Danger Calling

by Patricia Wentworth

  She hurried across the road, found the turning, and in five minutes she was standing at the door of the flat listening to the sharp buzz of the bell and wondering with a sudden cold fright whether there would be anyone there to let her in. Suppose the flat had been given up. … No, there hadn’t been time since Lindsay’s official death—but the flat might have been shut up and Poole paid off. As the thought went through her mind, she became aware of how cold and tired she was. She leaned against the jamb, and felt it waver. The floor moved under her feet. From a long way off she heard footsteps coming towards her. They did not seem to come any nearer.

  She let go of her dressing-case because she could not hold it any longer. It fell, and the sound that it made in falling seemed far away. Then the door opened, and a bright light shone in her face.

  CHAPTER XL

  POOLE OPENED THE DOOR.

  The first thing he saw was a hand clinging to the jamb. Then the light fell on Miss Marian Rayne.

  Poole had a very methodical mind. Even as he opened the door, he received and arranged a number of impressions. He perceived with approval that Miss Rayne was dressed in black. Broken engagement, or no broken engagement, he would have thought very little of her if she had been wearing colours so soon after Lindsay Trevor’s death. Her pallor and the shadows under her eyes also satisfied his sense of propriety. Something human and fierce behind the conventional Poole was humanly and fiercely glad that the girl who had turned Lindsay down should look so shocked and ill. All this in a flash. Then a second set of impressions. Her stockings were splashed with mud—her hat awry—the hand that gripped the jamb was shaking. He arranged these impressions too. She had had a fright—she had been running.

  He said aloud in his most expressionless voice,

  “Good evening, miss.”

  Marian’s wavering glance went past him. She knew that he was there, but she could only see a blur in a changing mist, and she could not hear what he said because of the singing in her ears. Her hand dropped from the jamb. She took a faltering step forward and would have fallen if he had not caught her. When the mist receded she was on the sofa in Lindsay’s sitting-room, with Poole in the middle of the room regarding her doubtfully.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I—I’ve had a fright.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  He looked very disapproving. She didn’t think that Poole had ever approved of her. Now, of course, he must disapprove most dreadfully.

  Her faintness had passed, but Poole and his disapproval still seemed rather far away.

  “I haven’t any money,” she said, “and I’ve missed the last train—and—do you think I could stay here to-night?”

  “I don’t know, I’m sure, miss,” said Poole.

  Marian wondered suddenly how much he knew. Did he know that Lindsay was alive?

  A little colour came into her face.

  “I think—Mr Trevor—would wish me to stay—” she began.

  The fierce, human Poole who adored Lindsay Trevor experienced a furious resentment—” She that had chucked him over like an old glove! And what for? Tell me that! When there isn’t one of the whole blinking female sect good enough for him to wipe his boots on! She to come here, throwing faints, and going red in the face when she says his name!”

  Aloud he said, in his most wooden manner,

  “I can’t say, I’m sure.”

  Marian leaned forward, her colour deepening.

  “Poole,” she said, “do you know that he’s alive?”

  Poole stood to take the shock of it, as he would have stood to take the shock of a bomb. It took all his self-control. But whilst the real Poole exulted and rioted, the conventional Poole preserved a perfectly expression-less face. He repeated his last remark mechanically and in just the same voice:

  “I can’t say, I’m sure, miss.”

  Marian jumped up.

  “But he is! He’s alive! Isn’t it—isn’t it wonderful? He’s alive, but he’s in danger. It’s—it’s a job—it’s a very dangerous job. Oh, Poole—did you know all the time?”

  Poole became aware that he was gripping the edge of the table. He took his hand away quickly, looked at it as if he expected to find something sticking to the palm, and said, “If you’ll excuse me, miss—it’s not my place to talk about Mr Trevor’s affairs.”

  “You did know?” said Marian. “He told you?”

  “Begging your pardon, miss, Mr Trevor never told me anything neither for nor against.”

  The conventional Poole had for the moment been thrust aside. The other Poole desired once and for all to make it clear that he was not dependent for his knowledge upon being told things.

  “But you knew!”

  “Well, it stands to reason, miss. Mr Trevor didn’t need to tell me when he was going on a job, and he knew that he didn’t need to tell me.”

  A little sparkle of triumph came into Marian’s eyes.

  “I saw him—yesterday,” she said, and had to stop to think before she said yesterday, because it seemed a long time ago.

  Poole’s heart leapt. Poole’s face showed nothing.

  “Can I get you anything, miss?” he said with cold civility.

  Marian woke next morning in Lindsay’s little guest room—a very mannish apartment, with Lindsay’s books over the mantelshelf, Lindsay’s spare boots in rows along the wall, and Lindsay’s clothes hanging inside the wardrobe. She had not expected to sleep, but she had slept dreamlessly for hours. Last night she had not known what she was going to do, but this morning she knew. She was going to find her sister. If she went to Santa’s and walked up and down on the opposite side of the road, she would be able to catch Elsie on her way to work. She paused here to consider that Lindsay had told her not to try and see Elsie. But Lin didn’t know that someone had tried to carry her off last night. She couldn’t go home. She must get into touch with Lin and ask him what she was to do. Elsie would know how she could do this without endangering Lin. She couldn’t go to him direct, but she must let him know what had happened.

