by Andrea Blake
“How long will it take, do you think, to get here from Paris?” she asked.
“At this time of night? Not more than an hour, mademoiselle.” He smiled encouragingly at her. “That is providing that your friend’s auto is in better condition than my old bus.” He gave the veteran Delahaye an affectionate slap on the bonnet and went back to his tinkering.
After about twenty minutes, physical weariness and the soporific effect of the good red wine he had given her made Noelle’s eyelids heavy. She tided to keep awake and listen to his explanations of the Delahaye’s mechanical troubles, but his voice got fainter and fainter and presently she slept.
She was roused by being gently shaken. The garage proprietor was bending over her.
“A car has come, mademoiselle. It must be your friend. Soon you will be safely home.”
Noelle blinked at him. It was a second or two before she remembered where she was and why. Then the sound of footsteps coming towards the door made her straighten and look anxiously towards it.
“Oh, Mark—you’ve come!” She jumped to her feet and went to him, her whole face alight with relief.
But there was no answering warmth in Mark’s expression as he entered the garage and surveyed her. Noelle had never seem him look so grim, his eyes as cold as granite, his lips compressed with anger. Her smile faded, and the eager, words of gratitude died on her lips.
“I’m terribly sorry to have dragged you out so late, b-but I couldn’t think of anything else I could do,” she stammered nervously. “Oh ... this is Monsieur Lyon.”
Mark acknowledged the introduction with a cool nod. “It was fortunate for mademoiselle that your premises were open at this hour,” he said curtly. “We are in your debt.” And thrusting some notes into the little man’s hand, he gripped Noelle by the elbow and marched her out of the garage before she had even time to add her own thanks.
After being bundled into the car with more speed than chivalry, and having the door slammed shut with a force that made her wince, Noelle scarcely dared open her mouth. But when they had left the village and were in top gear, she said in a small voice, “I really am very sorry about this, Mark. I—I do realize how annoying it must be.”
“Annoying!” The harshness of his laugh jarred her. “My God, that’s a masterly understatement.”
“I’m sorry,” she repeated huskily. “I didn’t want to be a nuisance to you, but what else could I do? There wasn’t a bus I could catch, and I hoped to hire a car from the other village, but they wouldn’t believe me about my bag.”
“What other village?” he asked sharply.
“I don’t know the name. It was about two miles further back.”
“You mean you walked two miles alone and in the dark?”
“No, I borrowed a bicycle. A girl at a cafe said Monsieur Lyon might help me, and he would have done if his car hadn’t been laid up.”
Mark said something under his breath. “What wouldn’t they believe about your bag?” he asked tersely.
“That I’d ... lost it,” she said, in a low voice. “I suppose it must have sounded rather lame.”
“So you’ve been wandering about the countryside without any money and with no idea where you were,” he said icily. “Well, it should have been a salutary experience. Perhaps in future you won’t be so confident about taking care of yourself. What were you planning to do if I hadn’t been in?”
“I suppose I should have stayed at the garage,” she said wearily. “If I’d guessed you were going to be so furious I would never have asked you for help.”
“How did you expect me to react?” Mark demanded scathingly.
“Well, certainly not as if I’d done something criminal.” Her voice shook, and tears smarted under her eyelids.
Mark did not reply to this, and for the rest of the drive Noelle sat silent and wretched, bitterly regretting her call to him.
It was almost one o’clock when they passed through the Champs Elysees, and she was shivering with nerves and exhaustion. But it wasn’t until Mark stopped the car that she realized they were not at the courtyard gate, but in an unfamiliar street outside a tall office-like building.
“Out you get,” he said curtly, switching off the engine.
“Why have we come here?” she asked perplexedly, when he joined her on the pavement.
He took her arm and led her into the building. The long parquet hall was still alight, and he pressed a switch beside a lift.
“You’ll have to spend the night in my flat,” he said bluntly.
