by John Creasey
But he could not dispel them completely. However hard he tried, however hard she tried, still they lurked on the horizon of her mind like dark clouds, threatening to obscure the sun. Sometimes they loomed nearer, and in those moments she felt almost afraid, as if she were being drawn into a situation beyond her control; then Gerry would drive such ominous fears away with a flippant remark which set her laughing.
A small, red-jacketed waiter came up with coffee in a silver pot.
“Will you have a liqueur, sir?”
Gerry glanced enquiringly at Henrietta, and she shook her head.
“Not tonight.” He reached awkwardly for the sugar to push it nearer to Henrietta, and almost knocked the cream over. She glanced up – and saw the way he flinched.
“Gerry, what is it?”
“Nothing at all, Hetty. Just a broken arm.”
“No, be serious.”
“I don’t think it is broken, but it’s devilish painful when I move it,” Gerry said. “Warning to ardent lovers: beware the loved one’s employer.”
Henrietta stared at him, wondering what to say. It had been inevitable that they should talk about what had happened and yet she had kept putting it off, hoping that perhaps it could be avoided. Now, she wondered how to keep the mood calm and unemotional.
“Gerry,” she said, “I’m worried about your arm.”
“So am I. As soon as I’ve seen you home I’ll go and have a word with a doctor pal of mine. She’ll tell me whether there’s any real damage done, and if she thinks there is, I can have it X-rayed in the morning.”
“You ought to go now. We must finish the coffee, and—”
“Hetty, dear,” said Gerry, “you have to face up to the facts of life sooner or later, and it’s no use tucking this particular skeleton away – it’s got too much life in it.”
His right hand closed over hers, and pressed gently. “Your David Marshall’s as mad as his wife.”
“Gerry, you shouldn’t talk like that.”
“The truth is the truth. Let’s face it.”
“He is the sanest man I know.”
“He’s not sane, and you know it.”
“I’m not going to argue,” Henrietta said.
“Just for once you are,” said Gerry. “No more evasions, they don’t get you anywhere except into trouble. He’ll drive you mad, too.”
“Gerry—”
“Like he drove his wife mad.”
Henrietta felt a sense of shock and anger. “That’s a wicked thing to say.”
“It was a wicked thing to do.”
“She nearly drove him mad!”
“That’s the way he would put it to you, but—”
“You forget I worked for him while she was still there.”
“I don’t forget anything. He fell in love with you, and had to get rid of Yolande. He succeeded.”
There was a long pause.
“You hate him, don’t you?” Henrietta said at last.
Gerry looked at her very evenly, for a long time, while customers passed, and waiters passed, and Luigi, the proprietor, who came to ask if they had enjoyed the meal, passed also, because of the expression on his face. Henrietta wanted to look away, but could not make herself do so.
At last Gerry answered.
“Yes,” he said slowly, “I do hate him. He stands between me and everything I want. You. But it won’t be for long, Henrietta.”
A curious smile played about his lips, and suddenly Henrietta felt strangely afraid. All at once Gerry’s face, the table, the candles, the entire restaurant, swam around her, and she felt a sudden mental and physical exhaustion. She couldn’t stand any more – she must get home.
“Let’s go, Gerry. Take me home – please.”
He sprang to his feet and came round to her, pulling back her chair, stretching out his hand to take hers. A few minutes later they were in the street.
The cool night air made her feel better, but even so it was with a sigh of relief that she reached her car. Evading Gerry’s tightening arm, she slipped swiftly inside.
“But Hetty . . .” Gerry’s face showed his disappointment, “you’re not going home straight away? I thought we’d go for a little stroll . . .”
But for once she was able to resist the power of the dark, persuasive eyes.
“Not tonight, Gerry. I really am terribly tired.”
“But Hetty . . .” Gerry’s disappointment had turned to petulance, and suddenly Henrietta felt hunted, harried, pursued. Was this the way a fox felt, she wondered desperately, surrounded by the slavering pink tongues and shiny teeth of the hounds, the inane, terrifying savagery of the men who spurred them on? She had a sudden vision of a small, brown body, running, running . . . and hot tears pricked her eyes.
Quickly she slammed the car door.
“Goodnight, Gerry,” she called through the open window.
Joining the main stream of traffic at the corner of the street, she drove slowly and with great care, trying not to think. Yet thoughts came, unbidden. What had Gerry meant when he said that David had driven Yolande mad? That he himself was mad?
She felt as cold as ice.
She was able to park the little car near the house where she had a small but very pleasant two-room flat, so she didn’t have far to walk. She found the street door open, as it usually was until midnight, and went up to the top floor, which was hers. The staircase and landing were well lit, and she opened the door with her key, switched on the light, then closed the door behind her.
Thank goodness David hadn’t come. If he had . . .
She saw a white envelope on the mat and picked it up. His handwriting seemed to leap at her from the envelope.