  It occurred to her with a stab that what had happened to her might have happened to Elsie too. Lin had thought Elsie in danger. Why, anything might be happening to Elsie, now whilst she lay in bed. She dressed quickly, and then remembered that Elsie would not go to work before nine.

  At a quarter to nine she was walking slowly past the shop with Santa in a gold scrawl on the upper part of the plate glass window. The window itself contained three bare pegs and a strip of green and gold brocade. She had found the address quite easily by looking in the telephone directory.

  A little farther down on the other side of the road was a paper shop. She went over to it and bought a Daily Mail. A tall fair girl came along the street and Marian’s heart began to beat. She hadn’t thought till now that there might be other girls at Santa’s, and that she would not know Elsie if she saw her. She walked across, crushing the paper under her arm. No—this wasn’t Elsie. She felt sure that this wasn’t Elsie. She recalled Lindsay’s description and passed by. The girl opened the shop door and went in.

  Marian walked to the corner of the street and then turned quickly lest Elsie should come from the opposite direction and she should miss her.

  As she stood looking down the grey street, a girl came past—a girl in a black coat and a small black hat. Marian looked at her eagerly and saw brown eyes, a bright colour, a round face. She touched the girl’s arm and said, “Are you Elsie?”

  The girl stopped.

  “I’m Elsie Manning.”

  “Elsie—I’m Marian,” said Marian.

  Elsie turned to face her. The brown eyes fixed a clear searching look upon her face. Then she said,

  “You’re very like—Mother.”

  “Am I?”

  They stood looking at each other. Then with a start Elsie caught at Marian and hurried her back round the c
orner.

  “Let’s come somewhere where we can talk.”

  CHAPTER XLI

  POOLE ENDURED THE ARRIVAL of a second young lady with self-control. Mr Trevor would doubtless wish Miss Rayne and Miss Rayne’s friend to be provided with lunch, and in due course he went out to do the necessary shopping.

  The sisters, who had not met since they were babies, and met now under the shadow of a very pressing danger, had everything to say to one another and very little time to say it in. Neither kept anything back, and each felt an extraordinary relief.

  After an hour’s talk Elsie produced a plan. She would find Jimmy Thurloe, and Jimmy should get into touch with Lindsay.

  “You see, my dear, they’ll all be tearing their hair thinking you’ve been kidnapped. Why, by this time, I expect, they’re looking for me too. I shouldn’t wonder if Jimmy’s paper hadn’t got headlines out already.” She paused, frowning. “We don’t want to do anything to queer Lindsay’s pitch. It’s all very difficult—but I’m bound to let Jimmy know I’m all right. I’ll go and tidy up and get going.”

  She went into the bedroom.

  Marian was just going to follow her, when the doorbell rang. Poole was still out. Marian went to the door and opened it. A very tall man stood on the threshold. He was well dressed and well set up. As he removed his hat, he showed dark hair cut close. He put his hand on the door, walked past Marian into the hall, and shut the door again.

  “I think, my dear Marian, that we must have a little talk,” he said in a harsh grating tone.

  It was the voice alone that told Marian that this was Drayton. She looked at him with terrified incredulity. There was the great height—but Drayton stooped—and Drayton wore baggy clothes—and had bushy eyebrows and grey untidy hair. Yet this was Drayton’s hand upon her shoulder.

  He pushed her into the sitting-room and shut the door.

  “We will have our talk before Mr Trevor’s man comes back. I thought I should find you here.”

  “What do you want?” said Marian faintly.

  What did he want? What did he know? He seemed to know everything. He knew Lindsay’s name—he knew Poole had gone out. Did he know that Elsie was here? She stood, pale, with his hand on her, and looked at the cold, cruel eyes. Yes—these were Drayton’s eyes—her father’s eyes. She felt sick.

  “I won’t keep you,” he said. “I’m not anxious to stay. I am in fact leaving England. I merely want an undertaking from you that you will hold your tongue. It is not much to ask from a daughter.”

  She tried to speak, and failed. There was a dreadful force in his look.

  All at once she felt she could bear his touch no longer. She wrenched away from it and stood back, breathing hard.

  Drayton lifted his smooth black brows. She watched him, fascinated. This wasn’t Drayton at all. This was a much younger man, good-looking in a hard well-featured way. There was no likeness to the man who had terrified her at Blenheim Square. Only the cold force of his look and the harsh grating tones of his voice were Drayton’s; yet when he spoke again, it was in a new voice—a voice that went easily with this new personality—a cold, well-bred voice rather lacking in tone.

  “I am leaving England, probably for good. Before I go you will take an oath—” He paused and regarded her ironically. “I suppose an oath means some thing to you?” Then, as she made no answer, he dropped to the old grating note. “Does it?”

  The question struck her like a blow.

  She said, “Yes,” and gave back a pace.

  “If you took an oath, you would keep it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you will take one now.”

  She went back another step, and felt the wall. What was he going to ask her to swear?

  “You will swear never to identify me.”

  She said, “How?” in a whisper.

