Danger Calling

by Patricia Wentworth

  M. Arêsne’s two friends looked towards him involuntarily. Neither they nor Lindsay saw Restow draw, the movement was so quick. There was a sharp report, and the green tip of the banana vanished.

  “One,” said Restow pleasantly. He had fired from his hip. He raised his automatic and counted:

  “Two.”

  The second shot pierced a neat hole about half an inch from the stubbed end of the banana.

  “Three,” said Restow, and drilled another hole, very neatly spaced half an inch nearer to Lindsay’s fingers. Four, five, and six followed rapidly.

  Restow’s hand went back into his pocket again.

  “Bravo, my Fothering! After all, your nursing home made a good job. I shall write them a testimonial—’Good nerves for bad ones’!”

  Lindsay came back to the table and laid the banana down upon it. Restow had chosen a firm unripe fruit. His first shot had carried away the green tip. The other five accounted for five neat holes at intervals of half an inch.

  Restow turned to the sofa, where an open cardboard box displayed a froth of tissue paper. He came back with a couple of sheets in his hand.

  “My Fothering, I make bad parcels. Wrap up this little souvenir and give it to these gentlemen. Their M. Alphonse—M. Charles—I have forgotten his name—it is of no consequence—he had better see for himself what kind of an escape he has had.” He bowed with much politeness, and continued in French: “Messieurs, I present you the banana and I make you my farewells. My Fothering, these gentlemen tear themselves away. Perhaps you will be so good as to show them out.”

  M. Martel ground his teeth. He began to speak, and was checked by M. Denoyer, who straightened himself and addressed Restow with dignity and self-control.

  “You refuse definitely to meet M. Arêsne?”

  “I am a humane person,” said Restow.

  “Then there is no more to be said.” M. Denoyer bowed stiffly and went out.

  M. Martel did not bow. He glared at Restow, hesitated on the threshold, shook his fist, and banged the door with violence.

  Lindsay came back to find Restow regarding him. He had a moment’s uneasiness, but it passed when Restow said,

  “I have a letter here from my good Drayton. He is excited because there is a first edition of a very dull book which I hope never to read, and he says it is to come into the market, and if I buy by private treaty first, I will save it from going out of the country. What a curious mind! He thinks of nothing but his books, and not even of what is inside them—which I can understand. Ah! Bah! That bores me! By and by Drayton will turn into one of those long, flat, grey, unpleasant insects which live in the bindings of old books. I have warned him of it. I tell him he becomes rapidly sub-human. Pfst! Enough of Drayton!”

  He picked up the banana and tossed it with excellent aim into a waste-paper basket on the other side of the room. He turned back to Lindsay with a grin.

  “There are six holes in the wall-paper. You have a very steady hand, my Fothering—almost as steady as mine.”

  He came quite close, dropped both hands on Lindsay’s shoulders, and held him at arm’s length. He said nothing. Lindsay said nothing. Restow’s brows were drawn together, his eyes half closed. The silence lasted.

  Suddenly Restow released him, and as suddenly asked,

  “Have you seen Drayton?”

  Lindsay was really taken aback. What did this mean? He said,

  “No.”

  “You have not?”

  “No.” He spoke seriously, his eyes on Restow’s face.

  Restow turned and went out of the room.

  CHAPTER XXVI

  AT A QUARTER TO FIVE Lindsay walked out of the hotel and, having turned the corner, strolled to the end of the street. From there he proceeded quickly about half a mile, and then made his way back by a series of twists and turns. Arrived at the street down which he had strolled, he resumed that pleasant pace. As he walked, his thoughts returned to the morning. What did Restow mean by asking him if he had seen Drayton? Right on top of telling him he had just heard from Drayton too. He would have given a good deal to know just what was in Restow’s mind. Madame Ferrans’ words came back: “Take care—he suspects you.” What did Restow suspect him of? And hadn’t he been the world’s worst fool to play up to his absurd William Tell act? He ought to have stopped, funked, played the nerve-shattered invalid—in fact done anything he chose except join in and play up to Restow’s gasconade.

