by Anne Mather
‘I won't be a moment. The ladies’ room, you understand…'
Damon rose to his feet politely as she left the table, and then subsided again. What the hell, he thought, irritably, he was behaving as though he cared what happened to her. And yet he had respect for any human being, and although she did not move him emotionally he was concerned about her just the same. He thought maybe when she came back from the ladies’ room, he would take her for a meal in the restaurant, and maybe then she would tell him what was troubling her.
He lifted his drink, and realized he still held an unlit cigarette between his fingers. Damn, the lighter, he thought. Tsai Pen Lung must have taken it with her. He glanced round moodily, wondering whether he had been completely wrong about her, and her motives. The lighter was valuable; it had been given him on his twenty-first birthday by his parents, and although being gold with a jewelled monogram its sentimental value far exceeded its intrinsic worth. Had she been merely a thief, using a new method of obtaining her loot? And if so, why hadn't she attempted that kind of trick earlier?
‘Give me a light, Paul,’ he said, and Paul leaned over to oblige.
‘Where's Tsai Pen Lung?'
‘The ladies’ room, I guess,’ remarked Damon, unwilling to admit to his doubts.
Paul frowned. ‘What's wrong? Where is your lighter, anyway? Has it run out?'
Damon shook his head. ‘Later,’ he said testily, and swallowed his whisky. ‘Let's have a bottle of that stuff, shall we? It doesn't seem particularly potent.'
Paul beckoned the waiter and ordered a bottle, and Damon consulted his watch. It was exactly six minutes since Tsai Pen Lung left for the ladies’ room. He would give her five more minutes and then he would take a walk into the lobby to see whether he could see her. He had no illusions. If she had stolen his lighter there was not a chance in a thousand that he would get it back. But even so he had no intention of simply sitting there waiting without knowing one way or the other.
The minutes elapsed, and Paul, who had given up his conversation about baseball, said: ‘She's a hell of a long time, isn't she?'
Damon's temper was rising, and he was in no mood for light chatter, so he did not reply, and Paul shrugged, and helped himself to another drink, idly studying the women, speculating on their attributes to himself for his own satisfaction. They were all smart, most of them very smart with elegant hair-do's and sleek gowns. Their companions were well dressed and mostly middle-aged, with midriff bulge supplied by too much alcohol and too little exercise.
When fifteen minutes had elapsed, Damon rose to his feet, and looked down at Paul angrily. ‘I'm going for a walk. See you later.'
Paul rose also. ‘Now hang on, Damon! What's wrong? I didn't know you cared!'
‘I don't. She's got my lighter,’ said Damon in a taut, furious tone. ‘Get it!'
Paul hunched his shoulders. ‘I'll come with you.'
‘There's no need.'
‘No. But I will, all the same.'
They pressed their way through the thronged bar to the wide exit doors which opened on to the equally sumptuous hall, where various lighted signs indicated the amenities available for guests.
The ladies’ room was to the right, at the foot of the stairs which were seldom used now with the installation of the lifts. There were plenty of women, coming and going, but no sign of Tsai Pen Lung.
‘Unfortunate,’ remarked Damon, controlling his temper admirably, but indicating by his tone that heaven help her should he ever see her again.
Paul grimaced and turned away. ‘She didn't seem that kind of creature, really. I thought she was quite likeable.'
Damon ran a hand over his hair lazily, his temper subsiding a little as he tried to find reasons for her actions. There seemed no explanation other than the one he had already come to.
A hand caught his arm, and the manager of the Royal Bay Hotel stood behind him, saying: ‘I thought it was you. Mr. Thorne. A lady left this for you at reception. Is it yours?’ In his hand lay the gold monogrammed lighter, with his initials inlaid with minute rubies.
Damon's eyebrows ascended in surprise. ‘Yes, it's mine,’ he exclaimed in bewilderment. ‘Where is the lady? Has she left?'
‘I believe so, sir. In any event, she asked me to make sure and give this to you personally, and apologize for walking away with it.'
