‘Is that so? Do you know, I have some cousins …’ Miss Fleur laughed, and her tone hardly changed. ‘Aren’t you going out for dinner to-night, Miss Par – Tilly, I mean?’
‘Dinner?’ said Tilly. ‘Certainly. But not yet. It’s not six o’clock yet.’
‘A quarter past six, I make it,’ corrected Monica.
‘Dear, dear. Is it as late as that? I must be running along myself.’ Frances Fleur stirred, but did not get up. ‘I only dropped in to pass the time of day. After all, I mustn’t interrupt your work. Er – you have some work to do, haven’t you, Miss – Tilly?’
‘Not any longer,’ said Tilly. ‘You tell me they’ve just given me the air. I should work? Haw, haw, haw.’
This time their guest did get up. She smiled, but with her mouth alone. Her voice had that deliberate, honeyed sweetness she used at the beginning of her love-scenes.
‘I told you I had two messages to give Monica,’ she remarked. ‘Would you mind terribly if we were left alone while I gave her the second one?’
It was touch and go.
Tilly stared at her.
‘I can take a hint,’ Tilly said slowly. ‘It’s got to be broad, you understand. It can’t be subtle, or it’ll go straight over my head. But I can take a hint.’
‘Thank you so much.’
‘Would I mind …’ began Tilly.
The full power of her state of mind was not apparent until she had left them. Tilly went to her room with quiet, bouncing, dignified little steps. Once inside, after giving them a long and slow look, she slammed the door with a crash which must have been audible at the main building up the hill; and which, if this house had not been so solidly built, would have brought plaster down from the ceiling.
‘Listen, quick,’ urged Frances Fleur, whose manner had instantly changed again. It was difficult to believe that there could be so much animation in her. ‘That second message was from Bill Cartwright. He’s on his way out here in a taxi.’
‘In a taxi?’
‘Yes. He was in town. He rang me up on the phone in Tom’s outer office. He said I was the only person here he could trust. He made me promise not to tell Tom or Howard; but of course they got it out of me.’
Miss Fleur made a face.
‘Here’s what Bill says you’re to do. He says you’re to – That woman’s listening at the door,’ she added abruptly.
The knob of the door quivered; Monica could have sworn Tilly was just on the point of flinging it open to stalk in and deny that she was listening.
Miss Fleur got up from the couch. Soundless on the linoleum-covered brick floor, she moved over to the desk. She stood with her back to Monica, one hand on the desk and the other hand on the needlework-box: red-painted finger-nails against red leather. She watched the door, and Monica watched it too. But there appeared to be no further sign of activity inside.
Then she turned round, the light shining down on blue cloth and silver-fox fur. She came back softly, took Monica’s hand, and made her sit down on the couch.
‘Listen, Monica,’ she said. (Monica had not yet got over the faint thrill of being called by her first name.) ‘Bill said that if you got back here when it was getting dark, you were on no account to try to get home. Sh-h!’
‘Yes?’
‘He said you were on no account to leave this building or this room until he got here. He said he was phoning to that ground-keeper, O’Brien or whatever his name is, to come in here and sit with you until he (I mean Bill) got here.’
‘But –’
‘SH-h! Above everything else,’ Miss Fleur leaned closer to whisper, ‘whatever else you did, you were not to be a minute alone with’ – her head inclined significantly towards the door – ‘that woman. Do you understand?’
‘I don’t know.’
Miss Fleur released her hand and got up. The tone of her whisper was faintly querulous.
‘I’m sure I don’t know what’s going on. And I don’t think I want to. If half what I hear is true, you must have led a very queer life indeed. All I know is that I’m frightened, too. Now promise me: will you do what Bill Cartwright tells you to do?’
Not a very long time ago, Monica would instantly have said No. The negative came into her mind; she opened her mouth to speak it, and stopped. It occurred to her, with painful clarity, that the finest sight she could think of in this world would be the sight of Bill Cartwright storming into that room.
She moistened her lips.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’ll do it.’
‘You promise?’
‘I promise.’
