Danger Calling

by Patricia Wentworth

  He stopped suddenly, still holding Lindsay by the arm.

  “Aha! I talk—I jest—I laugh! Like Shakespeare says, I jest at a scar, but I have a wound in my heart. No, that is not how it goes, but it does not matter. Courage! Courage! Courage! You do not understand French, but there was a great Frenchman who said, ‘de l’audace—de l’audace—et toujour de l’audace!’ Do you know what that means?”

  Lindsay had the sensation of being looked through for a moment. Then Restow burst out laughing and began to tell him that Giulio Carozza smoked cigars made out of seaweed.

  They reached the hotel with Restow still talking, but arrived at the door of his suite, he fell silent. A sitting-room divided his room from Lindsay’s. Restow passed to his own door, opened it, clicked on the bedroom light, crossed the threshold, and shut the door, all without a word.

  Lindsay had his hand on his own switch, when the door across the room opened abruptly. He turned, and saw Restow looking round it grinning.

  “To-morrow I decline a duel,” he said. “Pff!” He blew out his cheeks, grimaced, and vanished, slamming the door.

  Lindsay undressed and went to bed, but when an hour had passed he had not slept. He went into the sitting-room for a book, and felt envious of Restow’s snores, which were plainly audible. When he had been reading for half an hour he began to drift towards sleep. The print became first very black, and then so hazy—hazy. He realized that he had actually dropped off for a moment, and stretched out his hand to turn the light off. The action woke him, but by degrees the dark began to wash in amongst his thoughts and drown them. He could hear the lapping of the tide—soft on the sand, and hard with a dash of spray against the rock—hard with a grating of stone upon stone—water-rounded pebbles moving one on another—grinding.

  He opened his eyes and looked out into the darkness. He was quietly and clearly awake, but the sound that had been in his dream went on. It came from a couple of yards to the left of his head. Someone was knocking at the door. No—knocking was too loud a word; the sound was the softest and most hesitating of sounds.

  Lindsay slipped silently out of bed. He wanted badly to know who was tapping at his door at two in the morning. He thought that he would prefer to see without being seen. If he felt his way to the sitting room door and opened it softly, he might with luck manage this. He was very good at moving in the dark. He made no noise and knocked nothing over, and, turning the handle of the sitting-room door, he eased it ajar and looked through the opening.

  At the moment that the door opened a sigh struck on his heart and warned him of what he would see. Marian Rayne stood in front of his door in an attitude of the most utter weariness. She wore a black evening wrap over her dinner dress. Her right hand held the jamb; with her left she leaned against the door. Her head rested against the middle panel. It was as if she had been flung there by wind or water, or by some overwhelming impulse, and had caught at the door and so stayed. He was shocked beyond all power of speech. If anyone should come—should see her …

  Before his shocked thoughts had ordered themselves, she sighed again heavily, lifted her head, and saw him. The same recognition which he had seen in her eyes just before she fainted came flooding into them now. A half caught glimpse of his face looking at her from a dark room, and she was filled with an utter certainty. The weariness went out of her. The certainty rushed through her like a flood. Before Lindsay could move she was pushing the door, and him with it. And then the door was shut upon them and she was holding him in the dark.

  “Lin—Lin—Lin!”

  He felt her whole body tremble. And what was he to say? It was dark; but, darkness or daylight, there was no hope that Marian could be brought to believe that he was anyone but Lindsay Trevor. He stretched out a hand and put on the light. She had been leaning on him, holding him; but when the light came her hands dropped and she stepped back, leaning against the wall and looking at him with shining eyes. The pale ghost was gone. Before his eyes life and colour bloomed in her lips and cheeks.

  “Oh, Lin!” she said.

  Lindsay reminded himself of many things. He said, in a dead, cold voice,

  “You are making a mistake. My name is Trevor Fothering.”

  And Marian laughed. It was just the faintest ripple of sound, the whisper of a laugh, but her eyes laughed too.

  He said, “Lindsay Trevor was my cousin. I know we are alike.”

  Marian’s eyes went on laughing.

  She said, “Oh, Lin!” And then, with the laughter suddenly gone, “Lin—why? I thought I had driven you—oh, I thought—Lin!”

  “I’m Trevor Fothering.”

  Marian threw up her head.

  “Very well. Then it doesn’t matter if I tell everybody about the likeness. I can tell Mr Drayton, and you won’t mind?”

  Lindsay would mind very much indeed.

  With a quick, darting movement Marian caught him by the arm.

  “Oh, Lin—Lin—Lin—don’t be stupid! Do you suppose you can keep me from knowing you by dyeing your hair? It’s you I know, not the outside of you. If you dyed yourself pea-green all over, it wouldn’t stop me knowing you. And I’m safe—I’m really safe. Lin—can’t you trust me?”

  Lindsay said what he had no intention of saying.

  He said,

  “Why did you break off our engagement?”

  The glow died.

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “I think you’d better tell me.”

  “No, I can’t.”