Damon shook his head, taking the lighter. ‘Well… thank you,’ he said, glancing in a puzzled fashion at Paul. ‘Thank you.'
Much later in the evening, when he was lying in bed in the twilight area between sleeping and waking, his thoughts returned to Emma, and he realized the events of the evening had successfully banished his boredom. But his contact with the Chinese girl, beautiful though she was, had made him very aware that his feelings for Emma were still as rampant as ever, despite their differences. He tried to convince himself that his interest was purely physical, and that it would be a simple matter to make Emma submit to his demands without disturbing his peace of mind. He wanted her, and only the knowledge that she was to be his wife had caused him to control the passions she aroused in him. But now the situation was quite, quite different, and by going to Sainte Dominique's Cay she had placed herself at his mercy. It didn't matter that he had practically blackmailed her into it; if she was prepared to sacrifice herself for her brother, why should he care?
He rolled over restlessly on to his stomach, as his mind became too active to allow him to relax completely, automatically lifting his lighter with the case. As he lit the cigarette, he wondered why Tsai Pen Lung had left like that, without a word. Somehow it didn't tie up with her earlier desire to spend an evening in his company.
He rolled on to his back, drawing on his cigarette lazily. Had the reason she left had anything to do with her earlier nervousness, that shocked expression he had surprised on her face? Or had she merely met someone she knew, someone who might conceivably give her a more enjoyable evening, and she had been too uneasy about his reactions to come back and tell him personally?
His drifting thoughts strayed back inevitably to Emma, and he thought about the first time he had seen her. She had been seventeen at the time, young and lovely, as she still was, but with that untouched look of youth and vitality. She was an employee in the typing pool of the Thorne Chemical company's offices in Holland Park Avenue, a less imposing building which had been the London headquarters before the new block had been built. There was still a small staff at Holland Park Avenue, but even in those days Damon himself had had his head office in Cromwell Road. But this particular afternoon he had gone over to the other building to see one of his laboratory assistants who had evolved a new method of removing skin blemishes, and by parking his Aston Martin in the car-park he had almost knocked Emma down.
It was her own fault, she had freely admitted it. She was not looking where she was going, and had not been aware of the powerful car until it was almost upon her. Damon smiled as he recalled how furious he had been, and how astonished when she had turned on him and demanded an apology. He remembered clearly she had been wearing a scarlet pinafore dress and a white blouse with long sleeves, and she was small and dark and fiery as a cat which is suddenly attacked by a dog. Unwillingly, he had admired her spirit, knowing full well that she had no inkling of his identity.
She had remained in his thoughts all afternoon, and like some stupid lovesick youth he had been unable to get her out of his mind in the days that followed. He knew he must see her again and made discreet inquiries about her. He discovered her brother worked for him also, and after that it had been easy. He had made some excuse to invite her brother to lunch with him, and insisted he should bring his sister along too. Johnny had been only too willing to oblige, and Damon was uncaring of what the consequences might be.
Emma had not been the easiest of persons to get to know. To begin with., once she knew who he was she fought shy of seeing him., and although he could sense she was attracted to him., he was also aware of his reputation, and of the fact that E
mma considered he was only playing with her as he had played with many other women. It took him several months to convince her differently, and then, just as they were being accepted together, Emma brought his world tumbling about his ears.
He could not believe it at first; would not believe it. Their relationship had been so close, so passionate, and he was only waiting a short time before he made her his wife. His public image necessitated that he should not reveal himself as an impulsive man, and he had wanted Emma to become wholly orientated with his world before making her a complete part of it. That she should expect him to accept her dismissal, just like that, was ludicrous, and he refused to believe she was serious.
But she was. Damon ground out his cigarette with renewed anger. At least they had not been officially engaged, or he would have been the laughing stock of all London. As it was, only his closest friends had known their relationship was serious, the rest, his acquaintances, accepting their break-up as just another of his affairs. He had found out that when Emma was questioned about it, she had told people he had finished with her, thus satisfying his outraged pride, and disgusting his inmost feelings.
He switched out the light now, determinedly punching his pillow into shape, and concentrating on other things. He had spent too many nights already torturing himself about Emma; he would not spend another!
