Читать книгу Run! - Dora Amy Elles - Страница 9

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Nothing happened—no voice, no answer, no response of any kind. James felt that he was being snubbed. And why should he be snubbed? He’d been shot at, hadn’t he, and not missed by very much either? He said with deliberation,

“We ought to have gone to the police—I told you so at the time.”

“People who say ‘I told you so’ are always fondly loved. It says so on their tombstones.”

This had no soothing effect.

“Suppose I go to the police now?” said James in a stiffened voice.

“They wouldn’t believe you.”

“Why wouldn’t they?”

Sally looked at him sweetly.

“You’d rather lost yourself, hadn’t you? I mean, the scenery was mostly fog, wasn’t it? I suppose you’d be able to tell the police where the house was. I shouldn’t if it had happened to me, but I’m not a cocksure Scot. I suppose you do feel quite sure you could lead them straight to the spot.”

James supposed nothing of the kind. He had put in some intensive study on a map without being able to arrive at any idea of (a) where he had got off the road, and (b) where he rejoined it. (A) was probably one of the four cross-roads in the middle of Warnley Common, but it might have been anywhere else, because the common rather ran to cross-roads. Further, he didn’t know whether he had gone off to the right or to the left. (B) was just as difficult. He had certainly reached Staling, but three roads ran in a couple of miles short of it, two on the left and one on the right, and a very meandering lane joined the road, also on the right just before you came to the village. The dark house from which he and Sally had run was somewhere within a radius of five miles of Staling, probably much less, because distances lengthen out in a fog, but further than this he could be sure of nothing. Sally had him beat, and he knew it. The bother was that she knew it too. He said with a firmness which he was far from feeling,

“I couldn’t do that, but I could describe it—to some extent.”

Sally said “ ’M—” She said it very softly, but she managed to make it ask a question.

“I saw the hall,” said James.

Sally said “ ’M—” again. This time there was no question. It said, “All right, take your hall.”

James became aware that his hall wasn’t any earthly good. What was the use of offering the police a hall which they had never seen, and of which he himself had only caught dusty glimpses? He gave it up. If he felt sufficiently interested, he could of course track the house down easily enough. He could do it when he delivered Colonel Pomeroy’s car next week. But why should he? It didn’t concern him, so why should he bother? He said,

“I could find the house all right if I wanted to, only I don’t. What I should like to know is why you don’t want me to find it.”

Sally leaned back. There wasn’t a great deal of light on this half-landing, and what was there was shaded. When she leaned back she slipped into a shadow. Presently she said out of the shadow,

“It might be—safer for you.”

“And what do you mean by that?” said James directly.

He heard her laugh without merriment.

“Very little—not very much—nothing at all, or—a good deal.”

“I suppose you’re trying to make me lose my temper.”

“No, I wasn’t thinking about that. Are you going to lose it?”

“Not unless I want to. What did you mean about its being safer for me?”

She said slowly, “Well—you did—leave your car—in the drive. I bumped into it. If anyone else did—cars have numbers, don’t they?”

“Mine had a trade number.”

“Well, anyone who wanted to could find out—who was driving that car—couldn’t they?”

“I suppose they could if they chose to take the trouble. I don’t know why they should.”

Sally said very softly, “They mightn’t know—how much—you had seen.”

“And that would bother them?”

“Yes.”

It was a very grave little word. James thought about it. Then he said,

“That’s all about me. What about you? You were there too, you know.”

Sally laughed again.

“I’d gathered that.”

“Well, what about it? They could hardly have missed your bicycle.”

“Bicycles don’t have numbers,” said Sally.

“And you’d left your shoes in the hall—and a torch upstairs.”

“Yes, that’s much worse than the bicycle—much, much worse, because—” She stopped short, and said quickly, “ ‘The Compromising Crocodiles, or Aspidistra’s Adventure. Another thrilling instalment tomorrow.’ I retrieved the torch, but let’s do some good strong hoping that no one tumbled to the crocodiles. They were round the corner, so perhaps ... I don’t really want that thrilling instalment, you know. I’ve got a feeling it might be too thrilling.”

James said on a deep growl, “I can’t help you when you don’t tell me anything.”

“I know,” said Sally a little breathlessly. “I’m trying to make up my mind. I haven’t made it up. You see, if I tell you things, I’m bringing you into it, and that doesn’t seem fair to you. But then, on the other hand, I don’t know that you’re not in already, and if you are, it might be—safer—if you knew where you were. And then—” She stopped. It was as if the word had been cut off. A long, slow minute went by.

James said, “And then?”

Sally looked at him. She was leaning forward again. He could see her face.

“There’s Jocko—”

“Yes—and what about Jocko? He’s in India, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

“He’s coming home.”

“When?”

“At once. I expect he’s started. He’s coming by air. Aunt Clementa’s affairs, you know. She left him quite a lot of money.”

“And that worries you?”