  He put a hand on her shoulder and tilted her chin.

  “Look at me, Marian!”

  She looked at him for a moment. Her eyes were no longer full of joy.

  “Why did you come here, Marian?”

  “To see you.” Her voice broke a little. “I had to see you.”

  “Why?”

  “To be sure.”

  “To be sure that I wasn’t dead?”

  He was still holding her. She turned her head aside.

  “Yes.”

  “But you didn’t care for me. Why did it matter to you? You told me you didn’t care.”

  She looked up at him with eyes suddenly bright, cheeks suddenly flushed.

  “Why did you want to marry me if you thought I was the sort of girl who is ready to marry a man one minute and quite pleased to hear he’s been drowned the next?”

  “But you weren’t ready to marry me, Marian.”

  “And you thought I’d be pleased, and glad, and happy to think you’d committed suicide because of me! It’s the sort of thing that makes one happy—isn’t it?” Her cheeks burned, her breath came quickly. I “Is that what you thought?” said Lindsay.

  “What else could I think? Everyone—everyone thought so. Why did you do it?”

  “I never dreamt—” said Lindsay. “I—Marian, I never meant you to think—I—it was to be an accident.”

  She went on looking at him for a moment, and then, pulling her wrap round her, turned to the door.

  “I must go.”

  “No—not yet.”

  She said quietly, “I won’t give you away,” and put out her hand to the door.

  “Marian—what do you know of Drayton?”

  She turned the handle, but he put his weight against the door and kept it shut.

  “Marian, I know you went to see him. Tell me why.”

  She shook her head very slightly. She was trembling again.

  “Oh, Lin, let me go!”

  “Marian—trust me!”

  She threw him a curious tremulous glance.

  “Don’t I trust you?”

  And then his nearness—the joy, the utter joy of knowing that he was alive—rushed in on her and carried her away.

  “Oh, Lin!” she said, and was in his arms.

  At the first touch of her trembling lips L
indsay knew that she loved him. He had no idea why she had broken off their engagement, but he knew now that it was not for want of love. He would not have believed her upon her oath if she had said she did not love him. He held her close and kissed her tears, and felt her strain towards him.

  “Marian!” he said. “Why did you do it?” And then, “You love me—you do love me!”

  She put up her face and kissed him solemnly and sadly.

  “I mustn’t—”

  “Mustn’t love me?”

  “No—Lin.”

  “Why? Is it anything to do with Drayton?”

  He felt her shudder.

  “Marian—tell me the whole thing. Don’t you see that you must tell me?”

  She began to draw away from him.

  “Perhaps. I don’t know. I must think.”

  Lindsay came back to time and place. She mustn’t stay here now; it was too frightfully risky. With his arm still round her, he said,

  “No—you mustn’t stay. But you’ll meet me tomorrow? You will? Promise!”

  She nodded.

  “Honest, Marian? No hanky-panky?”

  “No. Where?”

  Lindsay stood frowning. Anywhere in the hotel was out of the question. It would have to be Madame Marnier. Not a very nice part of the town, but Marie Marnier was safe. It was half a dozen years since he had seen her, but he wrote to her always for the New Year, and got a few scrawled lines in reply.

  He released Marian, went over to the writing-table, and printed the address carefully.

  “Will you come to this address to-morrow—no, it’s to-day—at—what time could you come? Who are these people you are with?”

  “She is a cousin of Aunt Louie’s—her name is Merson. She always rests after tea.”

  He frowned again. He couldn’t have Marian coming there alone after dark.

  “Could you leave the hotel at five?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “All right, that will do. Turn to the left and walk as far as the first corner. I’ll be waiting for you there. Now you must go. Wait till I make sure that the coast is clear.” Then, with his hand on the door, he turned and flung his other arm about her. “Are you glad I’m not dead?”

  When she was gone, he switched the light out and went back to his room in the dark. He had reached his own door before he noticed the silence in the room behind him. Restow was no longer snoring. The room was full of a listening silence.

  CHAPTER XXV

  THERE WAS A CERTAIN solemnity about Restow’s demeanour next morning. He drank his coffee and broke his rolls with an air. Lindsay was reminded of an actor holding the stage. Presently it would be, “Enter—someone.” He awaited this entrance with interest.

  Restow finished his coffee, leaned back in his chair, and remarked grandly, “I am a conscientious disbeliever of the duel.”

  Lindsay hadn’t anything to say at all. From his experience of Restow he felt that it was quite unnecessary for him to say anything. Algerius could sustain a monologue as well as any man living.

  “I am about to be challenged,” said Restow abruptly. “And when I am challenged I shall say, ‘No thank you—run away and play.’ Yes, by Jing! And that will be very amusing—much more amusing than if I am a laughing-stock in all the papers for shooting pistols in the air with Gloria’s little yellow puppy-dog. Bah! The duel! Everyone laughs at it! On the other hand, why should I kill this yellow puppy-dog? He would not be a loss to the world. I might even consider that I was a public benefactor. But on the other hand, if I had wished to become an executioner, I have had my chances—yes, when I had not one single bean to my name and I was offered to be executioner to the republic of Santalena. And I refused. And if I refuse the job when I have no money and I am a young man very hungry and with nothing to give my hunger—if I refuse it then, why should I now take the bread out of the mouth of the no doubt excellent M. de Paris? Can you tell me that?”

