by John Creasey
The engine roared, more loudly than she intended, as she jabbed her foot on the accelerator pedal and let in the clutch.
“David, let go!” she said breathlessly. “I’m not coming back. Let me close the door.”
As she spoke, he stretched out his hand and pulled the key out of the ignition. The engine died away. She snatched at the key but he closed his fingers over it.
“David!” she called desperately, “give me my key!”
He ignored her, and walked back towards the house.
Roger West put down the receiver and went back to the kitchen, pulling a long face. He was a big, powerful man whose fair hair hid the grey streaks that his forty-odd years had brought. Janet, tall and attractive and looking younger than her years, noted his expression.
“Don’t say you’ve got to go out again before dinner,” she said vexedly.
He pulled a chair from the table.
“I haven’t got to go out at all,” he said. “That was Bill Sloan, to tell me we’ve caught a fellow we’ve been after for several weeks. That was the case which might have kept me. When is dinner? Even when I do get home I don’t get fed.”
She aimed a blow at him with an empty plate, but her eyes glowed with relief and pleasure.
4
THE CLASH
Henrietta sat at the wheel of the useless car, wondering what to do next. Staring straight ahead she saw David reach the main gate of the house and go inside. He did not look round.
“I’ll walk rather than go after him!” she burst out, and touched the door handle, actually pushed the door open an inch; as she did so a child passed on a bicycle, and startled her. She pulled the door to quickly, and held it closed. She could just see the front door of Number 5, open; he expected her to go back, of course, was sure that she would.
If she didn’t, if she walked . . .
She clenched her fist and banged the seat beside her.
She would still have to come back to get the car. She didn’t need it again tonight, but she would certainly need it tomorrow . . .
She caught her breath, realising that there would be no need to drive here in the morning. Time and time and time again she had told herself that she must stop the situation between them from getting worse; now she had stopped it, there must be no going back.
So it was essential for her to get the key.
She got out of the car and closed the door quietly. The child cyclist was out of sight, but an elderly man was on the other side of the street; he touched his hat to her. She gave a mechanical smile and walked towards Number 5 as enraptured by its clean, Queen Anne lines and the tall windows, the warm red brickwork, and the fine, white painted door, as she had been when she first saw them.
She went in, soft-footed, then whispered to herself, “It’s no use pretending I’m not here.”
She walked briskly towards David’s study, the door of which stood open. Opposite were the stairs, shallow and elegant, like the whole house.
David was sitting at his desk, looking at her. The key was on the corner, where she always sat and where she often put it when he called her in from the hall.
“Come in, Henrietta,” he said in a steady voice.
Set-faced, she went towards the key.
“Sit down,” he said.
“No, I won’t sit down,” said Henrietta. She nearly added, “ever again” but this sounded cheap – she hated even thinking of saying it.
She was close to the key now, and wondered if he would snatch it up if she stretched out for it. He was perhaps a little less tense than he had been before; certainly that almost mask-like expression had gone.
She picked the key up.
“Goodbye,” she said.
“Henrietta, you’re being silly.”
“I’ve been silly far too long,” she said. “Goodbye.”
She began to turn, and she was not truly sure whether or not she wanted him to try to stop her. Pride, in a way, made her hope that he would, but anger still simmered close to the surface, and she knew that if he so much as touched her again she would lose her self-control. She hated doing that, for she had always prized her ability to keep her head no matter what the circumstances.
He did not move, and she stepped quickly towards the door.
“Henrietta!”
She ignored him.
“Henrietta,” he called in a sharper voice, “come back and talk to me. There isn’t any need to make a fuss like this.”
She reached the door and trod on a slip mat – and two things happened at the same time. His chair scraped, she quickened her pace and the mat seemed to slide from under her. She tripped, falling backwards, and grabbed at the door frame to save herself – but this lost precious seconds, and before she could start moving again David had caught up with her. Instead of touching her, he passed and stood with his back to the door, to bar her passage.
“Get out of my way!” she ordered, breathlessly.
“Henrietta,” David said, “I am not going to let you go until we’ve talked. I’m sorry I behaved so badly – I really am. I’ll try to control myself in future, but—”
“You won’t need to,” she said, decisively. “I won’t be here.”
She stepped forward, and for a moment thought he was going to let her pass. Then at the last moment he shot his arm out, and held her. She felt a momentary impulse to struggle but realised this would be useless, so she stood absolutely still.
“Let me go, please.”
“Come and talk this over,” he insisted.
“We’ve talked too many things over,” she said. “It gets us nowhere.”
“You can’t walk out like this.”
“I can and I will,” insisted Henrietta, “and if you try to hold me by force it will only make me more anxious to get away.”
She studied his face as she spoke, seeing a gradual change coming over it, the expression hardening, the light of pleading dying from his eyes. He would let her go, of course; it was what she wanted and knew was inevitable, yet at the same time what she hated and also what seemed impossible.
