One Man's Heart

by Mary Burchell

  He held out his hand, palm upwards, and in the centre reposed a very fine blue-green scarab.

  “Lucky for you, my dear, that I have a super-care­ful domestic staff,” he declared with a smile. “This was returned to me with due ceremony from the unromantic vitals of the vacuum cleaner. See to what depths you’d reduced the glories of Egypt!”

  “But I’m not guilty for once.” Evelyn took the scarab and examined it. “It’s not mine.”

  Hilma was absolutely still, her gaze riveted to the little blue-green object which they were all examining with laughing interest.

  “Oh, Buck! Who’s your other girl-friend?”

  “Evelyn, he’s got an Egyptian past!”

  “It isn’t even as though you have a sister, Buck!”

  Everyone was laughing and exclaiming. Everyone that was, except Hilma and Roger. She could not pos­sibly bring herself to look at him. She could only hope that his horror of drawing attention to himself would override his tendency to say exactly what was in his mind. If only he wouldn’t exclaim, “Why, Hilma, it’s yours!” That would give her time to think of some­thing—something to say when the inevitable questions came.

  Roger didn’t say anything. It was Buck who spoke—calmly and with a certain amount of amusement in the face of all the mock accusations.

  “I may not have a sister, but fortunately have a few tame girl cousins. I refuse to have my reputation wrecked on the jewellery of one of them.”

  “Well, that sounds all right.” Evelyn gave a cool little laugh as she handed back the scarab to Buck “Lucky for you I’m not a suspicious person.”

  “Very lucky, my dear,” Buck said, and smiled at her so nicely that it would have disarmed most people, and quite obviously restored Evelyn’s slightly ruffled good humour.

  From his expression, Hilma felt almost certain that he did imagine the wretched thing belonged to a cousin derived from some equally innocent source. He had no special reason to connect it with her own unconventional visit—especially as that had taken place so long ago. The scarab must have lain hidden in a corner of the carpet for a long time, and probably quite a number of possible owners had come and gone to his flat since then.

  No, the only really agitated members of the group were herself and Roger—and of the two, it was doubtful which felt more worried and put out.

  If only she could think of some adequate explanation! As it was, her mind felt dull and solid. And soon they would have to be going, and certainly nothing could keep Roger from expressing his disturbed curiosity, once they were alone in the car.

  It was very hard to give any appearance of enjoying oneself in a careless, light-hearted manner, and as for Roger—he had evidently given up even the pretence of doing so.

  If only she could have spoken a word or two to Buck—conveyed to him the seriousness of the situation—they might have hit on something that would cover the facts. But it was utterly impossible in these crowded rooms to have anything resembling a private conversation—even without the consideration that Roger would have been astounded to see them doing such a thing.

  The party was beginning to break up now. Already good-byes were being said, and the rooms looked less crowded.

  “I suppose it’s time we were going.” Barbara was at her elbow. “Poor old Roger is looking a bit glum, so no doubt he thinks he’s frivolled long enough.”

  “Perhaps so.” Hilma even wished at that moment that she could think of some excuse for prolonging their stay—anything that would put off the hour of explanations. But Barbara had already gone to “col­lect the men,” as she put it.

  If only they had come in Jim’s car! Then she and Roger would not be left alone together. But they had used Roger’s car. They were bound to drop Jim and Barbara first at their flat, and from there it was more than a short drive home.

  Hilma felt scared by the terrible aloneness of her predicament. She had no one at all she could consult or from whom she could expect help. She remembered how Buck had laughingly declared he would willingly extricate her from any difficult position in exchange for the help she had given him. But she had not even the opportunity of asking his help now.

  “Ready, Hilma?” The very graveness of Roger’s tones emphasised the urgency for some solution of the problem.

  There was none. And, silently, Hilma went out with him to the car.

  Barbara and Jim were already installed, still as imperturbably fresh and cheerful as when they had started out.

