“Shall I wrap them up, sir?” asked the shopkeeper when he had made his purchase.
“What? Oh, no thanks. I’ll put them in my pocket.”
Queer type, thought the shopkeeper as Ned departed—looked as if he was sleepwalking.
When Ned returned to the flat, there were still two hours to go before he could expect Laura back. He laid and lit the fire: when it was burning well, he threw on it the pages of Helena’s diary which he had been keeping in his wallet. There was no need for them any more: Helena was here, in possession of his mind, as though writing the confession had opened a door for her. He felt, not for the first time, a stranger in Laura’s familiar little room. He and Helena were sitting here together, as it might be in a temporary resting place which they would never revisit, before putting on their coats again and going where they had to go.
Sitting by the fireside, Ned found himself reliving his past, which rose up before his mind’s eye in a sequence of rapid, bright pictures, as it is said to do with a drowning man after he has ceased to struggle. The pictures were all of Helena—Helena and himself in the early days of their love or at those brief periods of reconcilation later which had deluded him with false hope. All these vividly recalled scenes had one thing in common: Helena was tender, or gay, or subdued, but never reproachful. And this, of itself, caused him the bitterest pang he had yet suffered. She had an unspeakable thing to reproach him with, now, but she did not do so. It was as if she had forgiven him for that; and what worse pains can a murderer be condemned to, he thought, than the forgiveness of his victim?
He struggled no more against the sea of self-reproach that was engulfing him. Eager and golden, ruined and pathetic, Helena moved through his mind. Look on this picture, and on this. It was he who had wrought the dreadful change in her, he who had destroyed her, long before Stuart Hammer stopped her breath. More patience, more compassion and understanding on his part, and she would never have become what she did become: but again and again he had failed her, withdrawing into himself when he should have stretched out his hand to rescue her as she struggled. What he had justified as self-preservation, he saw now as cold, cowardly egotism. In the end, you do not preserve yourself by withdrawing your sympathy from a person for whom you are responsible, with whom you are so closely involved. Hardening his heart against her, he had atrophied it. He had created his own doom by failing to fight hard enough against hers.
Ned could feel again now. It felt as if the blood were running out of his heart, running to waste—a sensation so physically strong that he dragged himself from his chair and gazed into a mirror. A white, drained face looked out at him.
He began to pace about the little room, which had turned into a cage, desperately trying to wrench his mind away from Helena. Stuart Hammer’s S.O.S., now—was it possible that the police really had got hold of something at Hammer’s end of the conspiracy? But, if they had, surely they’d have questioned me by now about my movements on the night Herbert Beverley died? Perhaps they have interrogated Laura, though. She hasn’t mentioned it to me; but she may be keeping quiet about it just to save me from worry.
Ned’s overwrought mind could only respond dully to this possibility of danger. What the police might have discovered was no longer important, unless it balked at the last moment the plan he had made for tomorrow. The plan involved, among other things, losing Laura; but this, Ned now realized, would not be the most painful part of his expiation. Not the most painful part for him. But for Laura?—how much would she suffer? Caught up inextricably in the coils of his own guilt, he could only expiate what he had done by giving mortal pain to a woman who loved him. In saving the innocent Brian Holmes, he would hurt the innocent Laura atrociously. It was an odd moment to be thinking of Laura’s feelings, but Ned felt dimly glad that he was not too far gone to think of them.
When the bell rang, he caught his breath, convinced for a moment that it must be the police at last. But, opening the door, he saw Laura standing there alone.
“Lost your key?” he asked.
“No, love. I thought—I wanted you to come and open the door for me. It makes me feel as if I was really coming home.”
This from the once cool, unsentimental Laura! The blood began to drain out of Ned’s heart again.
While she dressed to go out with him, he summoned up all his little strength of mind to face the ordeal. If this was to be their last jaunt together, at least let him make it one which she would be happy to remember. He must act a part, he must create an illusion; to be dishonest now was, perhaps, the least dishonorable thing he could do.
