The Golden Cage

by Barbara Cartland

  “What is worrying you?” Mr. Thorpe asked.

  The question startled Crisa.

  “Worrying me?” she repeated.

  “You were thinking unhappy thoughts.”

  “H-how do you – know that?”

  “I can feel them vibrating towards me and those emotions are much too strong for somebody of your age, who should be enjoying every minute of your life.”

  “I am enjoying it – at the – moment.”

  “As you have not been able to do so in the past. Tell me why.”

  For a moment she wanted to confide in him – to tell him how frightened she had been at marrying Silas P Vanderhault and then finding herself virtually a prisoner in his house and fearing it would be impossible ever to escape.

  Then she told herself it would be indiscreet to admit that she had been deceiving him and was not the woman she pretended to be.

  ‘I am Christina Wayne,’ she told herself firmly, ‘and that is what I intend to be for a long, long time.’

  Because she knew that Mr. Thorpe was waiting for an answer, she said,

  “I am not unhappy at the moment and I would like to thank you for letting me work for you. It has made all the difference to being alone on board and having nobody to talk to.”

  “Talking of your working for me,” Mr. Thorpe said, “you have not yet told me how much I owe you or perhaps we could leave it and settle up at the end of the voyage.”

  “Y-yes – yes – of course – that would be much the best!” Crisa said quickly.

  She wanted to say that she did not want his money and it was quite unnecessary to give her anything.

  But she knew that would sound strange and he would think it extraordinary for somebody who had been a secretary to an author.

  “I would like to say, Crisa,” he said, “that you in your turn have made all the difference to me. I should have found it intolerable to have to sit here in the dark, day after day, with no one to talk to, except of course, Jenkins.”

  He was just about to say something more, when the door opened and Jenkins came in with the champagne and since it was really cool, he must have obtained it from a refrigerator, where it was kept for Mr. Thorpe.

  He poured out two glasses and, having handed one to Crisa, he put the other into his Master’s hand.

  Mr. Thorpe raised his glass.

  “To a very efficient, very kind person who could only have been sent to me, when I most needed her, from Mount Olympus.”

  The toast took Crisa by surprise.

  She stared at him, wondering if he meant what he had said and, expecting to see a slightly sarcastic twist to his lips, as if he was not only mocking her but himself as well.

  Then, because she had learnt to read what he thought from his mouth rather than his eyes, which she could not see, she knew that he was completely sincere and she blushed before she replied,

  “That is a lovely toast and one I shall always treasure when I think of these days when in the middle of the Atlantic we are like two people on some other planet, having no contact with the world we have left behind or the world we are returning to.”

  She spoke the words dreamily and Mr. Thorpe said quietly,

  “I am very grateful for this planet, as you call it, where we find ourselves.”

  It flashed through Crisa’s mind that her mother might think it very unconventional and improper that she should be spending so much time alone with a man and that neither of them had anything to do with anybody else except themselves.

  ‘We might almost be married,’ Crisa thought and then blushed because it seemed an improper idea where it concerned Mr. Thorpe.

  She finished her champagne and, as she rose to leave, Mr. Thorpe said,

  “I shall expect you at three o’clock, and perhaps we might start the first chapter of the book I have been thinking about.”

  “That will be very intriguing!” Crisa exclaimed.

  She thought about his book all the time she was having a lonely luncheon in the Dining Saloon.

  At one of the large tables the passengers were noisy and many of them were laughing and joking and calling across the table to their friends.

  It was obvious that all the stiffness that had made them more restrained at the beginning of the voyage had now given way to jokes between the men and she thought the women were very much more flirtatious than they had been at first.

  At the same time they were certainly very attractive and very alluring, and she wondered if Mr. Thorpe would enjoy their company if he was not blind and in contrast would find her rather dull and, she supposed, very English.

  When luncheon was over, she went back to her cabin and putting up her feet on the bunk, which had been made up into a sofa by her Steward, read another of the novels she had taken from the writing room.

  It was an exciting story. But there were also passionate passages that made her think of the attractive Frenchwomen on board the ship and the way they looked at the men beside them and the way the men looked at them.

  It was depressing to think that no one had ever looked at her in that way and perhaps they never would.

  “One day,” her mother had said to her years ago, “I hope, darling, you will find a man as wonderful as your father, who will fall in love with you and you will know the happiness that I have known ever since I have been married.”

  “Was Papa the only man who wanted to marry you?” Crisa had asked her.

  Her mother smiled.

  “No, I had three, no, four proposals before I met your father, but I knew as soon as I saw him that he was the one man who mattered to me and whom I would love all my life.”

  “And he felt the same about you, Mama?”

  “Exactly! In fact, when he walked into the ballroom where I was dancing, he said to a friend who was with him,

  “‘That is the girl I am going to marry. I must find someone to introduce me to her’.”

  ‘That is what I want,’ Crisa thought now, ‘someone who will love me just because I am me and for no other reason.’

  Then she told herself that what had happened to her mother was something that happened perhaps to one person in a million. And she would never be so lucky.

