Meet a Dark Stranger

by Jennifer Wilde

  “Is he—” I couldn’t finish the sentence.

  “He’s dead,” Stephen said tersely.

  “He was going to kill me. He was going to kill Becky. He—he’s the one who—”

  “Later,” he said. “You can tell me later.”

  “He stood there, talking about it like—like it was nothing. He told me about murdering Cynthia—and that boy—”

  “Control yourself.”

  “My God. Oh, my God.”

  “Jane!”

  “I can’t help it. I—how did you know where I was? How did you—”

  “You can thank Augusta for that,” he said. His voice was grim. His eyes were like dark blue coals. “She was at her back window and saw you crossing the fields. Two or three minutes later she saw Hunter following you. She tried to reach the police station. The lines were busy. She rushed outside. I was just pulling into the drive. She told me.”

  “I—”

  “Dammit! I can’t leave you alone for a minute, can I?”

  “I had to come here. I was looking for—”

  “If I’d been a few seconds later!” he thundered.

  “Don’t, Stephen. Please, I can expl—”

  “I feel like hurling you down that hole myself! Damn you, Jane! Do you realize what I was going through as I raced across those bloody fields! I thought—”

  “What’s happening?”

  We both looked up. Becky was standing in the doorway, rubbing her eyes and yawning a sleepy yawn.

  “Becky!” I cried. “Are you—”

  “I’m all right. He stuck me with a needle. I went to sleep.”

  “How did you—”

  “I lost my notebook,” she said indulgently, deciding to be patient with my hysteria. “Remember? After I left Augusta’s, I thought I’d go look for it. I couldn’t find it anywhere around the house last night, so I figured it must be here. That man in the green cap was out there again, Janie, you know—the sex maniac. He was just waiting. I crawled through the sunflowers—he never saw me. It was exciting—”

  “Stephen,” I whispered. “That man—he’s out there in the woods—”

  “He’s alive. Stunned, but alive. He was on his knees as I raced past. He was holding the cap in his hands, said it had saved his life.”

  “Thank God!”

  “Anyway,” Becky continued, highly displeased with our interruptions, “I came here, and I heard voices. It was Ron and that Ralph Gregory. They were talking about dope, talking about how many kids they’d hooked on it. I crouched under the window, listening, and then some dust sifted down and I sneezed. They came tearing outside. Ron grabbed me. Ralph wanted him to kill me. ‘You’ll have to kill her,’ he said. He kept saying it over and over. I fought like the devil. Ron just laughed. He said he had a much better idea. Nasty pair, those two.”

  Before either of us could stop her, she sauntered over to the hole and peered down. Stephen had winced. She didn’t. She merely shrugged her shoulders and took one last look before strolling back toward us.

  “Serves him right,” she said. “He was having an affair with Cynthia, and he got her on dope. Bob knew about it. He was trying to gather evidence when Ron killed him. Cynthia knew that, but she kept on seeing him just the same. Can you believe it? Anyway, he finally got tired of her and told her to buzz off—it’s all in my notebook. If only I hadn’t lost it, I could—oh, there it is!” she cried.

  “I’ll be damned,” Stephen muttered.

  Becky crammed the notebook into her hip pocket, and then she looked up at him with an indignant expression.

  “I’m just a kid,” she declared. “No one pays any attention to me, but I knew all along, and I would have proved it, too. People’ll pay attention to me now, though. My notebook will be used as evidence. I’ll be interviewed, I’ll have my picture in the papers, I’ll be a celebrity! Liz will die, I just know it. I’m almost glad they caught me—oh, Janie, you can’t imagine how exciting it all was—”

  Stephen and I stared at her. Both of us were speechless.

  “Well, I guess we’d better go on home now,” she said regretfully. “I haven’t had a bite to eat since breakfast, and I’m frightfully hungry.”

