by MARY HOCKING
He sat down and felt in his pocket for cigarettes. The palms of his hands were moist and his mouth was dry. He looked at the travelling clock on the mantelshelf; there could not be much time left now, and he must think things out quickly. Then it occurred to him that there was nothing to think about. Events had shaped themselves.
He was quite calm and detached. He was sorry about the freedom radio; his training and experience during the war years would have been invaluable in operating it, now the others would probably bungle it. His regret was personal. It was something to which he had looked forward with tremendous zest, an exploit more dangerous and exhilarating than the war-time episode because the odds would be so much greater. Paul could have done it, he reflected wryly, perhaps better than anyone else. Paul had imagination and a flair for the dramatic, and he had greater self-discipline than Doyle and infinitely more perseverance. It would have been a torment to him, of course, but he would have done it very well. A pity. Just for a moment, when Paul had offered to help, Doyle had been tempted to try to bring him in, but he had resented the idea of asking another man to pay so high a price for his own failure. Yes, he thought, he was sorry about the freedom radio.
Suddenly he found that he could not breathe; it was as though a great stone was crushed against his chest. He was conscious of how small his room was, a dark, airless box. He jumped to his feet and went to the window again, flinging it open. He saw only the roofs of near-by buildings, slate-grey in the rain, and the dark, smoking chimneys. A cloud had blotted out the mountains and the air had lost its cold clarity. He felt a sick desperation. The clouds were so low that they seemed to bear down on him, he felt their weight exercise an intolerable pressure on his temples. He drove his fist against the wall; the pain racked him, releasing tears of impotence and despair.
VI
The two men who were standing outside the block of flats glanced at Kate as she ran up the stairs. The concierge shuffled out to meet her and said in a loud voice:
‘Mr. Lawrence say to go up.’
He watched her as she ran up the stairs; very smart, he thought she looked, in her fur coat and the small, feathery hat. Very cheerful, too. He sniggered at that thought, and went back to his room.
Kate was in a hurry. She stood outside the door of Doyle’s room, tapping her foot impatiently; it seemed a long time before the door opened.
‘Doyle, I have to hustle,’ she said, walking past him into the room. ‘I came out for lunch and to get one or two things from the flat and then I have to go back to the Embassy. Goodness knows when I shall be able to leave again. Things are really bad now; and we’ve just had a message come in, which I’m not supposed to tell anyone, that troop movements are reported across the plain. So I don’t know when I shall see you again.’
She put her handbag down on the occasional table and took out her mirror, peering at her face.
‘I have a dreadful shiny nose.’ She began to rummage for her powder puff and then looked up suddenly.
‘Is anything wrong? You’re very quiet.’
He was standing by the door, his face in the shadow.
‘I was thinking that I like your new hat.’
‘Do you?’ She took it off and held it out for his inspection.
He took it in his hands, running his fingers over it. ‘Very nice.’
‘What on earth have you done to your hand?’
‘I hit it against the wall.’
‘That was a silly thing to do.’
She wandered over to his typewriter and looked at his reports. ‘I’m glad your paper is getting something at last. What will happen, Doyle? How will things be in this city a week from now?’
He turned away abruptly. After a moment, he said:
‘I have to go out in a few minutes, Kate. Some news I have to chase—even my paper expects service now. So you will have to go.’
‘I’ll walk along with you.’
‘I’m not going your way.’ He broke off sharply and laughed, without amusement.
‘I shall worry about you,’ she said, and he knew as she said it that that was why she had come.
‘You mustn’t worry.’ His voice was dry as dust. ‘Things are straightening out now.’
‘Really?’ She smiled, hopeful but still anxious. ‘Well, do something about that hand.’
He nodded. It was so easy to deceive her. They had never really known one another. He looked at his watch; ten minutes had gone by, he must get rid of her now. She had gone to the mirror and was perching the absurd little hat on her head; he watched her pause, pushing her hair back from her forehead, pulling a few strands forward across her ears; he could tell that she was going to take some time over this. He came behind her and touched the familiar corn-coloured hair lightly with his fingers. She saw his face in the glass, beloved, but unknown, the face of a stranger.
