“I am. Are you going to notify them that I’m here?”
“We can talk about that.” The fat woman stood waiting, watching Corinne. Durell saw that under Mrs. Gibney’s sudden composure, the hysteria still quivered, like a banked fire ready to burst into flame again. He made up his mind quickly.
“Corinne, there’s an Austin-Healey parked in the driveway near the sea wall. It‘s Hackett’s. He left the key in it. Go there and get in it and Wait for me.”
Her ripe mouth trembled. She hugged the towel carelessly around her body. “I’m afraid to go back there.”
“I’ll be along as soon as Mrs. Gibney finishes. It’s all right now.”
She still hesitated. Her thick dark hair clung to the shape of her small head. curled wetly about her throat and shoulders. She looked at the surf and shuddered. She looked small and helpless for a moment, like a frightened, bedraggled child. Then she glanced up at Mrs. Gibney‘s mountainous figure and her face changed, hardened, grew vicious and mean.
“You fat slob,” she whispered. “If you hadn’t caught me by surprise, you couldn‘t have done it. You ugly pig! You bag of jelly! You—”
“That’s enough," Durell said sharply. “Get going.”
Corinne stood up disdainfully, facing the fat woman, whose babyish face was turned in the shadow against the moonlight. The wind whimpered in the grasses of the dune. Mrs. Gibney made an answering sound in her throat. Durell pushed the girl forward
“Go ahead. I’ll see you at the car in ten minutes.”
“Sam, be careful.”
“I’m not worried about Mrs. Gibney.”
“But they’ll be looking for you. Right here.”
“Do they know I was to meet you?”
“I’m not sure. I told Henry—Colonel Gibney.”
“All right. Start walking.”
She glanced with contempt at the fat woman once more, made a Gallic gesture of derision, and then climbed down from the grass—grown dune. Durell stood watching her free, proud stride until she had gone beyond the jetty toward the picnic fire. Nobody bothered her. He drew a deep breath and turned to Mrs. Gibney. The fat woman was looking at the moon-silvered sea. Her face quivered and shook. As he watched her, she sank ponderously to her massive knees and leaned forward, her face in her hands. The Gargantuan flesh shook and trembled as she began to sob. Durell fished in his wet pockets for a cigarette, found the pack sodden, and threw it away. His gun, in his inside coat pocket, had remained reasonably dry.
“Mrs. Gibney.”
He heard her sobbed words from behind her small, dimpled hands. “I’m fat . . fat. Ugly and horrible."
“You could probably do something about that,” he said quietly, “if you wanted to.”
“No, no. . . .”
“Is that why you tried to kill Corinne?”
“I don’t know what happened to me. But I hate her so . . .Yes, I once looked like she does.” The babyish face came up, stained with tears that were silver in the moonlight. Her eyes were beautiful, even though they were swollen by her sobbing. “Do you believe that?”
“Why not?” he asked. “But you don’t go around wanting to kill every young girl you see. Why pick on Corinne?”
“Because of Henry,” she whispered. Her huge shoulders slumped under the towel that covered her. “I surprised her—with Henry. I don’t blame him for not wanting me, or for ignoring me that way. But I wish—I’ve so often hoped—”
“That’s not the whole reason," Durell said.
“No. Of course not.”
“What’s the rest of it?“
“Roger is the rest of it. My son.”
“Corinne knew him?”
“Roger wrote about her, long before he—before he was caught in East Berlin. He wrote that he’d met a wonderful French girl and Wanted to marry her.”
“What was he doing over the line, by the way?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know,” she moaned.
“Why should you try to kill your son’s girl, then?” he asked.
She looked up, her big childish eyes reflecting tragedy. “Don’t you see? Roger’s girl—he loves her—and she, with Roger’s father, with her background—”
“Why should she do that?”
“Because she must be thoroughly rotten. She’s vicious and evil. And she’s a spy.”
He waited.
