Rolling Stone

by Patricia Wentworth

  The men stopped outside the open door—shone the torch into the room. A hole in the middle of the floor, a pile of dust and debris on the crumbling hearth, plaster fallen between the windows, the shape of a chandelier, stark and stripped of its dancing crystals—these things were there to be seen. Peter and Terry behind the door saw nothing—only the light flashing in and out again.

  Jake said, “What’s her game? How did they get in anyway? I want to get back out of this. Aren’t they dead? Didn’t I see them go down with my own eyes?”

  “Perhaps you did—if you can see in the dark.” Bert’s tone was contemptuous.

  “Where else could they have gone?”

  “Perhaps in here. That’s why we’re looking.”

  Jake swore.

  “I tell you they went over the cliff. What makes her think they didn’t?”

  “You heard what she said the same as I did—he shut off the lights too soon, and the girl didn’t scream. She says the girl would have screamed.”

  Terry made a fierce little movement. She felt Peter’s hand heavy on her shoulder.

  Jake said, “If a hundred perishing girls had all screamed together, you wouldn’t have heard them. You couldn’t hear nothing in that perishing wind.”

  “You asked me what she said. I’ve told you, haven’t I? She says the girl ought to have screamed. I’ll say she knows what she’s talking about. But if you don’t think so, well, you just go and tell her.”

  “Well, I say they’re goners, the two of them. You can see the car down there on the rocks, and I say they’re under it. It’s turned over, isn’t it? And that’s where they’d be—under the car and all smashed to blazes. We ought to be half way back to town by now instead of searching a mouldy old house that’s due to fall into the sea any perishing minute.”

  “It’ll last the night, I shouldn’t wonder!” Bert’s tone was sarcastic. “But you won’t if you don’t get on with the job. If you want her coming in to see what we’re doing, I don’t.”

  They went on to the back of the hall. A door banged. The light was gone. The voices died away.

  CHAPTER XXXVII

  The hand on Terry’s shoulder pushed her. Peter said,

  “Quick—before they come back!”

  They came out into the hall and light-footed down it to the room on the right, the room he had let alone before. He thought it would be the dining-room. A big room anyway, with two great glimmering windows looking to the front of the house. To the front of the house, but to the back of the car which was standing there. Sash windows nine foot high and as heavy as a cartload of bricks. As like as not the cords would have perished. Was it going to be possible to get one of the blighted things open without making noise enough to bring the hunt down upon them? Most sounds would be drowned by this wind. But suppose he had to smash the glass. Breaking glass had a sound of its own. He thought it would be heard if there were anyone there to hear it.

  He took the farther window, and had his work cut out to move the catch. The cords seemed to be there all right. If they would take the weight of the pane for five minutes, it was all he asked of them. But he would have to move the frame first, and it was stuck like glue. No, much worse than that—like wood that has grown together into a solid piece. He shook, heaved, shook again, heaved with all his might, and felt something give—it might have been one of his own muscles. He strained at the sash again and felt it move. After that it ran up a couple of feet and stuck. He stood back panting. The blood was drumming in his ears.

  “How much noise did that make?”

  “Not much. It wouldn’t be heard above the wind.”

  He leaned out through the two-foot gap. The first thing he saw was the tail-light of the car, a red eye watching them. After the black inside of the house the outdoor darkness seemed no more than a dusk. The car stood up black against the gravel of the drive and the reflection of its own sidelights. The head-lights were off. He couldn’t hear the engine running because of the noise of the wind, but he could smell the exhaust. Well, here was their get-away. But it was too easy. No one but a congenital idiot would give them an opportunity like this, and whatever else Maud Millicent was, her bitterest enemy could never have judged her deficient in brains. He thought, “If I’d just tried to kill two people and wasn’t sure whether I’d brought it off or if they were somewhere about the place looking for a chance to escape, what would I do? Well, if I’d thought of it—and I might have thought of it, or I might not—I don’t know that I could have done better than set a trap like this—car all ready, lights on, engine running, and when the poor boobs make a dash for it a neat, quick bullet in the brain.” Yes, that was it. This wasn’t a get-away, it was a trap.

