Thomas had found her in the hallway first, and then Mara. Leaving them, she had gone into the study and told Dirk and her father what had happened. A blind man could hardly have gone down the path to waylay her, even if he had been so inclined. But he might have sent someone else. She hated to believe that and turned her mind quickly to a readier suspicion. What of Mara? She knew perfectly well that Mara was capable of vindictive action against her. That rough thrust in her back might have carried the added strength of Mara’s hatred.
Or had it been Thomas? She closed her eyes, shutting out the light from a dressing-table lamp and thought about Thomas. Because he was a colored man she had a special reluctance to suspect him. That sort of thing was too easy, too much the obvious course to be taken by a person whose skin was white. Then, without warning, a vivid memory returned to her. She could see the man clearly as she had glimpsed him that day on the steps of the library, his rapt attention upon a book he had quickly hidden when he saw her. That day she had taken a picture of him. A picture that was on the strip of film that had been destroyed. A picture she had not remembered until now. She was beginning, all too reluctantly, to see where this might lead.
The doctor was long in arriving and Willi came upstairs with a cup of hot tea and an offer of encouraging sympathy. Susan watched as she moved quietly about the room, drawing the draperies across each window against the darkness.
“Willi,” Susan said, her voice so low that it could be heard only in this room, “was it you who destroyed that strip of film?”
The girl was turning back the covers of Dirk’s bed and her hands were suddenly still upon the satin coverlet.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Willimina,” Susan said, “but I need to know the truth.”
The colored girl left her work and came to stand beside Susan’s bed.
“Yes, Mrs. Hohenfield,” she said. “I destroyed it.”
“And it was Thomas who told you to get rid of it?”
For a moment longer the girl held to her outward calm. Then words began to spill out. They were spoken with spirit, revealing the often-hidden essence of independence in Willi. While she expressed regret, there was about her a dignity that was appealing. She had hated to do such a thing, she said, when she had been treated well in this house. Now she must leave, of course. She should have left before this. It was not right to stay on after what she had done.
“But why would Thomas tell you to destroy that strip of film? Was it because of the picture I took of him on the library steps? If he disliked my taking a picture of him, why couldn’t he simply ask me not to print it or ask me to give him the negative? Why should the entire roll have been destroyed?”
Willi was quiet again. The moment of lost control was past. Her eyes met Susan’s without fear but she stood silent, saying nothing. She might admit her own action, but it was clear that she would not further incriminate Thomas.
The bell rang downstairs and Willi turned toward the bedroom door. Suddenly Susan knew that she did not want to lose her, no matter what had happened.
“Wait a moment,” Susan called, and the girl paused. “Don’t leave us for good, Willi. Please stay.”
There was surprise and sudden warmth in Willi’s eyes. She nodded gravely, said, “Thank you,” and went to answer the door.
Dirk came upstairs with the doctor and remained while he examined Susan’s back and concluded that little damage had been done.
The sedative the doctor gave her did not take effect at once and when she was alone Susan lay thinking about what she must do. She must talk to someone, and very soon. John Cornish’s words, so puzzling at the time, came back to her. He had warned her to be careful, though he had not told her of what. “Talk to someone you can trust,” he’d said. Someone she could trust wholeheartedly. But who was there? She still shrank from going to Dirk though she did not want to examine the reasons for her reluctance too closely. And she was beginning to see that she could not go to her father either. She did not know how seriously he was involved. She did not want to judge him, but she could turn to him least of all.
No, it was John she must talk to. She could remember the odd sense of confidence that had come over her that day he had brought her home. There had been a feeling of strength about him, of a solidity which might serve her well if her need was great. Tomorrow she must find a way to see him without anyone else’s knowledge. See him and show him those strange pellets she had found.
The sedative began to have its way and she dropped into a heavy sleep in which there were no dreams.
18
When she wakened late the next morning, Susan felt a little groggy. Dirk’s bed was empty, the covers thrown back. She had not heard him get up or heard him leave the house. Sleepily she touched the bell that would summon Willi and the morning cup of tea with which every proper South African began the day.
On the tray Willi brought to her was propped a note from Dirk. Susan sat up, sipping the hot, strong tea and reading Dirk’s words as Willi flung open the draperies to a bright morning.
Regretfully, considering Susan’s recent experience, Dirk was off to Johannesburg. Something had come up in her father’s store there that needed his attention. Niklaas had told him yesterday, but he had not wanted to disturb her with the news after what had happened. He would be gone overnight and would fly home tomorrow on the afternoon plane.
“I hate to leave you at a time like this,” he concluded “But the doctor said there was nothing to worry about. Do be careful, darling. And miss me a little.”
She folded the paper into its envelope with a sense of lassitude. Only a little while ago she would have been desolate at the thought of being parted from Dirk for a day. This was the first time he had been away from her overnight, and she did not care. Perhaps it was the drug the doctor had given her that had left this limp indifference. Except that it was laced with something like relief as well. She did not want to believe that she would not miss Dirk and yet, suddenly, that seemed to be the truth. It was a distinct relief to know that she need not see him today.
