Miles held her as she wept, but there was no sympathy in his eyes, only condemnation.
“I’ve known it all along,” he said grimly, holding her away from him, forcing her to listen. “I guessed it from the first. You could have told me. I would have protected you. I was there that night in the studio, you know. It was my footprints they found. I followed Cass to the studio because I was afraid of what he intended. I got into the grounds while he was arguing with the watchman. I waited inside the gates until he went to the sound stage across the lot. Then I went after him and let myself in. There was a delay because I lost him among the buildings. When I got there it was already too late. I found him lying on the set, and I knew my own danger. I let myself out the fire door at the rear, and when you screamed and the watchman ran to see what was wrong, I got out of the studio. Donia was waiting for me in the car, and we drove back to the theater and were in time to appear with the crowd coming out.”
“You might have come to me,” Laura moaned. “You might have helped me then.”
“I’d have been no good to you. If the police could have proved I was in the studio that night, you know what they’d have done to me. I had to get away. Later you told me you were innocent. You told me you had nothing to do with it. And you came through free. You didn’t need help from me. But you could have told me the truth. You could have trusted me.”
She wept against his shoulder, bitterly, wordlessly.
Across the room Donia had curled herself into a chair as though she wanted to keep out of the way, make herself tiny and invisible. But she watched everything with her bright eyes—like a frightened monkey. None of us paid much attention to her. As always, Laura held the center of the stage.
“Let me take her upstairs,” Irene said.
Miles shook his head. “She needs my attention tonight. You’re coming with me to my room, Laura. You’re staying with me tonight.”
For the first time she tried to pull herself together. “No—no, Miles. I must stay with Leigh. Leigh mustn’t be left alone.” She flung out a hand toward me.
I think she did not want to face him any further that night, but there was no way to stop him from what he planned. He was darkly adamant and purposeful.
I tried to soothe her. “I’ll stay in your room tonight. I’ll be right next door, and we’ll both be safe enough. You mustn’t worry about me.”
She seemed to know when she was beaten, or perhaps she no longer had the strength to oppose any of us. She let him lead her from the room. Donia had disappeared, and only Irene and Gunnar and I remained. Irene paced the floor, angry and indignant.
“What insanity!” she cried. “What a ridiculous, mad thing for her to do!”
“She’s not mad,” I said sharply.
Irene gave me a scornful look. “Of course she’s not. Only foolish—to play out the line like that. To put herself into someone’s hands. I hope she’s alive when morning comes.”
She stalked out of the room in the wake of the others and I dropped weakly into a chair.
Gunnar spoke sadly. “What a terrible thing that she has kept this secret upon her conscience all these years.”
I contradicted him a little wildly. “It’s not true! It’s not true that she killed him. I don’t believe it for a moment. Not even though she claims it herself.”
“What do you mean? How do you know?”
“I don’t know. I only feel that there’s something terribly wrong in all this. Something we don’t understand. I think she’s in dreadful danger now. Tonight I’ll stay in the dressing room next to Miles’s bedroom. I’ll stay up and listen—so she won’t be alone if she needs help.”
I was pacing now, as Irene had paced, and Gunnar came to me. “Leigh, my dear,” he said, and put his arms about me, holding me with his strength, his solidity. I put my head against his shoulder and let all the old Leigh whom I’d never really liked ebb away from me.
For a little while he held me, and then he kissed me on the mouth. Not altogether gently. And I kissed him back.
“Victor would be pleased with you,” he said when he held me away, and I knew he was laughing at me gently, lovingly. All his anger with me had gone away.
“There is much to be settled,” he went on. “You cannot leave Bergen quickly. First, we must find a way to help Laura. And then there is you and me to talk about.”
I didn’t feel like talking, like settling anything. I didn’t feel in the least like being sensible. I only wanted him to hold me, kiss me, melt away the ice. But I think he was a little afraid of me by that time—a little afraid of himself.
