Читать книгу Shoal Water - Cecil William Mercer - Страница 4

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She was sitting sideways to me, with her back to the wall, at a table laid for three, at which dinner was being served. She was wearing a very smart frock of, I think, black silk and a small black hat, which suited her lovely hair. On either side of her was seated a man, and, when I saw her, both men had their eyes on her face. One had his back to me: but the other I saw very well. His face was large and pale, his graying hair was sandy, the rims of his eyes were red: he had the grimmest mouth that ever I saw, but worse than this was the sinister light in his eyes. These seemed to be on fire—I can put it no other way. And to see so dreadful a gaze bent upon Katharine released my primitive instincts as nothing else could have done.

How she came to be here, I neither knew nor cared. She was in trouble—in peril: and I was at hand. The pricks I had kicked against had all the time been goading me up to her side.

I put out my cigarette and rose to my feet. Then I walked across to the table at which she sat.

“I’m awfully glad,” I said, “to see you again.”

The man whose back was towards me was looking up into my face: but the eyes of the other man were fast upon Katharine.

Very slowly she turned her head....

Then she looked me up and down.

“By God,” she said slowly, “I thought I’d got rid of you.”

Her words and her manner of speaking hit me over the heart. Indeed, I was so much dumbfounded that I think that I should have turned and walked out of the place, if the man looking up at me had not seen fit to laugh.

The snigger made me see red.

“I don’t think you mean that,” I said. “I think——”

The contents of her champagne-glass caught me full in the face....

The man on her right was speaking—the man with the dreadful eyes. His tone was curiously silky.

“Why interrupt him, Formosa? We’ve heard what he doesn’t think: let’s hear what he thinks.”

As I wiped the wine from my face—

“Pray go on, my young friend,” he drawled. “I’m sure in her heart Formosa——”

“Speak for yourself,” snapped Katharine. “God knows——”

“I know He does,” flashed the other. “And I want to know, as well. I want to know what he thinks—your nice, young man.”

The position was intolerable: but nothing on earth would have made me leave Katharine now. She was playing some part, of course: and something was terribly wrong. She was, I was sure, afraid of the man on her right.

I addressed myself to her, as though she were sitting alone.

“I’ll go back to my table,” I said. “Perhaps, later on ...”

With that, I bowed and turned.

As I passed to the seat I had left, I noticed that the band had stopped playing, that everyone in the café was sitting as still as death. The atmosphere was hateful. I never felt more self-conscious in all my life.

My beer was waiting for me, but I was too shaken to drink. Instead, I took out cigarettes....

I saw Katharine leave her seat, her underlip caught in her teeth. For a moment I thought that she was making for me; and so, I think, did her companions, for the man on her left started up, as though in pursuit. As I rose in my turn, he stopped, for, instead of coming to me, she sped to an archway which gave to the ladies’ room, and, parting the curtains which hung there, passed out of our view.

I sat down again at once, and he returned to his seat; but this time he slewed himself round, for so he could see the curtains through which my lady must come.

Here, to my great relief, the band began playing again, and I noticed that general movement which always means that tension has been relaxed.

As I lighted my cigarette, I saw a man making his way to the table which Katharine had left. Though I had seen no sign given, he had been clearly summoned by the man who had sat on her right, for he stood by his side, as a servant who has been sent for and now awaits the order which he expects to receive. The other spoke over his shoulder: and since, as soon as he spoke, his myrmidon looked at me, there could be no doubt at all that I was the object of his instructions.

That this made me feel uneasy, I must most frankly confess, for the fellow was heavily built and looked a criminal. However, there was nothing to be done: and I watched him leave his master and pass to a seat by the side of the entrance-doors. As he went by, I saw a girl glance at her neighbour and purse her lips.

I think every eye in that café was watching the curtains which shrouded the ladies’ room. Sooner or later, Katharine was bound to come out: and with her coming, something was going to happen—and something big. In a word, the scene was set for a first-class row.