As they walked into the restaurant, Laura created the usual impression. Ned was conscious of the way men looked at her and envied him. In the old days, when their meetings had to be secret, this had always made him uneasy: tonight it was merely ironic.
“You see?” he murmured. “They all want to take you home with them.”
“Want must be their master,” she demurely replied.
“Now you’re going to eat the biggest dinner in your life. It’s a celebration.”
“You’ve really finished your play?”
“Yes. Down to the final curtain.”
“Oh darling, how wonderful. And may I read it while you’re away?”
“Of course. I’ve put it in your bureau. Complete with dedication.”
“Dedication? To me, you mean?”
“Yes.”
Swiftly she brushed her head against his shoulder. He saw there were tears in her eyes.
“You do know I love you,” he said impulsively.
She nodded, unable to speak.
“Whatever happens, remember that.”
“But nothing is going to happen? Is it?”
“No,” he firmly replied.
Side by side on the plush seat against the wall, holding hands, they sipped their cocktails and ordered dinner. In the pinkish-gold light of the restaurant, Laura seemed to glow—cheek, neck, shoulder—like a classical goddess.
“It’s wonderful being able to flaunt ourselves in public,” she said, “instead of having to be furtive about it.” Then, some time later, “You know, when you first came to me, I was frightened.”
“Frightened?”
“That you’d never be able to get over Helena, after what had happened. You’re such a broody old masochist.”
“Masochist? I like that. You’ll be telling me next it was I, and not a dog at all, that took a bite out of my hand that night.”
“Can you be arrested for biting yourself?”
“Only if it creates a public disturbance. Why?”
“I see why you asked me to give you an alibi, darling. You had bitten yourself in public, and it caused a riot. I’m not surprised.”
“Lucky the police never questioned you about where I was that night,” he said lightly. “You’d have caved in completely and landed me in the cooler for self-laceration.”
“Oh no I wouldn’t,” she answered. “For you, I’d lie my soul away.”
“Souls aren’t got rid of so easily.”
“Do you believe we have souls?” Laura was getting just the least bit tipsy. The way she said it made him feel, for the first time since they had come together, much older than she.
“Eat up your tournedos,” he said, “and to hell with theology.”
“I like you ordering me about,” said Laura, pressing her thigh against his. “You’ll go on doing it, won’t you, when we’re married?”
“Certainly I will. And bash you if you don’t obey.”
“I’d like that … Ned, what’s the matter?” she asked sharply.
“Matter?”
“You suddenly looked—I don’t know—implacable. Like a hanging judge. What is it?”
Ned’s lighthearted remark had reminded him of what Stuart Hammer had done to Helena. “I was thinking of a man I’d like to kill,” he said. “With my bare hands. What a ridiculous expression that is! As though it wouldn’t be just as enjoyable if one wore gloves
to do it.”
“Ned! Don’t talk like that!”
“Sorry.”
“You mean, the man who—?”
“Yes.”
Laura sighed involuntarily. Her beautiful shoulders drooped. Would Ned ever get away from Helena? She felt profoundly disheartened, realizing that all her efforts to give Ned peace of mind had been unavailing. It was unnatural, surely, for him still to be tied like this to a dead woman from whom he had struggled so hard to escape while she was alive. She wondered what Helena had been like—Ned had never been able to convey much about her—and what was the secret of her power over him: perhaps the secret was no more than that of a central weakness in Ned himself—a weakness which Laura was intuitively aware of, and toward which she felt a kind of affectionate impatience.
I must be a bit tight, she said to herself, crying over spilled milk like this. It’s not Ned’s fault. A thought stirred at the back of her mind. Ned’s behavior ever since he had come to her that night, his alternations of sodden gloom and hectic passion or gaiety—it was that of a man trying to throw off remorse. Laura had assumed it was a sentimental remorse over the failure of his relationship with Helena. But there could be another explanation, whispered the voice at the back of her mind: isn’t this just the way a murderer would behave? Remember what he said that first night?—“Would you still love me, supposing I told you I’d encouraged another man to kill her?”
