Читать книгу The Man Who Changed His Name - Edgar Wallace - Страница 5

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NITA kept her promise. During her week in Scotland she did little else than think. She had believed that, away from Selby, she would be able to get things into focus and see them clearly, that she could take a calm survey of the situation and come to a deliberate decision on which she could rely.

But she soon discovered that there was no eluding her problem by a railway journey, and that correct focus and deliberate decision were no easier in the Highlands than at Sunningbourne Lodge. Each time that she remembered that scene in the library, her resentment against her husband blazed up a little more fiercely; each time that she tried to envisage the future with him it seemed less possible for her to face it. Yet she could not bring herself to a firm resolution not to face it.

Each time that she turned away from it and took a step in the opposite direction, something seemed to give her a sudden tug which made her falter and glance back. Selby had been amazingly kind to her, and this was poor repayment for all his kindness. Selby meant security, and it was, perhaps, foolish to throw aside security for the sake of a glamour and excitement which might prove impermanent. Her thoughts would linger over that moment when she had lain in Frank's arms and felt the touch of his lips, and then there would flash into her mind the picture of Selby standing by her dressing table, with that hurt, puzzled look in his eyes, searching for something he had lost, terribly afraid of drifting away from her, begging her to grasp his hand and keep the gap from widening.

And she had refused her hand and left him to flounder alone. She had despised herself for that. She wondered whether, if she deliberately pushed him under the water, she would ever cease to despise herself. There was so much that she admired about Selby, so many qualities which only just fell short of making her love him, a strength and bigness which made her feel pitifully small. There were moments when, because of those qualities, she felt that she hated him.

She had written to Selby that she would be returning on the Tuesday and expected to arrive in time for dinner; and as she got into the train she had still come to no decision as to what her answer to O'Ryan was to be. Because she knew that he would expect her answer and that she could not avoid giving it, she had not written to Frank. He would have met her at the station, and she was not ready to meet him. Somehow, before his next visit to Sunningbourne Lodge, she would come to a decision and be able to answer him, but she must have those few extra days in which to think.

And then she suddenly saw quite clearly what she must do. She was tired, drowsy, sick to death of thinking, and of asking herself questions to which there were no answers. She would think no more about it until she was home again. She settled herself comfortably in her corner and closed her eyes.

It was an hour later that she awoke, realized her surroundings, and again closed her eyes, thankful to shut out everything but the noise of the train. She found herself listening to the rhythmic rattle of the wheels as they crossed the joints in the metals—thud-thud, thud-thud—regular—unvarying—dreadfully monotonous; and so it would go on until the end of the journey. Just like her life with Selby, the life she was going back to—regular, unvarying, monotonous—thud-thud, thud-thud—day after day, year after year. Every thud of the wheels was rushing her nearer to it, and she couldn't face it. Why should she try to face it? She had only to say one word to Frank ...

As the train slowed down at a station she sprang to her feet, let down the window, and leaned out, glancing anxiously along the platform. Yes, there it was—TELEGRAPH OFFICE. But when the train stopped the compartment would be a long way off, and she might not have time—oh, why in heaven's name didn't they put on the brakes!

Before the train had come to a standstill she opened the door, stepped out, turned, and hurried back along the platform; and a few moments later she had written out her telegram to Frank. "Laffan Hotel To-night, Nita," it said. She thrust it across the counter, threw down a shilling, saw the clerk nod, and sped back to her compartment.

And as the train moved off she smiled. After all, it was perfectly simple. She wondered why she had worried so terribly about it when all that was needed was a shilling telegram. Happiness—for a shilling!

Nita had stayed at the Laffan Hotel before. On the rare occasions when Selby had been cajoled into spending in town a night which he might have spent at Sunningbourne Lodge, he had taken her to the Laffan, preferring it, he said, to any other hotel because most of the rooms communicated and it was always possible to secure a suite to themselves. She had chosen it because it was the first name that occurred to her; but as she went in through the revolving door she caught herself wishing that she had chosen some other hotel than the Laffan. Here, where she had never before been without Selby, the treachery, she felt, would seem worse.

