Читать книгу The Attic Murder - S. Fowler Wright - Страница 8

CHAPTER SIX

His eyes met those of a girl who was young, slim, dark, and of so self-possessed a manner that he had a moment’s doubt of whether it could be she whose voice he had heard through the attic door.

But when she spoke he recognized it as the same, though it was without any trace of the timidity which he had noticed before.

“Mrs. Benson told me that she had a new guest. I must introduce myself. I am Mary Jones.”

“It is pleasant to have company,” he answered, with more sincerity than he had expected to feel. “I thought I should be alone. My name is—” There was a second’s hesitation as his thought paused for the selection of the right lie, the instinct to give his true name being confused between the two others that he had subsequently assumed; but he did not think it to be observed, her interruption came so quickly: “Oh, yes. Mrs. Benson told me your name.”

Mr. Edwards, as he concluded that he had become to her, having risen to draw out the lady’s chair, which was at the side of the table facing the door, at right angles to his own, sat down again, sensible of the attractions of his breakfast companion, but most conscious of the need for that constant watchfulness which is common to most creatures which live in lasting peril of death should their wits relax, but from which civilized man, and some of his domesticated companions, have become normally free. Beneath this instinct there was another, subconsciously strong, urging him to make any friend he could from among those who had become his collective foes. It led him to lay down the newspaper, though with some reluctance, for he had realized its value in hiding him from the eyes of those who passed in the street.

He talked for a time, as the meal progressed, of trivial or indifferent things, but not without realizing how difficult it was, even in such conversation as that, to avoid self-revealing references to past environment or experience; and with his abnormally sensitive perceptions troubled by a feeling that the girl was concentrating her observation upon him with what he felt to be an abnormal intensity.

He thought he had the explanation of that, when she asked him, with a cool and smiling deliberation: “Mr. Edwards, do you mind telling me why you knocked at my door this morning?”

He found the truth to be the easiest, as it was certainly the wisest reply: “I wanted to borrow a razor.”

“And you got it from Mr. Rabone’s room?”

“Yes,” he said. “So I did. And returned it afterwards.”

She was silent for a moment, after which she looked at him in a more friendly intimate way than she had done previously. She asked: “Mr. Edwards, should you think it impertinent if I were to give you a word of advice?”

“No. I should be grateful.”

“I shouldn’t mention to Mr. Rabone, if I were you, that you went into his room.”

She spoke with a seriousness that seemed more than the incident could deserve, and he recalled the words that he had heard through the door when she had supposed that it was his fellow-lodger to whom she spoke.

“You don’t like Mr. Rabone?” he ventured.

Her reply paused. Then she said seriously: “You must please not conclude that. I trust you to respect my confidence when I say no more nor less than that I should be sorry for any stranger whom he might suspect of poking about his room.”

“Yet he leaves it unlocked?”

“I don’t suppose he minds Mrs. Benson putting it straight. That’s a very different thing.”

“Well,” he said, “thanks for the hint. I’m not likely to go there again.” He considered that he had more serious troubles than a borrowed razor was likely to stir, but he appreciated the friendly spirit in which the caution was given. He said: “I don’t see that there’ll be any occasion to mention it, as I put it back. For that matter, I mayn’t be here when he returns.”

He was pleased to see, or imagine, a shadow of annoyance if not regret on the girl’s face as she heard that. It strengthened an impulse to give her fuller confidence, which may have sprung in part from natural desire for any friendship he could make, in the loneliness of the life which must now be his.

“Then you’re not staying,” she asked, “after today?”

“I don’t quite know what I shall do.”

He thought, as he had done before, that he saw curiosity in her eyes, beyond reason toward one whom she had met in so casual a way. Could it be that she suspected the truth?

He doubted that, but felt an instinctive desire to tell it; to gain a confidante who, he felt sure, would not betray him, even for a reward. But if she did not herself betray, she might talk. His liberty would not be long if he should reveal his identity to every stranger he met.

“I’m sorry you’re not likely to stay,” she said; “we could do with someone else here.”

“You are here permanently yourself?”

“I don’t know any more than you seem to. At present, I’m looking for work that I can’t get.”

It was then that a wild vague thought entered his mind that she might be one who would share his fortunes, who would help him (for a consideration, of course) in the delicate operation of drawing the money from his bank for which it might be so dangerous to apply, and was yet so vital to have. Perhaps even to spend it with him on a more permanent basis to help him to a new identity: to assist in rebuilding all that had seemed so utterly lost.

But, as he looked at her, he did not feel it to be a plan to which she would be likely to conform in a docile way. He had sufficient detachment of mind to see it as an idea which would not have come to him in more normal circumstances. But the instinct to confide in those around him, to gain allies if he could, which had taken him down to Mrs. Benson’s kitchen the night before, urged him again, and in greater confidence than he had then felt. And he saw that his decision must be promptly made, or the opportunity might be gone. The meal was done. Any moment she might rise and disappear for ever out of his life.

“Miss Jones,” he asked, with a nervousness in his voice she had not noticed before, “have you anything very urgent to do this morning?”

She looked a natural surprise, but answered simply: “No. Why do you want to know?”

“I wondered whether I might ask you to do something for me. Of course, I’d pay for your time.” He added, as though in self-defence: “It was you saying you were looking out for a job that put it into my mind.”

“So I am. It depends upon what it is that you want me to do.”

“It’s only to go to the bank for me, but there’s something that I should have to explain first.”

“I don’t see why I should refuse that. But I’m an utter stranger to you. I think I ought to explain too. I’m out of work, and my money’s just about gone. Mr. Rabone might happen to tell you that.... So,” she concluded with a smile, “you mustn’t tempt me too far.”

“I shouldn’t worry much about that.... Could you believe that anyone could be convicted of a very serious crime, and not be guilty at all?”

“Yes, I could believe that; though I don’t think it often happens.... But don’t you think you’d better ring the bell first—it’s the one on the left, the other’s a dud—and let Mrs. Benson clear away before you tell me what you want me to do...? I’ve got a few things to see to upstairs before I could go out.”

With these words, Miss Jones rose and left the room. He saw the wisdom of deferring the tale he had to tell until their landlady should have cleared away, and withdrawn from the scene. He recognized the easy efficiency with which Miss Jones handled the situation, and the difficulty of reconciling this character with the words and tone which he had heard through the attic door recurred to his mind.

Who could this Rabone be, and why, though he appeared to be one whom she both feared and disliked, should she have confided to him that her money was nearly gone? He felt an active dislike for the man with whose razor he had made acquaintance, though he knew him only as a heavy step on the stair. If the girl were being persecuted or molested by him, the law was surely equal to her protection! Single girls should be secure in their lodgings from molestation by fellow-boarders of habits and manners as execrable as he had doubt that those of Mr. Rabone would prove to be.... The law? He saw that it was not a drama in which he could be cast for a leading part.