Let love abide

by Norrey Ford

  She nodded. "Yes, please. Though you must decide for yourself, now you know Max is in it. How will Caro feel, if you have to prove Max guilty? If you prefer someone else to do it—"

  "I am only concerned with the truth. Someone is guilty and it will be my job to find out who it is. When I find out, I shall not spare him."

  "I know."

  "Sally, suppose it should be Simon?" His voice was deep and steady. "You know the way I work? You know I can't cover up, or fake, or hide. If Simon is the guilty party I must say so."

  She said softly, "You don't spare me, Paul."

  "I can't afford to. Do you think I can dig into this mess, not knowing what I shall find—without warning you?"

  "You need not warn me. I know you. I know Simon, too. He is innocent, I'm certain."

  He relaxed slightly and smiled, rubbing the back of his neck as if the muscles ached. "Frankly, so am I, as a man. As a lawyer I want to see the evidence."

  She smiled too, feeling suddenly happier and lighter in spirit. "Simon hasn't done anything criminal."

  He could not help admiring her loyalty, but he was afraid for her. Simon's tale was not a pretty one. With the best intentions he had been foolishly negligent. If the others had laid their plans well enough, the boy was fixed to take the rap. It would be a hard fight to get him clear. Unconsciously, he braced his shoulders.

  He owed the girl an apology, too. He'd misunderstood her entirely about Shand. That was a relief, because when he believed the worst about Sally his world was upside down and made him feel sick and dizzy. But now it had swooped round once more and looked sensible and normal, with Sally smiling a little anxiously at him; sweet, honest Sally, whom he loved. He understood, now, exactly why she'd been so pleased to hear Max Shand was back, and wondered if he ought to apologise for having doubted her. No, of course not—because in that case he'd first have to explain that he had doubted—and that would hurt her.

  He said, "You love Simon as I love Caroline—and the same man has hurt them both. Sally, I'll get Max Shand if it's the last thing I do. Come on, let's go."

  Simon's office was a wooden cubby-hole behind the wire-fenced yard where the second-hand cars stood for sale. It smelt of rubber, oil, and asphalt. Simon offered his visitors the two rickety bentwood chairs, and sat on an upturned oildrum padded with dog-eared copies of a motor magazine. At the end of the long hot afternoon, it was unbearably stuffy, even with the door half open. "It won't open any further," Simon apologised, "unless one of us sits

  in the yard. My managerial status is not very splendid, is it?"

  Paul put Simon through a merciless grilling. When, where, how? He was satisfied with nothing less than an exact answer, and if Simon declared he could not remember, he was brought back to the question again and again, like a horse which had refused a fence, until he was able to dredge up from his memory the fact Paul needed.

  Sally's head began to ache dully, and both men were now in shirt-sleeves. The boy's forehead shone with sweat and his voice was a croak. Paul covered a sheet of paper with notes, dates, figures, and when he glanced up in an irritated way at the window, Sally knew what he wanted, and switched on the unshaded light. Under its glare Simon looked yellow, hollow-cheeked, ill with the strain of these last days. He needed rest, not this pitiless questioning hour after hour. She thought angrily, doesn't Paul believe him?

  Paul's set face gave no hint of his thoughts. His eyes were hooded, except at times when he gave Simon a sudden piercing glance. He made no comment on his answers, except an almost inaudible grunt which might have been approval or disapproval.

  At last he threw down his slim fountain pen and leaned back in the wobbly chair with a long sigh. There were two deep ridges in his forehead, and the skin across the bridge of his nose was tightly stretched. From experience, Sally knew he was suffering from a blinding headache. She had seen him like this at the end of a hard day in Court.

  "Do stop," she begged. "You've been at it for hours."

  Paul looked at his watch. "I'd no idea ! My poor girl, you must be exhausted."

  "You must be! I've done nothing. Simon is half dead."

  Simon pushed his fingers through damp hair, stood up and stretched gingerly. "Ow! Third degree

  and then some! This man is a human X-ray. I haven't a private bone left in my body. Well, Mr. Winn—what's the verdict?" He spoke lightly, but his eyes were anxious.

  Paul did not answer him directly. He pulled his lower lip and looked so solemn that Sally's mouth went dry with fear.