“She’s working for the Quenton crowd. You must not trust her, Mr. Durell. You‘re in very serious trouble, I understand. You’re in that trouble simply because Henry is half crazy with worry, trying to keep Roger alive over there, hoping he can keep them from killing him. I know what Henry has done. And why he forced you to do what you did. And it’s killing him, too. But he can’t help himself. I think I would do the same, if I had the opportunity. I’m not sure. Roger is all I have. My only son. I don’t want them to kill him. I’d do anything they ask, as long as they don’t hurt him.”
“If Corinne is Rogers girl," Durell asked, “why should she work for Quenton and try to stop you from helping Roger, all at the same time?”
“I don’t know,” the fat woman moaned. “She came to us a month ago and introduced herself. We took to her, at first. Henry was very fond of her. She knew Roger so well, it was almost like a visit from him." Her small hands fluttered to her face, then sank down again, as if the weight of her massive arms was too much for her. She bowed her head. “I’m so ashamed. You saw me. I’m so ugly,” she said irrationally. “Nobody has ever seen me like that for—-for years. Not even Henry. Especially not Henry. But I— Those people down the beach—they have a rule on nights like this. You can’t go on the beach unless you—unless you go like the rest of them. It’s all false, you know. All an excuse for their licentious parties. I‘m not a prude, Mr. Durell. But it’s shocking and disgraceful, seeing those people who hold responsible positions come here and behave the way they do. Thank goodness they’re in a tiny minority in Washington. Their excuse is the strain and tensions of their jobs. But it‘s only an excuse, you know. They’re no good. It’s a small cult, almost, that Mr. Quenton has collected around him. They’re all birds of a feather.” She looked up at him. “You should never have come here. It’s a trap for you.”
“Perhaps you can help me,” he suggested gently.
She nodded, chins folding over and over each other. “I’ve been thinking about that. You can stay with us. We’re only half a mile down the beach. And although Quenton permitted only a few of us to stay here at Cramden on his sufferance, I don‘t think he would dare order our house searched. I’ll hide you there.”
“Is Corinne your house guest, too?”
She made a sound of contempt. “The police want her, too, I understand. But Henry says that Mr. Quenton ordered him to give her shelter.”
“Haven’t the police been around here, looking for her?"
“Oh, yes. But Mr. Quenton has this island set up legally as a municipality, and his own men are in charge of the police. It’s a farce, of course, but no one dares challenge it. The government people went off somewhere else after speaking to Mr. Quenton.”
He felt cold, as if a knife had been thrust into him.
“I had no idea it was like this.”
He paused. There was something here that he did not understand, that contradicted itself. It did not seem possible that the agencies looking for him would actually back down from Quenton and deny the obvious possibility that Corinne and he were hiding here. Yet Mrs. Gibney spoke as if he would be safe here. And Corinne had implied the same. He did not feel safe.
The fat woman stood up. It was a major operation, and he had to check his impulse to offer a hand, knowing she would resent it. She rolled first to one massive haunch, doubled a flabby leg the girth of a small tree, grunted, lifted herself to one knee, pushed upward with a hand on her leg, and stood, panting a little. She pushed at her pale wet hair and wrapped the beach towel more tightly around her bulging figure.
“You must think I’m an awful foo
l,” she said quietly.
“No. You have your problems.”
“You don’t strike me as a man willing to sell out his country just for money,” she went on. There was quick intelligence in her eyes as the moonlight washed over her babyish face. “You look like a man with much on his conscience, but not the sort that Henry might safely deal with in order to satisfy them.”
“I owe your husband a great deal of money.”
“He told me about the bridge games. But Henry is naive.”
Danger touched him in her quiet voice. “What do you mean?"
“A man like you—Henry should have troubled to inquire about your record. He’s so frantic for Roger’s safety that he isn’t his normal self. He didn’t check into your background very thoroughly.”
Durell was still. “And you did?”
“You couldn’t possibly have lost that much money to Henry unless you did so with deliberate intent. Henry is an abominable bridge player. And you have a record as something of an expert.”
He was silent, staring at her. The wind threw spray against his cheek. He smelled the salt of the sea.
