As she neared the door, the girl stopped not three feet away from me and looked down at her yellow skirt, suddenly discovering a speck of lint that didn’t exist and brushed away at it.
“I must talk to you.” Her voice was urgent. “I can’t keep it to myself any longer. You—you know my aunt. Maybe—”
“What is it, Cynthia?”
“I—I told Ralph I was going to the ladies’ room. Wait a few minutes and then follow me. At—at the end of the hall there’s a staircase leading down into the basement. There’s a storage room the custodian always leaves open. I’ll be there—”
“But—”
“No one must see. No one must suspect anything.”
Flicking the imaginary lint away, she straightened up and walked past me without so much as a nod. Looking highly suspicious and most belligerent, Ralph glared, watching her pass through the door. Pretending not to notice anything, I wandered away, stepping over to the punch table to say hello to an amiable young biology instructor Ian had introduced me to several months ago. The young man was flustered and flattered, greeting me with a broad smile. His pretty wife bristled with hostility, glaring at me as though she expected me to whisk her spouse away for adulterous purposes. It’s amazing what a sexy dress will do, I thought, bidding them both farewell and making my way back toward the door Cynthia had stepped through a few minutes earlier.
Opposite the main entrance to the gym, the hall I found myself moving down was long and dimly lighted, weak bulbs in frosted glass shades shedding barely enough illumination to reveal the bleak gray walls and the heavy oak doors leading into offices. Shadows abounded, flickering over the walls like animated black rags, and my high heels made a dreadfully noisy clatter on the solid oak floor. The hall was seemingly endless, going on and on, the areas of semidarkness only frequently broken by the feeble lamps. The noise and festivity of the dance was far behind me now, the music and laughter muted by distance. At the end of the hall I discovered no staircase. Instead, there was another hall, completely unlighted, branching off in another direction.
The staircase must be at the end of this hall, I reasoned, frowning slightly. Peering into the shifting darkness, I hesitated and wondered if I should turn back. I didn’t like the dense darkness that shrouded those walls. I didn’t like the damp, fetid smell. I didn’t like being so far away from the others. There was a storage room in the basement, she had said. She would be waiting for me. She had to talk to me. There had been an urgent plea in her voice, and her beautiful gray-green eyes had been full of anguish. She was waiting now, expecting me to arrive any minute, and I knew I had to go to her. She had something to tell me, and I felt instinctively that it had something to do with Bob Hamilton’s death. Squaring my shoulders, trying to ignore my nervous apprehension, I started slowly into the second hall, darkness engulfing me.
A draft was coming from somewhere. The hall was icy cold. I shivered as the clammy air caressed my bare back and arms. Narrower than the other, this hall had ancient stone walls that seeped with dampness, and there was an odor of age, of mildew, of decay. Tall windows were set high up in the outside wall, a few rays of moonlight filtering through the heavy panes. As my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, black became dark gray and I could see, far away, a dim suggestion of yellow that would be the light over the stairway. The walls were so thick, so ponderous, that hardly any sounds from the dance reached this part of the building, just a faint suggestion of music, like a radio barely playing. My footsteps, however, rang with an unnerving clatter, echoing against the walls like sharp gunshots. Tap, tap, clatter. Tap, tap … I stopped. I seemed to freeze. There was something wrong. Footsteps, coming toward me, coming from the other end of the hall. Now there was only the sound of my breathing and the soft whisper of the wind, but I had heard them distinctly. Echoes, I told myself. It was only echoes of your own footsteps.
I looked down the hall. The center of the floor gleamed with a barely perceptible sheen of silver moonlight, the walls on either side cascading with shadows, dark, impenetrable waterfalls of shadow that seemed to stir and shift. Someone was moving. Someone was sliding along the wall. I felt eyes watching me, plainly saw that darker form inching along in the blackness. I closed my eyes. I took a deep breath. My heart was pounding like a drum, threatening to burst. It took a very long moment to gain control. I opened my eyes again. The shadows shifted, stirred, and I knew it had all been my imagination. Scolding myself, I walked on down the hall toward the blossom of light, moving quickly now, footsteps beating a loud staccato. I looked neither left nor right. I hurried past the area where I had thought I had seen someone flattened against the wall. No one leaped out at me. I felt a presence, quite real, but I knew it must be a figment of imagination created by fear and nervous fancy.