  15

  It was a long, lazy Sunday afternoon, and there was nothing in particular to do. Through the open window I could hear the lusty shouts of boys playing soccer on Clapham Common, and in the next room Cass was humming merrily to herself as she dressed. Eddie was due to arrive in less than twenty minutes. They were going to look at flats, hoping to find one they could rent and put in order before their wedding three weeks from now. I lounged on the sofa, wondering what I was going to do today. Would I go to the concert at Albert Hall, or would I go to the cinema? Would I visit the British Museum and stand in line for the Tutankhamen exhibit currently taking London by storm, or would I merely stay in, lazing about, reading, perhaps, and just being gloriously indolent? I didn’t know, and at the moment I was too comfortable and inert to make such a major decision.

  Stifling a yawn, I folded my legs under me. As I did so, the newspaper in my lap rustled noisily. I picked it up, and the first thing I saw was the horoscope column.

  Sybil was at it again. Scanning the column for my sign, I read her predictions for this week: “After much adversity, romance will flower at last. You will be called upon to make a great choice which will affect the rest of your life. Tread very cautiously.” I smiled a rueful smile. Sybil really should take a course in composition. Romance hadn’t “flowered” since the days of King Arthur, and darn few people “tread” nowadays, either. I was still smiling as Cass stepped into the room.

  “What’s so amusing?” she inquired.

  “Sybil,” I said.

  I read the prediction to her, and Cass listened, her wide blue eyes showing neither amusement nor surprise. As I dropped the paper on the floor she patted one of her blonde curls and sighed.

  “Stephen Brent will come back to London,” she said. “He’ll ask you to marry him.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” I told her.

  “There’s nothing absurd about it. There it is in black and white. What else could it mean? After your experiences in Abbotstown, ducky, I should think you’d be a firm believer. Everything Sybil predicted that Sunday six weeks ago came true to the letter. Are you going to?” she asked.

  “Am I going to what?”

  “Marry him.”

  “I rather doubt it, pet. I’ll probably never even see him again.”

  “You will,” she said, “before the week is out.”

  She spoke with a simple conviction that was most disturbing. Wearing a pearl-gray linen suit artfully tailored to minimize her plumpness, a black silk scarf at her throat, she stepped over to the mirror to put on the chic black hat she had been holding in her hand.

  “If he were at all interested in me,” I said, pursuing the subject I was curiously reluctant to drop, “he would have written or at least phoned. He’s probably forgotten what I look like.”

  “He’s been busy,” she replied. “After rounding up those boys in Abbotstown and gathering up all that information, he had to go after the others Hunter had set up in other towns. He probably hasn’t had time to phone you.”

  “Nevertheless—”

  “I’m eager to meet him,” Cass said. “He sounds fascinating. Me, I’ll stick with Eddie. He may not be rakish and intriguing, but he’s everything I’ve always wanted—oh, here he is. High time, too;”

  She opened the door to admit her fiance. Eddie pecked her on the cheek and then ignored her, feasting his eyes on me with teasing lasciviousness. He grinned a wide grin and shook his head as though the sight of me was too much to endure. Cass stood by the door with a weary expression on her face, waiting patiently for the mandatory flirtation to be done with.

  “It’s not too late, sweetheart,” he told me. “We can still ditch her and run off together. How about it?”

  “Not today, luv.”

  “You look delic
ious in that pink dress. I’m glad you have some taste, sweetheart, glad you don’t wear those tailored suits.”

  “In a dress like that,” Cass said wearily, “I’d look like one of those Kewpie dolls you win at a shooting gallery. Come on, lover, it’s time we got started. Good bye, ducky,” she added.

  “’Bye,” I said lazily.

  “Think about it,” Eddie pleaded. “In three weeks it’ll be too late.”

  They left, and I remained on the sofa, lazier than ever, prey now to a curious melancholy. I loved them both dearly, but the sight of them together, so happy, so content with each other, seemed to point up my own solitary state, emphasizing it. Cass and Eddie were very much in love. They were going to look for a flat. I was alone, and it was Sunday, and there was nothing to do, no one to be with. I wondered if it would always be like this. True, I had been a smash hit at the dance in my sexy dress, I had been the belle of the ball, but that Jane wasn’t me.