“For the last time,” he said, “please come and talk sensibly.”
“For the last time,” she retorted, “please let me go.”
He took his arm away, slowly. They stood still for a moment, as if each felt the almost mesmeric effect of the other’s gaze. Then she stepped past him. She saw that it was raining quite heavily, but did not give it a second thought. This period in her life was over and there would be no going back.
She heard a faint rustle of movement behind her, and thought, he’s going into the study. He’s going.
Then his hands grasped her, fingers tight and painful on the top of her shoulders, and he spun her round. She was quite helpless, and staggered against him. He released her for a moment, then pulled her towards him so violently that the breath was almost squeezed out of her body. Holding the back of her head, he forced her face upwards and pressed his lips against hers.
She hated being kissed.
For long, long years, she had hated being kissed, had refused to allow a man to kiss her, other than touch her cheeks with his lips. Now, she felt the bruising pressure of David’s lips on hers.
She felt as if she would faint.
She sensed when he let her go, that she was falling.
He held her up, and there was a note in his voice which almost pierced the mists of semi-consciousness.
“Are you all right?”
She couldn’t speak. Her mouth seemed to burn. Her whole body was limp.
“Are you all right?” he cried.
Suddenly, he lifted her in both arms and carried her; she felt him putting her down on the couch where, sometimes, they would sit and talk, he pouring out the distress which he had felt for so m
any years, she listening, prompting, allowing his hand to rest on her shoulder with the gentle near intimacy which was all he seemed to need in such times as those.
He pushed a cushion under her head and she was comfortable. She was not yet able to think clearly, and allowed thoughts to drift. She heard the chink of glass and realised he was pouring her a drink; yes, she could do with a drink, it would help her.
She mustn’t stay; if she was sure of anything, it was that she mustn’t stay.
She sensed that he was close to her again, and opened her eyes. He was bending down beside her, glass in hand, looking at her with a strained intensity. How clear his eyes were and how lined his face, especially at the corners of his mouth and eyes.
“Let me help you sit up,” he said.
“I’m—I’m all right.”
“No, let me help you.” He did so, gently, putting the cushion further down into the small of her back. Then he held the glass to her lips.
“Not poison,” he said drily. “Just brandy.”
It did her good.
For the first time, she thought, ‘What a silly thing to do,’ and with the thought came another, ‘What a weak thing to do.’
To think that she should allow herself to be so affected because he had kissed her!
“Have another sip,” he urged.
She saw him glance up, and wondered why, then heard footsteps outside the front door, sharp and clear on the gravel drive; then they were inside the hall, muffled by carpet. She was facing the doorway, and saw a man appear in it – saw Gerald.
Everything that followed happened at lightning speed. She was aware of one thing upon another and yet they seemed to merge together and become blurred.
First she saw Gerry, pausing for a split second, filling the doorway. He was a big man, heavier, stronger, younger than David. Then she saw David, saw his expression, the rage on his face. She saw his hands, raised and clenched, and she saw him rush across the room.
Gerry looked up, startled; he thrust his arm up but failed to fend the blow off completely, and the sound of David’s fist on Gerry’s jaw sounded loud and clear.
“Stop it!” gasped Henrietta.
It was like trying to speak in a nightmare.
“Stop it!” she screamed, yet she knew she made no sound.
Gerry staggered to one side – then, regaining his balance, he swung round and struck David first with his right fist, then with his left.
David fell back, knocked against a chair, tried to save himself. But, half-crouching, Gerry hit him again and sent him sprawling into the fireplace.
Henrietta was sobbing to herself now, hating everything she saw, and yet she was watching with awful intensity and could not bring herself to look away.
Gerry bent down and gripped David’s coat and tugged at him. There was a clatter of firearms, the gasping of the two men – and blood at the corner of David’s mouth.
She tried to get off the couch, but could not move.
Gerry had hauled David to his feet, and let him go – and drew back his arm to strike again. As he did so, David lunged forward, aiming another blow at Gerry’s jaw. Gerry hurtled backwards, staggered, then lost his balance and fell heavily across the metal fender.
Suddenly, Henrietta could move.
As Gerry stumbled to his feet she leapt off the couch and sprang towards them.
“For heaven’s sake,” she cried, “behave like civilised people.” But neither man seemed to notice her; they stood glaring at each other; and in each, at that moment, there was a terrible hate.
But there was a gap between them, and Henrietta stepped into it, David on her right, Gerry on her left.
She had no idea what she would do if they ignored her and began to fight again.
5
‘CIVILISED’ MEN
There were three sounds: the furious, sickening thumping of Henrietta’s heart, Gerry’s heavy, measured breathing, and David’s quick, shallow gasps for breath.
A fourth sound became audible: the ticking of the clock.
At last, Henrietta’s heartbeats quietened; at last she felt that she dared step back. As she did so, David put a hand gingerly to his chin. There was a swelling on the side of his jaw and another on his left temple.