No, it’s quite fantastic, she angrily told herself, thrusting the thought away like a temptation. This is Ned. I am sitting beside him. I love him. I know him through and through. He is a gentle, suffering man, not a monster.
All right, said the voice; but who is the man he’d like to kill with his bare hands? His accomplice? Himself?
“Let’s have another bottle. I feel like getting tight this evening,” said Laura.
“You shall. You’re adorable when you’re drunk. Like a loose-limbed doll.”
Between them they did their best to rescue the evening from the blight which seemed to have fallen on it. They talked and laughed and made up indecent fantasies about their fellow diners. Laura was not quite steady on her feet when they left. She took Ned’s hand, and held it inside the pocket of his mackintosh, their arms linked.
“What on earth have you got in your pocket, my darling?” she asked, as her hand came into contact with some objects there. “They feel like window wedges.”
“They are window wedges, sweetheart.”
“But our windows don’t rattle.”
“Oh, I thought they might come in useful,” he vaguely replied.
14 The Second Voyage
Stuart Hammer rowed toward the derelict jetty, his oars taking deep gulps of water. There were not so many vessels in the outer anchorage of Yarwich harbor as when he had last picked up Ned Stowe here. The night was cold, and very dark. Behind the dinghy, the bare mast of Avocet at once disappeared from view: Hammer had not bent the sails: for this trip he would use the auxiliary, which was running very sweetly.
Everything was under control, provided Stowe turned up at the rendezvous. It ought to be all right. It was quite evident, when they were talking in Regent’s Park, that the clot had lost his nerve: he had tried to bluster at first—all that stuff about turning Queen’s evidence—but he had soon caved in. The only thing that worried Stuart Hammer was whether Stowe might have gone right round the bend since their meeting and said or done something irreparable. Anyone capable of supposing that he, Stuart Hammer, would tamely sign a joint confession and paddle off to South America must be soft in the head. Well, the clot Stowe was soft, from truck to keel. He’d even bungled his little assignment in Norringham. Stuart Hammer did not really believe that Stowe would ever carry out his threats to write a confession which would put both their heads in nooses; but the risk was not worth taking: he could never feel safe with an unreliable type like Stowe knocking around. The bastard had fallen for his suggestion that they should skip out of the country, which showed how simple-minded he was. But that sort of simpleton could be dangerous.
So it was quite imperative that Ned Stowe should be disposed of. The method presented no complications to Hammer. He would put a strong sleeping draught in Ned’s drink tonight, toss him into the middle of the North Sea, and chug quietly back to harbor.
The plan was as foolproof as their original one, and for the same reason—that there was no known connection between the two men. Stuart Hammer had impressed it on Ned, when they talked under the tree in Regent’s Park, that he must not breathe a hint to anyone about where he was going today. If they were to get safely out of the country, Ned must cover his tracks from London to Yarwich. It pleased Stuart to think that Ned would be co-operating thus in his own doom.
He allowed the dinghy to drift the last twenty yards toward the jetty, which he identified at first not by sight, for it was still invisible in the blackness, but by the sound of waves splashing against it. Now he was near enough to descry a tall figure, motionless as a beacon, standing at the seaward end of the jetty.
Without a word spoken, Ned stepped into the dinghy, placed his bag in the stern sheets and took his place on the thwart beside Stuart Hammer. Together they rowed vigorously away from the land, whose dim outline was at once swept from view as though a hand had been placed over their eyes.
“Well, it’s a good night for the job,” muttered Ned, after they had rowed for a couple of minutes. “Always provided you can find your tub again in this darkness.”
Stuart Hammer grunted, jerking a finger over one shoulder: “Riding light. You should be able to pick it up now.”
Ned turned his head. A tiny light, which seemed to be hanging low down in the sky, was visible. “Good old Avocet!” he exclaimed.
“Pipe down! Sound travels over water.”