The lamp shed feeble yellow rays on a flight of wide stone steps leading into the basement. I moved down them, finding myself in a long, wide corridor with rooms opening off on either side. A naked light bulb dangled from the ceiling halfway down, providing ample light to illuminate the damp concrete floor, the low, beamed ceiling, the closed doors. One door, I noticed, stood open, more light pouring out from the room. That would be the custodian’s storage room, I thought, relieved. I moved toward it. I stepped inside. The room was large, filled with old green lockers and bare wooden benches, soiled cricket uniforms hanging on pegs, helmets and shoulder pads heaped in one corner. I didn’t see Cynthia.
Not at first.
The smell was terrible, an odor of sweat and sweaty leather, dampness and damp cloth, mildew and stale talcum powder. I wondered where Cynthia could be. Surely this was the room she meant. Puzzled, I looked carefully around the room. I saw the pile of wrestling mats sticking out from behind a row of lockers. I saw a foot, a shoe, a chic, shiny shoe with narrow toe and spiked heel. I felt it, then, and I knew. I stepped over to look behind the lockers. She was crumpled up on the pile of mats. Her head was at a peculiar angle, her hair spilled wildly. There were dark bruises on her throat. I screamed, but no sound came. The scream was locked inside. Dark clouds seemed to close in on me, threatening blackness, but I didn’t faint. I stood there, looking at her, unable to look away, and my cheeks were damp with tears I hadn’t known I was shedding. I was still standing there when Stephen Brent came tearing into the room.
12
“Ranjit Singh,” Liz was saying. “They called him ‘the lion of the Punjab’ and he was young and devilishly handsome and fabulously wealthy, the most powerful prince in all India. She was still Eliza James then—this was before she changed her name to Lola—married to that bounder who deserted her for another woman. Anyway, the Maharajah saw her. He wanted her, longed to drape her in exotic silks, smother her in precious jewels, but Lola rejected him. Her husband was off in Karnal, fighting in the First Afghan War, and she was completely faithful to him, never suspecting that he was even then writing impassioned letters to—”
Stephen listened patiently, apparently completely absorbed by this account and giving no indication whatsoever that his mind could be elsewhere. Liz was perched on the arm of the sofa, a cup of tea in one hand, the other sweeping the air in a dramatic gesture, and Stephen was sitting back comfortably, arms resting along the back of the sofa, legs spread out in front of him. Brilliant sunlight streamed through the sitting room windows. The clock showed ten fifteen. I was both amazed and appalled. The sedative he had forced me to take late last night had put me to sleep immediately, and I was still a bit groggy, certainly in no mood to endure Liz’s excitable chatter. They both looked up as I entered. Stephen nodded. Liz broke off in the middle of her sentence and made a complete change of subject without the slightest difficulty.
“I cooked breakfast this morning,” she told me. “Omelets. They were a stunning success. We had waffles, too, and Stephen made the most delicious popovers. You look awful, Janie. You look like you have a hangover. That dance must have been something! Ron called. He wants to take you out to dinner tonight. He’s going to be busy
at the university most of the day, but he’ll call again after six. I think it’s ever so nice of Stephen to spend the morning with us, don’t you? We’ve been having the most interesting talk—”
“Coffee,” I said.
“There isn’t any,” she informed me. “No tea, either. This was the last cup. You could have done something with your hair, Janie. It looks like you—”
“Go make a pot of coffee,” I said crisply, “and don’t come back until it’s ready. I want to talk to Stephen. Where are Keith and Becky?”
“Keith’s out in his shed, tinkering with his boring machine. Becky’s over at Augusta’s. I don’t know why you can’t make coffee yourself. I may be a minor, I may be a mere teen-ager, but that doesn’t make me a servant! I was just getting to the most interesting part of my story, and—”
“Out!”