  "We have a chance. A thin chance. Simon, you've been framed, very competently indeed. We shall have to sweat blood to bring these transactions home to Shand. You've been careless and too trusting."

  Simon nodded miserably. "I see that now. I ought to have gone to the police or a lawyer as soon as things looked fishy. But I don't really understand bookkeeping and all that, I just pushed everything down in the daybook and sort of hoped for the best. I know about engines, that's all."

  "Shand no doubt guessed you were what he wanted, an honest lad, respected family and so forth, with a knack for engines and a schoolboy's idea of accounts."

  "It makes me feel pretty small." Simon grinned sheepishly. "I thought so much of myself, too."

  "It happens to us all," Paul said, with quick understanding. "I've felt pretty humiliated myself at times. However, Shand overlooked one small detail—a matter of character. You're a bank manager's son, and somehow you've picked up, or inherited, a passion for scrupulous detail. You kept a diary. Apparently you hadn't much system and jotted everything down rather like a small boy spotting railway engines."

  "Smaller and smaller!"

  "Never mind. It's just what we want. Where is this diary? The police didn't take it, did they?"

  "No. It's at home with my personal papers."

  "Fetch everything you possess. Sally, you'd better go home with him; we shall be here all night, as far as I can see, but you must get some sleep."

  "If you and Simon are staying, I'm staying here too."

  "Nonsense," he snapped irritably. "You need some sleep. Go home at once." He spoke in a voice intended to be obeyed, but Sally had not the slightest intention of going home. So, shaking slightly with nerves and excitement, she continued to sit where she was.

  "Coming?" said Simon, to whom the idea of disobedience had not occurred.

  "I'm staying here. Tell Mummy we're all right, and ask her for some food and lots of coffee."

  Simon glanced at Paul, shrugged as if apologising for his sister, and went out. As he went, Paul tossed a car key over to him. "Use mine. It'll be quicker."

  When they were alone, Sally said softly, "Is it Max?"

  "Undoubtedly. Whether we can convince a jury remains to be seen. We must brief a good man." "Caroline?"

  "I'll have to tell her to-morrow. It will be a blow to my father, too. What fools we've been—and we wouldn't listen to you! I deserve to be kicked round the Market Cross for this. I ought to have known he was no good."

  "I don't see why. He's awfully plausible. My father never suspected anything, but I must admit Mummy didn't like him, except at first."

  "Wise woman! Well, we've given you a splendid opportunity of saying 'I told you so?! Shall we go out and stretch our legs? This office is a bit cramped."

  After the harsh light, the big yard seemed dark and full of strange shadows cast by the ranked cars. The cool evening air was refreshing, though it made Sally shiver.

  "Cold?"

  "Not really. Doesn't this place look queer—like

  a cemetery, or a slave market, or a lost-dogs' home?"

  They walked a little way, fascinated by the

  strange assortment of cars they could see as their

  eyes adjusted to the dimmer light outside. It was,

  after all, not quite dark, for there was a reflection from the metallic blue strip lighting on the main road not far away. Then suddenly the blue glow vanished, the night became blacker and the stars were
visible.

  Sally gave a squeak of surprise, and Paul chuckled. "It must be midnight. Half the street lighting has gone out." At the same time a car drew up at the gate, and they heard the creak of hinges.

  "Simon has been quick. Coffee first, I insist. Then you two may tie wet towels round your heads for as long as you please."

  Paul silenced her with a touch. "That isn't my car!"

  They had left the light burning in the office, and a yellow triangle streamed from the open door, cutting into the darkness like the prow of a little ship. Paul whispered, "It may be the police, coming to investigate the light, so late at night. If so, you stay here, out of sight. I'll explain. They will know me."

  It is impossible to listen to footsteps approaching in the dark without a catch of the breath, a quickening of the pulse.

  Whoever it was lost himself in the maze of cars. There was a tinny clatter, a sharp exclamation and brief pause. Then the footsteps again, nearer.

  A voice hailed them. "Simon? Is that you?"

  Sally drew a sharp, astonished breath, and whispered "Max!"