2
Miss Fleur relaxed. A sort of radiance grew again about her, kindling the dark amber eyes which (it occurred to Monica as an unromantic comparison) were exactly the colour of one of Bill’s pipe-stems. She laughed. She smoothed her gloves. Her voice grew natural again.
‘Well, I only dropped in to pay my respects,’ she explained, in a tone intended for the other room. ‘I’d love to stay, only I’m driving in to town to meet Kurt. Tom! Don’t jump about so! I say, must you sneak up on everybody?’
It would not be true to say that Thomas Hackett sneaked up, since his voice was audible in the hall. But he looked very grave as he nodded to Monica, and beckoned to Howard Fisk in the hall behind him.
‘I – er – thought I’d come and see you,’ said Mr Hackett. He consulted his watch, and consulted it again. ‘Frances explained to you, did she – er –?’
‘About your not being here to-day? Of course, Mr Hackett. I quite understand.’
‘No, no,’ said the producer. His manner was hasty. ‘I mean: yes, yes. That is to say, something else has come up. Old O’Brien is down here from the main building, and he’s brought some news. Miss Stanton, I’d like to ask you a question. You haven’t gone to the police about anything that’s happened here, have you?’
Monica opened her eyes.
‘The police? No, certainly not. Why?’
‘Because there’s a police officer here now,’ the other said grimly. ‘He’s up at the main building with Mr Marshlake.’
‘Tom, you always do get so upset about trifles,’ Miss Fleur told him, with an air of kindly weariness. ‘Suppose there is? There always is, it seems to me. It’s probably about leaving cars out in the road again.’
‘Not this time,’ grunted Mr Hackett. ‘His name is Masters, and he’s a chief inspector from Scotland Yard.’
It was extraordinary what an instant and deep effect the mention of that name had. If they had all been boys caught in an apple-orchard, with a bull on one side of the fence and an angry farmer on the other, they could not have looked at each other differently. Even Howard Fisk seemed disturbed. Shaking his head, he went over and sat down on Monica’s desk.
Mr Hackett addressed her impressively.
‘Look here, Miss Stanton. I know how you feel. I know what you’ve been through. Nobody wants to see this hound caught more than I do. In fact, we’ve decided that you’re too much of a time-bomb, and that for your own safety it would be better if we – er – severed relations. But believe me, to drag the police into a thing like this is fatal. I’ve had ten years’ experience, and I know. I know Mr Marshlake will think so, too.’
(‘It would be better if we – er – severed relations.’ Bill! Bill! Where was Bill?)
‘But I didn’t go to the police!’ insisted Monica. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who is Mr Marshlake, anyway?’
Mr Hackett drew a deep breath.
‘He’s my boss,’ he answered, simply but eloquently. ‘He wants to see Howard and me up there straight away.’
There was a silence.
The producer fiddled with his cuffs and straightened his necktie. He was evidently making a determined effort to stoke up his spirits. And so he smiled at Monica.
‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘Cheer up. We’re all your friends, Miss Stanton, and we’ll see that the right thing is done. But what with stealing some of the finest exterior-shots ever made, a
nd everything that’s happened in the past, and now this, I’m beginning to think somebody has a personal grudge against me as well as you. We’ll have to go, Howard. Er – Frances.’ He jerked his head towards the other office. ‘Did you mention to Tilly Parsons …?’
Miss Fleur made up her face.
‘About being free to go home? Yes, Tommy darling. I’ve done the dirty work for you.’
‘Nonsense! I must have a word with her now. She can go as soon as she finishes Sequence E. We’ve wasted enough time with this film as it is.’
‘Now you’re talking, my lad,’ interposed Howard Fisk, coming to life out of a brown study, and putting down a paper-knife with which he had been playing. ‘When you really get down to it and stop fooling, there’s nobody in the business who can hold a candle to you. Well, shall we go and face the Minotaur?’
‘Yes. You’d better come too, Miss Stanton.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Monica calmly. ‘I am staying here.’
They all looked at her.
‘Bill Cartwright,’ said Monica. At mention of the name, her throat felt tight and her chest hurt her. ‘Bill asked me to stay here, and I am going to stay.’
