Читать книгу The Man Who Changed His Name - Edgar Wallace - Страница 6

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NITA stood motionless for some moments. She felt weak, limp, as if all the strength had suddenly drained away from her limbs and left her with a terrible lassitude against which it was hopeless to fight. There was a throbbing in her throat which made each breath a painful effort, and before her eyes there seemed to be a pulsating film which made everything blurred and distorted.

"I hope I did right, Mrs. Clive?"

She forced herself to smile.

"Oh, yes—quite right, thanks. There was no—no message?"

"No message at all, Mrs. Clive."

She nodded and stood nervously drumming on the counter with her fingers. Why had Selby telephoned? She had not told him that she would be at the Laffan; she had not known herself that she would be there until she had sent that wire to Frank when she was already halfway to London. Until that telegram had been sent there had been nothing for Selby to suspect; but if he suspected nothing, why had he telephoned? If only she had waited a few minutes longer before leaving the hotel! She would have known then. She could have spoken to Selby on the telephone—heard his voice. She could have told in an instant if there were anything amiss. If only she knew exactly what he had said and exactly how he had said it, she would have had some inkling of what she would have to face when she got back to Sunningbourne. But she could scarcely question the clerk about it.

"If you'd care to ring through to Sunningbourne, Mrs. Clive—"

"Oh, no—I won't trouble, thanks," said Nita. "It can't be anything of importance. If there are any other inquiries for me, say that I'm on my way home, will you—"

She hurried out to the waiting taxi, told the driver to take her to Waterloo, and got in. There was a train at eight thirty-five: she had looked it up at the Laffan before leaving. She was desperately anxious to catch it; she felt an urgent need to get home as quickly as possible and discover if there was everything to fear or nothing. She would know as soon as she met Selby: his manner, his voice, the look on his face would tell her infallibly what she wanted to know. And if she found that he knew everything, how was she to persuade him that he was putting a wrong construction on a perfectly innocent incident? It was never easy to persuade Selby of anything. Once he got his teeth into an idea, there was no prizing them apart, and if you still tried to take it from him when he had given his growl of warning, you were certain to get bitten. He had snapped at her dangerously when she had tried to make him give up Sunningbourne Lodge, and though he had come to her afterwards cringing for forgiveness, pitifully anxious to be received back into favour, she knew that if she attempted any further interference he would snap just as savagely again.

She tried to review the situation calmly, to see it as Selby would see it. There was no cause, at any rate, to be nervous about the telegram which she had sent to Frank. Only she and Frank knew of its existence, and without that damning bit of evidence at his disposal Selby could not prove that her meeting Frank at the Laffan that night had not been purely fortuitous. Even Selby must realize that to suspect that there was something amiss for no better reason than that she and Frank had both stayed at the Laffan Hotel would be absurd. There was nothing remarkable in the coincidence of two friends happening to stay at the same hotel; it must happen every day in London. Ridiculous to play the jealous husband for no better reason than that. And then it struck her that, just because it was so obviously ridiculous, Selby would certainly not do it. Selby was nothing if not reasonable, sensible, exasperatingly logical. If he suspected her, he had some more definite grounds for his suspicion than that.

She forced herself to sum up the evidence which he might conceivably have against her. She had told him that she would be home last night, but instead of going home she had stayed at the Laffan and had not telephoned, as she easily might have done, to tell him so. She saw now that if she had telephoned to Selby last night and told him where she was, his suspicions would never have been aroused. But last night she had been sure that the break with Selby was an accomplished fact, and she had intended writing to him in the morning. Actually, of course, her failure to telephone was in her favour, because, if she had been indulging in the sort of escapade which Selby suspected, she would certainly have been clever enough to telephone to Selby and disarm all suspicion by telling him that she was too tired after her journey from Scotland to go on to Sunningbourne and was spending the night at the Laffan. But that, she felt, would be too subtle an argument for Selby to appreciate, too artistic a deception to pass muster with his direct, logical mind.

And if she failed to convince him on that point, the case looked black against her: she had stayed at the Laffan without telling her husband; she had met Frank O'Ryan there; they had had dinner together; her room had been booked by Frank and their table reserved; and, with those facts against her, what would be the use of expecting Selby to believe her when she told him of the little silver bolt? If only she knew how much of all this was within his knowledge! She had sat in the foyer—foolishly, she realized now—waiting for Frank to come, and if anyone had seen her, as the manager had, it must have been obvious that she was keeping an appointment. It was difficult to see how the information that she was at the Laffan could have travelled so quickly to Sunningbourne, but that was just the unexpected sort of thing that did happen—the one chance in a thousand that came off and brought about disaster.