The door of the lift slid open, but Noelle hung back. “But I can’t!” she protested. “I must go back to the house.”
His mouth tightened. “Unfortunately for you, it happens to be one of the rare evenings when the Tregans aren’t at some function. You won’t make it easier for yourself by knocking the household up at this hour. It’s just possible that, if, we get up early in the morning, you may be able to slip in without anyone knowing you’ve been out all night.”
“But what about the children and Ginette? She’ll be waiting for me to come back. If I don’t turn up soon she’ll think I’ve had an accident and wake Madame Duvet.”
“That’s a risk you’ll have to take. Knowing Ginette, I daresay she’ll more likely jump to another conclusion and try to cover up for you,” he said cynically.
Considering this, Noelle felt he might be right. The nurserymaid might be worried by her lateness, but she wouldn’t be in any hurry to inform Madame Duvet. And it was possible that Michel had told her his version of the night’s events. He must have sobered by the time he got back to the city, and would have been anxious to cover himself as far as possible.
“Come on; you need some rest,” Mark said briskly.
“If I can’t go back to the house, I’ll have to go to a pension,” Noelle insisted.
“At this time of night? With no luggage? Don’t be a fool. Even in Paris they expect some sort of credentials,” he said impatiently. “And it’s a little late in the day to start worrying about being compromised.”
Before she could offer any more objections he pushed her into the lift and closed the door.
His flat was on the first floor. A small lobby led into a comfortably-furnished sitting room with windows overlooking the street.
“You’ll sleep better if you have a quick bath,” Mark said, opening a door which gave a glimpse of white tiles.
Noelle heard him opening a cupboard, then turning on taps. A moment later he reappeared.
“I’ve put out a clean towel, and there’s a spare toothbrush in the medicine cupboard. In you go, and I’ll find something to sleep in.”
In the bathroom Noelle stared at herself in the mirror above the wash basin. She had to admit that a hotel reception clerk would be entitled to view her with dubiety. Her hair was tousled, there was a streak of grime down one cheek and the marks of anxiety and fatigue under her eyes. She was still gazing at her unpleasing reflection when Mark came back and tossed pyjamas and a dressing gown on the chair.
For the first time since he had found her, his expression softened a little. “Now just stop worrying and get yourself cleaned up. The world hasn’t come to an end yet,” he said briskly.
By the time she had bathed and cleaned her teeth, Noelle felt slightly more normal. His blue and white poplin pyjamas were sizes too large for her, and the dressing gown came to her ankles. Opening the bathroom window to let out the warm steam, she folded her clothes together and went shyly into, the sitting room.
“Feeling better now?” Mark turned from the window and crushed out a cigarette.
“Yes, thank you.” She clutched her bundle of clothes, avoiding his eyes. “I—I hope you don’t mind, I used your hairbrush.”
“Not at all. You’re sleeping in here.” He opened another door. “I’ve changed the sheets, but I’m afraid there’s only one pillow. If you like a couple perhaps you can fold up a blanket.”
“Oh, but I can’t take your bed,” she exclaimed
. “Why can’t I sleep on this couch?”
“Because that’s where I’m sleeping.” He gave her a sardonic look. “Don’t lock the door right away. I’m going to fix you a nightcap.”
The bedroom was small and impersonal. A stack of books on the locker and a Dufy print above the chest of drawers were the only indications of his occupancy. There were no photographs, no clothes about, no odd pieces of masculine impedimenta.
Noelle hung her clothes over the back of a chair, then hovered uncertainly on the rug. Finally, she slipped off the dressing gown and climbed quickly between the sheets. She was sitting up, with the clothes pulled up to her armpits and her hands clasped round her knees, when he tapped and came in with a beaker.
“Hot milk and whisky. It’ll help you to get off,” he said, handing it to her.
Her hand shook as she took the pottery mug. “Mark ... I—I wish you’d let me explain,” she said appealingly.