The other three exchanged a glance. Mr Hackett’s eyebrows went up in a worried way.
‘Bill? I didn’t think he was – er – very popular with you. Besides, what’s Bill got to do with this? You come along with us. You’ll be safer.’
‘Isn’t a man named O’Brien supposed to be here with me?’
Mr Hackett rubbed his forehead. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ he admitted. ‘If this detective doesn’t actually see you, maybe I can smoothe him over and he’ll get to blazes out of here. Yes, maybe you’re right about that. Only: be careful. It’s getting so I’ve got you on my conscience. O’Brien! Hoy! You can come in now.’ He looked round him uneasily, at Frances Fleur who was smiling and at Howard Fisk who was grim. He hesitated. ‘You’d better draw those black-out curtains,’ he said.
3
The clock was now ticking towards murder.
A careful design, arranged small bit by small bit throughout the weeks, each bit sliding noiselessly into its proper place unobserved as the days passed, was now complete. It remained only to touch the switch, and that would be in a few minutes.
Monica, of course, knew nothing of this. She had never felt safer than when she waited in her office, with the burly O’Brien (a moustached ex-serviceman who reminded her of the messenger at the War Office) sitting on the couch and reading an evening paper.
It was twenty-five minutes past seven. Monica still waited. Long ago the mutter of voices in Tilly’s room, where Tilly talked to Hackett and Fisk, had faded. They had gone stamping and laughing out. As soon as they were gone, Tilly flung open the door.
‘Honey –’
Ex-Corporal O’Brien cleared his throat noisily, shifted, and crackled the newspaper.
‘I see, miss,’ he said, without looking up, ‘where it says here in the paper that the old Boche has …’
Tilly looked at him. Then she looked at Monica.
‘Honey,’ she said, ‘will you come in here just a minute, please?’
‘If you’ve got anything to say, Tilly, can’t you say it in here?’
‘No, I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I can’t. Oh, honey, don’t be such a sap! Stop this foolishness and come in here!’
‘Not when you talk like that, Tilly.’
Tilly’s eyes opened wide.
‘Are you coming in here, or aren’t you?’
‘No, I’m not.’
The door slammed.
Its noise made Monica wince. This might be foolish and nonsensical; but she was beginning to be worried, not about herself but about Bill Cartwright. Even though night-driving conditions were bad in the black-out, he should have been here by this time.
Suppose he had had an accident? Suppose two cars had collided, and he had been thrown through the glass? And why must he take a taxi when a train would have done as well? He shouldn’t fling his money about like that. And yet she could not help liking him more for doing it; it brought a glow of pleasure that, whatever else he might be, he wasn’t mean …
She had treated him badly; she admitted that. There came into her mind pictures of all the time when he had behaved with studious patience, smiling at her, and she had behaved like a little devil. She hadn’t meant to behave like that. She wasn’t really like that at all, if she could only show him.
The minutes ticked on. Tilly muttered behind the closed door, and the rattle of Tilly’s typewriter began. The bright light hurt Monica’s eyes. She wrapped a paper shade round the bulb. The red-leather cigarette-box shone beneath it; she reached out her hand to take a cigarette, and decided against it.
Well, she was in love with him: that was all. It was a funny feeling: like exhilaration and obedience put together. Not at all what she had ascribed to Eve D’Aubray in the book, and yet a good deal like it, too. If he would only get here, she would tell him so. Or, if she didn’t exactly tell him, she would let him know beyond any doubt –
Her ear caught, from some distance away, the sound of the footsteps on the gravel path leading up to the Old Building.
The footsteps approached, and crunched louder. They must be his. They went up the steps. She heard them in the lobby. They came down the corridor.
It was Bill, right enough.
And he was mad.
She realized, as she saw him standing in the doorway, that she had never seen him genuinely mad before. The other times had not been real anger. They had been literary grouses or grouses at the universe, in which he struck a pose and boiled with high-flown phrases as much from enjoyment of using words as from anything else.
