Madam, Will You Talk?

by Mary Stewart

  He shot me a startled look. ‘But—’

  ‘I know!’ I cried. ‘It sounds fantastic! But listen: I’ll try to tell you a little about it …’

  I began, stumbling a little in my haste, to tell him what I knew about Kramer and Richard and Loraine. He listened in silence, but when at length I came to Marsden’s part in the affair, he interrupted me with an exclamation that sounded amused.

  ‘Monsieur Marsden? That one? The rest, yes; I will believe it because you tell me so, and because I think you really are in bad trouble. But this I cannot think, that the good Monsieur Marsden is a murderer. Besides, he is English.’

  ‘He says he’s English,’ I said sharply. ‘But I tell you he is her husband, and he’s in Kramer’s pay. You’ve got to believe me. The good Monsieur Marsden, as you call him, is on his way at this moment to murder both Richard and David Byron, unless we can do something to stop him!’

  I could see his face in the dim light. He was smiling a little still, but his brows were drawn with bewilderment.

  ‘Mais, ma belle—’

  So I was to be spared none of the nightmare. The ordeal by unbelief was to be part of it … and in my own bewildered terror I must try and sort out the affair’s lunatic logic, so that this man might believe and help me. I clutched my shaking hands together, and fought to marshal my knowledge. I remember that the only clear thought in my head was a wish that Paul Véry would stop calling me ‘ma belle’.

  ‘Listen, monsieur,’ I said carefully, ‘I am telling you no more than the truth, as I know it. There is no time to go back to the beginning. I can only tell you what is happening now, tonight, and beg that you will believe me. I’m not quite sure of this man Kramer’s reasons for employing Loraine and Marsden to do murder for him, but I think it’s because of something that happened during the War, Richard and a friend of his witnessed a – an atrocity, I suppose one would call it – in which Kramer was concerned.’

  ‘That does not matter.’ He spoke all of a sudden with sharp impatience. ‘I have said that I will believe you. All this talk of the War … there is no time. Tell me now what you think this man plans to do – what you plan to do, now, tonight.’

  The relief was so sharp, so intense, that the darkness blurred round me, and I shut my eyes and pressed the palms of my hands against them. I felt the car slow down, and took my hands away, to find that we were threading a decorous enough way between walls and houses. A festoon of street lamps swung up into the darkness, a lighted tram rattled out of a side-street, and suddenly we were plunged into a brilliance of neon-lights and cafés and the impatient blare of traffic.

  ‘Toulon,’ said Paul Véry. ‘Go on. Tell me your plan.’

  ‘Very well,’ I said. ‘Here it is, without trimmings. Somewhere along this road is a village called Aiguebelle. A little way beyond it, on the left, there is a group of parasol pines, and opposite them a lane branches right-handed off the road, along the cliff top. There, unless we overtake it on the road, a van will be waiting, in the charge of a man called André. In that van are Richard and David Byron, unconscious and, I believe, tied up. André has orders to wait there for the others, then they’re going to stage an accident. Kramer’s bringing Rich – Byron’s own car, and Loraine’s with him. But Marsden left before them. And at the rate we’ve been travelling, he’s hardly had a chance to overtake us, but he won’t be so very far behind.’ I drew in my breath. ‘He’ll hurry a bit, of course,’ I added, ‘as André’s alone on the job, and a bit of a fool into the bargain.’

  I stopped. There was a pause, filled with the rushing wind. The town was behind us, and once again we were plunging down our lighted tunnel into the lonely night. I did not look at Paul Véry: I had pleaded my cause abominably, I knew, but weariness, bewilderment, and agony of mind were my excuse. I bit my lip, and waited.

  His reaction, when it came, was unexpected. I heard him give a long-drawn whistle of stupefaction, then he swore softly, and laughed. But even as I opened my mouth to speak he moved one hand off the wheel to drop it lightly over mine.

  ‘Forgive me, I did not mean to laugh … but you seem to be so deep in the confidence of this murderer. How do you know all this?’

  I slid my hand from under his, and began to fumble in my bag for a cigarette. At least he was not alarmed, I reflected. I said: ‘Does that matter now? You said we’d got to think of what to do.’