  All the same—all the same—if he could outwit her—turn the tables—

  He whispered quick to Terry, “Will you do just what I tell you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Stand here by the window and watch that car—the car and the steps. I’m going to bang on the front door from the inside. I think Maud Millicent is in the car. She’s either there or in the porch. If she’s in the car, I think she’ll get out when I bang—bound to. If she’s in the porch, she’ll turn towards the noise. You’ve got to slip out of the window and run round to the far side of the car. Can you drive?”

  “Of course I can!”

  “It looks like a Vauxhall—”

  “That’s all right.”

  “You’ve got to be ready to slip into the driver’s seat and let her go. See if you can get the car door open, but don’t get in till I say go. She’ll shoot at sight—she mustn’t see you. Have you got all that?”

  Terry said, “Yes.”

  “Then here goes!” He gave a low laugh, flung an arm about her, kissed her, and was gone.

  The kiss was very unexpected, a sudden hit or miss affair which landed on one side of her mouth and left her gasping. She knew very well what lay behind that snatched, crooked kiss. It meant, “I’ll have this, because perhaps it’s all I’ll ever have, and perhaps it’s good-bye, and perhaps—”

  She leaned out of the window and watched the car. The drop was no distance, a couple of feet, no more. And the back of the car—how far away? Say ten feet. She tried to see through the rear window if there was anyone in the driver’s seat. She thought there was, but she couldn’t be sure. Something dangled and bobbed there, something that took the faint light and turned it green—one of those air-balloon dolls bobbing in the wind.

  She was still peering at it, when Peter’s first loud bang set her blood racing. It was followed by a crash and a fierce, insistent drumming from the inner side of the front door. Even though she had known it was coming she wanted to look that way. She resisted, and kept her eyes upon the car.

  There was someone in the driver’s seat. A shadow passed between the green balloon and the light which made it transparent. For an instant the colour and the glow were cut off. The left-hand door opened. Someone leaned out, leaned back.

  There was another burst of banging. The head-lights of the car came on with a very startling effect. Such a bright light after all this groping in the dark—every pebble casting a small black shadow—a bush of holly with its leaves sharply etched and burning green.

  Maud Millicent Simpson looked out of the left-hand door, looked before and behind, slipped out like a shadow, and ran up the steps.

  Terry swung herself over the window sill, dropped to hard gravel, and reached the far side of the car. She heard Maud Millicent’s voice above the wind.

  “Who’s there? Jake—Bert—is it you?”

  What was Peter’s plan? Would he open the door and come charging out? But Maud Millicent would shoot him—he wouldn’t have a chance. She mustn’t think about what Peter was going to do. She must get on with what he had told her to do.

  She opened the door by the driver’s seat and got in, crouching down so as not to be seen. Peter had said not to get in, but it might make all the difference in the world. She didn’t believe that th
ey were going to be shot, she thought they were going to get away. She took off the hand-brake. She felt adventurous and confident.

  It had all passed in a bare half minute—Peter banging—Maud Millicent to the door—Terry to the car—Terry’s thoughts—something singing in her. And then, out of nowhere at all, Peter slipping into the near seat—her foot on the clutch pedal, her hand on the gear level—

  They were off. The light slid from the holly-bush, picked up a patterned tree trunk grey with lichen, orange with fungus, slid from that, and showed the bright, straight path to safety. There was a shot. Something crashed and splintered. Another shot, and a bang behind them. There was an odd gassy smell. Terry was flashed back to being seven years old—a pink balloon and, when it broke, tears and that queer smell. She was shaken with laughter. She cried in a laughing, shaking voice,

  “She’s murdered her mascot! There was a green balloon doll. It must have been blown up awfully tight to go pop like that.”

  “Oh lord—I thought it was a tyre!” said Peter.