“Everyone persecutes me,” she said with tragic emphasis. “No one has any consideration whatsoever. I can’t help it if I’m sensitive. It isn’t my fault I’m so highly strung. People expect me to wait on them hand and foot! My artistic temperament is thwarted on every side—”
My expression clearly indicated that I would brook no insubordination and, seeing it, Liz abandoned her argument, rolled her eyes in exasperation and left the room as though on her way to a firing squad. Stephen made no effort to rise. He regarded me with lazy speculation, pondering what to make of me. Not expecting to find him still here, I was wearing my nightgown and robe. I probably looked every bit as awful as Liz had so pointedly observed, but there were more important things on my mind.
“They don’t know?”
“They haven’t the least inkling,” he said.
“I’m not sure it’s wise for Becky to be with Augusta—”
“Augusta’s not going to say anything. Remarkable woman.”
“She’s been informed, of course?”
“I went to see her early this morning. I broke the news. I tried to question her. I wasn’t very successful.”
“Then she knows who you are—why you’re here?”
“I told her. I had to. She didn’t bat a lash. She said I was no better than the local cops and added that I probably spend three-fourths of my time throwing tear gas at college students and beating up innocent citizens who’d committed some minor traffic violation. She could tell at a glance I had a mean, sadistic streak and said I probably intended to beat her with a rubber hose but that didn’t matter in the least. If I expected her to talk to a cop I was very much mistaken.”
“She—wasn’t broken up?”
“Apparently not. She said she knew something like this would happen to that wretched girl and was surprised it hadn’t happened sooner. Her main concern seemed to be the imminent arrival of her nephew and niece-in-law in Abbotstown, an inevitability she found both irksome and trying. While her nephew, if totally shiftless, is at least tolerable, his wife is without doubt the flightiest, flippiest creature she’s ever had the misfortune to encounter.”
“That’s just her way,” I said quietly. “The—the girl meant a great deal to her. Augusta’s hatefulness is merely a cover-up.”
“I expect you’re right,” Stephen agreed. “She asked me to send Becky over, claimed she was in the mood for a rousing game of cards. I had the impression she didn’t want to be alone.”
“I hope she doesn’t let anything slip—”
“She won’t,” Stephen said confidently. “I told her it would be better if the child didn’t know anything about this just yet. She almost snapped my head off, asked if I took her for an addlepated fool or was I merely mentally retarded.”
I had been standing in front of the fine Adam fireplace, staring down at the hearth, and I moved over to sink into one of the overstuffed chairs, my head throbbing. Liz was banging things around in the kitchen, defiantly making as much racket as possible. Chin in hand, I gazed at the worn Persian carpet, looking at the faded floral pattern without even seeing it. My mind elsewhere, I was totally unaware of Stephen’s presence. I suppose I was still in shock, or perhaps it was the lingering effects of the sedative he had given me. I kept remembering that crumpled body, those wildly disarrayed auburn locks spilling over the mats. It was something I would never be able to forget.
“You held up well last night,” Stephen said.
“Did I? I can hardly remember.”
“You followed my instructions to the letter. You did a fine job.”
“I was stunned.”
“Nevertheless, Jane, you showed remarkable fortitude. Most women I know would have gone to pieces.”
“I wanted to.”
“You didn’t. That’s what counts.”
I didn’t reply. The aftermath of my discovery was still a blur of horror. Stephen had been livid when he burst into the storage room, calling me every kind of an idiot, asking me if I’d taken leave of my senses. When he saw the body his manner changed abruptly. He gripped my arms. He gave me sharp, terse instructions. I was to go back to the dance. I was to say nothing. No one must suspect for a moment that I knew anything about this. The police would come. They would take care of everything. I was to act as if nothing had happened. I obeyed. I seemed to be in a trance. I danced and I chatted, and Ron and I left just as two police cars were pulling into the parking lot. We picked up the children. We went home. I told Ron good night. I insisted the children go straight to bed. Stephen arrived shortly after two. I was in the front parlor, wringing my hands, still wearing my backless dress. He marched me upstairs, forced me to take the sedative he found in Ian’s medicine cabinet. It was all part of a nightmare that had begun the moment I stepped into that basement room.