They climbed on board and made the dinghy fast. It’s just as it was the first night, thought Ned, feeling as if he had entered a recurrent nightmare: except that Hammer had a beard and an eyeshade then.
“Stow your baggage in the cabin. But don’t turn on the light.”
Ned pulled the solid teak door toward him and groped his way into the cabin. Taking an electric torch from his pocket, he flashed it cautiously around. Then he opened a locker, lifted out a pair of heavy sea boots and an oilskin. While he was putting them on, Avocet began to tremble, and Ned felt the thrust of the propeller as the engine was slipped into gear.
Back beside Hammer in the cockpit, the wind from the North Sea cold on his cheek, Ned said, “Well, here we are again. I suppose our journey really is necessary?”
“You suppose correctly, chum.”
“Police twigged you?”
“I wouldn’t say that. I’d not have been allowed to get this far if—”
“Well then, why are we scuttling off?”
“Because,” said Stuart Hammer, improvising freely, “that bitch Peggy blew the gaff. Told the police on second thoughts she couldn’t swear I’d been with her all that night. Told ’em she’d woken up next morning feeling as if she’d been drugged. They gave me a hell of a grilling after that. I stuck to my story: but I had a tip from the chief constable’s office that they were beavering away again to trace the movements of the car I borrowed. It just wasn’t good enough. I decided to get away while the going was good. So I rang you up. And here we are.”
“It seems to me,” commented Ned in a suspicious tone of voice, “you’ve been scared by your own shadow.”
“It does, does it? Shall I put you ashore again, then?” Hammer snarled.
“Oh, I expect you’re right.”
“I damn well know I’m right. I’ve seen a bit of police work. Once they’ve got a thread in their hands, they don’t let go. Sooner or later, they’d have hauled us in.”
“I suppose so. But it’s a hell of a prospect for me.” Ned’s voice began to tremble. “I shall never see Laura again.”
The bloody wet, thought Hammer contemptuously—bleating about his popsy. And he has the infernal impu
dence to tell me I’m scared of my own shadow. I’ve a good mind to beat him up before I pitch him overboard. However, got to play him along for a bit—don’t want him to get suspicious and swim for the shore.
“Well, it was your idea,” he said. “Skip the country and then send the police a confession to clear young Holmes.”
“That’s true. It’s just—oh well, we’ve got to sink or swim together.”
Not together, son, not together, said Stuart Hammer to himself, grinning in the darkness. He peered ahead, feeling his way along the line of buoys which marked the channel. Ned glanced at his companion’s hairy hand, firm on the tiller, and thought his own thoughts. Away on their port bow, the lighthouse at the headland scythed the water which led to open sea.
“Usual drill,” said Stuart Hammer presently. “Go below while we pass the lighthouse.”
Ned ducked into the cabin. Every ten seconds, as the beam struck through the portholes, the cabin sprang out of invisibility, then went black again, as if a flashlight photograph were being taken of him. All this had happened before, in another life. Ned’s mind felt clear and cold. Would Laura be asleep by now, or lying in the darkness thinking about last night, planning their future together? He saw her suddenly, standing at the street door this morning, in her characteristic attitude of good-by—quite motionless, one hand tentatively raised, her eyes gazing fixedly upon him. She had always said good-by thus, with that fixed, deeply inquiring look, as though she wondered if it was not good-by forever. Well, this time it was.
He heard the tread of heavy boots overhead, going forward, then returning. When Stuart Hammer called him out a few minutes later, Ned observed that the navigation lights had been extinguished.
“Just in case the balloon has gone up and they’re searching for us,” said Hammer.
“Suits me.”
“You weren’t trailed to Yarwich by any types in mackintoshes and large boots, I suppose?” asked Stuart affably.
“Not so as you’d notice. I told Laura I had to go back to Crump End for a couple of days, to settle things up. I drove thirty miles out of London, put my car in a garage, pottered about the countryside for most of the day, then took a bus back to town and caught the last train down to Yarwich. If anyone had been shadowing me, I’d have spotted him during my country walk.”
A Penknife in My Heart Page 17
