She was handing him something: papers. He glanced through them mechanically. Letters: from the pastor of her birthplace in Ontario; from school teachers and college professors; from a librarian with whom she had worked for a time; from the Spanish family whose children she had taught English.
He handed them back to her with a word of thanks. Then he walked around to the other side of the desk and waved her to a chair, and putting his hand into his pocket, brought out the key ring and put it on the desk in front of her.
“Yours?” he asked.
She picked it up and held it and then looked up at him and smiled.
“Yes. Thanks. Where’d you find it?”
“Beside the body of General Lessing last night.”
There was a long silence. She was still looking at him; in her eyes had been at first expectancy, then he saw them go blank. Now there was an expression in them that he could not read, but as he watched, he saw all the colour drain out of her cheeks, leaving her deathly white.
But when at last she spoke, her voice was steady and almost matter-of-fact.
“You shouldn’t have touched it,” she said.
“You gave it to the little Dutt boy to play with.”
“Yes. And I didn’t take it back,” she said.
“You didn’t have it with you when you left the Junction?”
“No.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Sure I’m sure.”
“Then the last you saw of it—”
“—little Choomy Dutt was playing with it. He was sitting on the floor under the table, and I guess I forgot he was there. When it was time to go out to your car I forgot the key ring.”
“So you walked out and left it with Choomy Dutt?”
“Yes, But that doesn’t prove anything. He could have left it there—and there were a lot of people in that room.”
“You couldn’t have packed it up, or taken it from him and put it into your pocket?”
“I could have—but I didn’t. Does that put me in the clear?”
“Not entirely.”
“Now what?”
“Mrs. Edmond said that you went out last night. She said you went looking for another place to live, but the police will want more details than that.”
“How do you know I went out?” she asked.
“I went looking for you. I went to Mrs. Edmond’s. But you weren’t there; you’d gone, and she didn’t know where you’d gone to.”
“I went out last night to get away from her. I was kind of tired, and she was kind of talkative. I told her I’d be leaving, and then I went out because I needed some exercise. I thought if I walked around, I might see some place I liked better. I did. I saw this little hotel called the Red Lion, and next morning I went there and got myself a room.” Her voice was slow and calm as usual. “I wasn’t the only one who went out. Mrs. Edmond was out too; I heard her come in when I was in bed. But I don’t think she’s mixed up in anything; she just wasn’t in the mood for bed. Did you think I’d skipped town?”
“Yes.”
She studied him.
“First you pick up the key ring because you think I’m all right, then you decide I skip town because I’m not?”
“That’s about it. I asked myself how much I really knew about you.”
“And the answer was—nothing. Are you going to take that key ring to the police?”
“Yes. They’ve got to have it.”
“It’ll have your fingerprints all over it—and mine. That isn’t likely to help them much.”
“We’ll go to them together; I’ll explain why I picked up the key ring—and silly it’ll sound—and you can tell them that it hadn’t been in your possession since you gave it to Choomy Dutt. I saw you hand it to him; so did my cousin; so did Mr. Allenby. If he and Rosario didn’t see you pick it up again, you’ve nothing to worry about.”
The key ring dangled from her fingers. “When do we go?” she asked.
“Tomorrow.”
She nodded. Paul was about to say something more, but sounds in the outer office told him that clients had arrived. He opened the door for Anabel and saw Mr. Dutt standing beside Frances’ desk, holding his small son by the hand.
“Ah, good afternoon, good afternoon,” he called to Paul. “You do not mind if Choomy is with me?”
Paul smiled.
“Just so long as he doesn’t yell, or kick anybody on the shins.”
“He will be good,” promised his father. “Choomy, you will be good?”
“Good,” said Choomy, his beautiful dark eyes lifted for a moment to his father’s face. Then he had freed his hand and was going across the room to greet his old friend, Miss Dane.
“Hello there, Choomy,” she said.
Mr. Dutt looked at her.