  “There, Hilma! Aren’t you glad you came? Aren’t they nice people?” demanded Barbara.

  “Very nice indeed,” agreed Hilma, without going into the question of whether or not she was glad she had come.

  “Amazing the number of people they manage to get into that flat without its being too crowded,” remarked Jim admiringly. “Method, that’s what it is.”

  “I thought it was crowded—disagreeably so. And very noisy,” cut in Roger with such unwonted curt­ness that they all stared at him.

  “Oh, dear,” thought Hilma. “He must be put out for him to have contrived to be almost rude. I’ve never known him do such a thing before.”

  Certainly he recovered himself enough to converse fairly amiably for the short time left before Barbara and her husband were deposited at their home. But the moment the car drove on again, Roger turned agitatedly to Hilma.

  “Now, Hilma! For heaven’s sake, what is all this about?”

  “All what?” Hilma knew that surprise was futile, but she could think of no other form of prevarication at the moment.

  “You know what I mean. What in God’s name was your lost scarab doing in Mr. Vane’s flat?” Poor Roger practically never brought direct mention of the Deity into his conversation. That he did so at this moment was a measure of his agitation.

  “And why are you so certain, Roger,” asked Hilma with a touch of cool reproof, “that this particular scarab was mine?

  Her air of having detected him in a most unworthy suspicion was so good that for a moment it almost passed muster. But Roger had been revolving the other ideas in his mind a little too long for him to abandon it lightly. After a moment of shocked pause, he broke out more emphatically than ever:

  “Don’t be foolish, my dear! You know it was yours. We can’t suppose that half London has been losing scarabs and the other half finding them.” Roger felt a very picturesque exaggeration was excusable. “Of course, I recognised it. I know something about these things. Though it was not in my hands, I couldn’t possibly be mistaken. It’s a wonderfully fine specimen. You don’t often see such a good one.” There was another slight pause. Then Hilma said with that air of quiet consciousness of innocence:

  “Of what are you accusing me, Roger?”

  This rather took the wind out of Roger’s sails, and suddenly made Hilma feel mean.

  “I’m not accusing you of anything,” he protested “I’m only asking you to explain a most extraordinary fact.”

  “And suppose, Roger, that I don’t choose to explain?”

  “Don’t—choose—”

  “Suppose the explanation would involve the very private affairs of someone else?” Hilma said gravely, aware that she was simply inventing wildly as she went along.

  “But, Hilma, that’s ridiculous!” exclaimed Roger with good reason. “The evidence is that you must have been in the—in the bachelor apartment of some man whom I understood you didn’t know until this evening. You accepted the introduction to each other as though you were strangers. And yet apparently you’ve been visiting him in his own flat.”

  “I have not—if by that you mean that I have done it more than once.” Hilma was very glad to be able to deny something with the emphasis born of real truth. “I won’t deny that I visited him there once—with very good reason—”

  “Good reason,” muttered poor Roger, who honestly believed that what he called “nice girls” never did such things.

  “With very good reason,” repeated Hilma. “That reason is not my o
wn private concern, Roger, and—I’m sorry—I can’t tell you what it was.”

  “But I never heard of anything so silly!” Roger’s dismay was genuine, if a trifle ludicrous. “I absolutely insist on knowing. Any man would want to know what his fiancée had been doing, in like circum­stances.”

  Again there was a short silence. Then Hilma shrugged slightly and said:

  “Then there’s only one thing I can do, and I don’t think you’ll like it.”

  “Eh?” Roger looked startled.

  “I must refer you to Mr. Vane himself.”

  Roger was evidently a good deal taken aback, though not—to tell the truth—so much so as Hilma herself when she realised just how far she had taken things.

  “Look here, Hilma, surely you can—”

  “No.” Hilma was absolutely firm. At least this would give her a few hours’ reprieve. “I don’t think, Roger, that you would entirely believe anything I told you at the moment—”

  He made a movement of protest to interrupt her, but she went on:

  “I don’t blame you. It is all a bit fantastic and melodramatic. I would much rather you heard the explanation from Mr. Vane—if he chooses to give it. Please, let’s leave the subject for the moment. I’m awfully tired and—and a little upset.”

