Trusted Like The Fox

by James Hadley Chase

  With a feeling of guilt, she hurriedly slipped into her silk wrap and sat on the stool before the mirror. Her hair, freshly shampooed, looked soft and wavy. She ran a comb through it, still disturbed in her mind, and adjusted the thick tresses with clips. She hesitated before putting on lipstick, but her lips were so pale she decided she must make the best of herself if only to please Richard.

  Once again in the bedroom she slipped into the dress she had selected from the dozen or so costumes and frocks in the wardrobe. It was a dress of deep blue with a long, narrow V neck and three-quarter sleeves. She glanced at herself in the mirror and was startled and delighted by the transformation. The dress fitted her as if it had been made for her, and she scarcely recognised herself, realising with delight that she was looking quite attractive.

  But this was no time for preening, she told herself, and with a final glance into the mirror, she slid back the bolt and opened the bedroom door.

  The smell of bacon frying told her where to look for the kitchen, and as she walked down the passage to a half-open door she suddenly felt self-conscious and almost dreaded to meet Crane again. Suppose she looked into his eyes and saw she was mistaken and that he didn’t love her as she thought? Suppose he didn’t find her attractive after all the trouble she had taken?

  Timidly she pushed open the door and looked into a beautifully appointed kitchen, fitted with every conceivable laboursaving device, and decorated in white and royal blue.

  Crane was standing by an electric cooker, a cigarette in his mouth and a fork in his hand. He glanced round with a smile when he heard her come in but when he caught sight of her the smile froze on his face and he gave a convulsive start.

  There was a long pause, neither of them saying anything. Grace went cold as she saw his skin change from healthy tan to a greenish grey. Sheer naked terror had sprung into his eyes, his mouth was loose and slack and he seemed unable to breathe.

  The slight clatter of the fork as it fell from his fingers on to the floor seemed to rouse him, and he attempted to pull himself together, his mouth twisting into a ghastly effort to smile.

  Grace stepped back, her hand to her mouth, her eyes wide with fright.

  “I thought it was Julie,” he said, the muscles in his face stiff, his eyes still dark with terror. “I — I really thought you were Julie . . .” and abruptly he pushed past her and almost ran from the room, leaving her staring after him.

  With an effort Grace controlled her rising panic. She picked up the fork and mechanically moved the slices of bacon in the frying pan. The electric kettle began to pour out a jet of steam, and she made coffee. She wouldn’t let herself think, forcing herself to complete the preparation for breakfast. When it was ready she had a grip on her nerves and she did not flinch when Crane returned to the room. He too had himself under control, and the kind, humorous expression was once more in his eyes, but Grace drew away from him as he approached her, her eyes searching his face.

  “I can’t say how sorry I am to have given you such a fright,” he said. She smelt brandy on his breath as he spoke to her, and she flinched, moving still further away. “Please forgive me,” he went on. “I was thinking and I didn’t hear you come in. That dress was one of her favourites, and — and well, you did look like her. It’s odd, but she used to dress her hair the way you’ve dressed yours. You scared me out of my senses.”

  “Oh,” she said, instantly sorry for him, and no longer frightened. “I’m sorry, too. I couldn’t think . . .” Without realising what she was doing, she put her hand on his arm.

  “It was stupid of me,” he said, patted her hand and moved away. It was a friendly gesture, but she was hurt that he so obviously avoided her touch. “You see, Julie’s only been dead a few months, and I miss her — I miss her badly, and seeing you so unexpectedly I thought . . .” for a fleeting moment the calm expression in his eyes slipped and she saw terror again there, but he quickly controlled himself . . . she’d come back.” He picked up the coffee-pot. “Well, come on, let’s eat. I’m starving and I’m sure you must be too.” He looked at her quickly. “And you so startled me I haven’t even said how nice you look. Why, you look wonderful.”