  Oh well, I thought, there’s no need to be maudlin about it. I had a perfectly satisfactory life, and, at the moment, I was rather wealthy as well. After returning from Abbotstown, I had finally finished the latest Benny the Bear epic, and the advance Cass had managed to extract from the publishers was the largest I had ever received. I could take a long trip if I wanted to, go to Majorca, or Barbados, even take a Caribbean cruise if I had a mind to. A Caribbean cruise might be nice. After Cass married, I knew, this flat would be intolerable. I would have to force myself into a whole new life-style. Eventually, if I was lucky, I might even meet someone as nice as Eddie …

  The phone rang, jarring me out of my reverie.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “How are you, kid?”

  “Ian? Is that you?”

  “Of course it’s me. Don’t you recognize your own brother’s voice?”

  “The children—” I exclaimed.

  “What about ’em?”

  “Are they all right?”

  “’Course they are. Why shouldn’t they be?”

  “I thought—you never call unless—”

  “I have something to ask you,” he said, ever so casual.

  “You want me to come back to Abbotstown,” I said flatly.

  “That’s right. You see—”

  “That new housekeeper you hired as soon as you got back from New York, something’s happened to her.”

  “Well, as a matter of fact, she—uh—she left right after the explosion.”

  “What explosion?”

  “In the potting shed. Keith was experimenting. He wasn’t hurt, but that bloody woman had hysterics, went tearing out of the house and down the street, screaming at the top of her lungs, claiming she couldn’t take one more minute of those three hellions. Most unreasonable of her, I thought. Just as well, I suppose. The kids didn’t take to her. She had a very depressing habit of knitting socks. There she sat, knitting away—”

  “You can’t keep a housekeeper, so you want me to take over. I should have known it. If you want someone to take care of you and yours, brother dear, you’ll just have to look elsewhere.”

  “I don’t know what you have against the idea, Janie. Really I don’t. It isn’t as though you had anything else to—”

  “I’m taking a Caribbean cruise,” I said firmly.

  “Bad form, Janie. Damned bad form. We need you. Think of those poor little mites—”

  “How are those poor little mites?” I interrupted.

  “Driving me batty!” he retorted. “Becky’s been impossible to live with ever since all those headlines. Child Detective Cracks Dope Ring! I don’t know what those bloody reporters were thinking of, plastering her picture all over the front page, asking her to appear on the telly—you have no idea what it’s been like!”

  “I can imagine,” I said dryly.

  “And Keith! His birthday’s next week. He’s going to be seventeen. I said to him, ‘Son,’ I said, ‘what would you like for your birthday?’ And you know what he said? He said he wants an electronic calculator! I ask you, what kind of kid wants a thing like that? It’s not healthy! Any boy in his right mind would ask for a car of his own, but not him, not Keith! I don’t know what I’m going to—”

  “How is Liz?”

  “Oh God,” he moaned.

  “Is she still clicking her castanets and—”

  “Oh no, she gave that up. She’s been reading all about Joan of Arc. She bought a pair of slacks and a silver tunic, never wears anything else. Clipped her hair short, too. She’s taken up social causes, gives impassioned speeches at the drop of a hat. Yesterday—my God, yesterday I happened to glance out the back window. She was in the garden. She was driving a stake into the ground and piling kindling around it! I might as well admit it, that child worries me—”

  I had to smile. Ian had a habit of exaggerating, but he had my sympathy just the same.

  “That’s not the worst part,” he continued. “All three of them keep badgering me to take them back to Turnbell Green. Turnbell Green! They’ve suddenly developed a wild enthusiasm for Aunt Georginna. They’ve asked her to come to Abbotstown for Keith’s birthday. Janie—” He lowered his voice in horror. “She’s going to spend the weekend!”