  He tried to think why he had played up. He had acted on impulse, when quite possibly his life was depending upon his never acting on impulse. And at the back of the impulse he discovered a reluctance to let Restow down. He had been as keen on Restow bringing off his bluff as if his own safety had hung on it. He had been backing Restow. He liked Restow. This was an odd point to arrive at. He was frowning over it as he reached the corner again.

  He stood for a moment lighting a cigarette. That allowed him to waste several matches and some time. He did not wish to appear to be waiting for anyone. He had just got the cigarette to light, when Marian turned the corner. She wore the fur coat and the little black cap which she had worn when he had come on her in the train after she had broken off their engagement. There was almost as much difference between that pale Marian and this glowing one as between life and death.

  She came up to him with a smile in her eyes, and they walked down the street together. When they had turned a second corner, Lindsay hailed a taxi and told the man to drive them to the Arc de Triomphe.

  “Why the Arc de Triomphe?” said Marian.

  The taxi darted into the traffic.

  “I’ve got to talk to you,” said Lindsay—“and I’ve got to make sure that neither of us has been followed.”

  She pressed up against him in the dark.

  “That sounds—horrid.”

  “Yes—it might be horrid.” He looked back once or twice.

  Marian did not speak again. She felt a little chilled. She had thought that he would put his arm round her, and perhaps kiss her. It was the most wonderful thing in the world that he was alive. She couldn’t look past that yet.

  When the taxi stopped, Lindsay paid the man quickly and walked her away at a brisk pace. Ten minutes later they took another taxi.

  “I think that’s all right,” said Lindsay.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To see an old friend of mine. I can’t risk eavesdroppers. She’ll let us talk in her room.”

  “Who is she?”

  Lindsay hesitated.

  “She’s mixed up with the time I was doing Secret Service work. There’s a son—an awful young rip, but they’re both under the impression that I saved his life, so I’m persona grata.” He laughed. “I don’t know that I should be with the police if they knew. Gogo’s a pretty bad hat, I fancy.”

  They were set down in a dreary, ill-lighted locality. Another ten minutes’ walk brought them to a dark street where tall rickety houses leaned together.

  Madame Marnier lived on the top floor of the third house on the left. They mounted a close, slippery stair, and at the top Lindsay knocked and next moment was being kissed on both cheeks by one of the fattest women in Paris.

  Madame Marnier was immense. Her still coal-black hair was strained tightly back from a face like a large white cheese, in which two very shrewd dark eyes twinkled. She wore a blue checked apron over her dress. The room behind her had a sloping roof which on one side nearly touched the floor. It was scrupulously clean, but full of an overpowering smell in which garlic and cabbage struggled for the upper hand.

  Madame Marnier, having embraced Lindsay, stood back from the door and beckoned them in, talking all the time.

  “And you are married? Ah yes, you told me that in your letter. And what a happiness to meet madame your wife! Ah, madame, not till you have a son of your own will you know how I regard thi
s husband of yours. Has he told you? But no—he would always say that it is nothing, and that he has done nothing. But I—I will tell you. Figure to yourself my Gogo, my only son, and the best son in France—”

  Lindsay put an arm through hers and marched her over to the other side of the room.

  “Now, now, la mère—no reminiscences! Amongst other things there’s no time for them.”

  Madame Marnier’s hands went up over her head.

  “Mon dieu! What has arrived to your hair?”

  “A little dye,” said Lindsay, laughing.

  “You’re in it again?”

  “Up to my neck. And I want the loan of your room for half an hour whilst I talk to mademoiselle.”

  “What? She’s not your wife!”

  “Not yet. I’m playing a part, as you guess, and I can’t see her safely. It is of the first importance that I should be able to talk to her undisturbed.”

  “Well, well—who is going to disturb you here?”