  A third shot sounded faintly behind them. He began to sing at the top of his voice in a loud, rough baritone to the tune of John Brown’s body:

  “Glory, glory, hallelujah!

  Glory, glory, hallelujah!

  Glory, glory, hallelujah!

  And we go marching on.”

  He stopped abruptly when they got to the gate, and said,

  “Turn left, and then left again. Oh lord—I wish we’d got that map! But we’ll have to do the best we can. Just keep on driving whilst I get my shoes on.”

  “Your shoes?”

  “My child—you didn’t really think I’d produced all that row with the naked hand, did you? The shoes were a very bright thought. They made the most infernal clatter, and as soon as I heard Maud Millicent on the side of the door, and Jake and Bert coming up swearing hard from the back premises, I was able to fade away silently on my stocking feet, and no one a penny the wiser till the car got going. But I wish—lord, how I do wish!—that I could have seen her face when she realized that we’d scored her off.”

  Terry took the second left-hand turn, and said, “What do we do next?”

  “You stop the car and we change over. I’m going to drive.”

  “Why?”

  “I just think I will.”

  Terry wouldn’t have admitted it for the world, but her hands were shaking. That is to say, they would have shaken if she had let them. She was having to make a conscious effort all the time to hold them steady on the wheel. She changed over without a murmur. The car leapt on.

  Peter said, “There ought to be an A.A. telephone-box hereabouts. There was a big cross-roads and a telephone-box—I remember thinking it might be handy at the time.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Ring up a man called Garrett.”

  “Colonel Garrett?” Terry’s voice was eager.

  “And how do you come to know anything about Colonel Garrett, Miss Clive?”

  Terry said, “Thank you! Why shouldn’t I know about Colonel Garrett, when Fabian Roxley is his secretary and he’s a cousin of Miss Talbot’s?”

  Peter laughed out loud.

  “And if I was really Peter Talbot, and not Spike Reilly, I’d know that—wouldn’t I!”

  “Yes, you would,” said Terry.

  She was remembering that he had kissed her, and she was remembering that he had saved her life.

  He was still laughing. He said,

  “That was a bad break, wasn’t it? What do you really think, Terry?”

  She sat back in her corner.

  “You called me Miss Clive just now—”

  “Make the most of it. I shall never do it again. Well, what about it? You haven’t answered my question. Am I Spike Reilly, or am I Peter Talbot?”

  Terry said what she had said before.

  “Peter Talbot is dead—he died in Brussels. Miss Talbot cried a lot. She sent a wreath.”

  “I know. I’m awfully sorry about it. But I really am Peter Talbot. You can ask Frank Garrett when we get to town. But suppose I wasn’t—suppose I was Spike Reilly, with a perfectly hideous past—wouldn’t you feel a nice womanly urge to reform me?”

  “No, I wouldn’t!” said Terry.

  “You pain me. I thought a nice girl always wanted to do that sort of thing.”

  “Well, I don’t!” Terry spoke with decision. “I’ve had all I want to do with crooks, and I haven’t got any urge to reform them. The police can do that.”

  “The original Hard-hearted Hannah! And are you going to hand me over to the police to be reformed along with Bert, and Jake, and Maud Millicent?”

  “If you’re Peter Talbot you wouldn’t mind being handed over to the police,” said Terry.

  “But if I was Spike Reilly—would you hand me over?”

  “I expect you know I wouldn’t,” said Terry in a small, disconsolate voice.

  “Thank you for those kind words, my sweet. And here is our cross-roads. I think you’d better stay in the car. I won’t be any longer than I can help.”

  CHAPTER XXXVIII

  Peter was ten minutes.

  Garrett was in, and never had he been hailed with more enthusiasm. The voice in which Peter delivered himself of a “cher maître” was positively impassioned.

  “Where have you cropped up from now?” barked Garrett.

  “Sussex,” said Peter succinctly. “Listen, Frank—”

  “I was beginning to think you were dead again. You wouldn’t have got another wreath either.”

  “No flowers, by request,” murmured Peter. “Look here, Frank, this is urgent. I’ve got Terry Clive—”

  “What?”