“Why does one think that fat people must necessarily he slow and stupid?” Mrs. Gibney asked gently. Her smile was quite small. “You are a dangerous man, Mr. Durell. Henry may be tooled by you, but I am not. I know that you are not what you pretend to be. Some aspects about you puzzle me—your trial today, which certainly was not a false pretense. And your escape. On the other hand, you are after something I may not want you to have.”
“Such as?” he asked quietly.
“It might be Henry. I wouldn’t want you to hurt him.”
“I may have to,” he admitted bluntly.
“Or Roger. If you do anything to jeopardize Roger’s safety while he’s a prisoner over there . . .” She paused.
“Yes?”
“Then I may have to kill you, Mr. Durell,” she said.
chapter TWELVE
A CLOUD drifted over the face of the moon. The sea wind felt cold through Durell’s wet clothing. From far down the beach, where the picnic fire still burned, came a tattered fragment of dim laughter. He looked that way and saw against the luminous sky the outline of Hackett’s two guards, big and dark atop the jetty, their narrow heads and thick necks thrust forward like twin birds of prey. They were scanning the dune where he stood with Mrs. Gibney, looking directly at him.
Mrs. Gibney had not seen them. She said, “I hope you take my warning seriously, Mr. Durell.”
“I know you mean it. Who are those men?”
She looked toward the high jetty. Her dimpled hand fluttered. “They work for Amos Hackett. Quenton, really. Arethey looking for you?”
“I think so. But I need ten minutes with Corinne first.”
“Will you hurt Roger, Mr. Durell?”
“I’ll try not to.”
“Tell me why you’re here,” she insisted. “I want to know. If I can, I might help you. You can stay with Henry and me. You can be safe there. I don’t think Quenton would dare try anything violent. If only I knew—”
There was no more time. One of the men leaped lightly to the sand from the jetty, his body quick and pantherish. The other followed. They trotted at an easy gait, side by side, along the beach toward the grassy dune where he stood with the fat woman. Their advance was swift and silent and purposeful. Mrs. Gibney sucked in a slow breath.
“Will you stall them for me?” Durell asked quickly.
“Yes. Hurry. I’ll meet you at my house. Corinne will show you where it is. Run!”
Durell retreated over the crest of the dune. The two men down the beach saw his move and abruptly cut away from the water’s edge and ran at a diagonal to intercept him in the wild salt-water bogs inland of the dunes. Their trot became a swift loping run. Durell slid down the opposite side of the dune into knee-deep water, thrashed forward for a dozen steps, and came upon another weedy rise. The sea was out of sight. The moon was hidden behind thin clouds, but the scene was washed by warm starlight. He took the gun from his pocket and looked to right and left. House lights twinkled distantly to the north. But he wanted to go south, back of the sea wall, where Corinne waited for him. If she waited.
The two men suddenly appeared on the crest of the dune, rising from the earth with shocking suddenness. They looked big and dark and ominous against the night sky. Metal glinted in the hand of the first man. Then Mrs. Gibney appeared, too, calling to them. They turned their heads toward her, but they did not swing aside.
Durell backed toward the high ridge of land that formed the backbone of the island. The road was in that direction. If he could double back on the landward side and circle around the Quenton place, he might not be too late to reach Corinne. A shout followed him as he threshed through another salt-water inlet. He looked back, lifted the gun in his hand. The two men came on fast, along a dry path they knew, cutting down the distance with alarming speed. Durell spun north, running through high wild grass. He looked back again and saw only one of his pursuers. The other had vanished. He twisted left toward the road, saw the distant power poles stark against the night sky. Then the second man suddenly appeared, directly ahead of him.
Durell ran straight for him.
The second man stopped in surprise. He had a gun in his hand, but it was lowered, muzzle pointing to the sand. His face was a narrow wedge of white in the moonlight. His mouth opened like a dark slit and the gun started up as Durell dived at him from the top of the dune. A strangled shout ripped the night air. Then Durell slammed into him and the other stumbled and clawed backward, lost his footing, and twisted on one hand and knee, struggling to rise. Durell chopped at him with his gun and the man rolled down the dune ahead of him. Durell jumped, landed with both knees on the man’s chest, and hit him again. There was a fury in him that lifted his arm once more, a rage like a wild storm shaking him. He checked the last blow. It was unnecessary. The man was out, a burly clod of flesh no longer dangerous to him. He rose and ran for the highway.
