Читать книгу Blind Man's Year - Warwick Deeping - Страница 12

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She remembered that she had a set of proofs to correct, and that she had promised her publisher that they should be returned corrected by the end of the week. She disliked the supervising of proofs, especially those ghastly “galleys” that trailed about like lengths of sanitary paper, for when a book was finished the mystery and the urge of it had been set alight in some successor. Her dilatoriness might be a source of irritation to those responsible for the producing of her books, but no curtness could be allowed to appear in her publisher’s letters to the authoress who was their principal financial asset. Mr. Biederman employed pathos and humour.

Dear Miss Gerard,

I looked in the glass this morning, and discovered that my hair has an added tinge of grey. Its cause, your very natural procrastination! But my dear lady—

She had received just such a letter by the morning’s post, and its appeal had to be humoured. Poor Mr. Biederman! He had a very public wife who dragged him about to social occasions and charitable parties. She was one of those uncomfortable women with a sore soul. Poor Mr. Biederman! Miss Gerard went upstairs, sat down, lit a cigarette and prepared to deal with the proofs. It always seemed to her that a book creaked badly in the proof stage, and on this April evening she was conscious of her creation’s mechanism. Rather dull, superior stuff! Or was it that she was more conscious of the unknown book whose pages were turning to their finis in the room below? She found herself sitting and listening and wondering. But what was it she expected to hear? The cessation of that almost inaudible breathing? But could one be conscious of a cessation when one could not hear the very sound that was doomed to die away?

Poor lad!

She found herself looking at the fog outside her window instead of at the printed strips. What a strange invasion she had suffered! It was, she supposed, a mere incident in her secluded life, and yet it seemed so much more significant than her world of words. Death was so real and ruthless that it provoked you to remember that life can be very lovely. How old was he? What was his name? Was he married? Had he been flying his own plane, or was he a professional pilot employed by some aerial transport company? It seemed strange that she might never come to know anything about him, not in any sense that mattered.

But what was that? Voices, footsteps, people in her garden. Her sensitive habit of resenting any invasion made her rise and go to the window. The footsteps and voices went round the house to the porch. She heard the clangour of an old-fashioned bracket-bell. She had installed an electric-light plant, but the modern bell had seemed to her so superfluous.

Jane was coming up the stairs.

“Are you there, miss?”

“Yes, Jane.”

“The police, miss.”

“The police!”

Had she lived so much apart from the world that she had forgotten that no one can die or be born without some official recognition of the fact?

“Do they want to see me, Jane?”

“Yes, miss, they do.”

But why should they wish to see her? She went downstairs to find a large man in plain clothes and a police sergeant in uniform standing self-consciously just inside the dining-room doorway. The large man saluted her. He had a very red face and a florid and paternal manner.

“Inspector Harris, miss. We have just been to look at the wreckage. I’m sorry to trouble you, but I understand you witnessed the accident.”

Miss Gerard said, “Won’t you sit down?” but the two men remained standing and, as though to reinforce her suggestion, she seated herself in the Sheraton arm-chair on the left of the fireplace.

“I cannot say that I saw the accident, Inspector. I heard it. You see, the fog was very thick.”

“Quite so, miss. And you and your staff rescued the pilot and carried him here.”

She answered with a movement of the head.

“We’ve identified the plane, miss. It belongs to the Blue Hawk Company. We’ve ’phoned their aerodrome. They will send a representative along. Meanwhile, miss, I want to see the pilot.”

“Is it necessary? He is unconscious, and I’m afraid dying.”

“I’m afraid I consider it necessary. If I might just step into the room.”

She rose, and going to the door indicated that other door on the farther side of the passage.

“Because it seemed so hopeless, Inspector, we thought that it would be rather callous to send him elsewhere.”

“Very kind of you, miss. I’m afraid it has caused you a lot of trouble.”

He crossed the passage, followed by the sergeant, and disappeared into the other room, while she stood at the dining-room window and saw that the fog was thinning. She could distinguish the fir trees on the brow of the hill. And then she heard the movement of feet. The two men had been less than half a minute in the room across the passage.

“Looks bad, miss, I’m afraid. Directly we can be of any assistance to you, if you’ll ’phone the Westbourn head station—”

She looked at the florid, good-natured face.

“You mean?”

“We’ll send up and have him taken to the mortuary.”

She understood that he was being considerate and helpful, but his crude presentation of the inevitable shocked her.

“Thank you, Inspector. I understand.”