  As he spoke, there was a knock on the door and there came in two gentlemen very punctiliously dressed; the one small, dark, and youngish; and the other elderly, stout, and with something of the air of a military man.

  Restow had risen to receive them. He appeared larger than usual as he returned their formal bows. The elder man introduced himself as M. Denoyer, and his companion as M. Georges Martel. He spoke in French, but Restow’s reply was couched in the English of the United States.

  “Very pleased to meet you,” he said, and beamed upon them.

  “Perhaps you can guess our errand,” pursued M. Denoyer.

  “Any errand that makes me acquainted with you two gentlemen—” said Restow, and bowed again.

  “We are here, monsieur, as the friends of M. Charles Arêsne.”

  Restow smiled affably.

  “The yellow puppy-dog,” he said in English; and then in French, “But I don’t know him—this M. Arêsne.”

  “Yet you insulted him last night in the restaurant of this hotel.”

  “Is it possible?”

  “We are here to demand an apology or, failing that, to arrange a meeting.”

  Restow spread out his hands.

  “But I have met your friend once, and I assure you that is enough for me. I have not the very slightest desire to meet him again.”

  Both gentlemen stiffened noticeably.

  “But you cannot refuse a challenge!” said M. Denoyer.

  “And why not?” said Restow.

  The friends of M. Arêsne looked at one another. The younger man burst into speech.

  “Then, monsieur, you are a coward!”

  Restow shook his head negligently.

  “No, it is not that. I do not like your friend, but I do not wish to kill him.”

  “Or to be killed by him!” said the elder man with a sneer.

  Restow smiled.

  “I would not mourn if he were dead, but I do not wish to kill him. It would annoy my wife, and besides, if I were to kill every little man who reminds me of a puppy-dog, I should have no time to amuse myself. It is fortunate for M. Arêsne that I am too lazy to enjoy killing people, otherwise there would remain only the arrangements for his funeral.”

  “I repeat, monsieur, that you are a coward!” said the dark young man with considerable heat.

  “You are wrong,” said Restow placidly.

  He turned to Lindsay.

  “My Fothering, these gentlemen are asking me to fight a duel, and as you do not know any French you have not just had your feelings harrowed by hearing them call me a coward. The word is lache, so you can look out and be ready to sit up and take notice next time you come across it. And now I’m going to show them what would happen to their friend if I wasn’t a very good-tempered man. What sort of nerves have you got this morning—hein?”

  “The usual sort,” said Lindsay gravely.

  Restow went back into French.

  “Messieurs, I invite you to witness an improvisation after the manner of the celebrated William Tell, deceased. It is, perhaps, a little hackneyed, but the human interest—that is always fresh. You will be on tenterhooks to see whether my esteemed secretary is to lose a finger or two, or whether you are to go back to your M. Charles and tell him what a lucky escape he has had.” He darted a quick malicious glance at Lindsay, then clapped his hands and smiled expansively. “Allons! Allons! Allons!”

  He stepped briskly up to the table and plucked from the dish of fruit which stood there a banana.

  “Now, my Fothering!” He handed it with a flourish to Lindsay. “We play William Tell with a difference. Ha! That is Shakespeare! And I have forgotten where it comes. ‘Rue with a difference,’ isn’t it? But this shall be a banana with a difference, and you shall hold it over there against the wall—yes, at arm’s length. And if your hand shakes, perhaps you will spoil my aim and get a bullet in your knuckle— Hein? Hur
ry, my Fothering—hurry! These gentlemen are naturally impatient—they are on hot cockles to return to their friend and to assure him of my humanitarian objection to the slaughter of this yellow puppydog.”

  He turned a little and repeated his remarks in French with an apology.

  “My secretary, messieurs, is a barbarian—he speaks only his own British tongue. Come now, my Fothering—we begin!”

  Lindsay walked across the room with the banana in his hand. He was wondering what Restow was driving at. He was wondering whether there was going to be an unfortunate accident—perhaps even a fatal accident. He recalled Madame Ferrans’ warning. He recalled Froth’s motor smash. It was, of course, open to him to refuse to hold up a banana as a target for Restow.

  Restow’s mocking eyes were daring him as he turned.

  “If you are afraid, I will hang my banana from a string,” said Restow’s mocking tongue. “Aha, my Fothering, you are afraid—nervous? Your feet turn cold? A cold perspiration bespangles your brow, like the tit willow bird out of Gilbert and Sullivan—nicht?”

  Lindsay was perfectly well aware that, as Froth, he would do better to turn sulky under Restow’s chaff and leave him to his trick shooting. What he actually did was to hold out the banana at arm’s length and laugh.