He waited. . . . From afar came the beginnings of a rumbling roar. . . . He was aware of a shifting and milling of the crowd about him. More people were flooding in from the corridors to the platforms. . . . He foresaw with a dim, subconscious foreboding that if there were no door opposite him when the train came in he would have a struggle to get to one. From the back of his mind there suddenly pushed its way forward to the front the barbed wish to be going, on this same train whose roaring was now louder, to a station which would lead him, not to the house in Stukeley Gardens, but to the great building of grey stone which contained, vividly real among a hundred unrealities, Avis’ little house. . . .
In a crescendo of demoniac noise the train burst from the enclosing sheath of its tunnel. With a scarcely perceptible slackening of speed it slid shrieking into the station, its rows of lighted windows bulging out over the edge of the platform. Garrett, head turned towards its onrush, again speculated, with a corner of his mind, on the problem of doors.
There was a stirring among the crowd; a murmur; a preparatory shuffling. It was like a beast who rises from sleep and stands and stretches and makes ready for movement.
And then, as the two gleaming lights of the front of the train were almost level with him, there came from behind him, as it were, from within the general movement, a violent flurry: a short harsh cry; a little clattering; a sudden violent blow upon his shoulders and back. His toes were almost at the edge of the platform. There was nothing between him and the yawning trough along whose floor ran the rails. And right upon him, as he felt himself impelled downwards into that trough, was the front of the oncoming monster.
He does not know to this day—nor do the people who were round him—how his mind conveyed to his body, in such an infinitesimal fraction of time, the message which made him, with a racking of every muscle and sinew in him, resist the impulsion of his own weight. But somehow, semimiraculously, he twisted himself upon the balls of his feet and threw himself backwards and sideways. His arms flung themselves out. His hands clutched at the soft fur of an animal. He slipped to one knee. He felt the wind of the passing of the first carriage of the train. His ears were filled with the screeching of brakes. His eyes saw nothing save a black mist; a mist which had counterpart in his mind and did not clear until he found himself sitting in a corner seat of a long carriage crammed with humanity. All the seats were filled and down the centre of the long car men and women supported themselves against the swaying and bumping of the train by gripping leather loops depending from steel rods. He did not know how he had got in or how he had come to be seated. He looked down at his hands. In one of them was a tuft of greyish fur. He brushed it off with the other and saw that both were shaking and that upon the left was a long graze from which red blood oozed. He pulled out a handkerchief with the right hand and began to dab at the wound. Hearing came back to him. He was conscious that there was an excited muttering of voices all about him; from the seat next to his; from above, where two men clung to straps and swayed with the motion of the train. He turned his head, finding a curious difficulty in the movement. Beside him there sat, overflowing the seat arm between them, a large woman of middle age. Her face, which was round and by all laws should have been highly coloured, was grey and drawn. She was wrapped in a coat made from the beautiful fur of grey squirrels. She was talking stridently, shouting to make herself heard above the roaring of the train. She was talking, upwards, to the two men—one long and cadaverous, the other short and sanguine. They were talking too. All three of them were talking; all shouting their words; all trying to drown the noise, not only of the train, but of each other’s voices.
He began to catch scraps of the talk. . . . “Miraculous!” . . “Somebody dropped a stick; first thing I know I was falling forward!” . . . “You must have pushed him right in the back!” . . . “Thought nothing could stop him from going!
“Good thing Tm not one of these thin women!” . . . “Nearly a terrible accident!” . . . “Nobody seemed to see it!” . . . “All’s well that ends well, thank goodness! . . “
“I say!” said Garrett and was astonished to hear his voice as a strange croaking sound. “I say!”
The woman turned to him a face into which the colour was creeping back. It was a pleasant and good-natured face. She said:
“Feeling better? That’s good! You’re a very lucky man!” Garrett looked fixedly at a place upon the sleeve of the grey coat. Near the shoulder was a bare patch. He remembered the fur upon his hand. He said:
“If it hadn’t been for you I’d have been over.”
She laughed, showing admirable teeth. She said: “I was saying, it’s a good thing I’m not one of the thin sort! If I’d weighed a couple of stone less you wouldn’t be here. . . .
“Your coat,” said Garrett. “I . . .”
“Don’t pay any attention. It’s old and insured!” Once more the friendly, chuckling laugh.
Garrett felt better. “What happened?” he said.
Now the two strap-hanging men joined the talk again.
“It was me who pushed you,” said the tall cadaverous one. “Rut he was pushed from the back,” said his round and sanguine companion. “I was standing just beside you.” He looked at Garrett. “Somebody somewhere behind this gentleman dropped a stick and it seemed to me like as if he made a grab for it and lost his balance and bumped into this gentleman and this gentleman, of course, bumped into you. . . . Phoo! That was a narrow squeak, that was!”
