Trusted Like The Fox

by James Hadley Chase

  Ellis nodded bleakly, looked at Crane who was moving away from the window.

  “That’s fine,” Crane said. “Thank you so much.” He went with the little Hindu to the door.

  Dr Safki paused, looked at Ellis.

  “You’re a very silent young man,” he said. “Haven’t you anything to say for yourself at all?”

  Ellis pursed his thin lips, looked away.

  “He’s shy,” Crane said and suddenly laughed. “I believe he has an acute inferiority complex.”

  Dr Safki nodded. “Ah!” he said. “Yes, I can understand that. Each of us has his own traitor within. Extravagance is my traitor.”

  “And you know mine,” Crane said, his eyes suddenly odd.

  “Yes, I know yours,” Dr Safki returned, and for a brief moment disgust showed on his face. Ellis, who was watching him, noticed the change of expression. He knows, he thought. There is something fishy going on and this nigger knows what it is.

  Crane laughed lightly. He seemed now completely at ease. “Well, we mustn’t keep you, Doctor, no doubt you have things to do. Come and see him tomorrow. Perhaps he’ll say something then. He has a remarkable voice,” and he laughed again.

  Ellis gritted his teeth. A furious hatred for this big, handsome fellow boiled up inside him.

  Dr Salki nodded. “I’ll come,” he said, and to Ellis, “You mustn’t excite yourself. If you want to get well quickly you should relax and not worry about anything.”

  “Difficult advice to carry out,” Crane said, looking at Ellis with a friendly smile. “But doctors are all the same. They give advice so easily although I don’t really believe they expect you to carry it out. It’s just something to soothe their own conscience.” He patted Safki’s plump little arm. “And some doctors have the most peculiar consciences, haven’t they, my friend?”

  “It is very probable,” the doctor returned, looking sad again, and he went out of the room, Crane following him.

  Grace was waiting in the hall. She looked quickly at the two men as they came towards her, looked away as she met Crane’s quiet, calm gaze.

  “Is this the young lady who set his leg?” Dr Safki murmured.

  “That’s right,” Crane said. “I’d like you to meet Dr Safki,” he went on to Grace. “You’ll be glad to hear that our friend is not as ill as we thought. Doctor thinks he’ll pull through, and has admired the brilliant way you set his leg.” He touched Dr Salki’s arm. “This is Julie Brewer.”

  Dr Safki, up to this moment, was looking at Grace with interested, kindly eyes. He admired her so respectfully that Grace, in spite of her nervousness, felt flattered, but when Crane said, “this is Julie Brewer,” the little man stepped back abruptly and his coffee-coloured skin turned pale. He looked at Grace, at Crane, then muttering something under his breath, walked to the front door, opened it and without looking back went hurriedly down the long drive.

  Grace and Crane stood for a moment staring after him, then Crane shrugged.

  “Funny little man . . . I don’t think he really cares for women,” and he moved to Grace, stood before her and looked into her eyes.

  “Now let’s talk,” he said. “Shall we go into the sitting-room?”

  She walked ahead of him, and they sat down in armchairs opposite each other.

  “He told you to search my room, didn’t he?” Crane asked.

  She shuddered. “I shouldn’t have done it,” she said. “Oh, I wish now I hadn’t . . .”

  “But he told you to do it?” he asked again, as if anxious that she should excuse herself.

  “Yes.”

  Crane nodded. “Well, don’t worry. You mustn’t think I’m angry. I’m not. Some people make a great fuss about their privacy, but I don’t. At least, perhaps that’s not quite true. I wouldn’t like everyone to know what you found in that drawer.”

  Grace recoiled. “Please . . . don’t speak about it.”

  “I want to speak about it. I feel, now you’ve seen it, you must have an explanation. Otherwise you might think I’m a murderer or something equally dreadful.”

  “Of course I don’t,” Grace blurted out, wringing her hands. “I had no business to pry . . .”

  “You know nothing about me, do you?” Crane said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs, “and yet I feel you don’t dislike me.”

  “I — I’m very grateful to you . . .” Grace stammered.

