Читать книгу Dilemmas - A.E.W. Mason - Страница 5

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He sent for Joan Winterbourne the next day and she came to him in Harley Street. From her close-fitting hat to her beige stockings and her shiny shoes, she was just one of the pretty young women in the uniform of the day. But there was a tension, a vague anxiety in her face which had already begun to set her a little apart. It would overcloud her altogether unless it was explained to her and thereby dissolved.

"You have been all right since you beat me so disgracefully at Beaconsfield?" he asked.

"Quite. But one never knows..."

"I believe we are going to know this morning," he reassured her; and a sudden wave of confidence and hope brought the colour into her cheeks. He put her into a chair by the side of his table.

"I want you to tell me one or two things."

"Ask away?" said Joan.

"When did you have this attack on Monsieur de Ferraud's yacht?"

"Three years ago."

"I see. After your last visit to St.-Vire-en-Pre?"

"Yes, a year after."

"And in the same month of the year?"

"Yes."

"Perhaps the same day of the month?"

"That I can't remember."

"Sure? Let's see! You left St.-Vire-en-Pre,"—and here Bramley was careful to speak without a hint of emphasis or significance—"the day after Charles Perdoux died at the farm. You don't remember?"

"No."

"Well, it doesn't matter."

And it didn't. The day of the week was of no importance. What did matter was the swift sidelong stare of Joan's eyes when he mentioned Charles Perdoux's name, and the curious foxiness which sharpened her face. She was suddenly disfigured. In another age he would have said that she was possessed by the devil. For the change was horrible. All her grace and youth in a second were gone. Her gaze was perfectly steady, but it was cunning. Yet cunning was too respectable a word. It was leery—as was the smile which distorted her mouth. Bramley had an inspiration that he was wrestling with some obscene spirit ages old for the possession of this girl. The spirit seemed to dare him to make her remember if he could. If he had ever doubted that he was on the right lines, he threw his doubts overboard now. Heresy or no heresy, he knew. The "psycho-boys" were one up.

"Joan," he said gently. He bent forward and took her hand in his. "Let us get back to the yacht."

"Yes," she answered, her features relaxed; she flashed back to her normal self, attentive to his questions, certain of his goodwill, dispossessed of the devil.

She marshalled her memories.

"It was in the morning. I was on deck. The yacht was a schooner. We were going to race that day. The crew were busy with their preparations. Almost over my head a sailor seated on the yard was fitting a new rope through a block. I remember the end of the rope slipping down the side of the mast like a snake. I was for no reason shocked out of my wits and I fainted."

"Thank you," Bramley interrupted. "I needn't bother you any more about the yacht. You saw a rope shaking down the side of the mast, and you passed out. Right! Let's come now to the breakdown of the motor on the Route des Alpes."

Joan leaned forward.

"Yes?"

"You were all out of the car on the road."

"Yes."

"Across the valley the Meije rose."

"Yes."

"It's a huge mass of a mountain with pinnacles and glaciers flowing down its flank."

"Yes."

"But at that moment you weren't admiring it. You weren't looking at it at all. Just visualize that exact spot if you can!"

Joan leaned back in her chair and concentrated her thoughts, a little timidly at first lest her experience on the road should be repeated here in Bramley's consulting-room; and afterwards, since nothing happened, with a greater freedom.

"I had the Meije upon my left," she resumed slowly. "It's true. I was not looking at the mountain. I was facing the tunnel through which we had come. The broken-down car was in front of me. A cart had come through the tunnel from La Grave to tow us back. The driver of the car was fixing a rope to the front axle of the car, I remember the same horrible sense of sickness and terror overwhelming me."

"Exactly," said Bramley. She was rather white now, but he was smiling at her cheerfully. "It's all working out. Don't worry!"

Joan did not answer in words, but the deep breath she drew was sign enough of her desperate need to free herself from the ghastly obsession which was darkening all her life.

"Every time I cross a road," she said, "I ask myself, 'Shall I go down here under the wheels?'"

"We shall answer that, Joan, before we have finished," Bramley replied, with every sign of confidence. "Now let's see what was happening in the circus at St. Etienne."

"That wasn't so inexcusable," Joan answered. "An acrobat was performing on a trapeze and one of its ropes broke. Luckily he was sitting on the trapeze at rest. He was able to save himself, for the second rope held. But for the moment it gave everyone a jar."

