I gave a little shriek, as if in astonishment. “Why, that is my apartment house,” said I. “You don’t mean that all this was—”
Roger nodded. “Of all places, that’s where they had the baby hidden. I understand there was fighting, and of course the police were called in at the end and all the tenants were questioned. It must have been terrible. I—I can’t help feeling glad you were in the country; that spared you a dreadful experience.”
“So it did,” I said, and gazed at him round-eyed. “How fortunate!”
The first excitement over, he gave me a friendly inspection. “I hoped to see you looking less tired. Wasn’t the weekend a success?”
“Thank you, it was very restful—all except last night, when I didn’t get much sleep.”
“Oh, the storm?”
“Yes, that was it. The storm. I’ll—I’ll tell you all about it later.”
Someone looked round a corner, and said, “S-s-st. The old man.”
“Good heavens,” Roger exclaimed, “it’s after opening time!”
In thirty seconds the crowd had dispersed and the newspapers had been whisked into oblivion. All that Mr. Caya saw, as he stumped his way through the main room, was a department head quietly giving orders to the humblest of his file clerks.
“These are to be copied in triplicate, Miss Ferris,” Roger was saying virtuously; then, as the old man’s footsteps receded, he added, “We’re busy this morning, I may not get another chance to ask if you’d care to take in a show with me tonight?”
For one moment I wavered; I might plead the need of rest, or say, “Wait till this afternoon and see how we both feel.”
And then I knew it was no good, and never would be.
“Thank you, Mr. Tripp,” I said, “but—I think not.”
It was the end of that.
Mercifully, Caya and Co. were, as Roger had said, in for a busy morning. I filed and copied and cross-indexed like mad for three hours, but in doing so defeated my own purpose; for 11:30 came and there was no more work on my desk.
Mrs. Brent, whom I approached in Roger’s absence, looked a bit startled at my demand for something to do. “Well,” she said doubtfully, “there’s this stack of letters to be put in the dead file. You know where that is?”
I knew: upstairs in a dusty inside room which the staff called the Black Hole of Calcutta. “Give ’em to me,” I said.
She gave me a shrewd glance. “What’s the matter, that you’re so anxious for work? Had a spat with the boyfriend?”
“I haven’t any boyfriends at all,” I told her. “You might as well get that straight—all of you.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Brent, with a shrug, “of course, we knew you weren’t acquainted with anyone in the city—except here in the office.”
“That includes the office,” said I, and stalked away with my hands full of antiquated correspondence.
That didn’t last long enough either, though I dallied in the Black Hole as long as I could. The impulse to industry died also, and when I came out into the empty hall my steps lagged more and more slowly. I found myself standing there and gazing through a smudged window at the city of San Francisco, hating it, unutterably tired of myself, aching inside and out.
The wet, windy street, the gloomy canyons of gray buildings, looked just the same as they had the night before. I didn’t mean a thing to them. Well, Cameron, you fooled yourself nicely, didn’t you? You thought an adventure would set you up for life, solve your problems happily; you wished for it and you got it—and all the time what you wanted was to fall romantically in love and be loved in return. Without that, none of the rest matters.
This wasn’t the sort of thing you got over. I knew, drearily, that this was the real thing, I could never accept anything else—and I’d thrown it away.
It had been so nearly within my grasp—literally only three inches away. I leaned my hot forehead against the window, and reflected on that.
—I wish I had fallen into his arms, I thought; I’d have that much at least—
A number of unsuitable things seemed all at once to be happening in the dingy corridor. The dead fatigue went from me like the dropping of a heavy weight. Several suns began to rise in a dazzle of red and gold, and a full orchestra and chorus burst into the Ode to Joy. All that I actually saw, of course, was Barney coming round the far end of the hall; all I had heard was his voice, saying my name.
He was no longer the unshaven, disreputable figure of the night before, he had changed to a well-made dark suit and topcoat. Also, he was angry.
—Oh dear, I thought, this is a very bad case. Whether he’s furious or not, just to be near him seems enough—
“I couldn’t find you,” he said accusingly. “I never thought of your coming to the office; you just disappeared.”
“How did you get up here?” I counter-attacked. “Nobody’s supposed to be upstairs in this building, except the employees.”
“I told them,” he said coolly, “that I was a plainclothes man, and that I had to see you alone and before you could be warned.”
“Oh, splendid,” I said, wincing. “That will fix me up just right.”
“I did have to see you. There’s something I’ve got to say.”
“Go ahead,” I told him, bracing myself.
“Not out here,” said Barney coldly, “in private. Where does that door lead to?”
Silently I opened the door of the Black Hole, and he followed me in. I found myself backed up against the filing cases on the far side of the room, as if I’d be safer at a distance. Hat in hand, he stood by the closed door.
“I owe you an apology,” I said.
“No!” His disclaimer was almost savage. “Nothing of the kind, ever. I’ve been thinking it over, Cameron; I haven’t thought of much else since I left you.”
His hands were restless, those hands whose movements had always been quiet and sure. It was a shock to realize that he was not quite confident; but under scowling brows his eyes were direct.
“You made a mistake, but you retrieved it a thousand times over. And I know, of course, why you made it; because I’d lied to you at the very beginning. That colored everything that came after—didn’t it?”
“Yes,” I said, “but I should have known better just the same.”
“Forget it,” said Barney impatiently. “The way things turned out, I don’t care if you thought I was Hitler. There’s just one thing I had to know.”