I began to wish very much that I was not alone. I know how to use my hands and I am a powerful man: but I had the definite feeling that everyone there was against me, because they dared not offend the man with the dreadful eyes. And I would have been glad of someone, to set his back against mine.

And something else I wished. That was that the little square to which the café belonged was not at the very end of a long, ill-lighted and lonely cul-de-sac.

And then, without any warning, the whole of the lights went out.

I shall never forget that moment.

The valse which the band was murmuring died a discordant death: a girl cried out ‘My God’; and a general rustle suggested that all were up on their feet.

I know I was up on mine, for I at once assumed that this had been done on purpose to give my friends a chance of coming to grips with me before I could see they were there. And I was just going to move, to try and get my back to the wall, when I felt a hand close on my wrist and Katharine breathed in my ear.

“Come.”

I could not think how she could see, for I was blind, but she haled me rather than led me across the dancing-floor and behind the bar.

As we went, confusion broke out.

I heard an ice-pail go crashing, and somebody tripped and fell. This might have been the signal for uproar, for chairs began to go over and oaths to rise and a pile of metal dishes slid on to the floor. As their hideous racket subsided, a girl cried out again and a dozen men were cursing and calling for lights. And a voice that I knew was blaring “Close the doors.”

As we rounded some screen, the pallid beam of a torch leaped out of the dark behind.

We were in a passage now, and a waiter collided with Katharine and drove her back on to me. At once he began to abuse her; but she thrust on. The fellow sought to detain her—without success, for I hit him under the jaw and I heard him fall. Through the kitchens we went, where a scullion was lighting a candle and a chef, his back towards us, was raving like any madman over the fate of some dish. So down another passage and into a broad courtyard, at the end of which a shaft of light from some lamp which I could not see was shining on to the cobbles and silhouetting some man.

We came to gigantic doors which were keeping a porte-cochère: in these a wicket was open and a nigger in uniform was speaking with someone without. As we came up, he turned: but before he could close the wicket I hurled him aside, and Katharine stumbled out, with me on her heels.

Somebody shouted behind us, and the nigger gave tongue in reply: but we were out in a street—a street that I knew.

There was next to no one about, and I saw no policeman: but the Lowland was standing silent, some sixty yards off.

I put my arm under Katharine’s and ran her up to its door.

“Inside,” I panted. And, as I flung in behind her, “Where shall I go?”

“Anywhere. Quick. Straighten. You’ve no time to turn.”

This was the truth.

As I fitted the key to the switch, I saw a man running towards us and two or three standing by the wicket through which we had come.

To go straight ahead was to meet him and pass by them; but because the devil was driving, we had no choice. If only the car had been facing the opposite way ...

My faithful engine started like any highwayman’s mare, but the man was but five paces off when I let in my clutch. I recognized him as the tough, with the criminal face.

As he sprang for the running-board, I put down my foot....

He had, of course, aimed for the door: but, because the Lowland leaped forward, he met the side of the boot and the off hind wheel—a very disagreeable encounter, to judge from the bump on the car and the screech which he let.

I changed into second ... third....

As we tore past the wicket, the light was falling full on a big, pale face. This might have been a mask, the eyes of which were lighted by some supernatural means.

“Which way now?” I breathed.

“Straight on, for the moment. I’ll tell you. Put on your lights.” I did as she said. “Turn to the left at the bottom, and then go straight.”

We streaked down the empty street and swung to the left. I remember I heard some clock chiming and saw the masts of ships standing up on my right.

“Let her right out,” breathed Katharine. “They’ve got a racing Merk. And Judas has gone to get it. I saw him go.”

Although her voice was steady, the flood of light from an arc-lamp showed me the fear in her face. This was turned towards me. Her eyes were fast on the window in the back of the hood.

“Judas be damned,” said I. “He hasn’t a hope.”

But I did not like the sound of ‘a racing Merk.’

