by M. M. Kaye
But Dany had ceased to pay attention, for the words ‘Market-Lydon’ had brought a chill to the hot day. Man Murdered at Market-Lydon … But it wasn’t just ‘a man’. It was elderly, pedantic, disapproving Mr Honeywood. And since Mr Honeywood had been the Frost family’s solicitor for at least two generations, he was almost certainly Mrs Bingham’s too. She would have known him well. Did she know he was now dead? Even if she did, the news of his death could not possibly have shocked her half as badly as it had shocked Dany, who had only met him once and very briefly.
Larry Dowling was saying: ‘Does your brother often entertain like this when he is in Zanzibar, Mrs Bingham? Or is this a special occasion?’
‘Oh, I don’t think it was my brother’s idea at all. He’s not really very sociable when he’s writing, and I believe he is supposed to be working on a book just now. But his wife likes to have the house full of guests. I suppose she gets bored when he’s writing all day. And then of course…’
Mrs Bingham’s voice went on and on, and Larry Dowling listened with flattering attention, interjecting interested, incredulous or congratulatory noises whenever the flow showed signs of drying up. He was evidently as good a listener as he was a talker thought Dany uneasily. A very likeable man — but a dangerous one …
She said with forced lightness, breaking into the bubbling stream of confidences: ‘Mr Dowling is a newspaper man, you know.’
But if she had intended this as a warning, it missed its mark.
Larry Dowling threw her a brief, quizzical grin that was strangely disconcerting, and although Miss Bates turned sharply and regarded him as though he were something she had unexpectedly turned up with a garden spade, Gussie Bingham, far from being taken aback, was enchanted.
‘A reporter? But how interesting!’
‘Feature writer,’ corrected Mr Dowling patiently.
‘The same sort of thing, surely?’ said Gussie Bingham blithely. ‘You must live such an exciting life. Fires and murders and film stars. Paris today and Bangkok tomorrow. How I envy you! Of course Tyson — my brother — knows a great many newspapermen. He says they are the lowest form of human____ Oh, I am sorry. That was very rude of me. I really didn’t mean … I am quite sure he would like you, Mr Dowling.’
Miss Bates sniffed audibly and muttered something about carrion crows and snooping nosey-parkers, and Mrs Bingham frowned repressively at her, and taking Mr Dowling’s arm, walked on ahead, chatting energetically and leaving Miss Bates to fall in beside Dany.
‘I’m sure I’ve seen that chap before somewhere,’ said Miss Bates, directing a scowl at Mr Dowling’s unconscious back. ‘I never forget a face. Probably in the papers, being sentenced for libel and defamation, if you ask me. It’ll come back to me. I know the type. All charm and good humour, and thoroughly untrustworthy. Only out for what they can get. No better than confidence tricksters. In fact that’s probably what he is! We’ve only his own word for it that he’s a feature writer — whatever that is!’
Miss Bates sniffed again, expressively. ‘You know,’ she confided, ‘Gussie’s a good sort, and she’s got plenty of brains in her head. But there are times when you’d never suspect it. Look at the way she’s letting that reporter pump her about Tyson. Anyone could see that he’s up to no good. If he’s not a crook, then he’s after an article — preferably one with a lot of dirty linen involved. Newspapers are a menace. Garbage — that’s all they’re interested in. Garbage and Murder.’
Murder! … Yes, murder was only something that you read about in a newspaper. It wasn’t real. People one knew died; but they were never murdered …
Dany had tea on the hotel verandah, still in the company of Augusta Bingham and Millicent Bates, and the Press, as represented by Larry Dowling. Larry had issued an unexpectedly diffident invitation, which she had been about to refuse when the sight of Lash Holden had made her change her mind. For Lash was also taking afternoon tea on the verandah — with Amalfi Gordon. He was wearing a grey suit and showed no signs of a hangover, and Amalfi was looking soft and sweet and appealingly lovely in something that had undoubtedly run someone into three figures in a cheque book, and whose simplicity of line made every other woman within range look (and feel) like a back number of Home Chat.