  She knew at once that for the first time since they had met he was being insincere, that he didn’t think she looked wonderful and that he wished she hadn’t put on that particular dress. She was so disappointed that she could have cried, blaming herself for spoiling a moment that could have been precious to them both.

  “You take the dish in and I’ll bring the coffee and toast,” he went on, moving to the door.

  She picked up the dish of bacon and mushrooms and followed him into the long, narrow sitting-room. He had laid the table and he set down the coffee and toast, took the dish from her and placed it on the hot plate.

  “Now, let’s eat.”

  But she couldn’t until she had changed the dress.

  “I won’t be a moment,” she said and fled back to her bedroom.

  She hurriedly pulled the dress over her head, sending a cascade of hair clips flying in all directions, and tossed it on the bed. She ran to the wardrobe, opened it, snatched down a simple frock of gay-checked gingham from its hanger. When she had slipped into it, she went to the dressing-table and fluffed up her hair, leaving it loose on her shoulders. She knew she didn’t look so attractive in this dress, but that couldn’t be helped. She wasn’t going to risk any more insincere compliments from Crane, nor did she wish to remind him of his dead sister.

  She returned to the sitting-room, paused outside to smooth down the dress, opened the door and went in.

  Crane looked at her and instantly his face lit up.

  “What a nice child you are,” he said. “To have taken all that trouble just because I behaved like a fool. Come on and sit down. That dress suits you. You know you’re quite an attractive little thing . . . but perhaps someone else has told you that.”

  With a feeling of suffocating happiness Grace knew this time he meant the compliment. He went on before she could think of anything to say. “You haven’t told me your name. Won’t you?”

  “Grace,” she said, hesitated, remembering that the newspaper had mentioned her name, decided to lie. “Grace Stuart.”

  He smiled. “A fine old historical name. May I call you Grace?”

  She flushed scarlet.

  “Yes,” she said, looking down at her plate. “Oh, yes, please.”

  This time he laughed. “We’ll have to have a serious talk before long, but there’s still a lot to do. You get on with breakfast. As soon as I’ve finished I must get that stretcher out of the way. It wouldn’t do for anyone to find it here.”

  She suddenly thought of Ellis.

  “How is — he?”

  Crane shook his head. “He’s bad, but I’ve got him to bed and he seems comfortable. Perhaps you’d better keep an eye on him while I’m out. I shan’t be long. He’s still unconscious and he’s been raving. Did you know he speaks German? He’s not a German, is he?” She was aware that he was looking at her intently.

  “Oh, no . . . his name’s David Ellis. I — I’ve seen his identity card.”

  “Funny. He’s talking a lot of rot in German . . .”

  Grace looked blank. “Rot?”

  “Never mind,” Crane said abruptly, finished his coffee and pushed back his chair. “I’ll get off if you’ll excuse me. I want to plant that stretcher somewhere before anyone spots it’s missing. I’ll take those clothes you borrowed too.” As she made to rise he waved her back to her seat. “Finish your breakfast. You must be starving. When I come back we’ll have a talk.”

  She sat at the table long after the click of the gate swinging to told her that he had gone and left her alone with Ellis.

  What was going to happen to her? she asked herself. What plan would he make for her when he returned? She was uncertain now about his love for her. There had been no light in his eves when he had looked at her, and yet he was so kind and understanding. She bit her lip with vexat
ion when she thought of the fright she had given him. It was understandable for him to have looked like that although at the time he had frightened her. He had looked ghastly . . . terrified . . . almost as if . . . but she caught herself up. Guilty? Why should she think he had looked guilty? Was that being loyal after all he had done for her? She got up quickly, cleared the table and put the plates, cups and breakfast things on the trolley and pushed it into the kitchen.

  She’d better look at Ellis, she thought, although now Ellis meant nothing to her. Her mind was obsessed with Crane and Ellis was a nuisance, likely to interfere with Crane’s plans for her.

  She opened the bedroom door, entered.