“Come,” he said. “See me to the door. I will phone you early in the morning. In the meantime, I will plan.”
Whatever plans he might have made would have been futile, though I did not know that then. The undertow had already caught us in its grip and was carrying us toward the pounding sea and the rocky shore. We were all aboard that ship in Gunnar’s painting.
He kissed me again at the doorway and asked me to watch out for myself as well as Laura.
When he had gone I went back to the living room and stood looking at the blank white screen on the wall. How strange that something which had no reality, that could vanish at the click of a switch had so vital a life of its own that it lived afterwards in the imagination. I could almost hear the whispering voice again, though the house was utterly still. Only the sound of Gunnar’s car reached me from outdoors. I felt utterly and frighteningly alone. Except for Laura, I had no friend here.
I went up to her room and found that she must have come in for her night things. The door to the dressing room was closed. I opened it, stepping between scented rows of Laura’s garments, to stand listening at the door to Miles’s room. I could hear a murmur of voices. Nothing disturbing in tone. The rest of the house was quiet. Donia and Irene would have gone to their rooms. I got ready for bed and then stepped out upon Laura’s balcony.
The city still wore the wet, shiny look that is the aftermath of rain, and the lights of the bridges glowed above their own reflections in the water. There were lights in the houses along Flöyen, and on the hillside occupied by Kalfaret. Only the area close about the house was dark and quiet. In Miles’s room a lamp near the window flicked on, forming a sudden patch of light in the garden, where there had been only darkness a moment before. Someone sat on the stone wall down there, with a white face upturned and attention fixed upon the window of Miles’s room.
I stepped closer to the balcony rail, peering down. Behind me, I had left Laura’s room in darkness, so I could not be easily seen. A woman sat upon the wall, and I saw that it was Donia Jaffe. I must have made some sound, for her attention shifted from Miles’s room to my shadowy figure on the balcony. There was a moment of stillness, while we stared at each other and only the dripping sound of wet foliage could be heard close by. Then she scuttled across the garden and through the doors beneath the balcony. I went inside and kept very still, listening. I heard her come upstairs and go into her own room.
As I got ready for bed I tried to put them all out of my mind and think only of Gunnar, and of the ice that had melted in me so thoroughly that I could feel warm at the very memory of his touch. But I was not free to think about him with undivided attention. All the events of the evening crowded back upon me and I remembered Laura at the theater—a lovely dramatic figure in her scarlet cape. Laura crying out that this was a play about murder, and she would not stay to watch it. Laura crying out so dreadfully while The Whisperer flickered across a screen.
In an effort to distract myself, I looked for Laura’s volume of Ibsen plays and sat down with it under a reading lamp. When Ibsen had been a young man he had been appointed director of the very theater we’d visited tonight. He had worked there for a few years, and had written several plays that had been performed in the National Theater before he moved on to Oslo.
The Wild Duck, however, was not an altogether happy choice of reading matter, being about a girl who killed herself
upon learning of her illegitimacy. Fortunately, times had changed. Or had they? Had I not suffered self-injury for years because Laura Worth was my mother? Yet now I sat in her room, worrying about her, listening for any untoward sound from Miles’s bedroom. But all they did was talk on and on, softly, tensely.
In spite of my will to stay awake, my eyes grew heavy and I drowsed over the book. Ibsen could be as gloomy as his own rockbound country. I needed something light and humorous to amuse me and keep me awake. I pulled the chaise longue over to the dressing room door and stretched out upon it.
But I could not stay awake. Though I left the light on and constantly roused myself to listen to what had turned to silence in the next room, I grew unbearably sleepy. I thought of all the nights when I’d found it hard to sleep—yet now when I wanted to stay awake, this drowsiness enveloped me. I wondered if I should go downstairs for coffee. But I didn’t want to leave my post. I couldn’t take that chance. All I could do was order my subconscious to be aware, to listen. If I did fall asleep, I must be ready to waken at the slightest sound.