We flashed the length of the quay. Then, by her direction we bore to the right, fell down a cobbled cutting and whipped up a broad highway. Bend was succeeding bend, but the Lowland knew how to sit down and I never lifted my foot.

“Left, in a minute,” said Katharine; “and up the hell of a hill. We must get over the river, before we play any tricks.”

“Are you sure we hadn’t better turn off—and let them go by?”

“No, no. I—I’ve heard them talking. I know I’m right.”

The hill was serpentine, and I lost time badly there, because it was dark and I did not know the road. And then we were out on some uplands, and I was able again to give the Lowland her head.

With the needle pointing to eighty, we dived at a long decline....

As at last I slowed for a bend—

“Quick,” said Katharine. “I see the glow of their lights.”

I bit my lip.

“Where is this damned river?” said I. “I thought——”

“Not very far now. But we must be over the bridge, before they come on.”

The mile or so that followed, I cannot remember at all. Poplars, I think, and some houses: but I cannot be sure. My brain was not recording. I drove instinctively. All my wits were focussed on whether or not the next bend was masking the bridge.

“Are they coming up?” I breathed.

“I—can’t be sure.”

From that I knew that they were, and I set my teeth.

And then I saw the bridge coming—and saw its length.

“God Almighty,” I groaned—and put down my foot.

“All you know,” said Katharine. “They’re—not very far.”

As we left the road for the bridge, she spoke again.

“You’re coming slap into a town. Cobbles. Bear right and stand by to brake and to put out your lights. I’ll tell you when to do it. We’re going to turn off.”

Off the bridge and into a cobbled street.

As I lifted the Lowland up for a sharp ascent—

“Brake at the top of this and turn sharp to the right.”

“My lights?”

“Put them out when you’ve seen the turning.”

With her words, it came into view—a turn and a half: and I put out my lights and took it—on two of my wheels.

“And now switch off.”

As I switched the engine off, I heard the wasp-like note of the racing car.

I heard her leave the bridge and the hum turn into a snarl as she leapt at the cobbled street. The snarl swelled into a roar.... And then she bore to the left ... and the snarl slid into a mutter ... and she was gone.

I turned to Katharine: but she was still listening intently, straining her ears.

I began to listen, too, to hear what I could.

Suddenly, out of the silence, I heard the mutter flare up—for one instant of time.

I saw Katharine nod her head.

“That’s right,” she said. “They’ve changed down. They’re taking the Evreux road.”

There was a little silence.

Then—

“And we, my dear?” said I. “Which road do we take?”

“God knows,” said Katharine.

She clapped her hands to her face and burst into tears.

I naturally did what I could.

I did not talk, but I put my arm about her and held her close: but it wrung my heart to see her in such distress.

After a little, however, she drew away from me and lifted her head: and before five minutes had passed, she opened her mouth.

“There’s something,” she said, “there’s something the matter with me. Never mind. We’ve got to get on. Get her going again. I’ll tell you the way to go.”

As I switched the engine on, I glanced at the clock in the dash, to see that this had stopped at twenty minutes to eleven o’clock. But when I looked at my wrist-watch, this said the same. And then I realized that the clock in the dash had not stopped—that it was but thirty-five minutes since I had walked into the café that stood in the little square.

Digesting this startling truth, I let in my clutch....

Except that she took me south, I do not know where we went: but I drove as hard as I could for over two hundred miles. Two or three times we stopped; but never for more than five minutes, to stretch our legs: and we had no need of petrol, because my tank had been full.

In all this distance we hardly spoke at all, because, I think, what had to be said was too big to be said whilst we were driving at such a speed. Besides, we were fugitives—not from justice, of course, but from something that knew no law. At least, that was how I saw it: for Katharine was no fool and was taking charge as much for my sake as for hers.

I have said that the night was warm; and after some twenty miles, we lowered the hood: and I well remember how very pleasant it was to be free of the cool, sweet air as the Lowland sailed and darted, after the way of a bird.