In the foyer she paused, wondering whether she would not go elsewhere. She was surprised somehow to find herself there at all. Just for a few moments she had the queerest sensation that she was not there, that it was all unreal, that either this wasn't the Laffan Hotel or that she was not Nita Clive. The whole affair seemed too fantastic to be actual. She had not really sent a telegram to Frank; she was not really expecting him here; she had not really finished with her life with Selby. That sort of thing did not really happen.

"Good-evening, Mrs. Clive!"

It was the manager, smiling at her as she passed, and she nodded and smiled back at him. It had not occurred to her that anyone at the Laffan might remember her, and the realization that the manager had recognized her brought her swiftly back to reality.

She crossed to a settee, sat down and lighted a cigarette, conscious again of that acute thrill of excitement which she had felt as she had written the telegram to O'Ryan.

The manager had startled her, but there was nothing, she told herself, to be startled at. It was really of no importance that he had recognized her. There was no need to conceal anything. Selby would know everything within a few hours. She would write to him tonight, and he would have her letter in the morning. It would be a difficult letter to write, but she would manage it somehow. There was no need to be unpleasant about it. People arranged this sort of thing nowadays in quite a friendly way, and leaving a husband was no longer the dreadful disgrace it used to be... .

"Nita!"

She glanced up quickly, her eyes suddenly bright; as she saw O'Ryan standing beside her, she rose from the settee.

"Nita darling—bless you for this!"

She laid a hand on his arm and squeezed it, smiling at him.

"You got my wire?"

He nodded.

Nita hesitated, uncertain whether to ask him to get a taxi and take her to some other hotel. She did not want to hurt him, and she felt that to tell him the truth could not fail to hurt him. She did not want him to think that now, during their first few moments together, she had a thought for anyone but him. To tell him now that because she had been to the Laffan with Selby ...

"Rooms twenty-three and four, Nita," he said. "I've seen to the booking, and I've reserved a table for dinner. This place is crowded out."

She nodded.

"I won't be long, Frank," she said; "not more than ten minutes."

Frank smiled.

"I'll wait for you here, Nita. What's ten minutes— after three years?—"

Music; the soft murmur of voices; the sparkle of glass and silver; flowers; and Frank smiling at her across the table. Once again Nita had that sensation that it could not possibly be real. She had never felt like this before—this quivering sensitiveness to everything about her, this acute awareness that every atom of her was intensely alive. Everything around her seemed to have taken on a strange new beauty. She noticed the splash of warm red on her hand cast by the crimson shade of the table lamp, the graceful sweep of the violinist's arm, the tiny bubbles dancing in her wine, the little lines round Frank's eyes where smiles had worn a pathway. There was nothing new about it all; it had always been there. But tonight, because of the newness in herself, she saw it.

She said very little. She did not want to talk; she wanted to sit quietly there and feel it all, opening herself to this new beauty and letting it pour in upon her senses. "Cigarette, Nita?"

"Thanks, Frank."

Again she lapsed into silence.

"Not worrying, darling, are you?"

She glanced at him, surprised.

"Worrying—now?—"

"About Selby, I mean."

A frown ruffled her forehead and disappeared. She shook her head, smiling.

"There's nothing to worry about," he assured her. "Selby's not a suspicious sort, fortunately. He gave me a bit of a start last week when he began asking me if I was fond of you, but I needn't have been alarmed. He wants me to see you as often as possible and cheer things up a bit. It was a bad moment, though. I thought the lease had gone west for good."

"Oh, yes—the lease. I'm afraid I'd forgotten the lease, Frank. Does it matter tremendously?"

"Yes, it does."

"But you can hardly hope for it now, Frank."

"I don't see why not," said O'Ryan. "I'm taking a risk tonight, of course, but it's not a big one. Selby is never likely to discover anything."

"But, Frank, how—how can he help discovering?" Her eyes were vaguely troubled.

"There's no reason why he should ever find out," said O'Ryan. "Of course, we shall have to cut out this sort of thing. Places like the Laffan are too dangerous. Somebody sees you and tells somebody else, and before you know where you are everybody knows all about it. But we can talk about that later. I've an idea I might take a small flat somewhere."

"Frank!"

She was staring at him with puzzled, incredulous eyes. "Good Lord, Nita! What's wrong?"

She shrugged her shoulders. What was wrong? Only that the newly found beauty had disappeared, that she could feel it no longer, that her senses were suddenly numbed, dead, incapable of responding to anything. She pressed out her cigarette and rose.