He moistened his lips.
“Civilised people,” he said drily, glancing at Gerry.
Henrietta’s heart began to thump again, but Gerry did not react except to move his left arm cautiously upwards; it looked as if it hurt him to do so. David put his clean hand towards his pocket and took out a handkerchief, but before he could raise it to his lips, Henrietta said quietly, “You ought to bathe that first.”
His hand stopped moving.
“Yes, I suppose I ought,” he agreed. “I’ll go and do something about it.”
He stepped unsteadily towards the door, and from it added, “Give Mr Ward a drink.”
“Very civilised of you,” Gerry said, harshly.
Henrietta shot him a sharp, reproving glance, and followed David through the doorway, across the hall, and into the tiny cloakroom at the back of the stairs. There was a first-aid box standing on a narrow window ledge and she opened it, then pulled some sections of soft paper towelling from a roll on a wall fixture.
David was leaning against the wall. He looked very tired, very old, and she went to him, quickly, and took his arm.
“You’ll feel better when you’ve bathed your face,” she said. “Let me help you with your coat.”
Very gently, she eased the jacket off and hung it on a peg. He began to fumble at a cufflink and she unfastened it, then that on the other sleeve. He rolled his sleeves up himself, each movement an effort.
“I’m all right,” he said. “Go and look after Ward. I don’t want him left alone in my study.”
“Oh, David, please—”
“I don’t want him alone in my study,” David rasped.
Henrietta stared at him, uncertainly, as he turned his back on her and lowered his head towards the basin. He seemed more himself, but she could not rid herself of the shock of seeing him looking so suddenly grey and old.
He was deliberately ignoring her; so she went out.
Before she turned towards the study, she stood quite still in the middle of the hall and weakness overcame her again; for a few seconds, everything swam round her. Moving, almost blindly, to a chair, she lowered herself into it.
She had never seen men fight before.
She had never seen savagery and hate in a man before.
And she realised, suddenly, that these men must have been fighting over her.
“I enjoyed that,” said Roger West, with a heavy tone of surprise.
“Haven’t you enjoyed my cooking before?” demanded Janet.
“Oh, occasionally,” he said, and put his hand over hers. “How are the boys?”
“I hardly see them these days,” Janet said, a little woefully. “They scramble down for breakfast and rush off without saying goodbye, and only come in if they’re hungry.”
“Are they all right?” asked Roger, seriously.
Janet looked at him thoughtfully, and pushed her chair back.
“You don’t see much of them at all these days, do you?” she said.
“I’ve been busy three weekends in a row,” he reminded her. “Are they all right, Jan?”
“Yes,” she answered briskly. “As far as they can be. Richard can think of nothing but his hopes of getting into television. Scoop still works at his painting but doesn’t say much about it. I think he’s less sure than he was that it’s the right life for him.”
“He’ll find out,” Roger remarked.
“But he’s wasting an awful lot of time when he could be training for something else,” Janet said.
Roger watched as she got up and began to clear the plates away. Coffee was percolating on the gas stove; a big, untouched trifle stood on the dresser, plates and spoons by it.
“You’re worried about him, are you?” he asked.
Janet turned to look at him, and he could see that she was troubled, just as he could see that she was a very attractive woman who did not seem her age. She moved easily and usually smiled freely, but she was frowning now.
“I think I will be if he doesn’t decide what to do soon,” she said. “You really ought to discuss it with him, dear.” She picked up a spoon and plunged it into the trifle. “You will be home this weekend, won’t you?”
“Yes,” Roger promised. “And I’ll talk to Scoop.”
They were quiet as she put the trifle in front of him, and he picked up a jug of cream; quiet, as she sat down and they began to eat. The problem of his older child was always sobering, and Roger – whenever he thought about it – felt half-guilty because he allowed Martin-called-Scoop – to drift, more than half-convinced that it was best to keep a very light rein on a boy in his late teens.
He had nearly finished the trifle when the telephone bell rang. He pushed his chair back, flashed Janet an apologetic glance, stepped into the hall, and lifted the receiver.
“West.” He listened, then said sharply, “Who?”
Janet, watching him through the open doorway, knew then that this was no ordinary call.
“Who reported?” he was saying. “Yes, quite right. I’ll go along myself.”
Helplessly, hopelessly, Janet shook her head. He would have to go, of course, but that was not all: whenever he talked in this way, he wanted to go. He would always put his police work first, the boys and her afterwards. No doubt it was inevitable and even right, but sometimes she reacted against it bitterly.
He replaced the receiver and came back. “There’s some trouble at Sir David Marshall’s place,” he told her. “It’s only just along the road, I shouldn’t be very long.”
He had virtually forgotten her by the time he was out of the front door. It was raining; all the neighbours who had been in their gardens when he had come home had been driven indoors. His own garden looked neat and colourful, but now he hardly noticed it.