide. The room was dark, but the windows showed the sky—a black sky, but not so black as the blackness of the house—and through the open window half a gale blew in, not cold, but wet with the breath of rain.

  With the opening of the door and the blowing of the wind there came Loveday’s voice—the voice that he remembered in the lane:

  “I’m frightened. Where are you? I’m frightened.”

  He said, “Loveday!” and she ran to him with a quick, light rush as if the wind was blowing her. He felt her touch him, and it was like being caught in a soft flurry of snow; her touch was so light and so cold. He put his arm about her, ran to the inner room, and shut the door upon them both.

  “They’re coming. Is there anything we can jam up against the door?”

  “The chest of drawers.”

  “Where?”

  “Here.”

  He barked his shins against it. They pushed and pulled. It was heavy. They got it to the door.

  “I’m frightened!” said Loveday panting. “What is it? Who’s coming? Cissie—”

  He cut her short.

  “The window! What’s outside?”

  “A bit of roof. We can’t—”

  “We must.” There was an urgency beyond his safety or hers—the bigger game—the game he had set himself to play—the game that would be lost if he were found here.

  Hugo was at the window, leaning out, staring, straining to see. After the darkness of the house the night outside seemed clear; it was a black night, but the air was clear instead of dense; things could be seen, if only as strange, formless shadows.

  The window was in the side of the house. Hugo looked down on the roofs of other houses a story lower. If one hung by one’s hands, there would be a six-foot drop. Too much for Loveday. But he could let her down. He called her.

  “Quick! I must let you down.” And then as he still stared over the drop, he discovered that it was not sheer. The wall went down four feet or so, and then a piece of roof slanted to meet the roof of the lower house.

  Loveday was climbing out on to the sill, and as she turned to face him and he caught her wrists, they both heard a woman’s scream. It came through the two closed doors, and terror came with it. She gasped and swung down from the sill. Hugo leaned over, taking her weight until her feet were on the slanting roof and he caught a whispered “All right.” He let go with a horrible feeling at his heart.

  Loveday slid into the gutter between the houses, and as he climbed through the window he heard the outer door open. He let himself down and dropped slithering on wet slate that slipped away from his clutching fingers. He went down four or five feet and fetched up sprawling in the gutter. His hands were out in front of him. He lay all along and looked down—a most horrible, long way down. His hands were over the edge, his head was over the edge. He looked down, and saw the street below him. He could see two faint lamps a long way apart, and, immediately beneath him, the lights of a taxi. He could hear the ticking of the engine. He must have been dizzy, because a shadow seemed to pass when he heard the ticking and saw the lights. And immediately Loveday touched him and he drew back his hands and scrambled up. She pressed against him and said “Hugo!” and laughed, the least little ghost of a laugh. And then, through the open window, there came a banging sound and the grate of the heavy chest of drawers which they had rammed against the door. He felt her shiver. And then they were climbing a low parapet on to the roof of the next house.

  There were four of these lower houses, each divided from the next by a parapet. Looking back over his shoulder, Hugo could see the house they had left rising in a black mass. Voices came from it, and a light flashed at the window. In front of them there was a narrow gangway from which the roof rose slanting on either side. These four houses had been built with lofts to front and rear. The gangway ran between the lofts. Fai
nt oblongs of windows showed here and there against the slate, and the chimneys stuck up like masts.

  He held Loveday, and they ran. The loft windows were all empty, all dark. They climbed three more parapets, and then the low roofs ended. The next house was tall; it rose in their path and blocked the way. They stopped running, holding one another and listening. How far would they be followed? Would they be followed at all? Would the men who were following them risk showing a light? And without a light how far would they come?

  Someone slipped on the next roof—slipped and swore. Loveday pressed close to Hugo in the dark. The side of the house rose up before them with its slant of slated roof, slippery and unclimbable; behind them, footsteps and gruff murmuring voices, but, thank Heaven, no light. And then all of a sudden there was a light; not where the voices and the footsteps were, but overhead in a window like the window out of which they had climbed. Someone had lighted the gas in the room just above them, and through the open window came the sound of a man singing in a lusty bass:

  “The animals went in two by two.

  Hurrah! Hurrah!”

  He paused, struck a match and sucked at a pipe, puffed, and went on:

  “The animals went in two by two,

  The elephant and the kangaroo.

  They all—went—into the ark

  For to get out of the rain.”

  Hugo felt Loveday tremble. She stood close to him, very close, and they heard the silence. Everything seemed to be holding its breath out here. Their roof was still, and the next roof was still, and all the roofs beyond were still, with the stillness of suspense; but overhead in the lighted room there were all manner of cheerful sounds—pleasant everyday sounds of a man pushing the fire with his foot, moving a chair, whistling, and presently breaking again into song:

  “The animals went in three by three,

  Hurrah! Hurrah!

  The animals went in three by three,

  Hurrah! Hurrah!

  The animals went in three by three,