The telephone rang downstairs as Willi turned toward the door.
“Perhaps that is Mr. Cornish,” she said. “He rang up earlier, Mrs. Hohenfield, and I said you were still sleeping.”
She went down to answer the phone and Susan slipped out of bed and put on a dressing gown. She followed Willi downstairs and took the phone from her.
“Susan?” It was John’s voice. “I’ve been concerned about what happened to you last night.”
“I’m fine now,” she told him, and the sense of relief she had felt over Dirk’s absence increased. She was free now to talk to John. Willi had gone out to the kitchen and she lowered her voice. “I’d like to see you sometime today, if you can make it. Not here or at Protea Hill. There’s something I want to consult you about. Dirk has gone to Jo’burg and won’t be home till tomorrow, so I can get away at any time.”
“Then what about dinner?” he said. “What time shall I pick you up?”
She glanced over her shoulder, but the hallway was empty, the door to the rear of the house closed.
“Let me meet you away from the house. And please don’t say anything there about having dinner with me.”
He named a small restaurant where she might meet him. She hung up with the certainty that John Cornish would know what everything meant. He would take the pieces out of her hands and tell her what to do. It did not even seem strange that she should be willing to place herself in his hands, when only a little while ago she had been bitterly set against him. Now she was only sorry that she must get through an entire day before she could be rid of her burden of worry and bewilderment.
When she had bathed and dressed and had breakfast alone in the dining room she tried to think of something to do with her day. Perhaps she would read awhile, sit in the garden with some sewing—anything to make the time pass. Twice she opened her wardrobe and checked the presence of the wrapped-up tissue thrust into the toe of a shoe.
It was nearly noon when the doorbell rang and Willi came to say that Mr. van Pelt was here to see her. Surprised, Susan hurried downstairs and found her father standing in the middle of the living room, one hand on his cane, the other upon the arm of Thomas Scott.
“Good morning, Father,” she said, and gave the colored man a quick look. “Good morning, Thomas.”
Thomas returned her greeting without meeting her eyes, and there was nothing to be read in his light-skinned, good-looking face.
“How are you feeling?” Niklaas asked, holding out his hand to Susan. “I want you to tell me exactly what happened.”
“I’m perfectly all right,” she said. “A little stiff, perhaps, nothing more. Thomas, will you bring a chair for my father, please.”
Thomas drew forward an armchair, but he did not help Niklaas into it. The old man felt for it with his cane and sat down without undue groping.
“Don’t go away, Thomas,” he said. “We won’t be long and I’ll need you shortly.”
Thomas said, “Yes, sir,” and went to stand near the doorway to the hall. He faced the room, but he did not look at either of them.
“Now then,” Niklaas said to Susan, “tell me what happened. From the beginning. When did you leave my house?”
She told him how she had hesitated over the weather and then started home by way of the short cut.
“And you saw no one along the way? Heard nothing?”
“Nothing at all,” she said. “Nothing until I heard someone on the path just before I was knocked down. A rough bag that smelled of potatoes was pulled over my head and by the time I was able to struggle out of it and get to my feet whoever it was had snatched my purse and run away. I dashed for home and asked Willi to telephone Dirk. That’s all that happened.”
Again she glanced at Thomas and saw that he was staring at something on the opposite wall of the room with a fixed gaze that made her curious. When she turned her head she saw that the object which held his attention was the whip, the sjambok Dirk had fastened against the wall. But there was no telling from his face whether he really saw the whip or what his reaction was to her story.
Her father seemed lost in grave thought over what she had told him.
“Was there anything in your purse that someone might have wanted?” he asked at length.
She could answer that readily. “Only a little money, which was taken,” she said. But her thoughts were upon those strange small stones hidden away in the bedroom upstairs. Did he know? Was that what he meant? Did he know perfectly well that what was sought had not been retrieved?
The dark glasses were like a guard upon his thoughts. Nothing was revealed behind them.
“You must avoid the short cut from now on,” he said. “These are uneasy days in South Africa. Take care, my dear.”
Was there a warning in his tone? She could not be sure.
He smiled at her suddenly, lightening the mood of the interview, changing the subject deliberately. “As soon as you feel yourself again, I’d like you to join me on a small trip. Every spring I take a morning’s drive around the Cape. We’ll make a little party of it this year. Perhaps a picnic at Cape Point. If Dirk agrees to drive the car, I’ll give Thomas a day off. Eh, Thomas?”
“Thank you, sir,” Thomas said and continued to stare at the wall.
“I must learn to get on without Thomas before long,” Niklaas went on. “There’s a school post coming up for him shortly in one of the new locations. I shall miss him, but I’ll be glad to see him get what he wants. Perhaps you can talk Willimina into marrying you now, my boy.”
Thomas said nothing, but for a moment the familiar bitterness showed in his eyes.
Susan saw it and spoke to him across the room. “Thomas, do you remember the time I photographed you on the steps of the library? What was the book you were reading that day?”
For the first time he looked at her directly. “It was a book by Mr. Cornish, madam.”