  Roger, divided between contrition and doubt, hard­ly knew what to reply, and perhaps it was fortunate for him as well as Hilma that, at this moment, the car turned into the road where she lived.

  “You really mean that—that you want me to go and see Vane about this?” Roger looked uncomfortable.

  “Yes, please, Roger.”

  He didn’t like it, she saw. But she had left him very little choice.

  “All right.” He spoke more grimly than she would have thought possible. “I’ll go and see him at his place to-morrow. The sooner this is cleared up, the better.”

  “I think so, too,” Hilma said gently. And on this most unsatisfactory note, they parted.

  As soon as she got into the house, Hilma ran quiet­ly upstairs. If her mother were asleep she was anxious not to wake her. If she were awake, she must get any discussion over before she took any action about Buck.

  Undressing quickly and quietly, she strained her ears all the time for any sounds of stirring from her mother’s room. There was nothing. And, as soon as she was ready, she ventured silently downstairs again—to shut herself securely in the sitting-room, where the telephone was.

  She was shivering—but with nervous excitement rather than cold—and she found some difficulty in turning the pages of the telephone directory quick­ly.

  She hoped to heaven his telephone number was un­der his name, and not under the name of the flats. In the agitation of the moment she could not recall what the block was called, and if he simply had an exten­sion from that—

  No! Here it was! Buckland Vane. There could not be two of them. Besides, now she saw the address, she recognised it—wondered how she could ever have for­gotten it.

  She picked up the receiver, dialled the number and waited. It seemed to her ages. She could hear the purr-purr of the call at the other end, and surely, surely, if he were home, he would have answered it by now.

  Perhaps he had not gone home yet. Perhaps she ought to have waited longer. She glanced at the clock. It was nearly two now. She couldn’t wait. She couldn’t risk coming downstairs again. Oh, why didn’t—

  The receiver at the other end was lifted, and a well-known voice enquired with a sort of casual annoyance:

  “Who the deuce is that at this time of night?”

  “Oh, Buck, it’s I—”

  “Lieb­ling!” And then, much more softly—”Lieb­ling, is that really you?”

  “Yes. Listen, I’ve got to talk to you about something.”

  “All right, don’t sound so scared.” Again he spoke to her gently.

  “But I am scared,” Hilma said, though actually she felt her taut nerves relax a little at his voice. “It’s about that scarab.”

  “The what, my dear?”

  “The scarab. The one you tried to return to Evelyn to-night. It was mine—I must have dropped it that—that night. Roger recognised it, and now is going to scour heaven and earth to know what I was doing in your flat.”

  There was a sharp exclamation from the other end of the wire.

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing. At least—nothing fit for your ears.” Even now there was that undercurrent of amusement in his voice. “What did you tell him?”

  “Quite a ridiculous story, really. You understand, I simply had to invent the best thing I could on the spur of the moment.”

  “Yes. What did you say?”

  “I had to admit that I had been in your flat once, but on purely private business—your business.”

  “What business?” he enquired at once in an amused, intrigued tone.

  “Oh, Buck, it isn’t funny. I didn’t say what busi­ness. I said it was entirely your concern and I couldn’t explain without betraying someone’s confidence—yours or someone else’s. I was a bit vague about that.”

  “But surely he didn’t swallow that?”

  “No, of course not. He said it was too ridiculous for words—”

  “Which it was,” came regretfully from his end. “Poor little Lieb­ling. Though, I don’t know what else you could have said.”

  “I had to play for time somehow, you see. Anyway I’ve told him that it rests with you whether you feel inclined to explain or not. I adopted a lofty and rather feeble silence, which slightly impressed him, but didn’t by any means satisfy him. And—oh, Buck—he’s going to come and see you to-morrow, to hear what explanation you’ve got. We must think of something.”