There was no sign of the Marchese Eduardo di Chiago, and Amalfi was talking earnestly and inaudibly, with an expression on her lovely face that admirably combined a sweetly sorrowing archangel and a child begging forgiveness for some minor peccadillo.
Lash was looking a little sulky, but at the same time bedazzled, and Dany wondered if the Marchese had been sent off on some errand that would keep him out of the way for an hour or two and allow Mrs Gordon to eat her cake and have it. The anxieties of the afternoon, together with the murder of Mr Honeywood and half a dozen pressing and unpleasant problems, retired abruptly from the forefront of her mind, to be replaced by indignation on the score of the predatory Mrs Gordon and the spinelessness of that gullible, besotted and hypnotized rabbit, Mr Lashmer J. Holden, Jnr.
What can he see in her! thought Dany indignantly. And instantly realized just exactly what he saw in her. Amalfi Gordon appeared to have everything.
Well she isn’t going to have Lash! decided Dany fiercely, and sat down in a chair from which she could keep an eye upon that feckless and intransigent young man without appearing to do so.
Lash did not become aware of her for at least twenty minutes, but when he did, he reacted promptly; though in a manner that could hardly be termed gratifying. Suddenly catching sight of her, he remained for a moment transfixed, as though he could hardly believe his eyes, and then rising abruptly and excusing himself to Amalfi, he came quickly towards her, threading his way between the intervening tea-drinkers on the crowded verandah.
‘I’ve been looking for you, Miss Kitchell,’ said Lash ominously. ‘There are several things that need your attention, and I’d be glad if you’d deal with them immediately. And another time, just let me know when you intend to take the afternoon off.’
Dany bit her lip and blushed painfully, but fortified by a sense of humour, and even more by the spectacle of the golden Mrs Gordon left abandoned at the far end of the verandah, she rose meekly.
‘I’m so sorry, Mr Holden. I had no idea that you would be needing me this afternoon. Will you excuse me Mrs Bingham? It seems that I have some work to do. Thank you for the tea, Larry.’
She introduced Lash to the assembled company, and left. But she had been back in the bridal suite for less than five minutes when the door opened violently to disclose her employer.
He banged it shut behind him and said furiously: ‘Say, have you taken leave of your senses? What the heck do you mean by flaunting yourself all over Nairobi and letting yourself get picked up by any Tom, Dick or Harry? Hell! d’you know who you’ve been getting off with? A newspaperman! Of all people to pick — of all people! And that blue-haired dame is Tyson Frost’s sister. Your step-aunt, by God! Do you suppose she hasn’t recognized you? You’ll probably wake up tomorrow to find the whole thing splashed right across the front pages. You ought to have your head examined!’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Dany soothingly. ‘I’ve never met her before, so of course she can’t recognize me. And I’m very sorry about Larry Dowling. I didn’t think____’
‘You never do!’ interrupted Lash bitterly. ‘“Larry” indeed!’ Her use of Mr Dowling’s Christian name appeared to infuriate him further. ‘Has it ever occurred to you to take a look at the passport you are travelling on? No? Well let me tell you that Ada comes from Milwaukee — and they don’t talk with a British Broadcasting accent there!’
‘Oh dear,’ said Dany guiltily, ‘that reminds me. Did I ever meet this Mr Ponting? Tyson’s secretary? — I mean, did Ada Kitchell ever meet him? Because Mrs Bingham asked me about him, and I didn’t know if I should know anything or not.’
Lash raised a couple of clenched fists to heaven while his lips moved soundlessly, and then, lowering them, said in a strictly cont
rolled voice: ‘No, by the mercy of Providence you did not meet him. Otherwise we’d have been in a worse jam than we’re in right now. What did you tell her?’
‘Nothing. Luckily she didn’t wait for an answer.’
‘Lucky is right! And I hope that’s taught you a lesson. Can’t you see that your only chance is to lie low and keep out of sight, and not talk to anybody — anybody! — until you get to Zanzibar? Once you get there it’s your step-father’s headache. And if he has any sense, he’ll give you six with a slipper where it hurts most!’