“It’s been a long day. The explanations can ride for another eight hours. Don’t worry, I’ll call you in good time. Just get that milk down and start counting sheep.” He picked up the dressing gown and went to the door.
Noelle saw him take the key out of the lock and fit it into the other side.
“Goodnight,” he said coolly.
The door closed, the key was turned and, a second later, came sliding underneath the door. Twenty minutes later the sitting room light went out and the flat was silent.
Noelle was woken by the muted ringing of an alarm clock in the other room. It was switched off almost at once, but the sound had been enough to rouse her from a shallow sleep. For a while she lay staring at the unfamiliar ceiling and trying to subdue her mounting apprehension of the day ahead. Then, when she judged that Mark had had time to dress, she got up and put on her own clothes.
Bacon was sizzling in the kitchen when she ventured into the sitting room. Mark was using an electric razor with one hand and jostling curly rashers in the frying pan with the other when she peered cautiously round the doorway.
“Oh, you’re up,” he said, catching sight of her and switching off the razor. “Crack a couple of eggs while I finish dressing, will you?”
The eggs had a pearly glaze and were crispy brown round the edges when he came back, straightening a grey silk tie.
“How did you sleep?” he asked.
“Not too well. I—I dreamt a lot,” she said awkwardly.
While they were having breakfast the telephone rang. Mark’s eyebrows rose, and he glanced at his watch. Noelle saw from her own that it wasn’t yet seven.
“Someone else is up early,” he said dryly, pushing back his chair.
Noelle couldn’t hear his conversation, but she felt sure that the call was from the house, and every second that he was out of the room made her more tense and panicky.
“The Tregans?” she asked quickly when he came back.
Mark nodded. “There’ll be no slipping in on the quiet, I’m afraid,” he said, with a rather curious expression on his face.
“What’s happened? Are they furious? Did you tell them I was here?” she asked, in alarm.
“They’ve only just discovered you’re missing, and they’re more anxious than annoyed.”
Noelle jumped up. “I must go back at once.”
“No, wait a minute.” He barred her way, his hands on her shoulders.
“Noelle, why the devil didn’t you tell me that de Bressac had nothing to do with this?”
“Alain?” she said blankly. “But of course he didn’t. You ... you mean you thought it was all Alain’s fault?”
“What else did you imagine I thought?”
She stared at him incredulously. “But it had nothing to do with him,” she said in astonishment. Then understanding dawned: “So that’s why you were so angry with me.”
“I wasn’t too pleased,” he admitted wryly. “Apparently I misjudged the situation.”
“I thought you were furious at my asking you to help. But what did you think Alain had done? Just dumped me in the wilds and left me to hitch-hike home?” she asked bewildered.
“Something like that,” he admitted. “It’s not entirely unknown for men to leave girls in the lurch if they aren’t too ... amenable.”
Noelle’s eyes widened. “Well, you may not approve of Alain, but I can’t see why you should suspect him of that sort of thing. He’s much too civilized,” she said bluntly.
“All right, I apologize. But if de Bressac wasn’t involved, what the blazes were you doing stuck out there?”
“I would have told you if you’d given me a chance,” Noelle said coolly, remembering the strain of the drive. “It was Michel who left me in the lurch, as you put it.” As briefly as she could she told him what had happened. “I know now that I should never have accepted a lift. But even though I didn’t like him, I didn’t think he was quite so ... so beastly,” she ended unhappily.
“I see.” Suddenly Mark’s face was almost as grim as it had been the night before. “Well, I’ve never liked the fellow either, and I fancy he won’t like me after today.”
“I don’t suppose he would have been like that if he hadn’t had too much wine,” Noelle said hurriedly. In spite of the ordeal the chauffeur had given her, the cold glitter in Mark’s eyes made her feel a certain concern for the Frenchman’s future wellbeing.
“But, Mark ... I don’t understand,” she said, puzzled. “How did you find out that it wasn’t Alain’s fault? Surely Michel hasn’t admitted to the Tregans that he left me? Oh, no, he can’t have, or you wouldn’t have asked what did happen.”