  Hampered as she was with a mountain of dollars, she would never be able to believe that any man cared for her just for herself and not because she was so rich.

  It was a depressing thought and she was watching the clock until it was three and she could go back to Mr. Thorpe’s suite and talk to him.

  As usual, she found him with Jenkins in attendance and, as she sat down in her chair, the valet said,

  “I’m off now, sir. Perhaps you’ll send a Steward to fetch me when Miss Wayne’s ready to leave.”

  “I will do that, Jenkins,” Mr. Thorpe agreed. “Enjoy yourself!”

  “If I don’t, it won’t be for the want of tryin’!” Jenkins said cheekily and left the cabin.

  As if Mr. Thorpe knew that Crisa looked towards him for an explanation, he said,

  “Jenkins has confided in me that he has found an attractive young Frenchwoman on the Second Class deck and he is very keen to dance with her one evening, if I can persuade you to stay with me.”

  Crisa’s eyes widened a little and she said quickly,

  “Of course – I would be delighted to do so.”

  “It seems rather an imposition,” Mr. Thorpe said, “but Jenkins refuses to leave me on my own and I would like him to have a good time while he can.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Crisa agreed.

  “Well now, I have been thinking about my book.”

  “And so have I! You will start, I am sure, with Greece, because that country means so much to you.”

  “I was thinking the same thing,” Mr. Thorpe said, “and also, because to me you are part of Greece, it would be very appropriate.”

  Crisa picked up her pencil.

  “I am ready,” she said eagerly.

  Then she made a little sound of annoyance.

>   “What is it?” Mr. Thorpe asked.

  “I have broken the point of my pencil,” she said, “and I must sharpen it.”

  She rose as she spoke and put her papers down on the seat of her chair.

  “You will find a gold penknife in a drawer in the cabin next door,” Mr. Thorpe said. “It is what is supposed to be the dressing table and I am sure that Jenkins put it there beside my gold watch chain.”

  “I will find it,” Crisa said.

  She went through the communicating door and, going to the dressing table, which had a large mirror above it, she opened the drawer only to find that it was filled neatly with handkerchiefs and ties. She looked for another drawer and found that there was one in the fitted table beside the bed.

  She opened it and to her surprise saw a revolver, which she knew was one of the most modem and up to date, because her father had shown her an illustration of it in one of the newspapers.

  She stared at it, thinking it confirmed what she had guessed already, that Mr. Thorpe had enemies and the knife-thrust had come from one of them.

  There was a drawer on the other side of the bed, but there was no gold penknife to be found in it.

  Crisa suddenly remembered that, when she had changed her novel yesterday afternoon, there had been in the writing room a number of pencils, besides some pens on the writing desks.

  Without bothering Mr. Thorpe, she opened the door into the passage and, leaving it ajar, ran down the corridor towards the writing room.

  It was only a short distance from the main suites and she found, as she expected, two well-sharpened pencils on the first desk just inside the door.

  She picked them up and ran back again, entering by the door she had left open and then shutting it quietly.

  As she did so, she heard the door in the sitting room close and Mr. Thorpe asked,

  “Is that you, Jenkins?”

  There was the distinct sound of a key being turned in the lock and then a man’s voice replied,

  “No, Thorpe, if that is what you call yourself now. I have at last found you alone and I have been growing tired of waiting to do so.”

  “So it is you, Kermynski,” Mr. Thorpe said quietly.

  As he spoke, he took off his dark glasses.

  “Although you have been hiding yourself so competently,” the man answered, “I imagine you have been expecting me to turn up sooner or later.”

  “I had hoped, after your last attack on me,” Mr. Thorpe said quietly, “I might at least be able to reach England in peace.”

  “That is where you are mistaken!” the man called Kermynski replied.

  He spoke fluent English, Crisa thought listening, but with a distinct accent and she was sure that he was Russian.

  She realised as he was talking that Mr. Thorpe was in danger and she was not sure what she could do about it.

  Then, as her hand went out towards the bell to summon a Steward, Kermynski said,

  “I intend to kill you, Thorpe, but before I do so, you will tell me the names of your men in three places that particularly concern me.”

  “Do you really think I would do that?” Mr. Thorpe replied and now there was an undoubtedly mocking note in his voice.

  “I think you will find it impossible not to do so,” Kermynski answered, “when you receive a knife-thrust for every name you refuse to give me.”

  His voice deepened until it was as ferocious as that of a wild animal as he added,

  “You see the knife I am holding in my hand? I shall pierce your chest with it every time you refuse to answer me, until finally, I will stab you in the heart and you will die, as you should have died the last time we met!”

  It was then that Crisa knew that it was Kermynski who had inflicted the deep wound in Mr. Thorpe’s arm and also the wound on his forehead.

  She could not see what was going on, but listening, she was sure that the Russian was standing over Mr. Thorpe menacingly, ready as he had said, to plunge the knife into his chest, then into his heart.

  She drew in her breath and then, moving silently on tiptoe, she went to the side of the bed and, pulling open the drawer where she had seen the revolver, took it out.

  Her father had taught her to shoot several years ago when he himself had been trying out a new rifle.