“You are the young lady from the train, isn’t it?” He inquired. “I remember you from yesterday. I wish that I had known you were going to be working here; I would have made myself known to you.”
“My secretaries, Mrs. Castle; Miss Dane,” said Paul.
Mr. Dutt bowed.
“I shall not disturb you for long,” he said. “I came only to ask for more front door keys; there are only enough for myself and my wife and my mother-in-law, and this is inconvenient for us.”
“I’ll see about it,” said Frances.
“You have a nice little office here,” said Mr. Dutt, looking around with approval. “But do not let me keep you; see, Choomy is making a nuisance of himself.”
But Choomy was not bothering anybody. Armed with a pencil provided by Frances and some paper supplied by Anabel, he had crawled under Frances’ desk and was drawing industriously.
“Always he likes to sit underneath something,” explained his father. “I do not know why this is; perhaps it is because he was born in a hot country and he has an instinct to get shade?” He dismissed the matter with a shrug. “Isn’t this a terrible thing, this murder?” he went on. “I have just been to see the police.”
“The police?” repeated Paul with astonishment.
“Yes, I thought that this was a wise thing. You see—” Mr. Dutt sat in the chair Paul dew up for him and stretched out his legs— “it happened very close to us, and naturally, people are saying how strange that on the very night that somebody is murdered, some foreigners, some Indians come. What is this? They are saying. We are the nearest house and—”
“Not quite nearest,” pointed out Paul. “You mean that little one called the Lodge? But I am told that the only person there was the sister of this General who is dead; so the Lodge does not count. When we got the news from my servants this morning, my mother-in-law got very upset. ‘Look here,’ she said to me, look here, this is no good; we are arriving at this place and the next thing is a murder. You must go to the police and present credentials.’ So I went just now to the police and told them how we got cars at the Junction, how the train did not run, how Dr. Veysey met us at the house and gave us the keys. And after that, what? We had to unpack, we had to cook food, we had to make beds; half the night we were busy. There was no time, I said to the police, to go next door to murder someone.”
“I don’t think the people here—” began Paul.
“—are a suspicious lot? All people everywhere,” said Mr. Dutt, “are the same. If there is a murder, one chap will look at another chap and say: ‘Perhaps he did it?’ ”
He paused to look at some papers that Frances had put before him.
“A few things to sign while you’re here,” she said.
Mr. Dutt drew his chair closer to the desk, put on a pair of glasses and changed in a moment from an expansive friend to a shrewd client.
“I am a lawyer,” he looked up to tell Paul. “I am very professional in these things, you know.”
“1 think you will find everything in order,” said Paul. “The house has been let to various tenants over a period of years, and—”
“He never lives in it himself—Dr. Veysey?”
�
��No. His father used to live up there, but when he died, Dr. Veysey preferred to go on living down here in town. Will you sign there?”
Mr. Dutt signed.
“The house is not as big as I’d hoped,” he said, putting away his pen. “It is, in fact, too small for us, but never mind for that. Oh, by the way, Sir Paul, I have just had the pleasure of meeting your fiancée. How beautiful she is.”
“She is,” agreed Paul. “Where did you meet her?”
“She was kind enough,” said Mr. Dutt, “to call and see my wife this afternoon. It appears that Dr. Veysey had told her that my wife was pregnant, and unable to go out very much, and she came over to see her. She said that her mother is unfortunately ill; her uncle, also. But when Mr. Allenby is better, she says that she will arrange for us to meet; like him, I am a keen chess player. It is for my wife’s health, you know, that we came here. She is delicate, and the doctor in London, where we live, said it would be good for her to go to the south of England for two, three months. I heard that the air here is very good, and quite by chance somebody told me to write to Dr. Veysey to ask if his house was available. When I learned that the house was on a hill, I knew that it would suit us very well.” He rose. “But I am keeping all of you from your work. Come, Choomy.”
Choomy seemed to be ready. He was reaching up to replace the pencil in its proper place on Frances’ desk.