  “Only grateful?” There was an encouraging smile in his eyes. “Nothing more than gratitude? You know, I hate gratitude; it’s like pity.”

  “You’ve been so kind to me,” Grace said, her face scarlet: “I — I — of course I like you.”

  “But only because I’ve been kind to you? Not for myself?” He got up and went to her, offering her his hand.

  She sat still, staring at the big, fleshy hand, ill at ease, and yet weak with physical excitement.

  “I want you to like me,” he said gently. “Because I like you. I think you have courage; and besides, you’re pretty. I like the way you walk, the way you hold your head, the way you look at me. It’s extraordinary. The moment I saw you . . . frightened . . . alone in the clubhouse . . . you interested me very much.”

  Grace slid her hand into his. She scarcely knew what she was doing. It had happened, as she had hoped it would happen. He was making love to her.

  “Oh, I do like you,” she said.

  The warm, strong hand pressed hers, and then he moved away from her.

  “I’m glad you said that,” he said, leaning against the mantelpiece. “Now I feel I can talk to you not as a stranger but as a friend. I know that knife gave you a shock — my sister killed herself with it.”

  “Oh!” Grace stiffened, her hands gripping the arms of the chair. “How awful . . . how dreadful for you.”

  He moved restlessly. “It was pretty awful,” he said. “You see we meant a lot to each other. We’d grown up together, lived here together, shared things together. She was part of my life.” He turned abruptly and wandered across the room to the window. She watched him and for several minutes he kept his back turned, then as abruptly he came back. “I haven’t really got over it yet,” he said, running his fingers through his straw-coloured hair. “Forgive me if I am a little emotional. She was a lovely person and my only real friend.” He broke off, stared at Grace. “You remind me of her. The moment I saw you . . .”

  Grace couldn’t find words to express what she was feeling. She wanted to cry, to go to him and hold him in her arms, to tell him how sorry she was for him and that she would do anything to help him, but she was tongue-tied and said nothing.

  “She married a chap who turned out to be a first-class swine,” Crane went on. “I won’t go into details; they’re too revolting to talk about. She left him on their wedding night and came to live with me, but the damage was done. She couldn’t clear her mind of his beastliness and the poor kid went off her head. I kept her here for a month, not telling anyone but Safki — he was splendid and helped me no end — and we hoped she’d get well. She didn’t . . . she killed herself.” He drew in a quick breath, beat his fist on the mantelpiece. “It was horrible. Can you blame me for wanting to hush it all up? She had so many friends and I couldn’t bear the thought of the whispering campaign that would have been inevitable if I’d reported her death to the police. Safki gave the death certificate — natural causes, and no one knows the truth. I’m sorry you saw the knife. It’s lain in that drawer for months. I’ve not had the nerve to touch it, and I’ve never been to the drawer since it happened.” He felt in his hip pocket, pulled out a gold cigarette case, lit a cigarette, tossed the match into the fireplace. “Well, now you know. You and Safki are the only two people, except myself, who do know. Will you keep my secret?”

  “Oh, yes,” Grace said, her eyes filling with tears. “Of course I will. I can’t say how sorry I am. I’ll never forgive myself for going into your room, but he kept on and on . . .”

  “He doesn’t like me, does he?” Crane s
aid, his eyes watchful. “No. He says there’s something about you . . . he doesn’t trust you . . .”

  “But you do, don’t you?”

  “Yes. I knew there was nothing . . .”

  “I’m lonely,” Crane broke in abruptly. “You don’t know how lonely I am. There’s no one for me to talk to now. No one who really understands me. She was always with me and now . . .” He lifted his shoulders. “I’m glad you have her room. You don’t know how much you remind me of her.”

  “I’m glad,” Grace said, not sure that this was true. Did he like her only because she reminded him of his dead sister? Wasn’t there something of her own self that he liked?

  “Come on,” he said, going to the door, “Let’s talk to Ellis. I have other things to tell you, and he must know too. I’ve been busy.”

  As she came to the door, he put his hand on her shoulder. “You haven’t even asked about the watch. You don’t think of yourself, do you?”