So I went to sleep. Soundly. And so did my subconscious.
When I yawned myself awake it was morning. Bright spring radiance poured through the windows and I turned off the reading lamp. Then I ran across the room to look at my watch. Nine o’clock, and there was no sound from beyond the dressing room.
I got into a skirt and sweater hurriedly and brushed my hair with a few quick strokes. Then I ran downstairs and into the dining room. Donia sat glumly at the table and as I entered the room Irene brought her coffee from the kitchen.
“Where is Laura?” I asked.
Donia grunted. “She’s gone. He took her off with him. The lovebirds have flown.”
I dropped into a chair opposite her, feeling suddenly cold. “Flown where?”
“How should I know? They didn’t even stop for breakfast. They just went off together. She looked as happy as a child, and my brother was treating her fondly.”
There was venom underlying her words, and Irene thumped her coffee cup down, letting liquid spill over the rim. “Will you have breakfast?” she said to me.
I was anything but hungry, but I let her bring me toast and coffee. From behind Donia’s back, Irene signaled me to outstay her at the table. I drank my coffee slowly, buttered wedges of toast, and did not have long to wait. Donia’s appetite was as poor as my own, and before long she wriggled out of her chair and hurried away. The moment she was gone, Irene sat down beside me.
For the first time I noticed how pale she was, and saw the dark circles under her eyes. She was the one who had gone without sleep, and it might have been better if she’d occupied my listening post at the dressing room door.
“Did you hear them leave?” I asked. “Did you see them?”
She nodded gloomily. “They took his car and headed south. Hurry with your breakfast. We’ve got to go after them.”
I felt more hopeful at once. “Do you know where they’ve gone?”
“To the summer cottage, probably. Out near Fantoft.”
That was near the ancient church where I’d first met her.
“What are you thinking, Irene?” I said.
She rose to gather up the breakfast dishes. “The same thing you’re thinking. That she mustn’t be left alone with him. She’s turned completely trusting this morning. Mrs. Jaffe is right. She’s suddenly a woman in love, and now he’s got her where he wants her. But you saw him last night when he told her about being in the studio. He showed his true feeling toward her then. Anyway, her car is still in the garage and I have the keys. Will you come with me?”
“Of course,” I said. I didn’t stay to finish my coffee, but rushed off to get ready. When I returned, Irene was waiting for me. We didn’t bother to tell Donia where we were going. Only when we reached the street did I look up and see her looking down from the balcony of Laura’s room, watching us go. I was no longer worried about her. It was Miles who concerned me now.
We drove into a world miraculously changed after the rain. Spring had exploded in Bergen. Buds tightly folded yesterday were leafing on the trees, the grass was suddenly green and birds were singing in the gardens. On the mountaintops the snow patches were thinning, and the lakes and fjords were a brilliant blue beneath the bluest of skies.
But I had no feeling for spring now. I could not respond to the beauty around me. Halfway to Fantoft, the thought struck me that I had not waited for Gunnar’s call, and that I should have called him and told him where Miles and Laura had gone, where I was going. But there was no time now. Perhaps I would phone when we reached the cottage.
In her anxiety, Irene drove more erratically than when I had gone with her to the fish market. We rushed other cars at cross streets, and hurried to take every advantage when it came to speed. She was as worried as I, and it did not help her driving.
The cottage was on a small lake, and to reach it we wound along a narrow side road that ran beside a hedge. The driveway gate was open and we went through and Irene stopped the car. Miles’s car was nowhere in sight. Irene had a key and she let us into the small rustic house. The cottage was empty. No one answered our calls.
While Irene searched the other rooms to make sure, I stood in the big main room with its open fireplace and bright scatter rugs on the floor. Pine wall paneling gave warmth and character to the room, and the furniture was sturdy and comfortable. Often in the past this must have been a retreat to which Laura came with pleasure. But she was not here now.