She stood listening to their footfalls passing along the paved terrace in front of the house, and suddenly the sun broke through. She saw it shining upon the tops of the tall firs. It did not occur to her that it might be an omen, and she returned to her desk and her proofs. She had been at work on them for less than an hour, when the sudden strange beauty of the evening, and yet another invasion, affected her simultaneously. She had risen and was standing at the window to look out upon a world that had reappeared with a brilliant freshness out of its grey wrappings. It was as though a sheath of white wool had been removed. The oblique light was shining upon the garden, picking out every point of colour. The green hill beyond had a gloss of gold. She heard a blackbird singing. How strange that anything should die on such an exquisite evening!

A car was coming up the lane. She heard it drive up to the house, and she supposed that the car was Dr. Heberden’s. Voices, Jane’s footsteps on the stairs, a deprecating knock.

“So sorry to trouble you, miss.”

“Who is it, Jane?”

“A gentleman from the aerodrome.”

Jane’s gentleman belonged to a new dispensation, and Miss Gerard found him sitting on one of her Sheraton chairs, and wearing a leather coat and helmet. His face was large and white and obesely sinister, and out of it two little buttoned-up eyes looked at her. He stood up on a pair of short, stout legs, and introduced himself.

“My name’s Cash. Blue Hawk Company. Sorry about young Strange. Got into my car and crashed down here directly the police ’phoned us.”

He was a common little man, potently self-important. He seemed to spit his words at her like some high-powered and vigorous mechanism.

“This damned fog, of course. Can’t do anything with fog. First nasty crash we’ve had. Bad business.”

She said: “Won’t you sit down?” She was wondering whether his use of the word business was sympathetic or objective.

“Not much hope, I hear. Pulped himself, poor devil. Lucky he was returning empty.”

Mr. Cash sat down in his leather jacket.

“You see, I am the Blue Hawk Company. Seven years ago I was a motor mechanic.”

His little eyes were little hard points of light. He seemed to swell in his leather jacket like some fat and efficient grub, and almost she could hear him saying: “Guts. Yes, I had the stuff in me.” She was aware of his little eyes observing that blemish on her cheek, and she realized that she was the subject of inward comment.

“Got him in there, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Hospital case, surely?”

“It seemed so hopeless, Mr. Cash, that we—”

“I see. Very kind of you, I’m sure. You can take it from me that I’ll pay the doctor’s bill and all that. Insured, of course. I’m just going to look at the smash before it gets dark. Preferred to come myself.”

She saw the creases melt out of his leather coat as he rose, but even though he filled her with a cold, dispassionate repugnance, she knew that there were questions she wished to ask him.

“Just one moment, Mr. Cash. I think you said the name was Strange?”

“Yes, Strange.”

“I have been wondering about his relations.”

“You needn’t. So far as I know he hasn’t got any. Just as well perhaps.”

“No relations at all?”

“Well, I believe he has a sister or something in South Africa. Common or garden orphan, miss, one of those lads who are left with just enough money to keep them in carnations. Don’t know much about him beyond that. He’s been with us about six months; quiet sort of lad, good pilot, never gave me any trouble. Yes, now you’ve dug into it, miss, it does raise a bit of a problem.”

His stubby fingers were at work on the buttons of his leather coat.

“Excuse me; finding this rather hot. My bus cruises at fifty. Yes, as we were saying, this does raise a bit of a problem.”

“You mean, what to do—?”

“With his insurance money. I suppose that’s up to the Insurance Company. Next of kin, what? Just like the war.”

She was conscious of wanting to be relieved of Mr. Cash’s presence. He had removed his coat, and discovered to her a green and grey check sports jacket, a blue pullover, and a collar and tie whose colours clashed. More and more she was feeling him to be like some gross and greedily efficient maggot that would eat the green heart out of life.

She said: “I think I understand. Please don’t let me detain you, Mr. Cash. No doubt you wish to examine the wreckage.”

“That’s quite O.K., miss. Bound to be an inquiry. He was flying back empty from Le Bourget. Special charter to take a big financial bug to Paris. Much obliged to you. I expect the police will notify me. Good day to you.”

But in the doorway he turned and smiled at her.

“Well, that’s silly. Just where is the wreckage? Forgot to ask.”

“If you go through that gate and over the hill, you will see it just by four oak trees.”

“Much obliged. I’ve got my technical chap in the car. I’ll give him a shout. Good day.”

She watched him go out into the garden, and heard him shout.

“Hi, Balders, round ’ere.”

And when silence returned to the garden she realized that the blackbird was still singing.