He looked it. His original calmness had gone, as though dissipated by the grim facts that were crowding around him. For the first time he induced Hazeldean’s sympathy.
“I am not as young as you, Mr. Hazeldean,” he added in a quieter tone, “and I have been working hard lately—overworking. Perhaps my condition is not very much better than my niece’s. We came here for a rest. That is rather comic, isn’t it?”
He gave a mirthless laugh.
“I’ll stay here,” said Hazeldean. “I’ll write a letter to my man—Blythe’s the name—”
“And the boat is the Spray, you mentioned?”
“Yes. Blythe can come along with my bag. As a matter of fact, I’d like to see him. Probably I’ll find him plenty to do.”
He explained the position of the boat. Mr. Fenner said he knew the spot, and produced a sheet of notepaper for the note. A minute later the agitated man Fenner had departed, and Hazeldean was being conducted by a bovine, vaguely attractive maid, alleged to possess only half her wits, along a narrow, twisting passage to a low-ceilinged dining-room.
Chapter XII
Interlude in a Dining-Room
The dining-room had not been designed for brightness. Hazeldean chose a table by the one window, but the view was disappointing. He looked out through heavy lace curtains on a small deep yard, closed in by walls that gave it the appearance of a pit. “I wonder if anything really happy has ever happened in this spot?” came the thought. If gloom could be stored and passed on through the generations, the spot on which Madame Paula’s pension had grown had certainly preserved it. Perhaps, at some period in the history of Boulogne—when the high walls had been stormed with battering rams and scaling ladders, and the attackers had been repelled with burning oil—some particularly terrible incident had happened here to leave an indelible mark. He contrasted the room with his cosy cabin, the delight of which had withstood the menace of wind and storm and mountainous seas. Places were sometimes like people, shaping incidents to their moods.
Yet, in spite of its brooding atmosphere, the dining-room had a queer attraction. So had the bovine maid, with her heavy, dormant beauty. After accompanying him to his table, she had departed for the tea, and now she was returning with a tray. Well, the contents of the tray looked good enough, and would help to while away a rather anxious quarter of an hour.
Part of the anxiety was due to the persistence of his self-doubts. “Should I be sitting here?” he wondered uneasily. “Isn’t there something else I could be doing?” Yet, for the life of him, he could not think what it was. His problem was becoming more and more centralised in the safety of Dora Fenner, imprisoned—that seemed the right word—amid these grim surroundings and unsatisfactory people. If any other duty called him, it would probably lie outside the pension, and for the time being he was refusing to go outside—unless Dora Fenner came with him…
The maid put the tray down on the table.
“Do you speak English?” asked Hazeldean.
“Leetle, mais not mooch,” she answered.
“Et mois, je parle not mooch French,” he smiled. “Vous avez charmonte place ici.”
She smiled back, seeming rather surprised, either at the compliment to the place or to herself. Possibly she was not accustomed to polite conversation with strangers, although in a pension she should have been.
“Avez vous telephone ici?” asked Hazeldean.
“Non, m’sieur,” she said. “Eet is—” She could not find the word. “Long way.”
The news did not surprise him, for it confirmed the impression he had received from Mr. Fenner. If there had been a telephone, he need not have waited to get through to Benwick from the police station. And there would have presumably been some advance telephonic communication about the tragedy of Dr. Jones… Yes… Dr. Jones… How were others reacting to the tragedy of Dr. Jones?
“Monsieur Fenner, il me dit de Dr. Jones,” he said. “C’est tragique.”
“Oui, c’est terrible,” answered the maid.
Her rather thick eyebrows descended in a frown, but she did not display any personal grief. It was bad news, as one might read in a newspaper.
“J’espère que Madame n’est pas—trop—qu’est-ce que c’est upset? Malade?”
“Malade! Domage, elle est très malade! Zey tell me, but I’ave not see ’er.”
“Dans sa chambre, n’est-ce pas?”
His questions were aimless, but he wanted to keep her talking. The desire was frustrated by the sudden appearance in the dark doorway of a very old man.
“Marie, venez ici!” he cried. “Vite!”
“Pardon,” murmured the maid, and vanished.
Hazeldean kept his eyes on the door, now closed, while their footsteps faded away; Marie’s quick and heavy, the old man’s shuffling. “Assuming that was Pierre,” reflected Hazeldean, “now I’ve seen the lot. Pierre and Marie. I don’t mind Marie, though I could quite easily live without her, but I don’t like Pierre. Why don’t I like Pierre? Just the nasty, suspicious nature I’m developing? Why on earth does Mr. Fenner bring his niece to this very unpleasant place?”
Feeling more and more disturbed, he began his meal. The tea was as good as he would have expected in England, and he could not complain of the rolls and the toast and the gateaux, but they gave him no enjoyment. Somewhere in a cobbled street outside, distant but distinct, a piano-organ tinkled. The intermezzo from Cavalleria Rusticana. It gave him a sense that nothing moved here save primitive, unseen things.
“And I’m not moving, either!” he exclaimed aloud.