Irene came out of the two bedrooms, rushing past me to the kitchen. “They’ve been here, but they’re gone. Perhaps he’s taken her to the church. She always goes there. When she’s happy, when she’s sad. Always. He knows that. It would be a lonely place to go.”
Yes, I thought, lonely—and remembered my first reaction of foreboding toward that spot where the black church stood.
“Is there a telephone?” I said. “I’d better phone Gunnar.”
“Yes, you must. But there’s no phone here. And there’s no time now to go into town. We must find them at once.”
I followed her out to the car. “Do you think he would hurt her? Surely he wouldn’t harm her in broad daylight—when we know she’s with him.”
“Everything has been pushed too far,” Irene said. “There are no safeguards left.”
Again we drove quickly, but the distance this time was short. Irene pulled into the parking space at the foot of the hill, and got out of the car. Miles’s car was not here, but she made nothing of that.
“He could have brought her here and then gone,” she said. “We may already be too late.”
She ran ahead of me toward the steep path that climbed toward the church, out of sight above us, and again I followed her. I had no sense of reality in what was happening. I couldn’t believe that Miles had brought Laura here to harm her, and that we might at any moment come upon her hurt and abandoned. I couldn’t believe, and yet something in me responded once more to the spell of the place, and terror began to rise in me.
It all looked different from the last time I’d seen it. Where all the trees except the pines had stood stark and bare when we were last here, now every branch wore a green softness of outline. The grass on either side of the path was no longer brown and dead, but starting into fresh spring life. And birds were singing joyously. But when the tall church came into view above us in all its ancient black wood, and I saw again the dragons’ heads, the serpents, the mood of ominous forewarning grew even greater than before. Once Laura Worth had walked here with Victor Hollins, and there had been love between them. But all that was good and hopeful had been dispelled, and evil waited, ready to attack. It had gathered, focused around the outside of the church. If only she had gone inside where it was bright and safe—but the door stood closed above us.
There was no one here. Not even a workman busied himself outdoors in the area. The groves of trees stood still and empty. No breeze stirred the pine needles. Nothing moved on the hill opp
osite the church. We climbed toward the enclosure and saw the black stone cross upon its mound, but no one walked about it, no one touched it for sanctuary. No face looked down at us from the low wall around the church.
“Call to her!” Irene said. “Call to her!”
I called Laura’s name again and again, but though echoes shouted back, I had no answer from Laura herself.
“She’s not here,” I said, “or she’d surely answer us. This is a wild-goose chase.”
“She may not be able to answer,” Irene said darkly. “Search around the church, and I’ll climb the hill and see if I can see her from there.”
Her fear, her dark emotions were contagious. The sense of dread was growing in me as I entered the enclosure and crossed the paving stones. I circled the church and found no one. My eyes searched the surrounding area below, and saw nothing to catch my attention. As I moved toward the rear of the church, something glinted on the path before me. I bent and picked it up. The object was a tiny silver mask of tragedy—one of those pins Laura liked to wear, and that Victor had given her long ago.
She had been here. That one thing was certain. But had this pin been dropped by chance or purpose. Had she perhaps tossed it down for whoever followed to find?
I began to call her name again. “Laura, Laura!”
The answering whisper came softly, speaking my own name. “Leigh! I’m here. Come quickly.”
At first I couldn’t tell where the voice had come from. The black-columned walks that ran along each side of the church were empty, and so were the outer walks, the cross-topped mound—everything.
“Here!” the voice whispered again. “Here, behind the church!”
I stepped between two black columns at the rear and saw that beyond the round bole of an inner column a narrow passageway curved inside the rear wall. After bright sunlight, it was utterly dark, but Laura spoke to me and I knew she was there.
“Are you all right?” I said. “Did he hurt you?”
“I’m perfectly all right. No one has hurt me. Come in here quickly.”
Listen for the Whisperer Page 28