5
Garrett walked up the corridor towards the lifts of Knightsbridge station. He was annoyed with his legs. They felt unsure of themselves. As he walked he brooded. A bad day! Filthy weather! Balks of timber which fall near a man! Fools on crowded platforms who drop sticks and nearly push a man in front of a train! The obvious necessity of buying a grey squirrel coat—outsize! A permanent feeling of sick disappointment concerned with the blindness of the trails which had seemed so certain to lead to Janet Murch. Horrible memories concerning the little son of his sister, who was Barry Hendricksen’s wife. . . . All these—and something else; something which persisted in thrusting itself to the front of his consciousness against orders. Something to do with a fool of a man who lets disappointment and weather and unpleasing adventure lead him to unprecedented consumption of alcohol; a fool of a man who behaves like a boorish and conceited schoolboy to the loveliest woman in the world!
A crammed lift bore him upwards and he came out into the little arcade of Knightsbridge station where there struck him once more the foul and acrid reek of the fog. It was even thicker here than it had been in the Strand. The highway was choked with lines of stationary vehicles whose lights only seemed to increase their helplessness. The red flares of policemen’s torches stung the yellow veil. There was sound but it was muffled and unreal. This city aboveground was dead and full of useless ghosts; only below ground were there light and comfort and purposeful movement. . . .
He took three steps away from the arcade entrance and the fog closed about him. He pulled up his muffler over his nose and mouth and buttoned the collar of his overcoat tight and pulled down the brim of his black soft hat. He held his hand out before his face: at arm’s length he could not see it. He halted. He thought of the warm, well-lighted warrens below his feet and half decided to plunge back into them.
A groping woman bumped into him; murmured halfscared apologies; veered off and was lost.
“Come on!” said Garrett to himself. He groped his way along, making his mind blank save for the purpose of this journey. He must keep on this pavement. Then second on the right. Then on until the first cross street. Then turn, cross the road and go down the continuation of this cross street and he would be in Stukeley Gardens. Then up to the first angle of the Gardens and immediately across to Number 19A.
He groped his way onward. He made one false turn but was lucky enough to bump into a policeman. He was put right and retraced his steps and this time found his turning. He came down to the cross street, fumbled his
way across the road and was in Stukeley Gardens. He walked faster now. Either the fog was thinner or the bare pavement and the guide of the Garden railings made progress easier. He reached the first corner of the square, pushed himself away from the friendly iron, turned to his left and walked out into the road.
He shuffled across the roadway, his smarting eyes trying to pierce the yellow murk. Soon he must come to the curb—and if he came to the curb without seeing it he might fall. He did not want to fall. His whole aching body rebelled against the very idea of falling. He saw the curb. He sighed relief and lifted his foot and stepped up onto the pavement.
A faint sound came from behind him. And then something fell with dreadful, crushing force upon the back of his head.
Behind his eyes came a sudden burst of bright yellow flame and then darkness. A grunting sound burst from his throat and he pitched forward onto his face and twisted once and lay still.
6
White came out of the baize door at the end of Colonel Gethryn’s hall. He crossed to the chest of Breton oak which stood against the right-hand wall, near the front door. He hoped that there were no letters. But there were—four of them. All stamped and addressed and crying for the dark maw of a pillar box.
White sighed. In his square, clean-shaven face the lips moved in the shape of a round and military oath. He picked up the letters and opened the front door and grimaced at the fog. He turned up the collar of his coat and went carefully down the steps and along the flagged pathway to the gate. He frowned as he went and screwed up his eyes against the sting of the fog and blew through closed lips as if he were grooming a horse. He came to the gate and opened it and stepped out onto the pavement. He thought with distaste of the hundred yards which separated him from the pillar box at the corner. He shut the gate behind him and turned to his right and began the walk.
He had not gone more than five yards before he stumbled. His right foot had met something soft and heavy.
“What the ’ell!” said White and stooped to see.
The body was lying on its face. It was crumpled, with one arm flung out straight beside its head and one leg twisted beneath it. It might, from the attitude, have been devoid of life. But White thought not: he had seen many dead men.
He knelt. The cold dampness of the flags was chill against his knees. With a grunt he turned the body over. It was heavy. The yellow fog was all round them, pressing down upon the consciousness like a foul blanket. White stooped lower. He could not see anything of the face save a white oval blur but he put his ear to the blur and felt little gasps of warm breath come from between the lips. He straightened himself, still on his knees, and fumbled in his pocket for matches. He found one and struck it. Shielding the little flame with his hand, he bent once more over the face. He started. The flame flickered but he saved it. He bent again.
“Kor bloody swop me!” said White. He stood up and threw away the dead match and for a moment strained his eyes uselessly against the fog this way and that. He gave up trying to see and instead, for another moment, tried to hear. But there was nothing to hear. He made up his mind and stooped over the body and caught one of its arms and, twisting his thick solidity, got beneath it to apply the fireman’s lift. . . .
CHAPTER XI
AT FIVE MINUTES to nine the fog was thicker than ever but at seven minutes past nine there was no fog. A gentle easterly breeze had swept it from every crevice of the city. Now a black, star-encrusted sky arched over the world.