  Ellis lay on his back, his face flushed, his hands clenched at his sides. He opened his eyes as she came up to the bed and stared at her.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” he said in a low weak voice. “Where have you been?”

  “You’ll be all right,” she said, stooping over him. “You’re ill, but you’ll be all right.” She spoke without thinking, aware with a slight feeling of shame that she did not care what happened to him.

  “How do you know I’ll be all right?” he muttered, ugly rage in his eyes.

  “You must keep quiet . . .” she began, broke off with a strangled gasp as his hands shot up and caught her round her throat. He dragged her down on top of him so that she sprawled across the bed, helpless in his grip.

  “You bitch!” he snarled at her. “You don’t give a damn now you’ve found a fancy man. You’re selling yourself to him, aren’t you? I know. You bitches are all alike. You trade yourselves for clothes and a full belly. You don’t care what happens to me. Do you think he’ll care? He’ll throw me out . . . turn me over to the police . . . so long as he can get what he wants out of you!”

  Terrified, Grace struck blindly at him, her fist hitting him in the face. His hands slipped off her throat and he went limp, the effort of holding her being too much for him.

  She scrambled away from him, leaned against the wall, her face white and her breath coming in laboured gasps.

  “You’re wrong,” she said. “I’m going to look after you . . . I said I would and I won’t break my word, but you mustn’t talk like that.” She suddenly became angry, “How dare you say anything against him. He’s kind! Do you hear? He’s kind! Something you don’t even know the meaning of.”

  Ellis closed his eyes.

  “Oh, shut up,” he sneered. “He only wants one thing, and he’ll get it from you, you weak, stupid little fool. Get out of my sight.”

  “You mustn’t talk like that,” she said, shocked. “I want to help you, but I won’t if you say things like that, and besides it’s bad for you to excite yourself. You must keep quiet.”

  Ellis waved her away, and then suddenly stiffened. “What’s that?” he asked, listening. “There’s someone out there.”

  Grace ran to the window, peered through the white muslin curtains. Her heart turned a somersault when she saw a tall figure in police uniform coming slowly up the drive.

  “It’s the police,” she said, jumping back.

  Ellis snarled, showing his teeth.

  “Do something, you fool,” he said. “Get me a knife or something. They won’t take me alive.”

  She seemed to gain courage from his cringing terror.

  “Don’t make a sound,” she said. “I won’t let him in. If I can keep him talking until Richard comes back . . .”

  Ellis whispered frantically, “Give me a knife . . .”

  There was a sharp ring on the bell, followed by a loud double rap on the knocker.

  Without looking at Ellis, her face white, Grace went from the bedroom, down the passage to the front door.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Inspector James was a lean, grizzled man of sixty who had seen service as a Regimental Sergeant-Major in the 1914-18 war.

  Tall, upright and impressive to look at, he stood on the doorstep, his keen eye examining Grace with interested but courteous scrutiny. The rambling report he had received from P.C. Rogers had raised his curiosity, and the confidential chat he had had with Mr West and Mr Malcolm had shocked him.

  “He says the woman is his sister,” Mr West had said, while Mr Malcolm had smiled superciliously. “I don’t believe a word of it. She’s dressed all right, of course, but anyone with half an eye can see she’s his fancy bit. They’re no more alike than I am like you, and besides, she looks like a little shop girl.”

  “And what’s more,” Malcolm had put in, “they’re up there together unchaperoned.”

  Although disturbed by the robbery at the clubhouse, James was far more startled to learn that secretive adultery was being committed in the village, and he hoped that a gentle hint in the right direction would terminate the sordid affair before it became village gossip.

  Inspector James considered it was the duty of the upper classes to set a high moral example, and since Crane was an exceedingly rich young man, and in spite of the fact that he took little active interest in the affairs of the village, James still regarded him as a man of considerable influence. He thought it was in the worst possible taste for Crane to have some young woman living with him, and in spite of the subterfuge of saying that she was his sister, rumours would soon be rife and the whole moral structure of the youth of the village might easily be undermined.