Dully, she thought, ‘I needn’t open it tonight.’ But she knew that she would have to, that, tired though she was, she was physically incapable of going to bed with the letter unopened. She dropped her bag and gloves on to the couch in the sitting room, and opened the letter.
It said simply, ‘Please telephone me. David.’
8
THE PROMISE
“No,” Henrietta said aloud, “No. I can’t.”
She sat on the arm of the couch, the note in her hand. All she wanted was a long, slow bath, and to sleep and sleep and sleep.
“I can’t,” she said again.
She did not get up for some time, and by the time she did begin to move about, she felt less adamant. What did David want? To say he was sorry, or to ask her to come back? Slowly, Gerry faded into the back of her mind, David came to the front, and she felt an unfamiliar sensation, an emotion she had known only slightly before. She had first experienced it soon after beginning to work for David and before she had learned of the truth about Yolande. It was a kind of excitement, of eagerness.
It was still only half past ten; she could make up her mind to telephone later. She did a few kitchen chores – it was amazing how dusty everything got even when she wasn’t in all day – then suddenly swung round to the telephone. She wouldn’t rest until she knew what he wanted.
She dialled, slowly. FLA . . .
David answered so quickly that she knew he was sitting at his desk.
“This is David Marshall.”
“Hallo, David,” said Henrietta slowly.
He caught his breath.
“Bless you for calling,” he said gruffly. “You must be worn out.”
“I am, rather.”
“Then I won’t keep you long.” His voice was tightly controlled, he was making as sure as he could that he did nothing to exasperate her. “Please come in the morning. Whatever you decide to do about staying with me, please come tomorrow.”
“Very well,” she said. The words were cool, the tone was cool, and she did not intend that. But he did not appear to
notice.
“That’s . . . a great relief,” he said. “You don’t know how great. One other thing . . .”
“Yes?”
“How is Ward’s arm? He came down with a terrific bump, and I think he caught it on the fender.”
Henrietta frowned. How was Gerry’s arm, she wondered.
“Well, I think it has been aching a bit, but he’s going to see a doctor friend tonight. He has to fly to Milan tomorrow and won’t be back for a week or two.”
“Oh.” David sounded surprised, and seemed to check himself from saying something else.
“He—he thought you were hurting me, or I’m sure he wouldn’t have come in as he did.” She hadn’t intended to say this, but suddenly the words came out with a rush. “I’m sorry about it, you disliked him enough as it was.”
“Don’t worry about that,” said David.
He paused.
“Goodnight, Henrietta,” he added suddenly. “I—I love you very much.”
“Goodnight, David.” Henrietta’s voice was soft. “I’m glad I’ll see you in the morning.”
She rang off and sat back on the couch for a few minutes, not quite sure how she felt but much more relaxed than she had been. David had sounded very composed; perhaps he had fought a battle with himself, perhaps from tonight on, if she did carry on working for him, things would be better. She glanced at the telephone. Would it be wise to telephone Gerry? He must be feeling very low, especially with that arm. And as she’d telephoned David – oh, that was absurd, she didn’t have to treat them both alike!
But she dialled Gerry’s number, nevertheless.
There was no answer.
“Perhaps it’s just as well,” she said aloud, and went to run her bath.
That was about the time that Roger West opened the front door of his house in Bell Street, and went in. Immediately, he heard Janet laughing, heard Richard telling some far-fetched tale of a triumph he had had at work. As Roger entered the living room, Richard broke off.
“Hi, Dad, fancy seeing you! Let me just finish telling Mum this . . . and there it was, on my desk, beautifully typed, you know my typing! Exactly what he wanted. I’d written it even before he asked for it!—talking about my boss, Dad – that shook him.”
“I’ll bet it did if you had less than one typing error a sentence,” said Roger. He went across and kissed Janet on the cheek. “Sorry, sweet. Hope the evening didn’t drag.”
“Scoop came in almost as soon as you’d gone,” said Janet, “and then Richard. Was it anything serious?”
“In a funny way, believe it or not, I don’t really know,” said Roger.
And it was true.
It was equally true next morning, as he drove along the Embankment to the Yard, went through the reports on his desk, heard the tale of the night’s misdeeds, none of which appeared to be particularly outstanding, and dictated a few letters, mostly answers to queries from County police forces. There was a light drizzle outside, and the office was cold and clammy. He kept pondering all he had heard about Lady Marshall and her husband from the Chelsea night Superintendent, and at eleven o’clock lifted the telephone.
“Is Mr Coppell in?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Put me through, please . . . Hallo,” he said when the rather deep but casual voice of the Commander answered. “Can you spare me a few minutes, sir?”
“It would help if I know who you are,” said Coppell. It was characteristic that although he must have recognised Roger’s voice instantly, he preferred to pretend he had not, and to imply a reproof. One got used to Coppell after a while, but such a start was always off-putting.