The roads were very good and often as straight as a ruler for miles on end: but I could not, of course, see the country through which we went. There seemed to be no hedgerows: but wayside trees had been planted carefully, and every road was a decent avenue. Had we run short of petrol, we should, I am sure, have had to knock somebody up, for every town and village was fast asleep. If other cars were abroad, I never saw them: once in a very long while we would pass some lorry, pounding along the road, and then for twenty odd miles we would have the world to ourselves.

What astonished me very much was Katharine’s quiet assurance as to the way we should go. She never asked for a map, and she led me through town after town with hardly a check. The roads were certainly ‘posted’ extremely well: but there could be no doubt at all that she knew the line she was taking and knew it perfectly.

And then, as the dawn came up, she told me to slacken speed.

“There’s a place near here,” she said, “where I’ve stopped before. I think I shall know the turning—it’s just before or just after a tumble-down house.”

“On the left or right?” said I.

“On the left.... There it is. And there’s the old house beyond.”

I braked and swung to the left, and after another two miles we came to a long stone bridge.

“Over this,” said Katharine. “And two hundred yards farther on, you’ll find a track on your right. You’ll have to go carefully there, and I think I should put her in first.”

The track was pretty steep, and its surface was bad: but it just accepted the Lowland, and that was as much as I asked. Almost at once it began to curl round to the right, until I saw that we were running down to the bank of the river which we had crossed a moment before.

A moment later the sides of the track fell away, and there we were on a decent patch of greensward, with room to turn and trees growing thick about us and, ten or twelve paces away, the bank of the river itself. My headlights showed me the water, flowing deep and steady, but making no sound at all.

I brought the Lowland to rest. Then I switched off her engine and put out her lights: and though it was dark where we were, I could see the heaven above now pale with light, and the woods across the water were taking shape.

Katharine left the car and I followed her out.

“We shan’t be disturbed here,” she said. “If only we’d got some food——”

“There’s enough for six,” said I, “in the Lowland’s boot.”

She let out a sigh of relief.

“There’s luck and to spare,” she said. “You haven’t by any chance got anything hot?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t,” I said. “But I think a glass of brandy would do you good.”

“If you’ll give me a little,” she said, “I think it would.”

I found my flask and poured a tot of brandy into its cup.

“Drink that down,” I said, “and I’ll give you a coat.”

“It’s just the dawn,” she said. “I’ll be all right as soon as the sun gets up.”

But I made her put on a big coat that I had in the car: then I gave her a cigarette and began to get out the food.

It was a curious breakfast.

The sward was wet with dew, so she sat in the car; and a suitcase made her a table, set up in the driver’s seat. Smoked salmon and bread and butter, and pâté and galantine—I served them as best I could, using the step as a side-board and thankful to see her eat. For drink, we had only the beer: but she drank a glass of that, and I think she enjoyed the cherries, which had kept remarkably well.

At length she slid out of the car and on to the sward.

“I’ve done, but you haven’t,” she said. “Could you possibly lend me a sponge? And soap and a brush and comb? If you could, I’ll go down to the water and do my best.”

I was glad to do as she asked, for only three days before I had bought myself a new outfit of ‘toilet requisites.’ But as she went off with these things and a cashmere scarf, which I had, to serve as a towel, I could not help thinking how miserable she must be—dressed up in a ‘party’ frock in which she had spent the night, yet quite unable to change so much as her stockings, because, of course, she had nothing else to put on.

And there it occurred to me that I had some new, gray trousers and plenty of sleeveless shirts....

By the time she was back, I had a full change of raiment laid out on a rug—with a bath-dressing-gown and a toothbrush out of my store of spares.

I heard her cry of delight, as they met her eyes.

“Oh, Esau. How marvellous. Are these things really for me?”

“I thought,” said I, “you might be glad of a change.”

She stared at the clumsy apparel, finger to lip.

“I’ll tell you what,” she said. “Not now, but a little later, I’ll have a bathe. And then, what joy—to be able to put on clean things.”