CHAPTER TEN
DURING the flight from San Francisco to New York Damon and Paul were absorbed with paper work which needed to be completed before their arrival in London, and consequently it was not until the Boeing left Kennedy Airport that Damon got around to reading the papers they had bought in San Francisco and New York before their departure. The headlines of the San Francisco papers were concerned with some new world crisis, but beneath them, in less imposing print he saw: CHINESE GIRL BRUTALLY MURDERED: Second killing in four days.
Frowning, he thrust the other papers aside and read the rest of the report. It briefly outlined that a Chinese girl, as yet not identified, had been stabbed to death. Her body had been found lying on the sidewalk by a patrolling police car. There was no indication as to the location where the body had been found, and nothing to remotely connect this unknown girl with Tsai Pen Lung, and yet Damon felt an awful premonition that it was her, and that this was what she had been so afraid of.
He handed Paul the paper, pointing to the report, and saying tersely: ‘What do you think of that?'
Paul read it, and then looked at Damon quizzically. ‘What do you mean? Tsai Pen Lung? Don't be crazy, that would be too much of a coincidence!'
Damon shook his head. ‘I don't know about that. She was scared last night. I could sense it, and then disappearing like that… ’ He sighed. ‘Well, I guess it's too late now. If it is Tsar, there's nothing I can do.'
Paul lit a cigarette. ‘No,’ he agreed firmly. ‘Don't get any mad ideas into your head of going back to identify the body. If it is Tsai, then you don't want to be involved in a murder hunt.'
Damon compressed his lips, and studied the report again moodily. He knew Paul was right, and that it was imperative that he be in London during the next couple of days to chair a meeting of the board of Thorne Chemicals, but in spite of this he felt coldly angry that anyone should be struck down and killed without any apparent motive.
He read on through the report which revealed that only four days ago another murder of this nature had taken place. This time the victim had been a man in his forties, of British nationality, which was unusual considering the enormous American population of San Francisco. The police seemed to be connecting the two crimes, and Damon plagued his mind with problems of what the two victims could possibly have had in common. He was still remote and dark-browed when the aircraft landed at London Airport, and it was with an effort he shrugged away these thoughts and began orientating himself to his new surroundings,
* * *
Emma lay on the beach beside Annabel, idly flicking through a magazine, while Annabel played with the sand. It was another glorious day, and a shady umbrella protected them from fierce glare of the afternoon sun. It was almost two months since Emma had come to Sainte Dominique, and the time was slipping away smoothly. Since Damon's departure Emma and Annabel had resumed their routine, and had got to know one another very well. They talked a lot, mostly about Annabel's life since the accident; Emma did not seem able to penetrate Annabel's brain to the time before she was blind. Whenever she introduced this topic of conversation, Annabel would shy away from it like a startled animal, and immediately distract Emma's attention to other things.
But Emma was determined to have it out in the open, particularly as a couple of days ago she had found Annabel crying in her room during her afternoon rest. The child had refused to tell her what was the matter, but Emma had heard her murmuring the words ‘Mummy, Mummy,’ over and over again before she was aware of Emma's presence.
Emma had gone in search of Tansy, as she was the only one who had known Elizabeth Thorne, and from what Tansy had said, Emma had gained a clearer picture of Damon's wife.
‘Och, she was a selfish creature,’ exclaimed Tansy, wrinkling her nose in disgust. ‘Never a minute to spare for the child unless she wanted to use her as a sword to hurt Mr. Damon.'
Emma knew she ought not to listen to this kind of kitchen gossip, but she was sure there must be a key to Annabel's blindness, something which had either caused, or assisted, the condition she now suffered. The more she learned about the accident, the less she believed in the child's injuries, for it seemed obvious her head had not been severely hurt. It was puzzling, and maybe Tansy could provide a clue.
‘Where did the accident occur?’ Emma asked curiously.