  ‘Yes indeed.’ He removed his hand at that, and reached in a pocket to produce a flat silver case. He handed it to me without looking at me. He seemed all at once to withdraw into his own thoughts; it was as if he had forgotten me, forgotten all but the immediate problem of action. When he spoke, his voice was abstracted, and he used his own language for the first time.

  ‘Why did you not … light me one too, will you, ma belle? … why did you not go to the police?’

  I answered in the same tongue: ‘I hadn’t time.’ I took a cigarette from the case, and bent low behind the wind-screen, shielding my face from the draught as I flicked my lighter.

  ‘And the dog … how did you come by the dog?’

  The lighter went out, and I had to flick it two or three times to relight it. I huddled lower in the car, making a little draught-proof cave, and tried again. I did not reply, but he hardly appeared to notice; he was talking almost to himself, still in that preoccupied, almost absent voice.

  ‘And the man Marsden; why should you be so certain that the man Marsden is the husband of Loraine?’

  The lighter flared, and burned steadily. I lit the cigarette, and handed it up to him out of my cave. I fumbled in the open case on my knee for another. ‘Does it matter?’ I said again. ‘Have you by any chance got a gun?’

  ‘As it happens, I have,’ said Paul Véry, and I could tell by his voice that he was smiling again. ‘But tell me, how do you come to be in Marseilles anyway? And what is your connection with this Byron?’

  I held the lighter to my cigarette, and drew at the flame. Then I froze, crouched there under the dashboard of the car, while the flame of the lighter, illuminating my tiny cave of blackness, flickered over the open lid of Paul Véry’s cigarette-case.

  There was an inscription there, beautifully tooled in the silver. It was only his name, and a date.

  It read:

  Jean-Paul.

  A jamais,

  L. 17.8.42

  The lighter went out. Above me in the darkness, his voice said, ever so slightly mocking: ‘Don’t worry about it any more, ma belle. It’ll be all right, I’ll see to that. And you trust me, don’t you?’

  That phrase, softly spoken in French in the darkness … the voice of the Rocher des Doms; the voice I had heard less than an hour ago in Kramer’s office … And, like another echo behind it, too late, whispered the ghost-voice of Louise: ‘Paul Véry … something to do with antiques …’

  ‘You do trust me, don’t you?’ repeated Jean, smiling into the darkness above me.

  24

  Who rides the tiger cannot dismount

  (Chinese proverb)

  It was cold. The Mediterranean night-wind, pine-scented, sea-scented, sang past my cheek in a warm dark tide, but I was shivering as I hugged myself deep into my coat and fought down the rising hysteria of hopelessness.

  Fool that I was! I had heard Loraine’s husband – I still thought of him as Paul Véry – go for his car. In the time it had taken me to escape from Kramer’s yard and run as far as the garage he could just have got his car out and driven across to fill her up. In spite of his connection with the Tistet-Védène, in spite (I told myself savagely) of his now obvious eligibility for the rôle of Loraine’s husband, I had not tumbled to it. I had run to him in thankfulness, like a fool, putting our last pitiful little chance straight into his hands. Murderer’s hands.

  The lights of Hyères swam up in front of us; they swooped by, and were engulfed in our dark wake. I huddled deeper into my seat, and stole a glance at him. Now that I knew … oh, yes, now that I knew, it was plain to see, the
glint of amusement below the insolent lids, the arrogant tilt of the chin, the whole formidable confidence of the man. And I was aware again, sharply, of the impression of excitement that I had received before: somehow, it was there, banked and blazing, under the smoothly handsome exterior: the faint gleam of sweat over his cheek-bones betrayed it, the nostrils that flared to a quicker breathing above a rigid upper lip, the hands, too tight upon the wheel. Murderer’s hands.

  The dim road hurtled towards us. A village, a huddle of houses, flickered by like ghosts. Ahead two eyes gleamed: they stared, then darted like fireflies as the rabbit turned to run. Paul Véry gave a little laugh, and deliberately thrust down his foot. I heard the rabbit squeal as we hit it: behind me Rommel whined, sharply. Paul Véry laughed once more.

  ‘Frightened?’ The question came again; he must have heard me make some sound. This time I could honestly give him the satisfaction he wanted.

