Читать книгу The Attic Murder - S. Fowler Wright - Страница 11

CHAPTER NINE

Half an hour later, Francis sat alone again with his own thoughts. He had small occasion for lively spirits, but he was conscious, beyond reason, of the lightening of heart and hope.

It was not only that he now had a confident expectation of the money that was his most vital need, and that by a method which involved no risk of immediate detection. He was aware that he had found a friend, when his need was greatest, and the probability had been next to none; and though Miss Jones (if such were her real name, which it was easy to doubt) might not be likely to give him the docile companionship and service which had foolishly entered his mind during the earlier day, yet she was likely to be a friend of a better kind than the timid, workless girl he had first thought her to be.

She had now taken a cheque for £20 to her own firm, on the stipulation, willingly agreed, that if the cash resources of the till should not rise to that total, she should bring what she could, and arrange to let him have the balance on a later day.

She had promised to be back before six, and the question of his remaining for a. further night had been left for decision then.

It was evident that, apart from Mr. Rabone’s opposition, there could be no more than a precarious safety in a house where his identity was suspected both by his own landlady and a next-door neighbour whose mouth would not be permanently closed. But he was aware that he would go to nothing better than change of perils if he should walk out into the streets to find the shelter of other lodgings where he would be open to the same suspicions, which might become more quickly vocal.

Against that argument, he reminded himself of his resolution to seek proof of his own innocence, toward which he could do nothing while he remained hidden within Mrs. Benson’s doors. When he had money at command, he could have little excuse should he delay to use the hours of uncertain liberty to further his one hope of re-establishing himself securely in the respect of his fellowmen.

So reason urged, against a strong reluctance to go. In the few hours that he had known these dingy rooms, they had become hiding-place, and, in a sense, home. But would that feeling have been equally strong if Miss Jones had not been there? Asking himself this, he saw where the greatest source of his hesitation lay. To leave her with that cad—and with the programme to which she had so lightly referred—and not knowing when, nor even if, he would ever see her again—

His mind began to invent a score of reasons why it would be safer to remain until the next morning. He would have more time to look round for such a lodging as he could safely take. He would have time to get much farther away, to some place where suspicion would not be so quickly aroused. He would be able to purchase the luggage which it was so essential to have. To walk in anywhere late at night, and with empty hands, would be to ask for the trouble which he would be almost certain to find!

It was twenty to six when he heard Miss Jones enter, with her own latchkey, at the street-door; and by this time he had arrived at a definite resolution that he would not leave till the next day.

She came in with a smile indicative of the success which she demonstrated next moment by drawing a bundle of notes from her handbag, which she laid on the table, with five shillings in silver.

“By good luck,” she said, “there was lots of cash in the till. Mr. Banks made no trouble about changing it. He took my word for it being all right. But he charged five shillings. He’s that sort. He won’t do anything without being paid.”

“I don’t mind that.”

“No. I didn’t suppose you would. Besides, it’s a good thing in a way. It makes it a matter of business, and so it’s confidential to the firm.”

Francis picked up the money. It gave him a sense of freedom and power, to an extent of which he might not have been conscious had he not had those previous penniless hours. He said: “I can’t thank you enough. Taking me on trust, in the way you have, and in spite of the things you know—”

“Never mind that,” she replied. “There’s no time. Mr. Rabone may be in any minute now. The question is, if you’re going to leave, how I can get in touch with you again.”

“You mean that? It is more than I had a right to ask or expect.”

“Well, I thought, if you want to get even with Tony Welch’s gang, I might give you some help. We might arrange to meet at the office. There shouldn’t be any special risk about that, unless you want to get out of London.”

“I don’t know that I do.... Anyway, I don’t mean to leave here tonight. We’ll talk it over tomorrow, when there won’t be any pressure of time.”

He was pleased to see an expression of satisfaction on her face as he said this. She answered: “I’m glad you’ve decided to stay the night. I’d been thinking that it might be the safer way. And if we go out together in the morning, the police will be less likely to give you a second look while you’ve got a companion, and we’re talking like friends together.... But if I were you, I should get upstairs before Mr. Rabone comes. It’ll save friction, if nothing else. And, if you like, I’ll tell Mrs. Benson that I’ve got some money for you, and I know that you’re going to settle with her in the morning.”

It was advice which had the tone of a request also, and was of an obvious wisdom. Reluctant though he might be, he had sense enough to go without argument or delay. He would miss the evening meal, but, placed as he was, it would be folly to weigh that against larger issues. He said: “You might tell Mrs. Benson that I’m not very well, and I’ve gone to bed.”

He went upstairs, hearing Mr. Rabone’s heavy step in the hall as he closed his own door.

There was a clothes closet in his room, at the back of which a pile of old books had been pushed away. Among less readable matter, he found a soiled copy of Vanity Fair, with which he tried to divert his mind from wondering what might be going on in the room below.

He listened at times, but there were no sounds that came through his closed door. By the stillness, he might have been the sole occupant of the house.

After a time, he became chilly, and, having no other means of obtaining warmth, got into bed.

He read stubbornly, finding it hard to hold his mind to the words that passed under his eyes. He stopped at times to listen and wonder what might be going on in the room below, at others, his mind wandered to regret the follies of the unchangeable past, or to speculate upon the unpromising future.... And then, unexpectedly, sleep came.