“Always so tidy,” said his father with pride. “Other children leave their toys all over the place, here and there, but Choomy—no. Tidy, always tidy. Now I will say goodbye.”
“One moment.” Paul looked at Anabel. “May I have that key ring for a moment.”
She took it from the pocket of her suit, and as she did so, a piece of paper, tightly folded, dropped from her pocket to the floor. Paul stooped to pick it up, handed it to her and turned to Mr. Dutt.
“Would you ask Choomy, in his own language, whether he remembers this key ring?” he asked.
Mr. Dutt turned to the small figure beside him and said a rapid sentence or two. Choomy gave as rapid a reply.
“He says,” translated Mr. Dutt, “that Miss Dane let him play with it.”
“And will you ask him what he did with it afterwards?”
There was another brief exchange, and then Mr. Dutt turned back to Paul.
“He says that he gave it back to Miss Dane.”
Paul’s eyes went to her but she had turned away and was facing the window. She murmured a reply to Mr. Dutt’s farewell but did not turn. The door closed behind father and son, and Paul waited to collect his thoughts.
“Anything wrong?” Frances asked him in a puzzled voice.
He did not reply, and after frowning in bewilderment for a moment, Frances walked over to Anabel.
“Anything wrong?” she asked again.
Anabel turned, and as he saw her face, Paul’s heart seemed to stop beating. She looked gray, and her eyes had a blank, faraway look. Frances seized her hands, but she did not seem to notice. Then Frances took her by the shoulders and shook her, and she seemed to come to herself.
“What happened?” Frances asked her. “For goodness sake, what is it?”
“Nothing,” brought out Anabel with difficulty.
“Are you…do you feel ill?”
“No. No; I’m…all right, thanks.”
“Well, you don’t look it. Come and sit down,” said Frances. “Did Mr. Dutt say anything to upset you?”
“No.”
She was looking at Paul, and she seemed to be waiting. He knew that there were things he must say. He must demand an explanation. He must ask why she had denied getting the key ring back from Choomy at the Junction. But he could think of nothing but the lost, frightened look on her face; he felt nothing but a longing to reassure her, protect her, bring back the colour to her cheeks and restore the easy, graceful, laconic manner he liked so much. He had a curious feeling that the office had vanished, that Frances was far away, that he and Anabel Dane were alone in a quiet, remote place.
He found himself beside her, her hands were in his, but he could not say how they had got there. He was speaking, but the words did not seem to come from his lips.
“Everything,” he said gently, “is going to be all right.”
She looked up at him: a long, searching look. He was aware that she was seeking something in his face, and he hoped desperately that it was there.
Apparently it was. She gave a soft sigh and seemed to relax.
“Yes,” she said. “Everything’s going to be all right.”
He released her hands and stood looking at her for a few moments. Then he went into his own room and closed the door.
Frances looked at Anabel.
“Sure you feel better?” she asked.
“Yes, thank you.”
Curiosity burned in Frances, but she checked it; it was clear that the other girl did not want to discuss the matter further. Choking down her questions, she turned her mind to work.
“I’ve put this desk ready for you—and this chair,” she said, “but tomorrow we’ll get you something more comfortable. Care to look through some of these files?”
Anabel nodded, and they sat down side by side while Frances explained the work that was to be done, and discovered with pleasure but without surprise that the other girl was as intelligent as she looked. They worked together until the hands of the clock moved toward 5, and then Frances gathered up the letters that Paul was to sign.
“You can stamp the envelopes while he’s signing the letters,” she said. “No hurry about posting; the local letters go at lunch time and are delivered the same evening, but the others don’t have to go until about 6; you can drop them into the post box on your way home Which reminds me.” She paused for a moment. “Do you like living at the Red?”
“It’ll do until I find something else, I guess.”
“You wouldn’t care to take over our spare room? Be our lodger—Bob’s and mine? Bob’s my husband.”