  “No one, I hope.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “It is a very serious affair this time. For one thing, I am dead.”

  “Aha! You are dead! And then?” Her little eyes twinkled at him.

  “Well, if some people were to find out that I was alive, it wouldn’t be very long before I was dead enough to stay dead.”

  Madame Marnier said “Aha!” again and laid her forefinger along her nose.

  “I’m putting my life in your hands by coming to you. It’s not the first time—is it?”

  She spread out her thick work-roughened hands palm upwards.

  “It’s safe enough,” she said; and then, “So you did not come to see me at all! But of course not!”

  Lindsay laughed again.

  “I should have come to see you anyhow. I don’t forget my friends.”

  “And they don’t forget you. Gogo is out on a job. If he misses you, he will be ready to throw himself into the Seine.”

  “Perhaps he won’t miss me.”

  Lindsay came back to where Marian waited in bewilderment. The rapid French was quite beyond her. She saw Madame Marnier shrug her great shoulders and go out through a door on the other side of the room. She saw her shut the door. Marian gave a sigh of relief. Now Lindsay would come.

  He came and put his arm round her.

  “Now!” he said, and took her to a bench by the attic window. “Now! We haven’t got very long, and I want you to tell me everything.”

  Marian turned her startled eyes on him. She hadn’t been thinking of what she was going to say; she had only thought of how lovely it was to be with him again. But now she had to think of what she was going to say.

  Lindsay took both her hands in his.

  “My dear, this is all so very much more important than you’ve any idea of.”

  She did not look at him. She looked down at her hands and said, “Is it?” in rather a shaky voice.

  Lindsay watched her colour come and go. His hands closed hard on hers.

  “You are going to tell me first why you broke off our engagement. And then you are going to tell me why you came to see Drayton the other night.”

  He heard her draw in her breath, and felt her hands quiver. And then all at once her resistance was gone. He could feel her reaching out to him, leaning on him, wanting him to help her. She said, almost in a whisper

  “Yes, I’ll tell you—I must tell you—I’ve been so frightened.”

  “Don’t be frightened. Just tell me everything. Begin with why you broke our engagement.”

  “Lin—it—it nearly killed me.”

  “Why did you do it?” Then, sharply, “You told me it was because you were in love with someone else.”

  The grey-green eyes looked up at him. They were full of tears, but under the tears there was a sparkle.

  “No, I didn’t, Lin! I said it was because I loved—someone. I didn’t say—someone else.”

  “So you broke our engagement because you loved—me?”

  She nodded. The brimming tears fell in two bright drops. The sparkle remained.

  Lindsay didn’t kiss her. He held her hands.

  “You’d better tell me all about it.”

  She tried to draw her hands away, and when he still held them she said, “Please, Lin.”

  He let go then. She turned her head aside and said in a troubled whisper,

  “It’s not easy. I’ll try. You mustn’t look at me.”

  “You’ll feel a lot better when you’ve told me.”

  Marian looked away across the room. There was a dark stain on the wall there rather like a star. She kept her eyes on the dark stain and spoke with pauses between the sentences as if each was an effort.

  “It began that Sunday night. You know. We all said good-night. I went upstairs. I didn’t go to bed at once. I was feeling hot. Aunt Louie always has her room so hot. I put out the light and opened the window. I sat there looking out. It wasn’t cold a bit. There was a smell of leaves and wood smoke. And the moon made everything look like a dream. I didn’t know what sort of a dream it was going to be.” Her voice stopped.

  Lindsay put an arm about her.

  “Nothing to worry about. Just go on, darling.”

  For a moment she leaned against him. Then she said,

  “You mustn’t touch me or I shall cry. I’ll try and tell you.”

  He took his arm away again. What could have happened in the few hours of that moonlight night to change their lives? He began to be afraid without quite knowing why.

  “I sat there for a long time. You know I can see a bit of the rose-garden from my window. I was thinking I would like to be walking there—with you—”

  “Yes?” said Lindsay.