  The revolver was not heavy and, as she inspected it, she found that it was loaded with six bullets.

  On tiptoe she crept to the door that communicated with the State room and peeped through the crack.

  Now she could see, as she had expected, that the man, not very tall but thickly built, was standing beside Mr. Thorpe’s chair and as she looked she heard him say,

  “I give you just three seconds to answer! What is the name of your man in Moscow?”

  “I have not the slightest idea what you are talking about,” Mr. Thorpe replied.

  The Russian raised his arm and, as Crisa saw what he held in his hand flash in the sunshine coming through the porthole, she fired the revolver she held in her hand.

  As she did so, she realised what she had not noticed before, that it had a silencer fixed to it.

  Instead of the explosion she waited for, there was just a ‘ping’ as the bullet left the barrel.

  The man bending over Mr. Thorpe staggered, half-turned, as if to face her and as he did so she fired again hitting him in the chest.

  He fell slowly backwards onto the floor and, as he lay sprawled there, she pushed the door open wide and ran across the room to Mr. Thorpe.

  He had risen to his feet as the Russian collapsed and Crisa threw herself against him, screaming incoherently,

  “I-I have killed him – I have – killed him!”

  Mr. Thorpe supported her with his right arm and then he said quietly,

  “Thank you, Crisa, for saving my life.”

  “H-he is – dead? He – cannot – hurt you?” Crisa asked, feeling that she dare not look down at the Russian lying on the floor.

  “He is dead,” Mr. Thorpe said quickly.

  As he spoke, he put on his dark spectacles again and went on,

  “Now, listen to me, it is important you should do exactly as I tell you – ”

  Crisa felt very near to tears and she was trembling, but because of the way Mr. Thorpe spoke she forced herself not to cry.

  “You have been very brave and very wonderful,” he said, “but I cannot allow you to be mixed up in what will undoubtedly demand a great deal of explaining.”

  He took his arm away from her gently in case she should fall and then sitting down again in his chair he said,

  “Give me the revolver.”

  Without realising it, Crisa was still holding it in her hand and, although it was difficult to move because she was trembling so violently, she managed to hold it out to Mr. Thorpe, forgetting in her anxiety that he could not see.

  “First, before you leave me,” he said, still in his quiet unemotional voice, “I want you to wipe your finger-marks from it. Do you understand?”

  “Y-yes.”

  “I have a handkerchief in my breast pocket.”

  She reached forward and took it. It was of white linen and smelt of Eau de Cologne.

  She wiped the revolver as he had told her to do, her hands trembling so violently that she was afraid she might drop it onto the floor.

  Then, knowing that it was clean, she wrapped the handkerchief round the butt and put it into Mr. Thorpe’s hand.

  As his fingers closed over it he said,

  “Now, Crisa, go to your cabin and stay there. You are not to come back here until I send for you and if anybody questions you about what has occurred, which is unlikely, you know nothing about it. Is that clear? Nothing at all!”

  “I-I – understand,” Crisa said, “but – what will you do?”

  “When you have gone, I will summon people to help me,” Mr. Thorpe said, “and don’t worry. You have disposed of my enemy for me and I promise you that I am now quite safe.”

  “You – you are sure there are no
– more of them?” Crisa asked fearfully.

  “If there are, I can defend myself,” Mr. Thorpe said, “and I assure you that I am very contrite at being so careless as to leave my revolver in the other cabin instead of keeping it with me, as I should have done.”

  Nervously, because she was afraid of what she might see, Crisa looked down at the man still on the floor.

  Now she could see his face and it was obvious from his high cheekbones that he was a Russian, but his eyes were closed.

  Although she knew that she had put two bullets into him and killed him, he did not look particularly horrifying, but just an ordinary, unpleasant-looking man, as he must have been when he was alive.

  As if Mr. Thorpe knew what she was doing and thinking, he said,

  “Now, obey me, Crisa, and do exactly what I have told you to do and I will send for you as soon as I am able to.”

  “You – promise? You promise you will – do that?”

  “I promise!”

  Walking as far away from the Russian’s body as she could, Crisa reached the door.

  As she opened it, she could not help looking back to see Mr. Thorpe sitting upright in his usual chair, the sun from the porthole illuminating his head almost as if it gave him a halo.

  Then she saw the large ugly body of the man sprawled on the floor at his feet and shuddered.

  She left the State room and, running as quickly as she could to her cabin, she locked her door and, sitting down on the sofa, burst into tears.

  How was it possible? How could it have happened, she asked herself, that she had deliberately killed a man when she had always told her father that she could not bear to kill anything?

  She had always hated the thought of the chickens they ate being killed or the vermin, like rats, which had to be exterminated in the stables.

  ‘I have – killed a – man!’ she thought feverishly.

  Suddenly the realisation came to her that if she had not killed him, Mr. Thorpe would, in fact, now be lying dead.

  The thought of him receiving a knife-thrust after the Russian had first tortured him made her heart turn over in her breast.

  As it did so, she knew, unbelievable though it was, that she loved the strange man whose eyes she had never seen.