There was no more pursuit. Beyond the road was a hedge of wild chokecherry, low and scrubby, and he followed the line of sheltering brush until he was safely beyond the lights of the Quenton house before he doubled back toward the sea. The party was still going on, quieter now, and as he approached the sea wall he saw that the picnic fire was only a glowing heap of dying ashes.
The Austin-Healey was still where Hackett had left it, at the end of the driveway close to the sea wall. He approached it with caution, looking for signs of renewed chase from the big house nearby. He saw no one. The two men who had pursued him had not returned.
The English sports car seemed empty.
Then as he opened the door he saw Corinne’s figure loom up from where she had been crouching. Her arms snaked out, white and firm and still cold-wet, and she pulled him toward her awkwardly.
“I thought you would never get here,” she breathed. “Oh, be quick. I’m sick. Hurry, Sam.”
The keys were still in Hackett’s car. Durell slid onto the low leather seat beside the girl. Corinne was careless with the beach towel. He saw in the moonlight the firmness of one breast, the smooth curve of hip and thigh. She seemed unaware of herself. He heard her teeth chatter.
“Take it easy,” he said.
“Just get me away from here. Please—hurry.”
He started the motor, backed quickly down the shell drive, turned hard, and drove to the wide sand road that led away from the house. He did not turn on the headlights.
“Go left,” Corinne said.
“But that’s the end of the island.”
“You cannot go the other way. They have guards. Didn’t you see them?" She huddled close to him, her face dim and vague inside the car. “We have only a little time before they catch us. It is certain to happen.”
“You’ve been here before, then.”
“Yes. Many times. I have walked around. I know the island well.”
He turned left. The road promptly deteriorated into dim twi
n ruts, and he guided himself by the wash of pale moonlight. The house was quickly lost behind a line of wild dunes.
He did not drive fast. The island narrowed rapidly until he could see the wide, black reach of the ocean on both sides, laced with white combers over the shallows and bars. The wheels splashed hard as he forded a tidal creek. Corinne’s teeth kept chattering. Her hands touched him, resting on his arm and thigh, as if to assure herself that he was there.
“Behind that jetty,” she said finally. “Hardly anyone ever comes here.”
“Is anyone waiting?” he asked bitterly.
“Why should anyone wait here for us?”
“You arranged for Hackett and his men to follow me the last time you directed me for a drive.”
“Oh, please. Trust me. I had to do it.”
He turned the English car out of the rots into deep, black shadow cast by crooked pilings. The jetty was ancient and barnacled, partially buried in the eternally shifting sands. The surf was much rougher here than at the house. Its thunder filled the air and shook the earth. The wind felt colder, too, blowing from the empty east. There was a primitive loneliness to this spot that touched a sympathetic chord in him, reminding him of places in the bayous that seemed so ancient and primeval that it was almost sacrilegious to enter.
He cut the motor and sat still.
Corinne shivered and crept close to him on the car seat. Her long legs pressed against him.
“I feel as if I am flying apart. You know?” she whispered. He saw the smooth muscles of her jaw twitch as she fought to keep her teeth from chattering again. “I feel as if there is something in my head about to burst. I am going to be sick.”
“Go ahead. Then we’ll talk.”
“Do not be cruel, Sam!”
“I owe you nothing," he pointed out.
“But we are both in desperate trouble. We are lost. Why can’t we be friends? Allies?"
“I could name a few reasons.”
“I will tell you anything you want to know. I can help you. We can help each other. Perhaps we can run away from it, get out of the country. It’s what they will offer you —but you mustn’t accept their help. You and I could find some place where nobody would know us, where they won’t catch us. Couldn’t we do that?”
Assignment - Treason Page 10