“The one on Ghana?” Niklaas put in. “You read me several passages from it and I thought it very good.”
Thomas offered no opinion and Susan felt increasingly puzzled. There would seem to be little reason why Thomas should be disturbed because she had seen him reading a book by John Cornish. Or why he should later have asked Willi to destroy the film.
“It is a book about freedom,” her father mused. “About the difficulties and the price and responsibility freedom brings with it. Democracy has to be both learned and earned. Wouldn’t you say so, Thomas?”
For once the colored man stepped out of his careful role. “At least, sir, they are stewing in their own juices in Ghana. Which is better than being stewed by someone else.”
Niklaas nodded. “There’s something to that, of course.” He seemed oddly amused by his own words. Once more he changed the subject, turning to the personal as it concerned his daughter. “Tell me what you’ve done with this room, Susan. I knew the house years ago when a friend lived in it long before I became its owner. Tell me so that I can picture you in a setting.”
She did her best to describe the room for him, explaining how the furniture was arranged, telling him of her own touches of small bright pillows that were not frilly and pink like Claire’s. And of her framed photographs on the wall. When she had finished, she looked again at Thomas.
“Have I forgotten anything?”
“Yes, madam,” he said and nodded toward the wall. “That.” He did not name it, but left it for her to do so.
It was the whip he had indicated and Susan mentioned it reluctantly.
“Dirk has put a South African sjambok on the wall,” she said. “A whip that once belonged to his father.”
For an instance the room was as still as it sometimes was at night when Dirk was away from the house and the darkness seemed so quiet and ominous.
Abruptly Niklaas held out his hand. “Bring it to me, Thomas.”
The colored man was tall. His long arms reached up to the brackets which held the black whip; he took it down and brought it to her father without a word.
The old man ran his fingers along the thickening of the handle. His sensitive, seeing fingers came to the initials that had been cut into the leather. He weighed the whip in his hand for a moment as though he were satisfied.
“It is the one,” he said and gave it back to Thomas.
The colored man replaced it on the wall while Susan watched in bewilderment.
“What do you mean, Father?” she asked. “Have you seen that before?”
“I have. You might ask Dirk about it sometime.” He stood up, tall and straight, and as cold as she had often seen him as a child. “If you please, Thomas,” he said.
Thomas came at once to offer his arm. They crossed the unfamiliar room and Susan went with them to the door.
“Thank you for coming, Father,” she said. “And you needn’t be concerned—I’m quite all right.”
He went down the steps on Thomas’s arm and seemed to remember their number, so that he did not hesitate when he reached the walk, but followed it quite surely to the gate. Susan ran ahead to open it for them and her father paused before he went out to the car.
“On second thought, my dear, it might be wiser to say nothing at all to Dirk about that whip. Old angers are best left buried. Eh, Thomas?”
“Yes, sir,” Thomas said, and there was no inflection of any kind in the words. He helped the old man into the car and they drove away.
When they had gone Susan returned to the living room and stared at the whip on the wall. What an ugly thing it was. And why, if there were angry memories bound up in it, had Dirk wanted to display it upon the wall of his living room?
She turned from it impatiently. How weary she was growing of secrets, of hidden threats, of knowledge withheld. What a relief it would be to talk to John Cornish tonight, to tell him everything and see what he could make of the odd pieces.
Once more she ran upstairs and checked the hiding place of the small stones. It was nonsens
e to worry about them, of course. No one was likely to steal them from under her watchful eyes. And this evening she would take them with her to show John.
Late in the afternoon, when she was dressing to meet him, she decided, half grimly, half in amusement at her own action, to set a few small traps. Here and there about the bedroom she made small preparations. Here a drawer left open an eighth of an inch, there a tracing of face powder upon a knob, a bedroom slipper set at an exact angle on the floor of the wardrobe, the hangers just so on the rod. And, as a last touch, the little carved impala put in an exact spot on the gold tooling of the jewel case on her dressing table. Then she took a last look at herself in the mirror and approved the simple black dress with its scoop neck and wide satin collar that set off to good effect her necklace and earrings of American Indian turquoise.
She put on a coat and a decorative veil over her hair. She had already told Willi and the cook that she would be out for dinner tonight and when the time came she phoned for a cab.
When they drew up before the small Swiss restaurant John had named, she recognized the van Pelt Mercedes at the curb. John Cornish was waiting for her inside.
“Your father generously offered me his car for the evening,” John said as the hostess placed them at a corner table.
They were early for the regular dinner hour and for the moment had the small room to themselves. It was a bright, simple room, with scenes of Switzerland on the wall, a cuckoo clock in the form of a chalet, and yellow primroses set in small blue vases on all the tables.
He had dined here before, John told her, and the food was good. They ordered fondue and when the waitress had gone John poured wine for her from the bottle he had brought with him. One of the delectable wines of the Cape. Susan took the small packet of stones from her handbag and poured them into an ashtray on the table.
Four students came into the restaurant and took the next table—two girls and two young men. They too had brought their own wine, as was apparently the custom in an unlicensed place, and were laughing and talking, paying no attention to anyone else.
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