At Waterloo she bought her ticket, glanced at the clock, found that she still had several minutes in hand, and went towards the platform. And then, after a few steps, she suddenly paused. She could not go yet. In an hour, if she caught this train, she would have to face Selby, meet his eyes, hear him asking her this and that in his quiet, persistent way, and she had no idea what answers she was going to make to his questions. It was absurd to go rushing back to Sunningbourne like this before she had given herself a chance to think things out. If she was to convince Selby of her innocence, she must not arrive home like a panic-stricken schoolgirl with a guilty look and a pack of feeble lies which would only land her in further difficulties. And of course she would have to lie. If she told the truth, made a clean breast of everything from the moment when she had sent the telegram, he would not believe her. It was a pretty thin story, and no husband could be blamed for not accepting it. Innocent as she was, she would have to lie to convince him of her innocence, and she must not meet Selby until she had a ready answer to any question he might put to her, a plausible "because" to counter every searching "why."

She went from the station, walked over Waterloo Bridge, and in the Strand, catching sight of a notice outside a tea shop which said, "Open for breakfasts from 8 a.m.," she remembered that she had had no breakfast, went in and ordered a meal. And there, while cleaners swabbed the floor round her feet, and waitresses clattered cutlery as they laid the tables in readiness for the midday lunchers, she drank her coffee and ate her egg and bacon and smoked a cigarette and began to feel calmer, to think more clearly, and to comfort herself with the thought—though she had no faith in it—that perhaps, after all, Selby suspected nothing and there was some quite simple explanation of his telephone call to the Laffan. She could not help sighing, as she left the teashop, at the thought that breakfast this morning had not been as she had planned it.

It was twelve o'clock when she reached Sunningbourne Lodge, and as she walked up the drive to the house she was again aware of a throbbing in her throat, and her glance anxiously swept the garden for a glimpse of her husband. She was immensely relieved that he was not to be seen. She was suddenly in a panic again in case he should come round the corner of the house and see her, and longed to throw all restraint to the winds and scuttle into the house and up to her room while the way was clear for her. But she overcame that impulse and forced herself to walk slowly along the drive, pausing every now and then to look at the flower beds, as she usually did, and nip off a dead bloom.

Lane was in the hall. He turned sharply as he heard her footstep, and gave her a look which, just for an instant, made her hesitate, certain that he was well aware of where she had been and what she had been doing. And then she went calmly on towards the staircase. Lane, she reflected, always looked at you as if he suspected you of having poisoned your mother. How could he possibly know anything?

"Good-morning, Lane."

"Good-morning, madam."

"Did I startle you?"

"Just a little, madam," the man admitted. "I didn't hear you coming, and—"

"Guilty conscience?" she laughed.

He gave what passed with him for a smile.

"I daresay we all have that, madam, if the truth were told," he said. "Shall I tell the master you've returned?"

"Where is he?"

"In the library, madam. He said he would like to see you immediately you arrived."

"No need to disturb him, Lane," she said. "I shall be down again in a few minutes."

Halfway up the stairs she paused.

"Lane!"

"Yes, madam?"

"Who telephoned to me at the Laffan Hotel this morning?"

"I did, madam. Mr. Clive instructed me to ring through and inquire if you were there. He thought you might be getting here for breakfast. I got through for him, but they told me you had just left."

"And as soon as they told you I had gone, I suppose you rang off?—"

"Practically, madam."

"Mr. Clive didn't speak on the telephone himself?"

"No, madam."

She nodded.

"I just wondered," she said carelessly, turning to go upstairs. "I thought he might possibly have left a message for me in case I went back to the hotel."

"No message at all, madam," Lane assured her.

She went up a few more stairs and paused again. "Mr. Clive is all right, Lane, is he?"

"Very well, madam, I should say."

"He hasn't been—worried about anything? I mean, he hasn't seemed to be worried?"

The man glanced at her quickly, obviously a little surprised. His look told Nita plainly that he was wondering what she was driving at in asking him that question, and she instantly regretted having asked it. Lane was no fool, and there was no knowing what confidences were exchanged between a butler and his master.

"Not that I have noticed, madam," said Lane. "He was, I think, a little disappointed this morning when I told him that you had left the hotel."

"As long as he's quite well, Lane—" she interrupted, and went up to her room.