  Max Shand came into the yellow beam of light, shielding his eyes from the glare. He asked again, "March? That you in there?"

  Paul stood behind him. He said very quietly, "I've been waiting to see you, Shand. Suppose we go inside and have a chat."

  Max spun round. "Good grief! Paul Winn! What on earth are you doing in this dump?"

  "I told you. Waiting for you."

  Max's jaw sagged. "How did you know I was coming? I decided on the spur of the moment."

  "I read your mind. You received Simon March's messages, didn't you? Several of them, and the latest ones a bit panicky. You decided things were getting warm, and you've probably decided to go abroad for your health. But first, I guessed, you'd come here to see if there was anything you ought to remove from the office."

  "I don't know what you're talking about, but up to a point you are right. I am going abroad. Any objection to my taking a little holiday, Paul? And I do want one or two things from the files here. You speak as if I'm an intruder, but may I point out that you're the trespasser. This is, after all, my office. I pay the rent, I have a key. Do you mind very much if I ask you to go?"

  He was smooth, self-possessed after his first start of surprise. Sally knew he could not see her, as she stood in shadow beyond the light, but every detail of the scene between the men was visible to her. It seemed unreal, like a play.

  Paul said, "No, I don't mind. Because you're too late, Shand. The authorities have been investigating March's books for some time—and have taken them away. Events have moved fast in the last twelve hours, faster than you knew. I don't know all about you, Shand, but I know enough to see you're sent down for a good long stretch of prison."

  Sally knew that was bluff, but Max's face showed shock and fear. He hesitated a minute, then laughed uneasily. "Now that's not brotherly, Paul. Little Caroline wouldn't like that. If young March is in trouble, don't blame me. How should I know what he's up to when I'm away?" He spread his hands deprecatingly.

  "Keep Caroline out of this. I'm only sorry a cheap rat like you has power to hurt her as she is going to be hurt."

  Max's voice was oily. "Need she be hurt? Why such a pother over a few cars? Come on, you're a clever chap and Simon March means nothing to you.

  Let sleeping dogs lie, Paul, my friend. Let them lie—they won't stir, and the blame, if any, will fall on March. Well, he's young—what can a year or two in prison mean to him?—and after all, he might get off with a stiff fine. I paid him well, and he'll get his job back at a good salary when he comes out."

  "You low swine!"

  "Tut, tut! No hard names, please. I daren't mention money to an upright young lawyer, dare I? All the same, a well-to-do sister isn't to be sneezed at."

  "You're incredible? Are you trying to bribe me?"

  "Certainly not. Merely suggesting you stop poking those long, legal fingers of yours into what is, after all, your own pie—or your sister's, shall we say? Don't be a prig, man. Half the mink coats in London have been paid for out of a little deal on the side, if they haven't gone down in the record as business expenses. I've a fancy to see little Caroline in mink."

  Sally saw Paul's fingers bunch into a fist and flung herself forward to grab his arm. "No, Paul. He isn't worth it. I heard what he said—he tried to bribe you to keep out of the case. I heard everything you said, Max—you didn't know there was a witness, did you?"

  Paul moved her away gently. "This is between Shand and me, Sally. Keep out of the way."

  Max laughed, an ugly sound. "So it's the little sister? I wondered what brought you here at midnight, Paul. I didn't believe that stuff about waiting for me. All very fine and dramatic, no doubt, but too far-fetched. I don't think little Sally will talk, do you? All very pure and innocent, no doubt, this midnight meeting—but I must say you picked yourself a squalid spot for a love-nest. Doesn't the legal racket pay you better than that? Time you got out of it, and into something that does pay."

  Paul's fist bashed into his sneering smile and he went down, falling across the threshold of the but with a thick grunt. But he scrambled up at once and

  lunged at Paul, who side-stepped neatly so that Max had to make a clumsy turn.

  Sally pressed her hands to her mouth. Max's eyes glittered with temper, his lip was swollen and bleeding. Paul—the Paul Sally knew—was gone, and instead there was a man with a granite face, possessed by an anger as cold as iron.

  He said, in a voice Sally did not recognise, "I'm going to take you to pieces, you miserable dog," and even Max knew that he meant it. The man was panting, vicious as a cornered rat.