Lash went across to the table by the window and helped himself to a drink from a tray that had not been there when she left. But she was relieved to see that the bottle appeared to be far more than three parts full, and that the amount he took was unquestionably modest.
‘This,’ said Lash, intercepting her look and interpreting it correctly, ‘is merely to take the taste of that godammed tea out of my mouth. Much as I should like to duck the whole situation by getting roaring drunk, I shall lay off it until I’ve got rid of you. Going on a bender is a luxury I can’t afford while there are people like you around loose.’
Dany remarked pleasantly that it was kind of him to worry so much about her welfare.
‘I’m not,’ said Lash shortly. ‘You can disabuse yourself of that idea right away. It’s myself I’m worrying about. Which is why, Miss Kitchell, you will stay right here in this room and keep your mouth shut until we leave for the airport tomorrow morning. And you will continue to keep your charming trap shut until we are safely inside your unfortunate step-father’s front door. After that, I shall, myself, take the first plane out again, with Ada’s passport in my pants’ pocket, and leave you to it.’
He finished his drink and moved to the door: ‘You’ll find the draft copies of several letters on that writing table. I guess you may as well fill in the time by typing them. Three carbons. And spell them correctly — in American.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Dany meekly.
Lash laughed for the first time in twenty-four hours. ‘You know, you’re not a bad kid,’ he conceded. ‘Your I.Q. is probably the lowest on record, and I can’t figure out how the Welfare State ever allowed you to go around without a keeper. But you have your moments. Don’t let this lick you, honey. I’ll see you through.’
Dany was aware of a sudden prickle of tears behind her eyes, and she turned away quickly so that he should not see them. ‘Thank you,’ she said in a small voice.
Lash said: ‘The typewriter is in that square maroon-coloured case. I’m not sure where the paper and carbons are. Look around. Oh, and by the way, just for the look of the thing, you are occupying this suite on your own. I fixed it with the management. Officially, I am down as sleeping in Room 72, during the absence of the owner. Actually, as he’s put a padlock on it, I shall be spending the night on this sofa. But as long as no one else knows it, the decencies will be preserved. And there’s a lock on that door over there, in case you feel anxious.’
He opened the door into the passage, and added over his shoulder: ‘I’ll see that they send along some dinner for you. Safer than turning you loose in the dining-room, with wolves like that guy Dowling prowling around.’
‘You, I suppose,’ said Dany crossly, ‘will be dining out. I should have thought you’d have more pride!’
‘Take a letter, Miss Kitchell,’ said Lash austerely, and shut the door with a bang.
7
It was just on two o’clock in the morning when Dany awoke suddenly and lay still; listening.
She did not know what had awakened her, except that it was a sound. Perhaps it was Lash coming back. No, it could not be that. She had heard Lash come back before she fell asleep; and that was over an hour ago, for she could make out the position of the hands on the luminous dial of the travelling-clock that stood facing her on the dressing-table. Besides, the sound had not come from the next room. It had been nearer than that, she felt sure …
Dany had slept little and uneasily in the hotel in Gloucester Road, and worse on the plane last night, so she had confidently expected to make up for it here. But sleep had eluded her, and for hour after hour she had tossed and turned in the wide bed, worrying over her parlous predicament and listening for Lash’s return.
He had come back at last, shortly before one o’clock. And presumably sober, for he had made so little noise that but for the fact that she was awake and listening for him, she would not have known that he had returned. She had heard a switch click, and a narrow thread of light had appeared under the door between the two rooms, and Dany had sat up in bed hugging her knees and wishing fervently that the conventions did not forbid her going in to the next room to talk to him.
She was feeling lonely and forlorn and frightened, and much in need of comfort, and Lash had not improved matters by starting to whistle very softly between his teeth as he undressed. It was only the ghost of a melody, but the song was familiar. Too familiar. ‘Then I’ll go sailing far, off to Zanzibar…’ He sounded light-hearted enough.