"So all those three occurrences had one thing in common."

Joan looked puzzled.

"I don't see...A rope, of course, but—"

"Exactly, a rope," Bramley returned.

"But when I was running down the stairs in the hotel," Joan argued quickly. "I didn't—" and she came to a stop and resumed again in a voice of surprise. "Oh, yes! There was a man in a livery holding a rope."

"Yes. And that rope is the most important of all the ropes. The rope covered with red baize which was usually stretched out to mark off the arena reserved for dancing had been lost."

"But I have seen heaps of ropes," Joan protested. "They have never affected me at all."

"Wait a bit," Bramley returned. "The attendant in the livery was a Frenchman. He produced a rope of his own, a French rope."

"Why should that French rope be the most important?" Joan asked.

"Because I bought it," answered Bramley. "I have got it here."

"Yes?" For more than a second or two Joan hesitated. She shrank back. Bramley used no persuasions. There was something he wanted her to say without any promptings from him. Joan gathered her courage; she shrugged her shoulders.

"I had better see it, hadn't I?"

Bramley said: "Yes, if you'd like to."

"I should like to," answered Joan.

"Good!"

Bramley sprang up and went to his cupboard.

"It's just a rope woven in the French way. It won't affect you at all now. It can't do anything. And you are prepared for it." Whilst he spoke he brought the brown-paper parcel from the cupboard and carried it to his table and untied the string in front of Joan. The movements of his fingers had a surgeon's neatness and precision. Every element of drama was carefully eliminated. He never even looked at Joan, although he was aware of her every gesture. He unwrapped the parcel with no more care than if it had been a box of sweets. But his heart was beating fast enough; and if he did not look at his patient it was lest his face should betray his fear. The fear, however, was now all upon his side.

"A rope?" said Joan. She was merely curious now and wondering.

Bramley opened his parcel. "There it is."

Joan stretched out her hand and drew it back again and then took the rope between her fingers, felt it and looked at it, all with a frowning forehead and perplexed eyes.

"Not very alarming, is it?" said Bramley. "But notice the make of it. English ropes are wound in spirals. In this one the strands cross and recross one another in little diamond patterns. That's the French way. That's why it looked like a snake sliding down the mast."

"Yes, I see."

Joan examined the rope, bending her head over it.

"But why in the world should I or any girl drop down at the sight of a rope even with this pattern? It makes me out a complete fool!"

"Yes, why? That's just what I want you to tell me," replied Bramley. He took both her hands in his and held her eyes with an unwavering glance. "What happened at the farm of Narcisse Perdoux at St.-Vire-en-Pre the night before you went away?"

Her hands tightened within his grasp. She flinched away a little. She shook her head.

"What did you see after you and Mary Cole separated for the night?"

The darkness within her was troubled. The tension of her fingers was relaxed. A glimmer of light shone in her eyes and was extinguished. She drew her hands away from Bramley's, took up the rope again, and played with it. Bramley's eyes never left hers for the fraction of a second.

"Baril—" she began, and stopped and tried again.

"Barillier. Yes—" She patted the rope. "Barillier's rope. They borrowed it."

"From Barillier, the butcher?"

"Yes."

"They sent for it, didn't they?"

"Yes."

"There was a barn?"

"Oh!"

Joan gasped. She looked up instantly to Bramley's face, her eyes bright, the blood coming and going in her cheeks. A door was opening and shutting and opening again.

"A barn?" she repeated. "Yes, there was a barn."

"Where was the barn?"

"Behind the farm-house."

"Then your bedroom windows looked on to it?"

"Yes."

Joan was on the edge of a dreaded revelation. She looked at the rope, twisted and pulled at it, and smoothed it. Bramley dared not move. He spoke in a low, even, monotonous voice, but all his will was behind the words.

"How did Charles Perdoux die on that night, Joan?"

Nature had come to Joan's rescue on that night; had buried deep beyond the reach of her conscious memory an unsettling experience, but had left this one chink. For her reason's sake she must dig now until that experience was recovered. Nothing was heard in the room for a long time but the swift ticking of a clock upon the mantelpiece. Then she looked up and answered:

"A great crime was committed on that night."

And at last the story was told.