Читать книгу Inspector Furnival's Cases - Annie Haynes - Страница 6

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Nine o'clock! Judith Carew stood up. The time had come! Once more she looked round the familiar room, her eyes lingering on the big photograph of Anthony, in its oxydized silver frame on the mantelpiece.

She crossed to the pretty inlaid escritoire, and unlocked one of the top drawers. A piece of paper lay inside; she started as she looked at it with a frown. This was not what she wanted—this was merely a pencilled note that Peggy had sent her in the church that afternoon. A note, moreover, that she had thought she had burnt when she came in.

A moment's reflection and her face cleared; she must have tossed the address the man gave her, at the church door, into the fire, while she locked this little innocent note of Peggy's carefully away. It was strange that she should have made such a curious mistake, but it did not matter, the address was written on her brain in letters of fire. She could not forget it if she would.

She went to her wardrobe, and took out a long dark cloak, that would cover her altogether, pinned a toque on her hair, and tied a thick motor veil over it.

Then she opened the door and listened. At this hour the servants should be at their supper; it would be possible for her to get out unobserved. She calculated that she might be back—if she came back—soon after eleven. Célestine would hardly expect her to ring before then, and her absence would pass unnoticed.

No one was about apparently. Her lips moved silently as she came out into the corridor, as she looked wistfully up the short flight of stairs that led to the nursery. Her husband's door stood open; in passing a sudden thought struck her. She went in and opened one of the drawers, inside was a leather case. She looked at it for a moment, then slowly touched the spring, and disclosed a couple of revolvers.

Anthony had been giving her lessons in shooting of late; with that small murderous looking instrument she would at least be able to protect herself. She saw that it was loaded, and held it firmly clutched in her hand under her cloak, as she made her way down the stairs. She had calculated her time well, there was no one in the hall when she let herself out and closed the door behind her softly.

It was a damp night, typical April weather. To Judith, after fevered tossing to and fro on the couch, its very moisture seemed refreshing.

Leinster Avenue was fairly familiar ground to her; in her governess days she had often brought her pupil to see some friends who lived near. Insensibly her feet turned towards the Tube; she had reverted to the mode of conveyance most familiar to her in early days. From Bond Street to Holland Park was but an affair of a few minutes, and from there she knew her way to Leinster Avenue. Abbey Court must be, she felt sure, one of the great blocks of flats standing at the near end of the Avenue. She found that she was right. Abbey Court, Nos. 1—50, faced her as she turned the well-known corner.

Looking up at the big new building she shivered. She thought of the coming interview. Just then some neighbouring clock chimed the half-hour.

She started nervously, she must not keep the man waiting, and she walked up the steps. In the hall the porter touched his cap.

"Lift, ma'am?"

She stepped in and gave the number mechanically.

They stopped at the fifth floor, the man got out and rang the bell for her.

Judith gave him half a crown, and was conscious that he stood and looked at her doubtfully.

The door opened immediately. Instinctively her hand closed more firmly over the revolver.

"Is that you, Judy? Come in!"

She was drawn through the door quickly. She recognized that there was an indefinable change in the voice since the afternoon.

Inside on the other side of a narrow passage was a door opening into a small room, evidently used as a dining-room, velvet curtains hung over the archway beyond; parted they disclosed a room fairly large for a flat. It looked like a man's den—papers and pipes were littered about. In the outer room beneath the electric light she paused and threw back her veil.

"What do you want with me?" she said curtly.

"Want with you?" The man laughed harshly. "I want you—you yourself, Judy, don't you understand? I meant to find you, I was going to put the search for you in the hands of the best detectives in London, when, just by chance, I saw you this afternoon, saw you another man's wife!"

Judith drew her breath in sharply. "I thought you were dead. I saw it in the papers, I never dreamed that there was any mistake."

"Sometimes it is convenient to die," he said sullenly. "And you—and you were always too much inclined to take things on trust, Judy!"

The woman looked at him, her breath quickening, the first dawning of a horrible suspicion turning her white and cold.

"What do you mean?"

He laughed, though a curious indrawing of breath mingled with his laughter.

"I told you a lie when we parted, Judith. You made me mad, and I meant to bring your pride down somehow, but if I had known how you would take it—"

"A lie," Judith repeated. "A lie!" She drew farther from him, back against the wall, her face absolutely colourless save for the dark rings round her eyes, her lips stiff and cold. "What lie did you tell me?"

The man looked at her, his face was flushed, his eyes were bloodshot; with a throb of disgust Judith realized he had been drinking.

"You know," he said hoarsely. "You haven't forgotten, for all your disdainful ways! I told you a lie when I said you were not my wife—that our marriage was not legal!"

"You did not!" The words caught in a strangled sob in Judith's throat. She put up her hands, and wrenched the fastenings of her cloak apart, tore like a wild thing at the chiffon round her neck. "It was not a lie!" she panted. "It was the truth you told me—God's truth. I was not your wife—I was never your wife for a single minute, thank Heaven."