  "I'll settle you, Winn," he screamed, "and then I'll deal with the girl." Momentarily his rat eyes flickered over Sally and his tongue licked the swollen lip. "I'll witness you, my lady, when I've finished with your boy-friend here." He twisted himself away from the hut, out of the light and into the dark shadows among the cars. Paul went after him, and suddenly they were fighting, not like orderly boxers on a television programme but as men who hate or fear enough to kill. They fought in silence, except for the scuffle of their feet, a grunt, or the dunt of a blow. Sally wanted to turn her eyes away, but had to watch. It was not easy to tell which moving figure was which. Paul would win—he must! He was fitter than Max, and younger. But he was not winning easily.

  She gasped with dismay as Max sent Paul staggering into the bonnet of an ancient saloon. Paul freed himself, tearing his shirt sleeve from shoulder to cuff, and when he swung to meet his enemy, the open space was empty. Max had vanished.

  Sally was watching Paul, with no thought for herself, so she did not hear Max approaching until he touched her. He grabbed one arm. She screamed with all the power of her young lungs and beat at his face with her free hand. He loosened his grip as if surprised at the violence of her resistance, and she wrenched herself free and raced to the cover of the

  car lines. She dropped to her knees behind a rakish sports model, her heart pounding.

  Paul called, "Sally! Where are you?" but she dared not answer. She could hear Max's sobbing breath and the shuffle of his feet as he searched for her. Cautiously, on hands and knees, she crawled to the rear of the car and peered round. There was no one there, so she made a quick, low dash to the next line of vehicles. These were bigger cars, and she was able to stand upright behind a stately limousine which had seen better days. But Max had seen her. With a yell of triumph he rushed after her, and she flew to the next line and the next, dodging between the cars, bruising herself on mudguards, door handles or lamps, until she had to stop for breath.

  Max was hunting her silently now. The whole yard was silent. Somewhere, Max was searching for her—and Paul was hunting Max. But there was not a sound, not a shadow moved.

  Then there was a yell of triumph, a Red Indian howl which made Sally's ear-drums vibrate. Her taut nerves relaxed and she found she was giggling. That was Paul! Paul the stern, well-groomed, unex
ceptionable lawyer, the perfectionist! He had found his enemy, and was tearing him to little bits, yelling like a dervish. Sally pressed her palms together muttering, "He'll kill him! He'll kill him!" until shocked by the realisation that she was chanting the words exultantly. She ought to dash for the but and telephone the police—but Paul would hate that. This was not a moment for publicity, and Paul was more than capable of handling Max.

  There was a screech of tyres and then Simon, fumbling at the gate. Why, she was quite near the entrance—she could see plainly now, in the lights of the car. She yelled to attract his attention. "Simon, I'm here! Thank heaven you've come. It's Max and Paul! They're fighting "

  Simon thrust his coat into her arms and ran towards the fight, whooping joyously. And in a moment all was quiet.

  "Coffee!" Sally thought numbly. "We'll all need that coffee." She groped inside the car and found the family picnic basket, then realised Simon hadn't stopped to turn off the engine. She switched off, put on the handbrake—then she heard them calling her and halloo'd back, clear and strong. Paul came running to the gate."

  "Sally! Are you hurt? Did he hurt you?"

  "Not a bit," she assured him stoutly. "I was slightly scared and Simon's old cars dealt a few shrewd blows, but I'm all right. What about you? Oh, Paul!"

  She saw his face clearly in the lights of the car. He felt it gingerly. "Does it look awful?"

  She giggled helplessly. "Your shirt is in ribbons."

  "That was a car, not Max." He grinned at her in spite of his bruised lip. "When you and I forgather, my girl, the results are unpredictable and usually troublesome. There's a first-aid box in the car—and are those vacuum flasks you're hugging?"

  "Coffee. What happened to Max? Did the sky fall on him?"

  "I knocked him out. Simon is sitting on him. Come inside and lock the gate. We don't want an enterprising young constable walking in on this party. "

  Simon had lifted Max to a chair, where he sat breathing heavily, his head sagging in his hands. A line of blood ran down his jaw and trickled into his neck, staining his collar and shirt.