  His eyebrows rose again.

  “You have seen me as Drayton—and I was sufficiently indiscreet to let you know of my identity with Manning. These were confidences to a daughter. You will swear never to repeat them—never to give evidence against me—never to describe me as you see me now.”

  Marian let her head rest against the wall. If she promised—would he go away? Was it right for her to promise? Would it be right for her to give evidence against her own father? She felt sick and bewildered, and pushed by the man’s commanding will.

  And then all at once there was a little sound from the hall.

  It was the click of a latchkey.

  Marian made a startled movement. The door of the flat was opening. It must be Poole coming back.

  With one stride Drayton was beside her, his lips against her ear.

  “If you give me away, I shoot!”

  Then there was the clap of the closing door, and Lindsay Trevor’s voice calling:

  “Poole!”

  An awful expression of malignity broke the smooth surface of Drayton’s features. For a moment he showed another face, and it was horrible. It warned, commanded, threatened. As Marian shrank, he left her.

  On the side of the room behind the door that would surely open at any moment stood an oak press. Drayton reached it, opened the door, and vanished into the dark space. Marian caught a glimpse of golf clubs, and wondered whether they would come crashing down.

  There was no noise at all. Drayton had moved without making any noise. The door closed silently upon him. Just before it shut, his hand showed at the opening. There was a revolver in it.

  She stood still, and scarcely dared to breathe.

  Drayton did not know that Elsie was in the flat. Did Elsie know that Drayton was here? Could she warn Lin what was happening?

  What was going to happen?

  For about five feet from the floor the press was of solid oak, but across its upper half there ran a row of small turned pillars with spaces in between. Through these spaces Drayton must be watching to see what she was going to do.

  She stood against the wall, and knew what was going to happen. Lin would come into the room, and Drayton would shoot.

  All this came to her in one terrifying flash. In the next she knew that if she had the courage to run for the door—now, at once—there was a chance that she might save Lin. She caught her breath and dragged herself from the wall. Drayton would shoot her. She wondered if the sound would be very loud in that little room. But perhaps she wouldn’t hear it. She never thought that he might miss his aim.

  She began to run. But she was too late; the door was flung open and Lindsay met her half way across the room.

  “My darling child! What are you doing here?” he cried, and caught her in his arms.

  Marian felt as if she had been trapped between two tides of violent emotion. There was fear—the sort of fear that stripped you of thought, courage, and self-control—and there was an irrational flood of joy and relief because Lin was there. She clung to him as if it was now that he had come to her from the dead, and, clinging, tried to put herself between him and the press.

  His left arm tightened about her waist. His right hand gripped her arm with a steady warning pressure. His back was towards the press. His body screened her.

  In that moment she knew that Elsie must have warned him. He knew that Drayton was here, and he was shielding her. But Drayton must not know. She must pretend—she must talk.

  She said, “I came—”

  And Lin said again, “My darling child!” And then “Where’s Poole?”

  And at that there came the click of Poole’s key in the outer door.

  At the first sound of it Lindsay swung her round and with all the momentum of the swing sent her flying across the space between them and the open door.

  Poole, at the door of the flat, saw her come, her hands out in front of her, her feet stumbling and falling. She fell in a heap at his feet at the moment that the shot rang out.

>   Elsie Manning, half in and half out of the bedroom, screamed.

  There was a second shot, and a shout and a splintering crash.

  Poole took Miss Rayne in his stride and charged into the sitting-room. The doors of the press were open. A heaving struggling welter of legs, arms, and golf clubs met his view. He recognized Mr Trevor’s legs in a pair of strange trousers, and Mr Trevor’s voice calling his own name. The rest of the cupboard appeared to be full of a large and powerful man with a kick like a mule.

  Poole got two kicks, and between the two another shot went off and smashed the window. There was a tinkle of glass, and then the sound of something snapping, and a sort of howl of mingled pain and rage. Then Mr Trevor’s voice:

  “Look out! I’ve broken his arm! Now, Drayton, you’ve had enough, haven’t you? Chuck the revolver across the room! I’ve got him so that he’ll break the other arm if he tries anything on.”

  They got him out of the cupboard, raging. Then suddenly he was silent and limp.

  Lindsay called through the open door,

  “Marian—are you all right?”

  She said, “Yes.”

  He caught a glimpse of her with Elsie’s arm round her, very white.

  “One of you must telephone.” He gave a number. “Say we’ve got him, and they must send along a doctor because his arm’s broken.”

  The man who had called himself Drayton turned in the chair into which they had put him.

  “My own daughters!” he said in a tone of great bitterness.

  Lindsay saw Marian’s face go whiter still.

  “You know very well that they’re not your daughters,” he said. “You know very well that they are Lee Abinger’s daughters.”

  Marian cried out, “Lin—is it true?”

  “Absolutely. The papers were in the back of that picture of yours, Elsie. That’s why your mother was pasting it up—you said it was the last thing she did. Well, it’s set you free from the nightmare of thinking you belonged to this man. Your father was Lee Abinger, a brilliant young American artist. Elsie, will you get on to that number, please. Ask for Colonel Garratt. Say it’s urgent.”