‘You think you are very sophisticated and cosmopolitan, don’t you, Miss Kate Blanchard?’
‘Well, I have been around quite a bit.’
She was ready to be offended and he knew, so well, how to offend her.
‘And do you know what you look, this very minute, in your smart fur coat and that absurd little wisp of a hat?’
She frowned angrily but went on poking at her hair.
‘You look like a girl from a small town in Canada, wearing her Sunday best.’
He picked up the hem of her coat and gave her a smart slap on her firm, round behind. She turned, two bright spots of colour on her cheeks.
‘You’re coarse and vulgar!’
He watched as she tripped across to the table, teetering precariously on her high heels. She snatched up her bag and tossed her head.
‘I’ll say goodbye for now.’ Her voice was cold.
For a moment he hesitated, and a muscle at the side of his mouth began to twitch. Then he held the door open, and as she went out, he said:
‘Try not to be too angry with me, Kate.’
His throat ached with the desire for speech, but no more words came and he watched her bright head disappear at the corner of the stairs. He closed the door and went to the window. The two men were still standing below, but now a car had driven up and a third man was walking towards them; as Doyle watched they began to move towards the house. He waited. In a moment he saw Kate go down the front steps. He watched her walk along the pavement. Usually before she rounded the corner she turned to wave, but this time she kept going, her bright, corn-coloured head with the wisp of black across it bobbing up and down. There were footsteps on the stairs leading to his room. But he waited until Kate had turned the corner.
VII
There was a knock on the door of the Hiltons’ flat in the early afternoon. Rosamund went to the door and was surprised to see Jean Dulac, whom she knew only slightly, standing there.
‘Is your husband in, Lady Hilton?’ He was pale and seemed to be in a hurry.
She held open the lounge door. ‘He has to go back to the Embassy. He only came to collect some . . .’
He was still standing in the hall. ‘I am afraid this is urgent.’
‘Is it confidential, or can I . . .’
‘Doyle Lawrence committed suicide a short time ago. It seems that the special police were on their way to pick him up. Kate Blanchard had just left his room and the police thought he might have passed something on to her. They have taken her for questioning, and they have picked up Paul Daniels as well. . . .’
He went on talking for a moment and then stopped, staring at her in surprise. Her face was livid and her eyes had an unfocused look.
‘There must be some mistake.’ Her voice was high-pitched. ‘Doyle would never take his own life. Why he . . .’
‘There is no mistake. Lady Hilton, I assure you. He jumped from the window of his room.’
Her flaxen head moved jerkily. ‘No, no. There is some mistake.’
He hesitated, and then walked past her.
‘Sir Edward!’
In a moment Sir Edward came into the
hall. The two men stood talking.
‘Pickard,’ Sir Edward said irritably. ‘Get hold of Pickard. . . .’
‘Pickard is ill.’
While they talked Rosamund remained standing by the lounge door, her hands hanging limply at her sides; at first she was quite still, and then she began to tremble violently. Sir Edward was putting on his coat and searching for his hat. At the same time he was talking in a dry monotone.
‘Most unfortunate, most unfortunate. We can’t afford this kind of thing just now. I do hope Daniels will behave sensibly—a brilliant man, but rather unpredictable—inclined to be temperamental. Newspaper men, you know.’ He seemed to have forgotten that Dulac was a journalist. He found his gloves and moved across the hall. He seemed only vaguely aware of his wife, saying over his shoulder as he passed her:
‘This may take a long time, my dear.’
Jean Dulac hesitated on the doorstep, then he came back and said to Rosamund:
‘Mrs. Jenner is in her flat, waiting in case we can bring Kate straight back. Why don’t you go to her, Lady Hilton? It will be better than staying here alone.’