Mark pressed her gently back into her chair. “This seems to be one of those times when troubles pile up on each other,” he said gravely. “Apparently de Bressac has had an accident. He was admitted to hospital yesterday afternoon, and is still in a pretty bad way.”
“Oh, no!' Poor Alain! But how did you know all this?”
“The hospital have been trying to get in touch with you. That’s how the Tregans found out you hadn’t been back. They rang me on the off chance that I might know where you were.”
“Why did the hospital want me?”
“It seems that de Bressac has been asking for you. They want you to go round right away. I imagine he’s running a fever, and they think you can calm him down. Look, we’d better not waste any more time. I’ll tell you the rest on the way.”
Five minutes later they were in the car again and heading towards the river.
“Mark—is Alain very bad?” Noelle asked quietly.
“I don’t know. I’m afraid he can’t be too good, for them to want you there at once.”
Somehow her own predicament no longer seemed very important, but she said, “What did you tell the Tregans about my being out all night? Was it Sir Robert who called you?”
He nodded, his eyes on the road; “I told him that you were perfectly safe and well, and that I’d explain the whole thing when I saw him.”
“No, I can’t let you do it for me,” she said quickly. “I must do my own explaining, and just hope that they’ll believe me.”
“Of course they’ll believe you. Why shouldn’t they?” he asked, glancing at her.
She hesitated. “You were quite ready to believe the worst of me,” she pointed out.
“Not of you—of de Bressac,” he said dryly. “And I was looking at the situation from another viewpoint,” he added, in an odd tone. “Have you had any trouble with Michel before?”
“Nothing definite. I never liked him much, but when he offered me a lift to the station it seemed silly to refuse. He hadn’t started drinking then, you see.”
They had reached the hospital, and Mark parked at the main entrance; and took her inside. He explained their arrival to the porter, and they were shown to a small waiting room.
“Like to try a cigarette?” Mark offered.
Noelle shook her head. She moved restively around the central table with its neat rows of thumbed magazines.
“You needn’
t wait for me. I can get a taxi back to the house.”
“Of course, I’ll wait for you,” he said sharply. “Look, Noelle—”
Whatever he had been about to say to her was cut off by the entrance of a small bearded man in a white jacket.
“You are Mademoiselle Webster?” he asked, without preamble.
Noelle nodded.
“I am Charvet,” the man said briskly. “And you, monsieur?” he asked, looking at Mark.
“Mr. Fielding is a friend,” Noelle said rapidly. “How is Alain now, doctor?”
The Frenchman removed his spectacles and tucked them neatly in his pocket.
“I think I must speak to you privately, mademoiselle. If monsieur will excuse us ...?”
“Of course. I’ll be waiting for you in the hall, Noelle.” With an encouraging pat on her shoulder Mark left the room.
He had no sooner shut the door than the doctor said swiftly, “You may calm yourself, mademoiselle. Our patient is in no immediate danger, although his condition gives cause for some concern. Before we go to him I shall be grateful if you will answer a few questions.”
“Of course—whatever you want to know.”
“First, what is your relationship with the patient?”
“We were friends,” Noelle replied.
“You use the past tense, mademoiselle?”
“Well ... we haven’t seen each other for some time.”
The doctor clicked his teeth. “Please, mademoiselle, this is not the moment for evasions. As I understand it, your connection was closer than friendship. You were in love, were you not?”
Noelle bit her lip. She wanted to be helpful, but it was not easy to discuss her personal life with a stranger—even a doctor.
“Alain thought he was in love with me for a little while,” she admitted, her color rising. “It—it wasn’t a lasting thing.”
“What you mean, I presume, is that you did not reciprocate his regard,” the doctor said dryly.
Noelle nodded. She was thankful that the doctor had asked Mark to leave them. This cross-examination would have been doubly embarrassing with Mark as a witness.