Anabel looked at her.
“You’re very kind,” she said, “but—”
“But what?”
“Maybe I’d better not. You don’t know me; you don’t know anything about me. And you don’t know what kind of boarder I’d be.”
“I’ll take a chance. Would you like to come?”
“Sure I would.”
“Then it’s settled. Do you think you’re going to like working here?”
“Yes I do.”
“You wouldn’t think, would you, that ten years ago it was a tottering little concern that nobody took seriously? It was started by a man named Ogilvy; he’d retired from an insurance job but he wanted something to do, so he opened an estate agency. He got to love it the way Choomy loves you—but before he could get the business on its feet he got ill, and he couldn’t find anybody to run the place. He asked my husband if he’d be willing, because he hadn’t a very good job at the time—but I said no. Bob and I, I said, were going to be farmers. We were going to lead the good outdoor life and raise cows and ducks and grow rich while we were breathing good fresh air.”
“And?”
“And we went bust. But meanwhile, Paul’s father had died, and he was bust too. He left Paul a pile of debts and a mother to support. When I say debts, I don’t mean that he’d thrown away his money on women, like Dr. Veysey, or on drink; it was just that he’d bought up chunks of land all around the Valley to save it from building speculators. The place was growing fast, and he saw that if they messed up West Hill the way they messed up East Hill, this town would have been just a dark little canyon between two overcrowded hills. He even bought a bit of land beyond the town, and made them take the new arterial road farther away. What you call a public benefactor; trouble is, his wife and his son benefited not at all.”
“And?”
“And Paul had to sell up and sell out and pay off, and find his mother somewhere to live, and see that she had something to live on. Ogilvy asked him to run this place, and Paul agreed, because—like his
father—he saw more clearly than anybody else how fast things were developing here. When Ogilvy died he left him the business—and Paul put it on its feet. And soon we’ll have to move to larger premises. And if you want to know who my favourite man is—next to Bob you can see it written up there in black letters on that door.”
Anabel smiled.
“Where’s your husband?”
“Travelling, most of the time; selling agricultural equipment. He only gets home about four nights out of seven, and that’s my punishment for trying to run a man’s life. You’ll see him tonight because he’s taking four day’s leave.”
“Does he like the job?”
“Not much. Every night I get down on my knees and pray he’ll get the sack so that he’ll have to join Paul. And then we can She broke off as Paul came into the room. “Oh, Paul, I was just bringing you the letters.”
“Take your time,” said Paul blandly. “It’s only 10 past 5 and I should have been out of the office ten minutes ago.”
He sat at her desk and signed the letters, and Frances handed them to Anabel to be put into their envelopes.
“I’ve got myself a lodger,” she said when he had done. “Anabel. Anabel may we call you Anabel?”
“Why not?”
“Good. Paul, can I bring Anabel along to dinner with us tonight?”
“Of course,” said Paul. “Incidentally, I’m going up to Brakeways when I’ve been home to get the car. Can I do anything about transporting luggage?”
“You can—thanks,” said Frances. “I’ll go straight home, and Anabel can go to the hotel and pack her things, and you can pick her up on your way to the Brakeways and bring her to our house.”
Anabel was ready when he walked into the lounge of the Red Lion. He carried the familiar suitcase out to the car, and put her into the seat beside him.
“It isn’t far,” he told her. “We have to cross the town and go up East Hill to get to Frances.”
He stopped outside the Castle’s little house, but made no move to open the door for her; she saw that he was staring absently at the row of cheap little houses.
Their eyes met, and they smiled at one another, and he wondered if he had gone out of his mind. She had lied to him, and he was sitting here looking at her and telling himself I hat she was purity itself. She had an effect on him…Well, that was all right; he was a man, and she was an outstandingly attractive woman and he’d be moribund if he didn’t know it—but there ought to be some way in which he could detach his mind, free it in order to study her coldly, dissect her words, track her movements.
Death and Miss Dane Page 6