In Ireland,’ replied Tansy grumpily. ‘ ‘Twas a wonderful place Mr. Damon had there, but Miss Elizabeth never liked it. Too cold, and too dull, she always said. Nothing to do, no men to amuse herself with, I suppose.’ Emma's eyes widened. ‘Oh, yes, there were men, lots of them,’ went on Tansy, beginning to enjoy herself.
‘I don't really think… ’ began Emma awkwardly.
‘Och, away with you. It was common knowledge at the time. Mr. Damon knew that well enough, and I'm not saying he was any angel either. He didn't trouble himself being faithful to a bitch like her. And why should he? When she refused to care for the baby when she was born, and took herself off to London to enjoy herself.'
‘I see.’ Emma turned away.
‘Well, would you?’ asked Tansy, in disgust. ‘Lord knows why she came back to Ireland when she did, causing Mr. Damon so much heartbreak over the child. They were travelling to Dublin when it happened. She was always a careless driver, had dozens of small smashes before the big one. So she was killed, and many a one of us was glad, for Mr. Damon's sake. She was no good. It was only a pity Annabel had to suffer. Still, the mercy of it is that she's still alive, for sure she takes after her father, bless her, and not that bitch she called mother.'
‘Thank you,’ said Emma, half smiling at the old woman. ‘You've explained a lot.'
‘That's good then. Now leave me be. I've got a dinner to supervise and time's pressing.'
So now Emma closed her magazine and took Annabel's hand in hers.
‘Annabel,’ she said softly, ‘tell me about Ireland.'
Annabel stiffened and drew her hand firmly away. ‘Nothing to tell,’ she said abruptly. ‘Can we go in the water, Emma?'
Emma compressed her lips for a moment. ‘Annabel darling, we've got to discuss this some time, so it may as well be now.'
Annabel shook her head. ‘I don't want to talk about it,’ she said, as she had done many times before, making Emma feel self-consciously aware of what she was asking, and usually quelling her determination. But now Emma said:
‘Annabel, you can't go on bottling it up. Sooner or later you've got to talk about it, so why not now? Surely you remember your home there? Did your father come often to see you? Who looked after you?'
Annabel looked mutinous, then she sighed. ‘Yes, Daddy came often,’
she admitted quietly. ‘And Tansy took care of me, and I had children to play with. It was wonderful,’ she sounded wistful.
Emma twisted her fingers together. ‘And your mother?’ she said.
Annabel bent her head. ‘Elizabeth?'
‘Yes.'
‘She told me to call her that. She didn't like being called Mummy. She said it made her feel old.'
Emma crossed her fingers. At last Annabel was volunteering information.
‘Did you see a lot of your mummy?'
Annabel chewed her lips and shook her head.
Emma tried another approach. ‘Did you want her to be there a lot?'
Annabel rose to her feet. ‘Can we go swimming?’ she asked.
Emma sighed, and rose too, shedding her towelling bathrobe.
‘I suppose so,’ she said, realizing it would take longer than an overnight success to get the true story out of Annabel.
After dinner that evening, when Annabel was fast asleep, and Louisa was sewing in the lounge. Emma went for a walk along the beach. It was wonderful, out in the cool air after the heat of the day. She had showered before dinner, but her body still felt hot and she thought she would shower again before she went to bed.
The water lapped invitingly on the sand, soothing and scented with the perfumes of the flowers that soaked the atmosphere during the long days. Clusters of palms rustled in the breeze, and the strange sounds of the night-waking animals provided a background of clicking and chattering and soft whispering among the undergrowth.
A streak of colour on the sand startled her for a moment, until she realized it was the huge beach towel which she and Annabel had been using that afternoon. She shook it out gently, and folded it under her arm. It was then that the idea struck her. She would take a dip in the sea, instead of waiting until she got back to the house. The water was never cold and the prospect of a solitary swim was very appealing. That she had no bathing suit to wear did not daunt her. The beach was always deserted, the villagers using the more shingled beach where the boats were drawn up. It was always accepted that the beach below the house was private. It would be a simple matter to dry herself after her swim on the towel, and then slide back into her underclothes and the slim-fitting Terylene dress she was wearing.