  “What do I matter?” Grace said. “I’m nobody. I’ve never been anybody.”

  “But wouldn’t you like to be?” Crane said, smiling at her. “Have you ever thought of running a place like this? Having money to spend, finding a little happiness.”

  She stared at him, her eyes wide with delighted surprise. “Oh, yes,” she said.

  “Well, sometimes dreams do come true,” he said gently, “but now let’s go and see Ellis.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  By six o’clock, the evening sun seemed to gather strength and a shimmering heat lay over the garden. From his bed Ellis could see the hard black shadows of the trees on the lawn, sharp-edged and still. The colours of the flowers had taken on a new vividness in the blaze of light and the sky was cloudless, like an azure umbrella.

  Ellis had been alone for three hours. Every so often he heard Grace and Crane talking in the garden, and twice he had caught a glimpse of them as they walked up and down the lawn, close together, she looking up at him so that she could read the words as they formed on his lips. But for over an hour now he had seen nothing of them and he wondered anxiously where they were and what they were doing.

  The tablets given him by Dr Safki had eased his fever, and he found himself clearer in mind; his sense of self- preservation sharpened. He was able to appreciate his position: one of danger and uncertainty, depending on how Crane was going to react.

  Ellis was glad of the opportunity to lie quiet and make plans; to consider what best to do.

  Crane had handled the fingerprint business with brilliant audacity. Although he had only given them the sketchiest idea of what he had done Ellis gathered that Crane was friendly with Inspector James’s daughter. Apparently Crane’s influence was considerable, and he had been able to persuade her to get hold of the watch, to wipe it clean of fingerprints and to substitute her own prints on it in the place of Grace’s. She had done this apparently without asking for an explanation, and Crane hadn’t said what reward he had given her for taking such a risk. He merely said, perhaps a little mysteriously, “she’s in my debt and I knew I could rely on her. It was really very simple. So now neither of you have anything to worry about. I know James. When he receives the report from headquarters that the fingerprints on the watch are not recorded he’ll drop the whole business. He is a man who lives by rule of thumb, and he has great faith in reports. You can both stay here as long as you like.”

  So the immediate danger seemed over, but Ellis was not satisfied. Crane had said nothing to him about his own future, nor had he again referred to the fact that he knew Ellis was Cushman. He had kept away from Ellis, talking to him only in Grace’s presence. Ellis felt that Crane had something up his sleeve and was biding his time. It was an uncomfortable feeling; it worried Ellis.

  There was no mistake about it: Crane was a smooth card. The way he had handled the inspector’s daughter showed that. Even Ellis wasn’t capable of such finesse and cunning, and he prided himself on being smart.

  Then there was Grace. The change in her during the day had been nothing short of miraculous. She had suddenly become pretty, her eyes bright where before they had been lustreless and miserable. The new clothes made a tremendous difference to her, and Ellis couldn’t keep her out of his mind, picturing her as she lay on the bed beside him, pinned down by his hand on her throat. He found himself wanting to see her again, watching the clock impatiently, wondering how much longer she was going to be before she came to see if he wanted anything.

  There was no doubt that she had been good to him. Not many girls could have set his leg as she had done: why even that fat little nigger of a doctor had been impressed.

  Ellis thought back to the moment when he had decided to save her from arrest: when she had been stealing from the woman’s purse and had been caught. He had had a feeling then that her destiny was to be linked with his. Instinctively he had known that she would be worth helping, and that she would repay his help a hundred times over. He was lonely, had need of a companion and had thought at first that he had been landed with a gutless, snivelling little bitch, but he had been wrong; had misjudged her. The caterpillar had turned into a butterfly: the transformation was electrifying.