  “Safe and sound. And I’m bringing her straight to you, because I think you’d better chaperon us to Scotland Yard. I don’t want to go to the jug just now, and I’m afraid I’m going to want a little explanation. That’s where you come in. Meanwhile stir everyone up and get the wires humming. We’ve just left Maud Millicent Simpson, and a fellow called Bert and another fellow called Jake in an empty house on the edge of the cliffs about six or seven miles from here. Have you got anything to write with?… All right, here are descriptions. Maud Millicent—as smart as they make ’em in black—hat like a saucer on one side of her head—platinum blonde hair—black dress with a belt—swagger coat with square shoulders—bunch of green orchids—pearl earrings like studs—very bright lipstick. I can’t describe her features, because she was wearing a mask—painted, not black—revolting! She is slight, and, I should say, about five foot seven or eight.… Bert—good driver—about five foot nine—square shoulders—thick neck. I’ve never seen him in the light so I can’t do any better than that.… Jake—small and quick—about five foot six—very light on his feet—black eyes—black hair, with a bit coming down over his forehead—sallow face—no moustache—long fingers—dirty—shabby blue serge suit—I don’t know about a coat or muffler.… I don’t suppose the police’ll get them, but they can always try. We pinched their car and got away. They can be charged with attempted murder. Also Maud Millicent shot Louisa Spedding. I’ll just give you my bearings here and the route to the house. They won’t be there of course, but they hadn’t a car, and perhaps the police could do something with a cordon.…”

  He came back rather cock-a-hoop, Terry thought. He sang John Brown’s body for a bit, and then dropped to conversation, leading off with,

  “Think what a chance you’ve missed.”

  “I suppose you want me to say ‘How?’ or ‘Why?’ or something like that.”

  “And you’re not going to? Quite right—that’s the proper spirit! You would only be leading me on, and a nice girl never leads anyone on. But as a matter of fact I only want you to admire my trusting disposition, and as you probably won’t say ‘Why?’ to that either, I won’t hold up on you. You admire me with an A because I am Admirable, Altruistic and Adventurous. How did I know you wouldn’t run off with the car whilst I was talking to Frank? If I was
Spike Reilly, you’d never have a better chance of getting rid of me—you could step on the gas and be gone. Haven’t I got a trusting disposition?”

  Terry faced round. She drew breath to speak. She opened her mouth and shut it again.

  “Why didn’t you?” said Peter in a casual voice.

  “Why should I?” said Terry rather quickly.

  “Motive—to get rid of me. For good and all, like I said. Opportunity—one which may never recur. Means—this very competent bus. Why didn’t you do it?”

  Terry said nothing.

  “Why didn’t you do it, Terry?”

  “What do you think I am—” The words rushed out with the effect of having escaped.

  Peter said something under his breath. It sounded like “Rather sweet,” but she couldn’t be sure of that. The words that had escaped were followed by others.

  “If you were fifty Spike Reillys, I wouldn’t go off and leave you when you’d just saved my life.”

  “If I were fifty Spike Reillys, I’m afraid you wouldn’t get the chance, my child. Speaking as one Peter Talbot, I’m extremely glad you didn’t. I don’t feel like footslogging. I’m in a hurry to see Frank Garrett, and—” his voice changed—“I rather like driving with you, Terry.”

  “I don’t know why.” She didn’t mean her voice to wobble, but it did.

  Mr. Peter Talbot remarked, “Liar,” in a pleasant conversational manner.

  Terry said nothing at all. She drew rather a quick breath, and consoled herself with thinking that the sound could not possibly have been heard above the running of the car.

  Peter laughed.

  “I did once offer to tell you the story of my first crime, and you weren’t taking any interest. Just as well perhaps, because it really wasn’t fit for Jake’s ears. But I’m going to tell you about it now. If you are too bored you can always say the multiplication table to yourself, or something like that. Well, Peter Talbot—you are quite clear about my being Peter Talbot now, aren’t you?”