“How did you know where to find me last night?” I asked.
“Pure guesswork. I finally got rid of that God-awful Mrs. Willoughby-whatshername and I looked around for you, couldn’t find you anywhere. I asked one of the women at the punch bowl if she’d seen you and she told me she’d seen you going out into the hall a few minutes before.”
“Cynthia wanted to talk to me. She had something important to tell me. I was certain it concerned—all this drug business.”
“It may have.”
“She was an addict, wasn’t she?”
He nodded grimly.
“Do the police have any idea who—”
“Not a clue,” he said.
“That boy she was with—Ralph. He looked belligerent.”
“Ralph Gregory. He never left the gym. He joined a group of his cronies as soon as Cynthia left him, grew more and more impatient when she didn’t return. His story’s been checked out. He couldn’t have killed her.”
“Stephen, there was someone in the hall—that second hall leading to the staircase. I thought I heard footsteps approaching. I—I thought I saw someone in the shadows.”
“You very likely did, and it’s a wonder you weren’t murdered yourself! When I think of the bloody stupidity of your leaving like that—oh well, I needn’t cover that ground again. I pretty well expressed my sentiments last night when I finally found you.”
I looked up as Liz flounced in bearing a cup of coffee. She handed it to me with considerable belligerence, then stalked out of the room again. I hardly noticed. I stared down at the cup in my hand, frowning, then looked at Stephen again. He was standing at the window, holding the drape back with one hand, looking outside.
“I should have thought you’d be gone,” I said. “This was supposed to be secretive. Half the neighborhood will see you leaving.”
“That hardly matters now. Things have gone too far. You saw someone in the hall last night. He saw you. The time for you to play the blithe innocent is over. He knows you’re wise now, and he probably suspects you’ve contacted the police. He probably suspects a stakeout, has probably figured out we’re using you as bait—but we’ve still got one thing in our favor: he believes the briefcase is still here in the house, and he’ll act accordingly.”
“But if he thinks the police are involved—”
�
�He’ll still make his move, no matter what the risk. The narcotics in that briefcase are worth damned near two hundred thousand pounds. He’s not going to let anything make him run scared, not with that much at stake.”
“I see,” I replied.
“He’ll make his move soon. I’m sure of it.”
My first thought was for the children. I couldn’t let them be exposed to any more danger, no matter how much police protection they had. I would take them to Turnbell Green. It was only twenty miles away, and my Aunt Georginna lived there on a ramshackle Tudor estate on the edge of town. She was in her sixties, a loud, rough, rackety old dame who spent most of her time in jodhpurs and riding jacket, slapping a riding crop across the tops of her boots and bellowing commands to her stable boys in the voice of a rugged sergeant major. A widow now, she bred some of the finest horses in the country and had little use for anyone not avid for hunts and races. Ian and I had never been able to abide her, had avoided her at all costs, and the children thought their great-aunt as loathsome as we had, turning pale at the thought of being in her company for more than five minutes, but I’d take them to her nevertheless. I should have done so two days ago. I should never have allowed them to remain here under the circumstances.
Stephen approved of my plan when I told him what I intended to do. He said he would drive me to Turnbell Green.
“I’ve got to go to the police station for a couple of hours,” he told me. “I should be back around noon. We’ll leave then. I wish to hell I could leave you there, too, but it’s important you be here. He may try some kind of direct contact.”
“Direct contact?” My voice was not entirely steady.
“He may phone, may try to make a deal with you, talk you into giving the briefcase to him for a cut of the profits.”
“If he does?”
“You’ll accept,” he informed me.
“You expect me to—”
“I expect you to obey my instructions to the letter,” he said crisply. His expression was severe, his eyes dark blue, hard. “You can’t back out now. When we have this bastard, when we’ve rounded up all his henchmen, then you can do what you damned well please. Until then, you’ll do what I say. You’ll display the same brand of intestinal fortitude you displayed last night.”
Meet a Dark Stranger Page 17