  Inspector James was expecting to be confronted by a blonde beauty with scarlet finger-nails and even perhaps in a clinging negligé. He was therefore considerably surprised and perturbed when he found himself face to face with Grace. He saw immediately that she was not a member of the upper class and realised why Mr West and Mr Malcolm had voiced their suspicions. This young woman just could not be any relation of Crane’s. Unlike Rogers he was not misled by the way she was dressed. Here was a young woman of the lower classes, he decided, of no particular breeding, attired in an extremely expensive but admittedly (and here he was a little disappointed) modest frock, with an unusually good figure and pretty legs (Inspector James had an eye for pretty legs, a subject he shared with nobody). Although the young woman was obviously nervous, there was nothing shameless about her, and James found himself thinking it would be pleasant if his own daughter was as modest as this young woman seemed to be.

  “Good morning, ma’am,” he said, saluting and inclining his ramrod figure. “I hope I’m not disturbing you by such an early call, but I understand you may be able to give me some information concerning a robbery at the Taleham Golf Club that took place in the early hours of this morning. I am Inspector James, and this district is in my care. Up to now, I may say, it has been a very pleasant charge, but this robbery has spoilt a record of fifteen crimeless years.” A wintry smile crossed his face. “You will appreciate, I’m sure, ma’am, that people are nervous these days, and it would never do to let them think that we’re in for a crime wave. Enough of that is going on in London at the present moment, and we don’t want any of it here.” He stroked his grey moustache, shook his head dolefully. “There’s only one way to stamp out a crime wave, ma’am,” he continued, his eyes never leaving Grace’s white, tense face. “Immediate action must be taken to arrest the offender, and that, ma’am, is why I have called on you. Any information you may be able to give me will be treated as confidential and will be acted upon with discretion.”

  Grace found the tall, lean figure was bearing down on her, and she gave ground, hypnotised by the gentle voice and the steady stream of words.

  Before she knew what was happening, James was in the hall, closing the front door behind him.

  “You have a nice place here, ma’am,” he said, glancing round. “Not every newly-married couple can claim a home as nice as this. From what I’ve seen of most of the new houses and that nasty utility furniture it’s better to stay single.” He edged his way towards the sitting-room. “It’s most kind of you to let me in, ma’am,” he went on. “I’ve had a long, tiring walk and I’m not as young as I was, although I mustn’t grumble considering I’ve h
ad four years of trench warfare and have been twice blown sky high by high explosives.” He opened the sitting-room door, stood aside to allow Grace to enter.

  “I — I don’t know anything about the robbery,” she burst out, now thoroughly frightened.

  The inspector apparently did not hear this statement. He selected the most comfortable chair in the room and lowered himself into it with a grateful sigh.

  “A very restful and beautiful room if I may say so, ma’am,” he said, then glanced up, his eyes suddenly piercing. “I am addressing Mrs Richard Crane, I presume?”

  “Oh no,” Grace said, her face turning scarlet. “I’m not Mrs Crane.”

  James raised his eyebrows. He appeared to be too astonished to speak for a few moments. “Not Mrs Crane?” he said at last. “Now, that’s very odd. It’s not like me to make a mistake. Very odd indeed. I understood there was a young lady staying with Mr Crane, and I naturally supposed she was his wife. I did hear somewhere that he had married recently or am I thinking of someone else?” He shook his head. “I may be. An old man’s failing, I’m afraid. At one time my memory was remarkably good, but these days it’s unreliable.” He shook his head again. “The penalty of old age.”

  Grace stood by the door, her knees weak and her heart hammering against her ribs. She said nothing, waited.

  “Perhaps you’re Miss Crane?” James went on, his face lighting up hopefully.

  “I — I’m Mrs Julie Brewer,” Grace said desperately, remembering the name by which Crane had introduced her to the Club Secretary. “I’m Mr Crane’s sister.”