He paused and gave me a level look, no longer angry. “How long did you think it?” he asked urgently. “From the beginning, or—”
“No. The purple ink-pad fell out of your suitcase. I did think, then, that maybe you’d picked it up in the next apartment when you searched. That was right, wasn’t it?”
He nodded slowly.
“And then I heard—I heard you and O’Shea, talking. I was up in the rafters, I didn’t know it was you in the next room. And he—you said I knew nothing essential, but you’d see to it that I’d never talk—never say a word.”
For a moment Barney looked puzzled, and then enlightenment spread gradually over his face, relaxing the bleak hardness of its lines.
“Colly,” he said deliberately, “is not in debt to society—not at this moment; but for a short time last night, instinct was too strong for him.”
The thing broke over me like a wave. “He was coming out of Mrs. Pitman’s window, and you didn’t want me to see him! And that’s what you argued about—‘Ice!’ You made him put back those dia—”
He stopped me with a gesture. “Don’t say it. You saw nothing. You don’t know anything about him. Keep it like that. You see, he—he stacked up a little extra credit last night, but the law might not see it that way. He couldn’t afford to get mixed up with any policemen.
“And what I told him was that if you were asked to keep the secret you’d do it. I knew you could be trusted.”
“I had that coming,” I said faintly, “but you’re making me feel perfectly awful.”
“Such was not the intention.” He spoke gravely, but the blue eyes gave off a single spark of laughter. “I didn’t want to—I meant to wait for a decent interval, maybe until I’d seen the aspidistra; but just now, when I heard what you said in the hall—”
“In the hall? What did I say?”
“Maybe I wasn’t supposed to hear it. You said, ‘I wish I had fallen into his arms.’ Cameron, if I could possibly think you meant me—”
The words hung between us, echoing in the dusty air. My heart picked up their rhythm, beating it out slowly, strongly.
“I did,” said I.
He looked at me in silence for a long minute. Then, “That changes all my plans,” said Barney, and in two strides had covered the distance between us.
In the moment when his head bent to mine, I was shaken by one last pang of recurring doubt. After that I couldn’t be bothered to think at all.
Coming back at last from interstellar space, getting my eyes open with a great effort, I saw that his face was drawn, frowning almost as if in pain. “You’re so beautiful,” the husky voice whispered.
The doubt left me, at once and forever. For the first time in my life I felt beautiful.
It seemed there was one thing yet to be settled. “Look, my dear,” he said, “this is all over, you know; and there isn’t much excitement or romance on a fruit ranch.”
I said, “Not up to now, maybe.”
* * *
We stepped out into the dingy corridor, and saw before us the gray panorama of the city. “Barney,” I said, “you see this place, this big indifferent town that looks as if it could defeat anyone?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’ll take it the way Grant took Richmond.”
“That was a slow job,” he pointed out.
“I know. But he had confidence, didn’t he? Maybe you’re fishing, but I’ll tell you. It’s because I’m somebody’s mouse—”
“Have it your way, then. Because I’m your mouse—”
“Barney, not here! There’s somebody coming up the stairs—”
“Oh, well, I don’t care either—”
Long before the person on the stairs hove into sight, I knew who it was. Inevitably, the steps I had heard were made by the feet of Roger Tripp. Once more his kindly nature had led him to come to the rescue—this time not only unasked but unwanted.
He appeared at the far end of the hall, and paused. I suppose that to his nearsighted eyes we were just a blur, but when one blur slowly divides itself in two, even a myopic vision can gather that something goes on.
“Miss Ferris!” he called anxiously, “someone said—I wondered if you were all right, they said there was a policeman looking for you.”
All I could think of to say was, “He found me.” Dizzily I detached myself from Barney’s embrace, retaining a hold on his arm to steady me.
Roger waited uncertainly for a minute longer, and then began a dubious advance toward us.
(“Everyone knew you had no acquaintances here.”)
Poor Roger, I thought—so kind, so thoughtful of my reputation—the least I can do is to tell you the secret now—but I can’t shout it, I’ll wait till you come up—
I waited. The only thing on earth that seemed real was the arm that held me; everything else swam in a delirious haze; yet there was something I should say—something was lacking.
And then it came.
“Quick, Barney!” I demanded in a low voice that was almost strangled by sudden laughter. “What’s your name?”
For more from Lenore Glen Offord and other “Vintage” titles from Felony & Mayhem Press, including the “Inspector Alleyn” series by Ngaio Marsh, please visit our website:
FelonyAndMayhem.com
All the characters and events portrayed in this work are fictitious.
THE 9 DARK HOURS
A Felony & Mayhem mystery
PUBLISHING HISTORY
First print edition (Duell, Sloan and Pearce): 1941
First paperback edition (Bruin): 2012
Felony & Mayhem print and digital editions: 2018
Copyright © 1941 by Lenore Glen Offord
Copyright renewed 1969 by Lenore Glen Offord
All rights reserved
E-book ISBN: 978-1-63194-122-1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Offord, Lenore Glen, 1905-1991, author.
Title: The 9 dark hours / Lenore Glen Offord.
Other titles: Nine dark hours
Description: Felony & Mayhem edition. | New York : Felony & Mayhem Press,
2017.
Identifiers: LCCN 2017039691 | ISBN 9781631941191 (softcover)
Subjects: LCSH: Psychological fiction. | GSAFD: Suspense fiction. | Mystery
fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3529.F42 A15 2017 | DDC 813/.52--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017039691
The 9 Dark Hours Page 18