“Chief Superintendent West,” Roger said, precisely.
“Oh, West. What’s it all about?”
“It’s difficult over the telephone, sir,” Roger answered.
“Hmphh. Better come along, then.”
Coppell rang off, and Roger put the telephone down slowly, and as slowly turned and went to the window. He stared out at the smooth, oily-looking surface of the Thames, and the grey mist, heavy enough to blur the outlines of Westminster Bridge, the London County Hall, and the new block buildings almost opposite the Yard. One day he would explode with Coppell – but he would gain nothing except satisfaction that he had torn a strip off the man. It certainly wouldn’t do his pension any good, and it wouldn’t recommend itself to Janet.
He found himself laughing; then remembered what had happened the previous evening when Marshall and Ward had lost their tempers. He was in a calmer frame of mind as he walked along the bare corridors towards the Commander’s office.
It was also characteristic that Coppell, having made himself felt, should be affable, even hospitable.
“Come in, West . . . cigarette? . . . sit down.”
He lit his pipe as Roger lit his cigarette, settled back in an armchair, and waited.
“How well do you remember Sir David Marshall, sir?”
Coppell’s heavy eyes widened momentarily; life seemed to glow in his fleshy, sallow cheeks.
“Very well. The Commonwealth Secretary blew his top when some documents Marshall had were mislaid – thought it was Marshall’s fault, but it wasn’t. The Commonwealth countries are so infernally sensitive these days we have to be devilish careful. What’s he been up to?”
Does he expect Marshall to have been ‘up to’ something? wondered Roger.
“One of his neighbours . . .” he began, and told the story succinctly, having no doubt at all of Coppell’s deep interest; his exasperation with the man had gone completely. He finished the direct report, and then went on, “I looked in at Chelsea, after I’d left Marshall, sir.”
“Forrest on duty?”
He knew his stuff all right, noted Roger.
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“He remembered the beginning of the official trouble with Lady Marshall very well,” Roger said. “She tried to kill herself – went absolutely off her head, apparently.”
Coppell pulled at his pipe.
“What else?” he asked.
“She went to a private sanatorium at Richmond – been there ever since.”
“Yes, but don’t tell me Forrest left it at that,” growled Coppell.
“He said that Lady Marshall had received a series of anonymous letters, some accusing her husband of having an affair and planning to divorce her, others saying she was as mad as a hatter and ought to be in a home. The writer of the letters was never discovered.”
“Forrest make any guesses?”
“No, sir,” said Roger, puzzled. “He didn’t say anyone was suspected.”
“Cagey devil,” remarked Coppell, obviously with approval. “Well, I’ll tell you what I thought, and I wasn’t the only one. I thought Sir David had decided to send her round the bend. Devilish cruel thing to do, if he did – don’t quote me, now.”
He puffed away, more human than Roger had ever known him. “Mind you, she led him a hell of a life. Tragic, whichever way you look at it.”
Roger, recovering, phrased a question carefully.
“Did you have grounds for suspecting the husband?”
“You’d call it a hunch, Handsome.”
“Was there any circumstantial evidence?”
“Couldn’t find anyone else with a motive,” Coppell said. “Know they’re first cousins, don’t you?”
“I didn’t.”
“Well, they are. And she’s got the money.”
“Lady Marshall has?”
“He’s got what he makes, she’s got a quarter of a million.” Coppell chuckled. “Not like you to let me tell you anything about a case, Handsome! You haven’t done your homework on this one.”
“Obviously not, sir,” Roger said ruefully. �
��It’s time I did.”
“Yes.”
Coppell studied him closely for an appreciable time, then took his pipe from his mouth.
“What made you go round to Marshall’s place yourself?” he asked.
Roger hesitated.
“Go on. There must have been a reason.”
“I didn’t want unnecessary trouble with a man of Marshall’s reputation, for one thing. I knew about the confidential documents and the trouble over the lot that were mislaid. And I suppose there was something at the back of my mind about this personal situation – can’t say I remember much about it – though I did go round on the night of the affair itself.”
“You wouldn’t,” said Coppell. “You went to New York at the time – lucky so-and-so. The Press didn’t get hold of the story of the letters. There was no question of blackmail, nothing except what looked like an obvious attempt to send her off her rocker. Think this thing will develop?”
Roger shrugged. “No telling, sir.”
“Think Ward and Marshall were fighting over the Lyle girl?”
“Possibly.”
“The letters started coming when she’d been working for Marshall for nearly a year,” said Coppell. “She didn’t know it, but she was watched very closely for over a month. Not the slightest reason to suspect her.”
“She knew about the letters, presumably,” Roger said.
“Not unless Marshall told her.”
“You mean we didn’t question her?” Roger sounded incredulous, and it was immediately obvious that he’d said the wrong thing.