She seemed not to hear him, but after a moment she nodded her head: ‘Yes. I don’t want to be alone.’
She stood rigid, staring at the closed door until the sound of their footsteps had died away. Then she began to scream, her hands clenched at her sides, her head thrown back.
Chapter Ten
IN THE NIGHT
It was after midnight when Kate was brought back to the flat by Mr. Cunningham.
In the meantime the hours had passed slowly. People came and went, sympathetic, anxious and helpless. Dr. Van Hals, who now had the flat above, promised Helen that he would come down immediately Kate arrived; he also tried, unsuccessfully, to persuade Rosamund to take a sedative. Rosamund ignored him, as she ignored all other visitors.
Marshall Pickard arrived in the late evening, followed almost immediately by Mr. Clare and Jean Dulac. Mr. Clare, who was young and earnest, was inclined to lecture.
‘Do you think you should stay here, Mrs. Jenner?’ he asked, peering owlishly through heavy-rimmed glasses. ‘This thing started as an intellectual rebellion by a small clique; now it has become the property of the whole nation. The position is worse since Matthias was brought back; instead of pouring oil on troubled waters his presence has set them aflame. There is an agitation for all foreign troops to be withdrawn from the country and that, unless one believes in miracles, will be the beginning of the end. Things are looking very bad; very bad indeed.’
‘It will be better for Kate to come here, if it is still practicable,’ Helen answered wearily.
She sat with her head bowed and her hands clasped together. The light-brown hair fell forward, a fine, silken web around the ashen face; the brows contracted and the grey eyes were dull. Mr. Clare talked on.
Helen’s anguish was entirely personal. In her present mood it mattered little what happened in this city; she cared only for the safety of two people. She wished that Mr. Clare would go away; his presence here, chanting the day’s news like a Greek chorus, seemed an unwarrantable intrusion.
Jean Dulac, watched her, understanding something of her feelings and marvelling at the ruthlessness of women. From the window he saw the lights go out one by one in a hundred windows as people prepared for sleep; the last night of peaceful sleep that many of them would ever know. And Helen Jenner sat on the couch, as remote from their agony as though she inhabited another world. ‘Can you see something, Jean?’ she asked anxiously.
‘I can see that it is getting darker, that is all.’
Marshall Pickard raised his head and stared towards the window, then he looked slowly from one to the other of the people in the room. Their presence seemed to surprise him. He half-rose, changed his mind and sat down quickly; his eyes darted furtively from side to side, as though hoping his movement had not been observed. No-one was concerned with him. He folded his hands on his lap and looked down at the carpet. His chin had sunk forward on his chest, the muscles round his jaw were slack so that the flesh hung in loose folds, his mouth drooped, the lower lip sagging. He seemed aware of his own decay, for he put a trembling hand across his mouth, shielding the lower part of his face; above the hand his eyes peered out from swollen lids. He hunched his shoulders and drew his knees together, as a sick animal will try to find some last comfort in the warmth of its own body.
Helen got up and went towards the kitchen. ‘I must put the kettle on again. Dr. Van Hals told me that tea might be a good idea when they came back; plenty of hot, sweet tea.’
When she had gone, Pickard said, without looking up:
‘A dreadful thing about Lawrence. They must have been watching him for some time, don’t you think?’
Mr. Clare considered this with all the solemnity of a judge weighing evidence, and then said: ‘Possibly.’
A note of pleading crept into Pickard’s voice as he went on:
‘Who was to guess that he would lose his nerve like that? But it may have been for the best in the long run, don’t you think? It probably prevented him from betraying anyone.’
‘He, too, may have had that thought in mind.’ Dulac’s voice was cold. ‘At least, we can give him the benefit of the doubt.’
‘Oh yes, yes,’ Pickard said. ‘I would be the last to judge him, the last . . .’
Dulac said to Mr. Clare ‘I think we are in the way here.’ They stood up.