  “You’ll survive,” I promised.

  My brother groaned, and then he changed the subject, chatting pleasantly about other things. After another five minutes or so, he told me to take care of myself, promised to write as soon as he could get around to it and rang off. I hung up, smiling to myself, feeling much better. Ian always had that effect on me.

  It was much too lovely a day to stay cooped up inside, I decided. I would take a walk across the common. I left the flat and, a moment later, was strolling slowly across the summery green grass. The common was exactly as it had been that Sunday six weeks ago. Lads in shorts and sweaters were engaged in a noisy game of soccer, hair flying, cheeks aglow. A group of middle-aged men sat on the benches around the tiny pond with the spreading willow tree on the island in its center, and, near the street, the pigeons jumped and fluttered as the old woman in her shabby green coat tossed handfuls of crumbs into their midst, a joyous expression on her tan, wrinkled face. Lovers were entwined on blankets, busily engaged in emotional trysts, and sunbathers in dark glasses lay stretched out. Dogs frolicked about chasing sticks tossed by small children. Nothing had changed.

  “Jane!”

  I turned. I really wasn’t surprised to see him sauntering casually toward me, hands thrust in pants pockets. He wore a long brown suede jacket, hanging open to reveal the black knit turtleneck beneath. His raven hair was windblown, locks tumbling over his forehead, and his blue eyes were calm. That lazy, nonchalant manner had never been more pronounced. He seemed completely oblivious to the bodies littering the grass, the noise, the atmosphere of robust vitality. I watched him approach, as calm and composed as he was himself.

  “Hello, Stephen,” I said.

  “I drove to your flat, and as I was climbing out of the car I happened to see you ambling across the common.”

  “It’s such a lovely day,” I replied.

  He nodded, studying my face, hands still thrust in pockets.

  “It’s been a long time,” he said. “I guess I should have written, or at least phoned, but there wasn’t time. I’ve been hellishly busy these past weeks, but it’s all over now. Everything’s tied up. I’ve taken a leave of absence from the Yard—have a whole month to myself.”

  “That’s nice.”

  The wide, Belmondo mouth curled into a grin. “You don’t seem too excited at seeing me again.”

  “Should I be?”

  “Definitely.” The grin widened. “Like I said, I never mix business with pleasure. The business has been taken care of. Now I’m ready for some pleasure. I have something to ask you—”

  “The answer is no,” I said.

  “No? I haven’t even asked yet.”

  “I could never marry a policeman,” I assured him.

  “Marry?” He looked stunned. “Whateve
r gave you the idea I—”

  “Sybil,” I said.

  “Who in hell is Sybil?”

  “She writes the horoscope column in the Sunday paper. Cass says she’s always right. I didn’t believe it. I’m beginning to now.”

  “Look, I didn’t say anything about marriage! I have this whole month to fill, see, and I thought we might go somewhere. The Riviera, perhaps, or—I don’t know what the hell you’re looking so calm about! I’m not the marrying kind, never will be—”

  “I told you before, I could never marry a policeman.”

  “Why not?” He was outraged.

  “There are any number of reasons—”

  “Policemen are perfectly respectable! Besides, I’m not your run-of-the-mill cop. I only take special assignments. Wouldn’t have to take those if I didn’t want to. The shop brings in more than enough to support me in fine style, more than enough to support a wife, too, if I—”

  “Is that a proposal?” I inquired.

  “You know damned well it’s not!”

  “It’s just as well,” I said idly. “I’m going on a Caribbean cruise. I’m leaving next week.”

  “Now just a minute!” he exclaimed. “You listen to me—”

  He seized my arms roughly. I listened.

  Sybil, of course, was right.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1974 by T. E. Huff

  Cover design by Julianna Lee

  ISBN: 978-1-4976-9834-5

  This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

  345 Hudson Street

  New York, NY 10014

  www.openroadmedia.com

  EARLY BIRD BOOKS