But now he was furious; and she knew it. She felt a little apprehensive and at the same time curiously pleased. She wanted him to be angry because she had deserted him at the War Office. She wanted to tell him she was sorry. She would glory in telling him she was sorry.
Bill got a grip on himself. His first words, spoken in a tone of cold and deadly calm, were:
‘Haven’t you got any sense of decency?’
‘Bill, I’m sorry. Honestly, honestly I am. I never meant to do it. I just didn’t think, that’s all. When I walked out of that office –’
He blinked at her. His hand, raised for a gesture, stopped at his forehead.
‘What office?’ he demanded.
‘The War Office, of course.’
‘The War Office? What about it?’
‘Going out and leaving you like that. Bill, I apologize; and I’d never have done it in the world if I’d thought.’
‘I am not talking about that,’ said Bill. ‘I am asking you what you mean by parading your damned love-affairs in front of everybody at Pineham?’
The desk-chair was just behind Monica, and she sat down in it. She sat down slowly, groping for the back.
‘I – I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘No? Well, I do. I have just met Frances Fleur at the main building.’ He pointed his ringer at her. ‘Mind you,’ he continued, carefully defining his terms, ‘it is no concern whatever of mine. I am not a moralist. Oh, no. What you choose to do in your spare time is your affair and your affair alone. But at least you might have the elementary decency to keep quiet about it and refrain from boasting about it more than was necessary afterwards.’
He also had had his day of troubles. All afternoon, all the way out in the taxi, he had thought of nothing but Monica. Frances Fleur’s information (imparted in all sincerity and with a sort of puzzled respect) had put the last touch to it. Just how mad he was even Monica could not guess. Dimly, with a misted eye, he discovered that there was someone else in the room: someone who sat on the couch and was looking at him in consternation over a newspaper.
‘O’Brien,’ he said, ‘we will excuse you. It’s all right now. Go on. Hurry.’
‘Yes, O’Brien,’ whispered Monica, also
with deadly calm, ‘we will excuse you.’
‘There ain’t nothing wrong, is there, sir? What I mean to say –’
‘No, there is nothing wrong. Here’s a quid. Here’s two quid. For God’s sake get out.’
‘Thanking you kindly, sir, but if there is anything I can –’
‘No. Out.’
‘And now,’ whispered Monica, holding tightly to the edge of the desk, ‘is there anything further you would care to say to me? Of course, if you prefer to talk in front of a third person, as you have been doing, we can always call him back. Have you anything else to say to me?’
‘Yes, madam, I have. It is this. Such singular talents as yours are wasted in a small country like England. They should be put at the service of your country. Why don’t you go over to France and team up with Mademoiselle from Armentières? Then at least you would be doing something towards helping win the war.’
This was where Monica slapped his face.
It was difficult for her to see it, but she caught the side of his cheek a stinger with her open hand. He laughed. The late Lord Byron, brooding in lonely grandeur among Alpine crags, never fetched up such cynical laughter as Bill Cartwright thought he was producing then.
‘Ha ha ha,’ he said. ‘Ha ha ha ha ha. Exactly right. Exactly what I should have expected. Maidenly virtue, outraged, adopts its traditional reprisal. I am not impressed. I am not even amused. There is the other cheek. Why don’t you hit that?’
Monica did, with a truly memorable wallop.
Now it was never afterwards clear to Bill exactly how the next part of it began, or why he came to do it. It was perhaps caused by a feeling that if he did not kiss the girl, then and there, he might do her real violence of an even more unpalatable sort. But this was an afterthought: unreliable.
What he does remember is that he put his arms round Monica and began kissing her with a vigour which would have interested the professional eye of a film-director. ‘Began kissing’ is not the right term. It suggests something interrupted; and this process, once Bill had got his grip firmly, was not interrupted.
This surprised him enough. What surprised him more was that after the first few seconds, during which there were fierce muttering sounds and (attempted) violent shakes of the head from Monica, she stopped resisting and began to kiss him in return. She was very warm to the touch, and the crooks of her arms closed round his neck and pressed there. This went on for some time; and the interlude was chaotic.
And So To Murder Page 15