She stayed there almost an hour, sitting in front of her mirror, prolonging the ritual of powder puff and lipstick as long as possible, half hoping that Lane had told Selby of her arrival and that she would hear her husband's tap on her door. Instinct told her that, if a battle was to be fought, she would be far more certain of victory if she fought it on ground of her own choosing. Seated at her dressing table she could use her most deadly weapons of casualness and indifference with far greater effect than if she were compelled to face him across his desk in the library, with Selby sitting in his swivel chair, searching her with his eyes, watching every change of expression, reading everything which she was most anxious to hide. She could be disconcertingly casual when she was busy with an eyebrow pencil, and Selby was always a little ill at ease in her bedroom, always rather the shy schoolboy who felt embarrassed and awkward at finding himself in such strictly feminine surroundings, and terribly conscious of the clumsiness of his feet. She knew intuitively that a man has no chance against a woman in front of her mirror, and that logic is no match for lipstick.

But when, at the end of an hour, Selby had not come, she rose and went downstairs. Just for a moment, with her hand on the handle of the library door, she paused and her teeth pressed hard on her lower lip; then, with a shrug, she opened the door and went in.

Her husband was seated at his desk, writing. He glanced up as she entered the room and rose to meet her; but he did not give her his usual welcoming smile. She smiled at him, however, scanning his face anxiously for some clue to his thoughts. She had been sure that when she saw him she would need no more than a glance at his face to warn or to reassure her, but beyond the fact that he seemed a shade more solemn than usual, his face told her nothing. There was no indication either that he knew or did not know.

"Back again, Selby," she said. "Better late than never! But I went suburban this morning—shop-gazing in London. Sales, you know." She laughed nervously. "I was terribly tempted to buy you a shirt, Selby—flannel, with stripes—but I spared you."

There was just the hint of a smile round his lips. "Thank you, Nita," he said, seating himself at the desk again. "There are some things which a dutiful wife should always spare her husband. Have you had a good time in Scotland?"

She strolled to the open French windows and stood with her' back towards him, gazing out into the garden.

"Much the same as usual," she said, with a shrug: "dreen, drizzle, and drench in turn." Again she gave that nervous little laugh. "Frank O'Ryan always says that as soon as you go to Scotland you understand why they're called mackintoshes."

She gave him that chance deliberately; it seemed a long time before he answered her.

"It has been rather dull here, Nita, while you have been away."

She frowned. Had he purposely ignored the bait, or hadn't he noticed it? If he had anything to say to her concerning Frank O'Ryan he would hardly have missed that opportunity. And if he had not noticed it, then surely that could only mean that he had nothing to say to her about him, that she had been letting her imagination run away with her, scaring herself over that telephone call when all the time there was some quite simple explanation.

"So you stayed at the Laffan last night, Nita?"

She bit her lip, wondering if he was looking at her, and thankful that he could not see her face.

"That ghastly journey, Selby!" she said. "It's hardly worth it—even to get away from Scotland. I was frightfully tired when I got to London, and I couldn't have faced another mile in a train. You weren't worried when I didn't turn up?"

"You could hardly expect me not to be anxious, Nita. You wrote that you would be home last night. If you had rung through on the telephone—"

"I did try to," she interrupted. "They said there was no reply. It was rather late—nearly midnight. Probably everyone in Sunningbourne had been asleep for several hours. I was dead beat, Selby, and couldn't keep on ringing. I thought you'd understand."

She glanced at him quickly over her shoulder. He was staring at his blotting pad, drawing crazy-looking geometrical figures with his pen.

"You rang up the Laffan this morning, Selby, didn't you? I went back to fetch my bag—I'd left it in the office—and they told me. Anything special?"

"I wanted to know if you were there, Nita, that was all. I wondered whether you would be coming back—for breakfast."

She frowned. It was useless going on like this. All this fencing led her nowhere. Did Selby know or didn't he? She was no more able to answer that question now than she had been in the office of the Laffan this morning. He had given her no indication one way or the other. He seemed rather more solemn than usual, a little inclined to be stiff and formal with her, but that might mean nothing of any importance. She had rattled him badly over that business about the house, and while she had been amusing her friends with her description of Mr. Denham and his plans for brightening the panelling and stocking the library with books, Selby had no doubt been nursing his grievance and getting more and more resentful about it every day. He was probably still very angry with her about the Mr. Denham episode, and that would explain his solemn, formal manner. It did not necessarily mean that he had any suspicions about last night.