Abruptly he jumped up, following an instinct that reversed his previous policy, but as he neared the dining-room door he heard the sound of shuffling. Recognising it, he returned quickly to the table and rang a little hand-bell. He was seated again when Pierre materialised once more in the doorway.
The old man stopped, blinking at Hazeldean like an ancient, furrowed owl.
“Do you speak English?” Hazeldean called.
“Non, m’sieur,” answered Pierre.
“Then how the devil do you know what I’ve just asked?” demanded Hazeldean.
The ancient owl became a trifle more furrowed, and then repeated:
“Non, m’sieur.”
“Meaning, exactly?”
“Non, m’sieur.”
Hazeldean mistrusted his attitude. There was no perplexity in the old man’s vaguely apologetic smile.
“Then if I were to offer you a hundred pounds to direct me at once to the nearest telephone, you would not be able to earn it?”
“Pardon?”
“All right, have it your own way. Ou est Monsieur Fenner?”
“Il est parti, m’sieur.”
“Already?”
“Pardon?”
“Et Madame?”
“Aussi.”
If this were true, the reversed policy would have to be reconsidered, for it meant that Dora Fenner was already alone with her unsatisfactory bodyguard.
“Ou est Mademoiselle Fenner?”
“Ma’m’selle Fenner? Mais—dans sa chambre, m’sieur.”
Pierre’s raised eyebrows added mutely, “Where else should she be?”
“I see.” Hazeldean paused, then went on, in an audible mutter, as though to himself: “Nuisance, the others have gone. How am I going to get this news to ’em about Dr. Jones? It’s vital to them, too!”
Watching closely, Hazeldean noted Pierre’s expression change at the name “Dr. Jones.”
“Ah, le pauvre homme!” murmured Pierre. “Tragique—tragique!”
Hazeldean thought, “This damn rascal’s beating me! He’s cleverer than his fellow-domestic—he had the sense to realise that, even if he couldn’t speak English, he’d recognise the name of his late master when I mentioned it!”
But perhaps, after all, he cou
ldn’t speak English?
Giving it up, Hazeldean rose. Pierre, still standing in the doorway, glanced at the table.
“Finis, m’sieur?”
“Yes, thanks. Oui, merci.”
“Mais non!” The tone was deprecating. Too many cakes remained on the dish. “Vous n’etes pas content?”
“Oui, everything was delightful,” answered Hazeldean. “Charmonte.”
“Merci. Numero Quatre, m’sieur. S’il vous plait?”
He turned as Hazeldean reached him, and hobbled ahead. Hazeldean followed till he found himself in a spot he recognised, and knew that the direction he wanted was not Pierre’s.
“Pas numero Quatre,” he said.
“Mais oui, Quatre,” insisted Pierre.
“Non. Pas encore. Je vais voir Mademoiselle Fenner.”
The old man stopped abruptly, peered at Hazeldean as though to make sure that he meant what he said, and then smiled.
“Un moment, m’sieur. Je vais voir—”
In that moment he had vanished.
“Confound the fellow!” muttered Hazeldean.
He darted after him. He was not going to let Pierre win all along the line. Round a bend he nearly ran into the maid.
“Oh, m’sieur!” gasped the maid.
“What’s the matter?” demanded Hazeldean.
Marie put her hand to her heart. She was breathless. A belief that she was purposely obstructing his progress lasted only an instant. Her distracted condition was genuine.
“She is faint,” panted Marie.
“Who? Miss Fenner?”
Marie nodded as Hazeldean dashed past her. He caught Pierre up at the door of Dora’s room.
Pierre was staring into the room. His eyes were as startled as the maid’s. Dora lay, a crumpled heap, in the middle of the floor.
Chapter XIII
Gathering Darkness
“Take it easy,” said Hazeldean quietly, as Dora opened her eyes.
He had lifted her into a chair after dismissing Pierre from the room. The old man had objected to the dismissal, but Hazeldean had not been in a mood to listen to his objections and had bundled him unceremoniously into the passage, closing the door in his indignant face. Possibly the face was now plastered to the keyhole, but Hazeldean did not mind the thought of that, since the key was in the hole on his side of the door, and in the event of further trouble he was quite ready to turn it.
Dora’s eyes rested on him for a moment or two, during which the distress in them became less acute, and then they closed again. When next they opened, they remained open.
“Had a shock?” asked Hazeldean.
She nodded.
“Tell me about it when you’re ready,” he answered, “but don’t hurry. We won’t be interrupted,” he added, as her glance wandered towards the door.
She waited a few moments longer, while the colour returned to her cheeks, then said.
“It was silly of me—to go off like that.”
“Don’t expect me to agree with you,” he replied. “You seem to think everything you do is silly! There’s a limit, you know, to what any of us can stand.”
“Yes, I suppose so. Thank you. I expect it was—coming on top of everything—”
She paused and gulped, and now her glance wandered towards the window.
“What came on top of everything?” inquired Hazeldean. “Something at the window?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“A face. Dark—foreign.” The brief description was sufficient for Hazeldean to recognise it. “It was only there for a moment.”
“But it must have been a very nasty moment.”
“Yes. And—you see—I’d still got that awful news you brought in my mind.”