  Ellis frowned. Was he falling in love with the girl? he asked himself. Always coldly analytical of his own feelings, he pondered the question. It was possible. Hate, they say, is akin to love, he thought, and he had treated her brutally enough; even hated her. Now his feelings were changing. It was an odd sensation for a man of his callousness and brutality to be moved by a chit of a girl like Grace, and yet he was moved; he could not deny it. It would be nice, he thought, if she came in now and was kind to him. He didn’t want a lot of slop; that was something he couldn’t stomach, but he would have liked her to sit by the window and talk to him. He didn’t care what she said; she was so illiterate that she couldn’t possibly interest him no matter what she had to say, but he wanted to hear the sound of her voice, to look at her, to have her near him.

  He moved restlessly. She was in love with Crane. Anyone with half an eye could see that. Crane with his good looks, his wealth, his suave manners was just the kind of fellow a girl like Grace would fall for. It was natural. She was young, frivolous, without standards, educated by the movies; what could one expect? That didn’t matter, Ellis decided, so long as Crane didn’t interest himself in her. There lay the danger. If Crane behaved as he should behave, he’d quickly put her in her place. But if he happened to be interested in women (and a big, fleshy fellow like him was certain to be over-sexed, Ellis thought bitterly), then there was danger; although, he argued, reluctant to face up to the more likely possibilities, a fellow like Crane would surely surround himself with fashionable beauties, the kind of women you see in Vogue, showing off clothes (and themselves too, for that matter!). Crane could get chorus girls down from London, fast bits from the West End hotels who were not above selling themselves for a good time: the real stuff; women who knew what was what, knew how to dress, how to please men, not a deaf little stupid like Grace.

  But Grace suited Ellis. Oddly enough, he decided, she was his type of girl. He hadn’t ever thought of having a girl before, but now he considered the idea he decided Grace was the one for him.

  But Crane — Crane kept cropping up in his thoughts. Surely a fellow like Crane wouldn’t bother with Grace? But suppose he did? Suppose he was one of those swine who thought it fun to take on a girl as innocent and naive as Grace? There were such men. Suppose Crane was one of them? Suppose at this very moment he was trying it on? Ellis felt sweat on his face. He’d kill him! He half sat up in bed, then with a gesture of frustrated fury, he lay back again. It was all very well to think of killing Crane, but how to do it? He was half Crane’s size and, besides, he was chained to the bed. It wouldn’t be easy. It’d need thought.

  Then perhaps there would be no need to kill Crane. There was no point in working one’s self up if Crane was not interested in Grace. No point at all. He’d wait and see; watch Crane.

  It was after seven o’
clock before Grace and Crane returned to the bungalow. He heard the front door close, and Crane say something in a low voice. Grace laughed; the sound of her laughter was to Ellis like the touch of a hot iron. He squirmed in the bed, the whole of his mean little mind writhing with jealousy. He waited, listening, willing them to come to him, but they didn’t, and a moment later, he heard another door close and then a long silence brooded over the place.

  He lay still, his eyes on the clock, miserable, lonely, waiting for them to come. “I’m ill,” he thought, “and in pain, and they don’t give a damn. They haven’t thought of me all the afternoon. I might have needed something, but they’re too wrapped up in themselves to bother about me. You wouldn’t treat a sick dog as they’re treating me.”

  When the hands of the clock crept round to half-past seven, he heard Grace’s light tread and then the door opened.

  He was about to complain, to abuse her for neglecting him, but the angry, bitter words died in his throat. He scarcely recognised her as she stood in the doorway, her face flushed, her eyes bright with suppressed excitement. She had on a wine-coloured dress, the skirt of which reached to the floor in full, graceful lines, and was cut low on her shoulders, revealing her creamy white skin that stirred him more than he had ever been stirred before in his life. Her hair was dressed in an upsweep, and a collar of gleaming diamonds glittered at her throat.

  This was a new Grace: a glamorous woman, the sight of whom drove Ellis into a frenzy of jealousy and alarm. He realised that dressed as she was, looking as she did, she was a woman whom Crane could love; she no longer looked the naive, stupid little half-wit he had known twenty-four hours ago. She was something: the real stuff. A woman to excite the worst in any man.

  “Do you like me?” she said with an excited giggle. “He made me dress like this. He’s ever so kind. Look at these diamonds. They’re real. Honest! They’re real diamonds. Aren’t they wonderful?”