"You were!" A very ugly light burned in the man's pale, prominent eyes—a light that might have warned her to be careful. "You are," he amended. "You are my wife, Judy; you are not Mad Carew's, and I mean to have my own. Come," putting out his hand, "you loved me once, you will not find it impossible to love me again."

"Never!" Judith backed near the archway. For the moment she did not heed the danger of rousing the man, of kindling the fire that smouldered in his eyes. "Love you!" she repeated, "I never loved you, never, never—not for a single moment! I"—with a sob—"know that now!"

"Do you really?" The man sprang forward and caught her arm roughly. "And who has made you so wise?" he questioned with a harsh laugh. "Mad Carew? Never mind, Judy, I can afford to laugh! For, do as you will, you are mine, mine only."

Judith stood still in his clasp. She would not struggle with him, she would not try to match her puny strength against his, but her ungloved hand tightened round the shining toy she held. It might be—it might be that only that way would freedom come!

"Judith," the man went on pleading thickly, "I was mad that night—mad with drink, or I wouldn't have laid a hand on you, I wouldn't have lied to you. Our marriage was legal enough; the woman I had married before had been dead for years, but luck was against me. You would be better without me, that was what I thought, Judy, indeed!" his voice growing maudlin.

Still Judith did not speak. She was standing against the velvet portière now, silhouetted against the dark background; her delicate features, the ghastly pallor of her face had a cameo-like effect, her big changeful eyes followed his every movement.

His hand dropped from her arm. "But now, Judy, good luck has come to me at last. For every pound of Mad Carew's I will give you ten. I will give you a title too. Ay, you shall be my lady, still, and hold up your head with the best of them. You come back to me, Judy. I tell you I have loved you always—you only!"

"I think not!" Judith laughed scornfully. "You—what do you—what do such as you know of love?" She went on recklessly. "Nothing, less than nothing! I will never come back to you, never. You may be speaking the truth now, as you may have told me a lie before—I may be your wife—your most unhappy miserable wife—I may never have been—his! But at least I will never willingly see you again. Do you dream that I will take one penny of your boasted wealth? Rather than touch it I would starve."

"Would you?" the man said very quietly, his pale eyes watching her every movement. "Would you really?" His look might have told her that the maudlin mood was passing, that he was becoming quarrelsome. With a sudden movement he jerked up her arm. "What is this?" with a contemptuous laugh. "Ah, I see; well, a revolver is a dangerous toy in inexperienced hands. I think we will dispense with it." He twisted her hand, and catching the revolver from her threw it carelessly on the table, knocking over the glass inkstand that stood in the centre. The table-cloth was red, the ink poured across it in a black stream.

She glanced at the man who stood very near her now, his tanned face flushed, his light eyes reddened and angry. A shiver of terror shook her; she mentally measured the distance to the door, if only she could get away!

He caught her look and laughed mockingly. "Oh, no! You are not going, Judy! I haven't done with you yet. Think of all we have to discuss after our long parting."

There was a slight sound that might have come from the passage behind—she started with the faint hope that rescue might be at hand. The man heard the noise too; he turned his head and listened.

Judy saw her momentary advantage; she sprang forward. Before he had realized her intention she had reached the other room, caught at the door that must lead into the passage, and was tugging at it with insistent, impotent fingers.

There was a loud laugh behind her. "Ah, I thought of that beforehand! No use crying, Judy; the door is locked and the key is outside. Now—now don't you understand that you are in my power? That you are mine—mine!"

Judith set her teeth as she faced him, standing back against the door. He caught her in his arms.

"Do you know that you haven't given me one kiss yet, Judy? I haven't had the welcome I had looked forward to from my wife."

Judith struggled desperately to get away from him, striking blindly at the handsome face, the broad chest.

In vain, her strength was as nothing against his; she was drawn more closely to him; she could feel his hot breath upon her cheek. With one last mad effort at resistance she threw herself backwards. There was a click, then sudden darkness.

In one instant Judy realized what had happened. She had knocked against the electric switch; and it had given her the opportunity for which she had been longing. The arms that had been holding her so tightly momentarily relaxed; with a quickness born of her terrible plight she slipped out of them into the darkness.

There was the sound of an oath as the man felt blindly for the switch—failed to find it. Then as Judith tried to grope her way to the door by which she had entered, she heard that he was coming after her, swearing, knocking over the furniture. She gained the wall; surely—surely it was the outer room! Where was the door? There was not the smallest glint of light to show its whereabouts, and she had thought so certainly that it had been partly opened. It was horrible, horrible, feeling round the room, trying frantically to find the door, hearing the while the heavy breathing of the man who was pursuing her.

Once they were so near that she actually touched him. At last she felt wood—the door, the blessed door; another second and her fingers caught against a blind. It was the window—great tears came into her eyes. But the door was opposite; surely she could make her way across. Putting out her hands before her, she tried to walk softly. Yes: here was the centre table, where the revolver had been thrown, the ink upset. She felt about, there was the ink certainly, her hands were wet, but where was the revolver?

There came a cry.

"Ah! I have you now!" It seemed a long way away in the other room. "No use struggling now, Judy!"

Then across the darkness there rang out the sharp staccato sound of a revolver shot. There was a groan; a heavy fall.