Mrs Bellingham sat in her drawing room. It was orderly; it was softly but adequately lighted and the fire glowed red and the book which was open upon Mrs Bellingham’s knee was by a man who can write and was a book to whose reading Mrs Bellingham had been looking forward for weeks. And Mrs Bellingham wore a favourite gown and had cigarettes within reach and had dined lightly but with excellence.
She should, therefore, have been content. But the book, though open, remained unread and the cigarettes tasted of nothing but smoke and the pleasant redness of the fire did not glow for her eyes and even the gown felt as if it sat awkwardly upon her body.
She looked over the book and into the fire with eyes which saw neither. There were little lines about her mouth which generally were not there. And her head was held too consciously erect and there was a look of pain somewhere in the blue depths of the unseeing eyes. . . .
There came to her ears the sound which told of pressure upon the bell of the outer door. She started, almost violently. The book slid from her knees and lay unheeded upon the carpet by her feet.
She took herself to task. It was plain to her that she had been listening. It was also plain to her that the sound she had expected was not that of the doorbell but that of the telephone. At the back of her mind there had been, ever since she had reached home, the thought of the telephone. . . .
The bell rang again, insistently reminding her that her maid was out. She got to her feet and crossed to the door and opened it and went out into her little hall. Through the ground glass of the upper half of the outer door she could see a man’s shadow. In defiance of the stern orders of her mind her heart jumped. She crossed to the door and put fingers to its latch and opened it.
The original of the shadow raised his hat.
“Anthonyl” said Avis Bellingham.
2
Anthony Gethryn stood with his back to Mrs Bellingham’s drawing-room fire. He looked at Mrs Bellingham, noting the whiteness of her face. He said:
“You heard what I was saying. There’s no danger.” His tone was sharp.
The lids which had veiled the blue eyes were raised slowly. The blue eyes looked up and met the steady stare of the green. She said:
“You’re sure? There can’t be——”
Anthony interrupted. “No, there can’t. He’s unconscious but there’s no possibility of his dying.” His tone was intentionally brutal.
Her tongue came out and moistened her lips. She said with difficulty:
“How . . . what . . . Have they any idea how . . .”
Anthony said: “Blow on the back of the head. No bruises. Fairly advanced concussion. No means of telling how it happened. Might have been a fall—but he was lying on his face when White found him and it seems improbable that after a blow like that he’d have turned over. Possibly struck by something projecting from a car.” He looked down at the woman. “Dozens of ways it might have happened,” he said slowly. There was a slight emphasis on the fifth word of the sentence.
Avis Bellingham sat upright. She said: “I—I’m afraid I’ve been silly. But—but it was rather a shock. I——”
Again Anthony interrupted. “What you need is a drink. Thank you, I’ll have one too. Don’t move; I can find it.” He reached the door in three strides and was gone.
He returned quickly, carrying a tray upon which were decanter and siphon and glasses. His hostess smiled at him as he set the tray upon a table near the fire. She said:
“Is there anything you’re bad at?”
Anthony poured whiskey. “Golf and letter writing,” he said and added soda water to whiskey and put a full glass into her hand. “Drink that.”
She sipped.
“Drink!” said Anthony.
She drank and took the glass from her mouth and smiled up at him. She said:
“I’m all right. Give yourself one—and then tell me what you think.”
Again Anthony busied himself over the tray. He said: “About accident to prominent playwright?”
She nodded.
He took his stand before the fire and lifted his glass and drank.
“It’s possible,” he said at last, “that it was an accident.” From the depths of the big chair Avis Bellingham stared up at him. She said, her eyes widening:
“I don’t . . . Has he said anything?”
Anthony shook his head. “He’s unconscious. He’ll probably remain so for quite a while.” He was looking at her keenly. “What else do you know?”
She said: “What I was going to say w
as . . . that it’s—it’s sort of odd——” She stopped. White teeth bit her lower lip and a frown of concentration came between her eyes. She said:
“I lunched with Tom today. At the Savoy. He—he—he told me about an accident he’d had this morning——” Again she broke off.
“This morning?” said Anthony. “Tell me.”
She said: “He went out before lunch. It was foggy. He went to the theatre to see George Brooks-Carew. Builders have been doing repairs over the stage door. They weren’t working today but as Tom went into the stage door something happened to the scaffolding and a great beam fell and nearly hit him. It might have killed him.” Her voice was deliberately flat.
“And then?” said Anthony.
She stared at him. “I was only thinking . . . that’s two accidents in one day. It’s—it’s rather frightening, somehow.”
“You think, don’t you?” said Anthony. He put a hand to his pocket and brought it away bearing a thin wallet of blue morocco leather bound with gold. Upon the outer side were the small stamped initials T.S.G. He said:
“This, was all he had in his pocket. There’s ten pounds of it; some cards of his own; a driving licence—American; and this.” He opened the wallet and put his fingers into one of its compartments and brought them away bearing a woman’s visiting card. He took a step away from the fire and held the card before her eyes. She read: Mrs Claude Kenealy, 97 Stockbrook Road, Richmond, Surrey. In the bottom left-hand corner there was a pencilled telephone number—Richmond-0246.
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