"I say, Nita," said O'Ryan, with a puzzled frown, "I'm sorry if I've said anything to upset you."

"Oh, it's all right; it's—nothing. I didn't understand, that's all. We won't start arguing about it here. I think I'll—go up to my room."

She turned and went swiftly from the restaurant, up the stairs, without waiting for the lift, and into her room. And there she flung herself on the bed and buried her face in the pillow.

For some time she lay motionless, hiding her face, feeling that to show it to the empty room needed more courage than she possessed. Then, with an effort, she forced herself to sit up. She told herself wearily that she must start thinking again. Happiness—for a shilling! She might have known that the sort of happiness she could buy for a shilling would be worth no more.

"There's no reason why Selby should ever discover ..."

"Take a small flat somewhere ..." So that was all Frank had to offer her! What a fool she had been not to understand him better! Why hadn't she realized? How had he dared—Frank, who said that he loved her, that she belonged to him, that he had a right to her because of his love—how had he dared offer her, instead of love, this shoddy substitute? Didn't he know her better than that? To leave Selby, openly, honestly, admitting frankly that she did not love him—yes, she could have done that. Because of her love for Frank she had been ready to face that ordeal, imagining that he was ready to face it with her. But to play the hypocrite, to spend her life tricking and deceiving Selby, taking all he gave her and giving nothing in return—she would rather a thousand times let things continue as they were. Compared with Selby's love for her, this which Frank offered was a cheap and contemptible fraud. She felt that she hated Frank O'Ryan for having insulted her with such an offering.

And now what? She glanced at her watch. There were no more trains to Sunningbourne now, and in any case there was nothing to be gained by returning that night. She could explain to Selby in the morning that she had changed her mind at the last moment and travelled by the night train. There was no need even to mention the Laffan, and it was hardly likely that he would ever hear that she had stayed there. In any case, he would never suspect her of doing what she had so nearly done.

After that scene with her in the library she had some idea of what Selby would be like if any such suspicion did cross his mind. He would be terribly ruthless in his anger. She had probably been right when she had told Frank that he would put a bullet into each of them. Still, he had no reason to suspect, and she would not see Frank again....

She glanced round the room. There was a communicating door between her own room and the next. She could see no key in it, but just above the handle was a small silver bolt. She slipped from the bed, went to the door, and shot the small silver bolt across. She sighed as she turned away.

It was barely eight o'clock the next morning when Nita left her room and hurried down to the hotel office. She had spent a sleepless night and would have left earlier but for her fear of calling attention to herself.

During the night a sudden panic had overtaken her, a dreadful feeling of certainty that, in some unaccountable way, Selby had come to know exactly what had happened, and she had found it hard to resist the temptation to dress at once and hurry from the hotel. Every moment she stayed there seemed to increase her danger of discovery. She caught herself picturing the scene when Selby accused her—saw him gazing at her with those piercing eyes of his, his lips set, his face showing no sign of what he was feeling. She heard his voice—cold, calm, terribly hard—she saw herself, white-lipped, protesting her innocence, begging him to believe her.

Nerves, she decided. She would leave at eight o'clock.

There would be no risk of seeing Frank. He would never dream that she would breakfast before nine.

She had no breakfast. Paying her bill, she hurried out into the taxi which the porter had called for her, sinking back in the corner with a sigh of relief. Once out of the hotel, her panic left her. It was all over now, and there was nothing more to worry about.

And then, just as the taxi started, she leaned forward, tapped on the window, signalled to the driver to stop, and got out.

"Sorry," she smiled. "I've left my bag behind. I shan't be a minute."

She hurried back into the hotel and crossed the foyer. Her bag lay on the office counter, and with a smile at the clerk she picked it up and was turning to go when he called after her.

"Oh, Mrs. Clive!"

She paused.

"There's just been a telephone call for you. You'd hardly gone out when—"

"Telephone?"

He nodded.

"A call from—er—" he consulted a slip of paper—"Sunningbourne Lodge, I believe was the name. Mr. Clive wished to know if you were in the hotel."

"What—what did you say?"

"As it was Mr. Clive inquiring," said the clerk, "I gave the information. I said you had stayed here last night and had left a few minutes ago."