‘Going?’ said Pickard. His eyes darted desperately round the room which was solid and reassuring after the darkness outside. ‘Are we going?’
Dulac was already at the door. Mr. Clare went to the kitchen and spoke to Helen:
‘At least you won’t be alone. You have Lady Hilton with you.’ His voice was doubtful: Lady Hilton, he thought, looked very strange.
The mention of Lady Hilton jolted Pickard; he turned his head away as he passed her and this made him stumble against the table. Mr. Clare put his hand on his shoulder to steady him and Pickard gave a little cry of alarm.
‘Your nerves are in a state,’ Mr. Clare said austerely.
And Dulac added, more kindly: ‘You had better go back to bed. You need sleep.’
‘Sleep?’ Pickard said. He clawed at the doorpost, looking regretfully back at the room, but Dulac and Mr. Clare propelled him onto the dark landing.
After they had gone the dreadful silence descended again. Helen decided that she must ask Dr. Van Hals to come down because she could not bear to be alone with Rosamund any longer. She was trying to think of an excuse for leaving the flat when Rosamund began to speak.
‘What has happened to our world when a man like Doyle must destroy himself?’ Her voice sounded calm, but surprised. She repeated: ‘What has happened to our world?’
After that she sat immobile for some minutes. Then:
‘I think I must talk about Doyle.’ She spoke in the tone of one who has decided to undergo a dangerous but essential operation.
Helen pressed her fist against her mouth. It took a considerable effort of will to prevent herself from shouting at Rosamund that she had no desire to talk about Doyle, that she herself had come near to the limit of endurance.
Rosamund began to speak, choosing each word carefully as though nothing mattered, either to herself or to anyone else, but the telling of her story.
‘There had’ never been passion in my life until I met Doyle. It lasted only a short while, of course; he was so impossibly careless and indiscreet, I had to break things off. At the time it had been something which we both treated lightly; passionately, but lightly, if you understand. But when it was . . .’ She paused, and her face began to assume the rigid look once more. ‘When it was over, my life was like a desert. And after a while, I found that I could only keep going by promising myself that one day I would go back to Doyle for good. I would lie awake at night and think about him. Whether I would really have done it or not, I don’t know, but there was always the possibility. That was what mattered.
It was a promise of escape.’ Her voice began to get shrill. ‘Water in the desert.’
‘Rosamund!’
‘Have you ever been thirsty, Helen? Have you ever been really thirsty?’
‘Rosamund, be silent! When this has passed, you will hate yourself, and me, for the things which you are saying.’
‘It will never pass. Don’t you understand? This is eternity.’
Helen turned away. She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. Just after midnight. What is happening to them? she thought; dear God, what is happening to them?
Rosamund continued to talk. She talked of her own passion and of her loss; never once did she pause to grieve for the man himself. Neither did Helen mourn for Doyle. His death was something which she had accepted with her brain but which had not yet penetrated to her nerves or to her heart. Doyle—lying, bragging, irresponsible, unpredictable Doyle—it seemed to Helen that he was indestructible. But Paul Daniels and Kate Blanchard were very vulnerable.
Time passed. At half-past twelve, just as the last chimes of the cathedral clock died away, she heard a car draw up outside the flats. She ran to the window. There were two people on the pavement; Kate and Mr. Cunningham. No-one else. Dr. Van Hals had seen the car, too; she heard him slam the door of his flat and run down the stairs.
They came in slowly. The doctor had his arm round Kate and she was leaning on him, her face half-hidden against his shoulder. They were followed by Mr. Cunningham, a mild, cherub-faced young man, wrestling with a situation beyond his range of experience. Helen said to him:
‘Paul Daniels?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Sir Edward is still there.’
Kate was passive, with the dazed passivity of someone half-under the anæsthetic. Helen and Dr. Van Hals put her to bed. When she was sitting on the bed, she stretched out her hand to Helen and then shook her head sadly.