  “I’m going on.”

  She seemed to find it hard to go on. Her hands came together in her lap and gripped one another hard. She began to speak with a rush of fluttering words.

  “I saw someone—go down the garden. I thought it was you. I thought we hadn’t had any time together. I put on a coat and went down. I thought I could get out of the study window—” She paused. “The study window was open. I thought you had gone out that way. When I had gone half way down the path I nearly went back.” Her voice broke piteously. “Oh, Lin, why didn’t I go back?”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “I went on—” She drew a long sighing breath “I went on. When I came to the yew hedge I stopped and listened. I couldn’t hear anyone moving. I went through the archway and stood by the big peacock that is cut out of the hedge, and then I could see something move by the pergola. I didn’t call you, because I wasn’t sure it was you. There was deep shadow by the hedge. I kept in the shadow and went over to the pergola. Just as I got there, I saw two men in a little patch of moonlight. One of them was Uncle Robert. The other—” Her voice shuddered and was still.

  Lindsay’s sharpest fear left him. He laid his hand over hers.

  “You’re just frightened,” he said. “Go on and tell me what happened. Who was the other man?”

  “I didn’t know—then. He frightened me. There was something frightening about him—” She was almost inaudible. “So tall—like a shadow all lengthened out. I couldn’t see his face.”

  “Go on, darling.”

  “I wanted to run away, but I was afraid they’d see me. I stood quite still where it was very dark. They came towards me. I heard Uncle Robert say, ‘She thinks she’s my brother’s daughter.’”

  Lindsay’s hand closed hard on hers.

  “What?” he said.

  Marian looked up at him with a funny little twisted smile.

  “That’s what he said. It’s like a tract—isn’t it? If I hadn’t listened, I shouldn’t have heard—things. I should have gone happily to bed and we’d have been married on Saturday.” She caught at his hand and held it. “I di
d listen.”

  “What did you hear?”

  “Uncle Robert said—that. Then the other man said, ‘Why didn’t you tell her?’ Uncle Robert said, ‘Her mother didn’t wish it—no, no—of course—I don’t mean her mother—my sister-in-law, Mary. Why, Louie and I didn’t know until Mary was dying, and she wouldn’t have told us then, only she said something when she was out of her head.’ Lin—when he said that, I knew they were talking about me, but it didn’t seem really to get into my head. It was like something horrid trying to get in. I just stood there, and the man who frightened me said, ‘What a pleasant surprise for her to meet her father!’”

  Lindsay was holding her now, and she leaned against him.

  “Uncle Robert said, ‘You won’t tell her. She’s just going to be married.’ They began to walk away. He said, ‘Have I no paternal feelings?’ And when he said that everything began to go round. I thought I was going to faint, but I didn’t. They walked to the end of the pergola and came back. When they came back he was saying, ‘We can get a pull on him through the girl—he’s crazy about her.’ Uncle Robert said—Lin, you won’t hurt Uncle Robert—will you, if I tell you what he said?”

  “My dear, I think you must just tell me everything.” He felt her tremble.

  “He said—Uncle Robert said, ‘I suppose you know what you’re risking. A man got a life sentence the other day for blackmail.’ He said, ‘I shan’t get a life sentence, my good Rayne!’ He—laughed. He said, ‘Trevor might be a useful tool. If not, he could be easily—eliminated.’” She turned with a sob and flung herself against him, burying her face on his shoulder. “Lin—Lin—don’t let him! Lin!”

  She seemed in a paroxysm of terror, and for a time he could only hold her and say all the comforting things he could think of. Presently she drew away.

  “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to—I told you you mustn’t touch me.”

  Lindsay had been thinking.

  “When he said Trevor, did you think he meant me?”

  “Didn’t he mean you?”

  “I don’t think so. He was talking about my cousin Trevor Fothering—the man whose shoes I’m in.”

  She passed her hand across her eyes.