  There was silence, and she asked anxiously:

  “Are you still there?”

  “Yes, of course. I was only wondering what I could think up in the way of an indiscreet young sister whose reputation was being protected by us both.”

  “No, that isn’t any good,” Hilma assured him hastily. “You said in front of him that you had no sisters. Or someone else did.”

  “Hell, so they did. No, that won’t do. We’ll have to think of something else.”

  “Buck.”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “I’m so dreadfully sorry to involve you in this. I wouldn’t have, only it seemed the only possible way, and you said—you said—”

  “What did I say, Lieb­ling?”

  “That as I had saved your marriage with Evelyn, you would always help me, if I needed it, where my own marriage was concerned.”

  “Of course. Besides, who else should get you out of this, if not I? It’s my fault that you were involved in it. If I hadn’t been such a fool as to return that thing in public—”

  “Oh, well. We might just as well go back to my breaking into your flat. That was the starting point.

  She heard him laugh slightly, a little as though he liked to remember that most regrettable beginning of all the trouble.

  “Well, it’s the end and not the beginning that we have to think of now. This really must be our last time, Lieb­ling. I’ll think of something. Let me see—”

  Suddenly, to her horror, Hilma heard quite unmistakable sounds on the upstairs landing. Her mother must have woken up and was coming downstairs.

  “Buck, listen! I must ring off. Someone is coming. I don’t know what on earth—”

  “All right, don’t panic. I’ll think of something, I promise.”

  She pulled herself together and spoke quickly and decidedly.

  “If you can’t think of anything, please tell Roger the whole truth. That lets you out of it, anyway. I’ve now just realised how badly I’ve involved you, again.”

  “Don’t worry. We need not do that. I’ve hours to think up something good. And—Lieb­ling.”

  “Yes?”

  “ Sleep well. I’ll look after things for you.”

  “The line went dead and, in spite of everything, it was with a smile t
hat Hilma hung up the receiver and turned to meet her mother’s astonished gaze.

  “Hilma dear, whatever is it? I thought I heard you down here. Are you ill?” Mrs. Arnall trailed over anxiously, clutching a handful of pink negligé as usual.

  “No, no, Mother,” Hilma spoke reassuringly. “I’m perfectly all right. We got home frightfully late. I’m afraid, and then, when I was just ready for bed I remembered I’d promised some girl at the party that I’d phone her about something.”

  “At this hour of the morning?” Mrs. Arnall’s surprised glance went to the clock.

  “Yes. It was an address she wanted urgently. She was leaving very early in the morning, and phoning now saved me from getting up early to answer her call,” Hilma explained with a glibness that surprised herself.

  “Well, really, I don’t know when some of these young friends of Barbara get any sleep at all.” Mrs. Arnall declared. But she was satisfied with the explanation, and, as she accompanied Hilma upstairs to bed, she made nothing more than a kindly enquiry as to how she had enjoyed herself.

  However, this definitely put an end to any possibility of further telephoning with Buck. It was terrible—but she must leave the whole thing entirely in his hands.

  If his marriage had trembled on the edge of disaster over the affair with Alan Moorhouse, hers was in at least as much danger now, and only Buck’s resource and invention could save it.

  She felt now that she had not told him half enough—that there were a thousand points at which he might give himself away, even if he could think of a convincing story, which was not by any means certain. It was a terrible feeling, to have to leave all your hopes and ambitions in the care of someone else.

  But if she had to do that, perhaps there was no one so well qualified to care for them as the smiling, half-cynical man who declared that their motives were so alike, and that their mutual sympathy was based on the fact that they were both something of adventurers. What was it he had said? Very charming adventurers, of course, but—with that regretful smile of his—adventurers.

  But he had also said: “Sleep well. I’ll look after things for you.”

  And on that thought Hilma closed her eyes and fell asleep.