  ‘Yes. Do we have to go as fast as this?’

  He smiled at the tremor in my voice, but, to my surprise, slackened the car’s headlong speed.

  ‘And did you have to do that?’ I said.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Kill that wretched rabbit.’

  He laughed again, a charming, gay little laugh. He looked extraordinarily handsome. ‘You don’t like killing?’

  ‘Of course not.’ I hoped there was nothing in my voice but an austere disapproval, nothing of the cold creeping terror that was shaking me.

  The car slowed still further. The speedometer, under its masked light, showed a decorous fifty as Paul Véry took a hand off the wheel and dropped it over mine. The contact, warm, vital, and wholly mocking, sent a new shock through me: it was as if the man were giving off tangible waves of excitement.

  ‘Do you?’ I asked, knowing the answer.

  ‘If something gets in the way, ma belle, it’s asking to be killed, isn’t it?’ Warm and strong, his hand tightened over mine. The car’s speed dropped further, and he turned his head to smile down at me. ‘Not afraid any more?’

  I said ‘No,’ coolly enough, but I drew on my cigarette as if for succour, and my lips were unsteady. For I knew now what I was in for. I would have to be killed along with Richard and David; that much was obvious. Like the rabbit, I had got in the way. I knew, too, that Paul Véry was a real killer, who enjoyed the act of killing, and that this mad ride through the dark towards his dreadful objective had touched in him some ghastly stop of pure excitement. And my presence was the final titillation. Darkness, speed, danger, murder … and a girl. Nothing was to be missing from Mr. Véry’s white night.

  The Mercedes sang down to thirty, twenty-five, twenty … We were crawling at ten miles an hour down a sloping black tunnel of trees, and Paul Véry had thrown away his cigarette; his arm had slid round my shoulders and his handsome face was bent close to mine. I leaned back against the arm but it was like a bar of steel. At my involuntary movement of resistance it tightened brutally, and I saw something begin to blaze in the eyes above me.

  I suppose real terror is mercifully paralysing. I shut my eyes as he pulled me to him, only vaguely wondering if he would kill me here, or send me over the cliff with Richard. I even found myself wishing that he would watch the road when he was driving.

  His rapid breathing was hot on my cheek. His voice said, with something ruffling its deep velvet caress: ‘Ma belle …’ I felt his mouth searching for mine, and jerked my head away. He said again, on a note of surprised reproach: ‘Ma belle …’

  And even as I wondered half hysterically why a victim should be expected to want to kiss her murderer, the cobwebs of terror blew aside for one moment, and I remembered that he still had no idea that I knew him for what he was. His pained reproach held no hint of mockery: passion had left no room for that. He was simply so damned handsome that no woman had ever refused him a kiss before.

  My knowledge was my only weapon: it was a pitiful enough tool, a despicable tool if you like, but it was all I had. I didn’t hesitate a second. I opened my eyes, and smiled Delilah-wise into his. ‘It’s only … do please watch the road,’ I whispered.

  I heard his little soft laugh of triumph as he turned his head away to glance at the road. I relaxed against his shoulder, and the arm tightened round me as the Mercedes drew to a sliding halt at the side of the road.

  I threw away my cigarette with my free hand.

  ‘Oh damn!’

  The car slid to a stop.

  ‘What’s the matter, chérie?’

  ‘My bag,’ I said crossly. ‘It went overboard when I threw my cigarette out.’ I sat up and made as if to pull away from him.

  He pulled the handbrake on with a sharp movement, and turned to prevent me, taking me in both arms and drawing me back towards him. ‘Does it matter?’ It was the brown velvet voice, irresistibly caressing, flatteringly urgent. He had forgotten to switch the engine off.

  I hung back, pouting like a chorus starlet: ‘Silly! Of course it matters! Get it for me, there’s a dear.’

  ‘Later,’ he said, his voice roughening. His mouth came down on mine, and I sighed tremulously, and slid my arms round his neck. I began to wonder how soon we might expect Kramer in the Bentley …

  It seemed an age, a ghastly crawling age, before he relaxed his embrace a little and spoke again: ‘Trembling, ma belle?’

  I managed a breathless little laugh, which became half genuine as I saw the satisfied vanity in his face. It never occurred to him to doubt my surrender. I hastened to make him even surer of me.