He’s made it up with her, thought Dany desolately. What fools men are. She’s old enough to be his mother! Well, not his mother perhaps — but his aunt. And she doesn’t care a button for him. Not really. She’d rather be a Marchesa — or a millionairess — or … Perhaps he is a millionaire? No, he can’t be! He mustn’t be. That Sir Somebody … Ambrose Something who got off at Khartoum. Oil. He’s probably a millionaire, and old enough for her. Perhaps she will marry him instead. Or the Italian. But please, not Lash …
The light under the door vanished, and Dany had fallen asleep at last. To be awakened very suddenly an hour later by a sound that she could not identify.
She listened for it to be repeated, but it did not come again, and presently she relaxed once more and lay staring sleepily into the darkness. An hour earlier there had been a moon: a bright, white, African moon that had shone in at her window and made the room so light that she had got out of bed and pulled the heavy inner curtains over the muslin ones that were intended to keep out such things as flies and dust during the daytime. But now the moon had set and the lights in the hotel had winked out, and the streets of Nairobi were dark and silent. As dark and as silent as her room.
Dany’s eyelids had begun to droop when suddenly and horribly she was aware that there was someone in the room with her.
She had been lying looking idly at the faint green dial of the travelling-clock, and she had heard no sound. But she did not need to. Something — someone — had moved between her bed and the dressing-table, and blotted out that small luminous circle. She could still hear the clock ticking quite clearly. But she could no longer see it.
Dany sat up very slowly, inch by terrified inch; moving as noiselessly as that other presence in the room, until at last she was sitting upright, pressed hard back against the pillows and the padded bed-head. Her hands were clenched on the sheets and every muscle in her body seemed atrophied by fear. She could move no further. She could only sit rigidly and stare into the darkness with dilated eyes, while her breath seemed to fail her and her heartbeats sounded as swift and as audible in the silence as hoof-beats on a hard road.
Nothing moved in the blackness, but there was an odd smell in the room. A queer sickly smell that was somehow familiar and yet very frightening. As frightening as the unseen thing that was in the room with her.
Then all at once the clock face was visible again. The blackness that had obscured it had moved from left to right, and that meant that it — whatever it was — was moving towards her.
Dany opened her mouth to scream and found that her throat was dry and stiff and so constricted by terror that the only sound that emerged from it was a foolish croaking little gasp. But it had been a mistake to make that sound.
There was a sudden sharp sense of movement in the darkness and something touched the side of the bed. And suddenly, born of a desperate instinct of self-preservation, courage and the power of connected thought returned to her. That foolish croak had
only served to guide someone to her; and if she screamed, though she might wake Lash, he could not get to her for she had locked the door. And she might not have time for more than one scream …
Dany gathered her strength, and flinging herself suddenly to one side, rolled over to the far side of the bed and was on the floor and on her feet.
The suddenness of the movement evidently took the intruder by surprise, for she heard a sharp intake of breath and a quick movement that was followed by an involuntary gasp of pain. At least it was human, for it had stubbed a bare or a stockinged foot on the leg of the bed. The sound betrayed its position as her own effort to scream had betrayed hers, and that much at least helped her. But only for a moment.
Dany backed away into the darkness, and it was only then that she realized that whoever was in the room with her was not an ordinary thief. A thief, with the window behind him and realizing that she was awake, would have escaped into the night without loss of time. But this was someone who meant to get her — Dany Ashton! To kill her … For a swift sickening moment the pinched, prim face of Mr Honeywood seemed to float in the air before her.
Murder … That was no longer merely an arresting word in a newspaper headline. It was real. It was here in the room with her. Murder. When she moved, it moved. When she stood still, straining to listen, it stood still — listening too. Waiting to pounce …
She was shivering so badly that she could hardly stand and she felt as though she would go mad with fear. She had lost her bearings, and though her cold hands were against the wall and she felt along it, she no longer knew in which direction she was moving. Was she going towards the door into the sitting-room or moving away from it? Where was the bed? Where was the window?