“Ah—your uncle told you about that?”
“Yes. He’d just gone. So I suppose the shock did it. Fainting isn’t a habit of mine, though I do sometimes. It always annoys me. I never used to.”
“Well, if you’ve grown into it, you’ll grow out of it,” he answered. “It’s nothing to worry about. How are you feeling now?”
“Better,” she replied, responding to his encouraging smile.
“How much better?”
“Quite all right.”
“Do you need anything? Shall I ring for the maid?”
“Oh, no!” The negative was very definite. “Have you seen her? What do you think of her?”
“Of Marie?” he replied. “Well, she was quite pleasant while she served my tea. I can’t say I was wildly enthusiastic, but I can’t say I minded her.”
“No. That’s right.” She was comparing her own opinion with his. “And what about Pierre? Have you seen him?”
“Yes.”
“Are you wildly enthusiastic about Pierre?”
The form of the question pleased him. It was her first real attempt at humour, the invaluable tonic for jarred nerves.
“Do you remember a little rhyme about a certain Dr. Fell?” he asked.
“No.”
“It goes like this: ‘I do not like thee, Dr. Fell, the reason why I cannot tell, But this I know, and know full well, I do not like thee, Dr. Fell.’” Her laughter rippled round the dim parlour with pleasant incongruity. “So now you know my opinion of our friend Pierre. Incidentally, he hasn’t got Marie’s enterprise.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well—Marie can speak a bit of English.”
“Oh, but so can Pierre.”
“Oh, can he?” Thus Hazeldean drew from Dora the information that Pierre had been lying, which further reduced the popularity of Dr. Fell. “My mistake. By the way, he hasn’t been bothering you, has he?” She shook her head. “Or Marie? Was she here when you fainted?”
“No. I’d just had my meal.” Her tray was still there. “You say you’ve had yours, or I’d—what are you going to do now?”
“Didn’t your uncle tell you?” he asked.
“No.”
“That’s funny—”
“He was in a hurry,” she explained. “He had to go to the police station with Madame Paula.”
“Yes—of course… I’m staying here for a bit.”
A pleasant moment followed. The spontaneous relief in her expression was ample repayment for his decision, though all she said was, “I’m glad!”
“Are you? Then so am I. It was your uncle who suggested it—”
“Did he?”
“But I expect I’d have suggested it myself if he hadn’t. My man will be here shortly with some things from the boat.”
She looked a little puzzled.
“But didn’t you suggest it?” she asked. “I mean, when you left, wasn’t Madame Paula going to show you a room?”
“So she was,” he recalled.
“Only I wasn’t sure you’d really decided.”
“Well, I’ve decided now, anyhow. I’m in charge of you till he comes back. Do you mind?”
She smiled at him. “I like it. I hope it’s a nice room. Some are very poky. I’ll tell you something. I didn’t think Madame Paula wanted it first—you to stay here, I mean. I had an idea she’d show you the horridest room there was, so you wouldn’t take it! Yes, but now, of course, everything’s different. Poor Madame Paula! I don’t expect we’ll be seeing much of her. My uncle said she’d be staying in her room.” Her voice grew rather faltering. “Was I a little beast?”
“When?”
“I mean, the way I spoke about her. And about—I mean, when a thing like this happens, it makes you think. I wanted to go to her, but my uncle thought it was better not to.”
“I’m sure he was right. And you weren’t a little beast.”
“Thank you. Only you would say that. I think I was, though. But, of course, I couldn’t have seen her then, because
they went out. I’m afraid it will be rather gloomy for you here. We don’t do anything. Don’t think you have to stay here and talk to me—if you want to go and see Notre Dame!”
She gave a nervous little laugh.
“I haven’t the least desire to see Notre Dame!” he laughed back. “At least, not unless you come with me. But don’t think you’ve got to talk to me either if you want to do anything else. Perhaps you want to get on with your book?”
The book she had been reading when he had first met her was on the little table by the tray.
“No, I’d much rather talk,” she answered. “I don’t often get the—I mean, I’m so afraid you’ll find it dull, when I expect you meet so many interesting people—going about in your boat, and that. What shall we talk about?”
She was beginning suddenly to develop a painful self-consciousness, and though he longed to talk of personal matters, and meant to return to them, he decided to carry her mind away from herself and the pension and Boulogne for a little while. He described his boat to her, and his crew; and while the mantelpiece clock ticked away the minutes, and her interested face grew less and less distinct in the fading daylight, he took her on one of his voyages to Oslo and back. It was almost dark when he had finished.
“It must be a wonderful boat!” she exclaimed.
“It’s just a boat,” he replied. “But one’s own boat is always wonderful, like one’s dog or one’s car.”
“Could it go farther than Oslo and back?”
“Of course.”
“Such a small boat?”
“She can sleep four comfortably. And she has an auxiliary engine.”
“Could she go round the world?”
“Smaller boats have done it.”
“It must be lovely to travel. To see things—new things. I wonder my uncle doesn’t want to more sometimes. He came from South Africa, you know. Well, of course, you didn’t know. That was after my father died.”
“When you were a little girl?”
Seven Dead Page 10