“A bathe,” said I, “would suit me down to the socks.”

“But not for an hour. You’ve just been eating stone fruit. Wash your face and hands—and shave, if you feel that way. But don’t be long.”

I was back in a quarter of an hour, and, as I parted the bushes, I saw her before she saw me.

The cushions were out of the car, on the farther edge of the sward. Because of the rising woods, the sunshine was not yet falling upon the grass, but, because she was higher up, her head and shoulders were bathed in the blessed light. She was sitting, staring before her, with her knees drawn up and her fingers laced about them—and as desperate a look on her face as ever I saw. This was not drawn. She looked neither tired nor afraid. Indeed, with the sun about her, against the natural background of gay, green leaves, she made a most lovely picture, and one that I cannot forget. But her beauty was tragic—that of the nymph Oenone, who must have sat on Mount Ida with much the same look in her eyes.

Not knowing what else to do, I stole a few paces back. Then I advanced noisily.... As again I parted the bushes, I saw, to my relief, that the look was out of her face; and as I advanced, she met my gaze very gravely and then set a hand on the cushion that lay by her side.

“Let me get a pipe,” said I. “And you’d like a cigarette.”

“Very well.”

A moment later, I took my seat beside her, glad of the sun. Then I lighted her cigarette and unfolded my pouch.

“You don’t look tired,” I said. “And yet you should be all in.”

“So should you,” said Katharine, “driving all night.”

“For some reason I’m not. I imagine that later on we’ll both be glad of a rest.”

“I expect so. And we can have it. I don’t want to leave here till dusk.” She regarded the palms of her hands. “And now, if you please, let’s tell one another the truth. The air has got to be cleared, so we’d better do it at once. I’m not going to keep anything back—it’s too late now. And I’m not going to throw any stones, for the fault was mine. I should never have sent you that note. You’ll say ‘Oh, yes, you should’: but I’m the best judge of that. It was the damndest folly: and all the good it’s done is to let the two of us in. But I thought it was safe—because I had laid the drag. I could have sworn that you would make tracks for Bordeaux.... I pictured you flicking through Chartres and having some dinner at Poitiers or Angoulême. And then I looked up and saw you walk into that cursed room.... As I say, I don’t blame you at all. But how in God’s name did you manage to run me to earth? I mean, I had gone to ground before you were called.”

I told her all that had happened the day before: how the one idea I had had been to get to Bordeaux and to find her there; how George and the porter, between them, had let me down; how I had arranged to leave Rouen as soon as ever George came; and how the merest chance had taken me into the café in which she was.

“I was killing time,” I concluded. “I meant to drive all night to get down to Bordeaux. But George’s train wasn’t due till eleven o’clock. And so I was walking the streets, because I couldn’t sit still. Then I landed up in that square from which I couldn’t get out, and, seeing a café there, I decided to have a drink before retracing my steps. I never saw you at first: but when I did, I could hardly believe my eyes.”

Katharine sighed.

“I wish you hadn’t,” she said. “And I’ll tell you another thing. That you should have entered that café means that your guardian angel—well, wasn’t earning his keep.”

“To be honest,” I said. “I thought that some of the customers looked a bit queer. But it seemed all right from outside. In fact, it looked better than most.”

“Now and again,” said Katharine, “a ‘non-member’ does blow in. It doesn’t often happen. The Wet Flag’s not in the books and it’s right off the beaten track. But it has been known to happen. And unless he is answered for, unless some ‘member’ can say that he is all right—well, I don’t know what happens to him: but he never comes back.”

“ ‘Member’?” said I, staring. “Then my first impression was right. It is a club of sorts—this place that you call The Wet Flag.”

Katharine raised her eyebrows.

“Yes,” she said, “it is. It is ‘a club of sorts.’ In fact, it’s a thieves’ kitchen—to use the traditional term. And I am a member ... because, you see, I’m a crook.”