  ‘Paul.’

  ‘Chérie?’

  ‘You like me?’

  ‘A silly question, ma belle!’

  You’re telling me, I thought. I said: ‘Even looking the way I do now?’

  He laughed complacently. ‘Any way, madame. Tell me – what is Richard Byron to you?’

  He must have felt me jump in his arms, but he put it down to startled recollection. ‘Oh!’ I cried. ‘How dreadful of me! I’d actually forgotten!’ I tried to push him away. ‘Monsieur Véry, hadn’t we better go on? I can’t imagine what I was thinking about!’

  ‘Can’t you?’ He was laughing again, and I had to control a sharp impulse to strike him across his beautiful complacent mouth. ‘Answer me, ma belle. This Richard Byron—’

  ‘I don’t know Richard Byron,’ I said quickly. ‘It’s the little boy I care about, little David – let’s go on, Monsieur Véry!’

  ‘You called me Paul a minute ago.’

  ‘Paul, then. If we’re not in time—’

  ‘There is plenty of time.’ He pulled me close again, and I went as if in spite of myself. I knew he had no intention of going on yet. I was afraid of pushing my hand and making him suspicious. I relaxed against him for another long, agonizing minute, while I strained my ears for the sound of Kramer’s car, and the darkness pressed in around us. The silence seemed thick and heavy under the trees. Only by the faintest quivering of her body did the Mercedes betray that her engine still ran. Paul Véry either did not care, or he was too preoccupied to notice. I wondered just how long it would be before things got beyond me, and guessed that it would not be very long now. Would I be strangled, like Tony, or—

  I gave another long sigh, and drew away. ‘We must go,’ I said huskily. ‘The little boy, Paul, chéri – we mustn’t forget him. I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to him because we’d—’ I stopped and put up a hand to his cheek. ‘Let’s go on, Paul.’

  He was as taut as a wire, and breathing fast. There was a queer look in his eyes, a kind of cold blaze that was uncanny, a blank look that I knew, suddenly, was the look of the killer. His hands moved, blindly. Things would be beyond me any moment now.

  I pushed his hands away gently. ‘Please!’ I said. ‘Get me my bag and then we’ll go.’

  He didn’t move, but sat there still with his eyes on me.

  I smiled at him. ‘All right, handsome,’ I said. ‘We don’t go. But get it for me anyway. I feel a fright and I want my mirror.’


  I leaned forward quickly and kissed him, as earnest of good intentions, then reached across him and opened the door. He hesitated, then with a little shrug he got out of the car. Humour the victim; she’ll come quietly …

  I had dropped the bag before the car stopped, and I judged it to be about twenty yards back.

  He walked back up the road, peering at the dark verge.

  I counted his steps, and put my hand on the handbrake, releasing the ratchet. I held it there, waiting.

  Five, six, seven … he paused and I thought he glanced back.

  ‘Can’t you find it?’ I called. ‘Shall I come?’

  ‘It’s all right.’ He moved on slowly.

  Eight, nine. …

  I reached a foot over to the left and threw out the clutch. We were on a slope; I eased the gear-lever into second.

  Ten, eleven. …

  ‘Here it is,’ he said, and stooped to pick it up.

  In a flash I was in the driver’s seat. I shoved the brake off, opened the throttle with a roar, and let in the clutch. Behind me, I heard a shout and a curse. The Mercedes jerked forward sharply – too sharply. For a moment I feared I would stall her, and threw out the clutch again. Then she caught hold as a race-horse takes the bit, and we were away.

  But my moment of fumbling with the unfamiliar controls had cost me dear enough.

  As I swung her out to the crown of the road and changed up, I heard his hoarse breathing and the thud of feet, and felt the lurch as he flung himself on to the running-board of the car.

  ‘Rommell’ I screamed above the rising snarl of the engine. ‘Get him, Rommell’

  I heard the dog give an excited bark, but there was no movement of attack. After all, the dog had seen me kissing the man only a few seconds before. Then I remembered that Paul Véry had a gun, and called, for the dog’s sake, even more urgently: ‘Down, Rommell’ and heard Paul Véry’s ugly little breathless laugh.