She gave him a strange look. He thought it was a frightened look. She didn’t answer.

James persisted, frowning.

“I do wish you’d tell me what it’s all about. What’s the matter with J.J. coming home? Are you afraid he’s going to make an ass of himself in some way—blue the money—run amuck—something like that?”

She shook her head.

“Then you’re afraid he’ll butt in on this mystery business. Is that it?”

“Well, he might.”

“And you think it wouldn’t be healthy for him?”

She dropped her voice and said in an almost indistinguishable murmur,

“It might be—very—dangerous.”

“For him?”

“For everyone.” She made a quick movement with her hands. “I tried to stop him, but it’s no good. I couldn’t tell him why.”

“I think you had better tell me—I do really, Sally.”

Sally jumped up.

“Not now—not here—I can’t—I haven’t made up my mind—I’ve got to think about it. I’m going home now.”

“And when you’ve thought about it?”

“I’ll ring you up.”

She began to go down the few steps to the drawing-room floor. James followed. Of an observant habit of mind, he could hardly avoid seeing how white the nape of her neck was under the double row of little black curls. Some dark girls had napes as stubbly as a man’s chin, but Sally’s skin ran white and smooth all the way up to the edge of her hair.

She checked in front of him so suddenly that he could not stop himself from taking the next step and bumping into her. He had to put his arm about her to steady himself and her, but even as he touched her she twisted free and passed him, and was up the stair and round the bend before he had time to draw an astonished breath. He went after her, and found her half way up the next flight, leaning against the wall with her hand at her throat and her eyes afraid.

He said, “What’s the matter?”

She took her hand from her throat and caught at his arm, leaning close and saying under her breath,

“There’s someone I don’t want to see. I didn’t know they were coming—I thought they were somewhere else—Daphne didn’t tell me. Why didn’t she tell me?”

He could feel that she was shaking all over. He put his arm round her for the second time. It seemed quite a natural thing to do.

“It’s all right. Sit down here for a minute. Where were these people—coming up the stairs? Because if they were, you’ve only to let them get into the drawing-room, and then you can slip past and get away. Tell me what they’re like, and I’ll let you know when the coast is clear.”

She had both hands locked about his arm. She said, “Thank you,” and then, “Will you do just what I say?”

“I don’t know,” said James.

“Please, James Elliot—please.”

“What do you want me to do?”

Her clasp relaxed a little.

“I want you to go straight downstairs and out of the house.”

“You want me to go?”

“At once. Please, James Elliot.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll slip away like you said. Please, please go.”

“Oh, all right.”

He felt her fingers unclasp. He dropped his arm from about her. There was a curious reluctance about this parting. He waited a moment without quite knowing why, while the sound of voices came up to them from below. He heard Daphne’s laugh. Then Sally drew back, and he turned from her and went slowly down the stairs.

On the drawing-room landing he paused. Sally had said, “Go straight downstairs and out of the house.” That was all very well, but he couldn’t just fade away without saying good-night to Daphne. He looked in through the drawing-room door and saw her not more than a couple of yards away, laughing and sparkling up at a tall man who had his back to James.

James edged into the room and advanced a step or two, not without difficulty, because the room was now a good deal fuller than it had ever been meant to be. He heard Daphne say, “So good of you both to come on,” and looking over the head of a bony girl in black, he saw that Daphne’s left hand rested affectionately on the arm of a very striking lady who obviously belonged to the tall man. He also saw that the tall man was Ambrose Sylvester. Now that the famous profile was on view, it was quite impossible to mistake it. What he had not realized from the Press photographs was that the tossed mass of hair which framed the profile was of the most picturesque shade of coppery gold. A hawklike nose and eyes of a cold and brilliant blue preserved the virility of the face, but James considered with disgust that a man who didn’t aim at being a popular idol would get himself a hair-cut. He had nothing against good looks, but there were decencies to be observed, and hair six inches long was a quite obvious breach of these decencies.

He supposed the lady to be Mrs. Sylvester. She was a head taller than Daphne, dark-haired, and incredibly slim in a gold dress so tight and shiny that it reminded James of a mermaid’s tail. She was as ugly as her husband was handsome, but she carried her ugliness as if it were beauty—lips a miracle of scarlet paint, eyes lazily disdainful between long mascaraed lashes, teeth very white, hands and shoulders used as only a Latin uses them.

“Queer people,” was James’s judgment. He wondered whether it was the Sylvesters whom Sally had wished to avoid, and he wondered why. He said over the lady’s shoulder,

“Goodbye, Daph—I’m just off. Thanks for asking me.”

And Daphne said, “Oh, darling, must you?” And he thought she was going to say, “Where’s Sally?” and he wondered if Sally would mind, because if it was the Sylvesters she wanted to avoid—But Daphne only blew him a kiss.

As he turned away, he heard Mrs. Sylvester say in a deep, husky voice,

“Jocko is coming home. Did you know? I adore Jocko.”