Yet she had an uneasy feeling that if the truth about last night—or what any husband would naturally infer to be the truth—were known, or even suspected, by Selby, he would treat her exactly as he was treating her now. She remembered what she had said to Frank O'Ryan when they had discussed how Selby would deal with such a situation. There would be no dramatic scene, she had prophesied, no fuss. He would give no hint of his suspicions, say nothing to either of them, treat them exactly as he had always treated them—until the right moment came. And then he would quite certainly put a bullet through each of them. Was that what he was doing now—waiting his time, keeping his knowledge to himself, deliberately giving them rope, trying to treat her naturally and not quite succeeding? She must know for certain. She could never stand the cat-and-mouse business. If Selby knew, she would rather face it now and get it over.

She turned from the window and strolled across towards his desk.

"How did you know I was at the Laffan last night, Selby?"

"I guessed."

She forced a smile.

"Wasn't that rather clever of you? I had no idea myself until I got to London that I wasn't coming straight on here. It was quite a sudden impulse."

He smiled faintly, his gaze still fixed on his blotting pad.

"When you know people very well, Nita," he said, "it's usually not very difficult to guess what their sudden impulses will be. When you didn't arrive home last night, I telephoned through to Scotland. They told me you had left, and I guessed at once that you had suddenly decided to spend the night at some hotel in town. The Laffan seemed the most likely. But it was late before I got my call through to Scotland—nearly midnight."

"Just when I was trying to get through to you," said Nita. "I believe they did say the line was engaged. But if you'd rung the Laffan last night, Selby, instead of waiting until this morning—why on earth didn't your—"

"In the circumstances, Nita, I thought you might not welcome the inquiries of an anxious husband at midnight."

She glanced at him quickly, but there was nothing to be read from his face.

"In the circumstances, Selby? I don't think I understand. There were no very special circumstances."

"I thought that after a long journey from Scotland, my dear, you would have gone to bed early and would not wish to be disturbed."

Nita decided that she had better leave it at that. If Selby knew, obviously he did not intend to tell her; if he did not know, there was nothing to worry about; and if he merely suspected, nagging at the subject would only further arouse his suspicions. Until she had some grounds for believing otherwise, the best thing was to assume that he knew nothing.

She stood beside him and laid a hand on his shoulder. "It's nice to be back, anyway, Selby," she said. "Busy?"

"I'm expecting Muller down today," he said, with a wave of his hand towards the papers that littered his desk. "I want him to stay a few days, if he can manage it. You'll like Muller when you know him better." She wrinkled her forehead.

"Do I know him at all?"

"You met him once—only for a few minutes—when he was over here on one of his trips, two years ago." She shook her head.

"I don't seem to remember him, Selby."

"He remembers you, Nita. He told me so this morning on the telephone—said he'd recognize you in an instant anywhere. He's rather proud of never forgetting a face, and just to prove to me that he hadn't forgotten you, he described you to me exactly. He even remembered that little mole close to your ear. He got to England several days ago and is staying at the Laffan." Nita withdrew her hand sharply from his shoulder. "The—the Laffan?"

He nodded.

"He phoned me from there this morning—just before you got home."

Nita's fears came rushing back at her. Muller—Selby's oldest friend—at the Laffan last night—telephoning to him this morning—remembering the mole on her cheek.... And she had been deluding herself into believing that Selby knew nothing! Of course he knew: she had no doubt about that now. He knew—and was doing just what she had said he would do: playing with her, giving her rope, leading her on to give herself away, waiting until the right moment came, watching her. And she was standing there and saying nothing and showing him as plainly as possible that it was all true....

She made an effort to speak naturally.

"Did he say—on the telephone—when he'd be arriving? I suppose that's what he phoned for, wasn't it?"

"Among other things," said her husband. "He'll be here soon after lunch. But that wasn't his real object in telephoning. He pretended it was, but I know Muller. There was something he wanted to tell me, and he hadn't the patience to wait until he got down here." She strolled again towards the windows.

"Something—important, Selby?"

"Only that, in Muller's opinion, I'm almost every conceivable kind of a fool."

"And one kind in particular?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Muller has got it into his head," he said, "that I don't take nearly enough care of what belongs to me. But he's wrong."

He picked up his pen again and began reading a document on the desk. Nita went out into the garden. Then: "Oh, Nita!"

She paused and glanced back.

"Young O'Ryan turned up this morning—about eleven o'clock—came down by car. He's gone off to have lunch with some friends, I believe."

"He—he's coming back?"

"Some time this afternoon, he said," Selby told her. "I've invited him to stay for a few days. There's a matter I want to settle with him, and it will be easier if he's here on the spot."

Nita nodded, turned, and walked away, frowning thoughtfully. She had an uncomfortable feeling that Selby was staring at her back.