“The sun’s gone in. It’s quite cold. We’d better get back to the hotel. It must be nearly lunch time.”
They got up and turned in the direction of the hotel. They had walked for perhaps a minute when they overtook a figure going in the same direction. They recognized her by the flapping cloak she wore. It was one of the Polish sisters.
They passed her, Harold bowing slightly. She made no response but her eyes rested on them both for a minute and there was a certain appraising quality in the glance which made Harold feel suddenly hot. He wondered if the woman had seen him sitting by Elsie on the tree trunk. If so, she probably thought. . . .
Well, she looked as though she thought . . . A wave of indignation overwhelmed him! What foul minds some women had!
Odd that the sun had gone in and that they should both have shivered—perhaps just at the moment that that woman was watching them. . . .
Somehow, Harold felt a little uneasy.
IV
That evening, Harold went to his room a little after ten. The English maid had arrived and he had received a number of letters, some of which needed immediate answers.
He got into his pyjamas and a dressing gown and sat down at the desk to deal with his correspondence. He had written three letters and was just starting on the fourth when the door was suddenly flung open and Elsie Clayton staggered into the room.
Harold jumped up, startled. Elsie had pushed the door to behind her and was standing clutching at the chest of drawers. Her breath was coming in great gasps, her face was the colour of chalk. She looked frightened to death.
She gasped out: “It’s my husband! He arrived unexpectedly. I—I think he’ll kill me. He’s mad—quite mad. I came to you. Don’t—don’t let him find me.”
She took a step or two forward, swaying so much that she almost fell. Harold put out an arm to support her.
As he did so, the door was flung open and a man stood in the doorway. He was of medium height with thick eyebrows and a sleek, dark head. In his hand he carried a heavy car spanner. His voice rose high and shook with rage. He almost screamed the words.
“So that Polish woman was right! You are carrying on with this fellow!”
Elsie cried:
“No, no, Philip. It’s not true. You’re wrong.”
Harold thrust the girl swiftly behind him, as Philip Clayton advanced on them both. The latter cried:
“Wrong, am I? When I find you here in his room? You she-devil, I’ll kill you for this.”
With a swift, sideways movement he dodged Harold’s arm. Elsie, with a cry, ran round the other side of Harold, who swung round to fend the other off.
But Philip Clayton had only one idea, to get at his wife. He swerved round again. Elsie, terrified, rushed out of the room. Philip Clayton dashed after her, and Harold, with not a moment’s hesitation, followed him.
Elsie had darted back into her own bedroom at the end of the corridor. Harold could hear the sound of the key turning in the lock, but it did not turn in time. Before the lock could catch Philip Clayton wrenched the door open. He disappeared into the room and Harold heard Elsie’s frightened cry. In another minute Harold burst in after them.
Elsie was standing at bay against the curtains of the window. As Harold entered Philip Clayton rushed at her brandishing the spanner. She gave a terrified cry, then snatching up a heavy paper-weight from the desk beside her, she flung it at him.
Clayton went down like a log. Elsie screamed. Harold stopped petrified in the doorway. The girl fell on her knees beside her husband. He lay quite still where he had fallen.
Outside in the passage, there was the sound of the bolt of one of the doors being drawn back. Elsie jumped up and ran to
Harold.
“Please—please—” Her voice was low and breathless. “Go back to your room. They’ll come—they’ll find you here.”
Harold nodded. He took in the situation like lightning. For the moment, Philip Clayton was hors de combat. But Elsie’s scream might have been heard. If he were found in her room it could only cause embarrassment and misunderstanding. Both for her sake and his own there must be no scandal.
As noislessly as possible, he sprinted down the passage and back into his room. Just as he reached it, he heard the sound of an opening door.
He sat in his room for nearly half an hour, waiting. He dared not go out. Sooner or later, he felt sure, Elsie would come.
There was a light tap on his door. Harold jumped up to open it.
It was not Elsie who came in but her mother and Harold was aghast at her appearance. She looked suddenly years older. Her grey hair was dishevelled and there were deep black circles under her eyes.
He sprang up and helped her to a chair. She sat down, her breath coming painfully. Harold said quickly:
“You look all in, Mrs. Rice. Can I get you something?”
She shook her head.
“No. Never mind me. I’m all right, really. It’s only the shock. Mr. Waring, a terrible thing has happened.”
Harold asked:
“Is Clayton seriously injured?”
She caught her breath.
“Worse than that. He’s dead . . .”
V
The room spun round.
A feeling as of icy water trickling down his spine rendered Harold incapable of speech for a moment or two.
He repeated dully:
“Dead?”
Mrs. Rice nodded.
She said, and her voice had the flat level tones of complete exhaustion:
“The corner of that marble paperweight caught him right on the temple and he fell back with his head on the iron fender. I don’t know which it was that killed him—but he is certainly dead. I have seen death often enough to know.”
Disaster—that was the word that rang insistently in Harold’s brain. Disaster, disaster, disaster. . . .
He said vehemently:
“It was an accident . . . I saw it happen.”
Mrs. Rice said sharply:
“Of course it was an accident. I know that. But—but—is anyone else going to think so? I’m—frankly, I’m frightened, Harold! This isn’t England.”
Harold said slowly:
“I can confirm Elsie’s story.”
Mrs. Rice said:
“Yes, and she can confirm yours. That—that is just it!”
Harold’s brain, naturally a keen and cautious one, saw her point. He reviewed the whole thing and appreciated the weakness of their position.
He and Elsie had spent a good deal of their time together. Then there was the fact that they had been seen together in the pinewoods by one of the Polish women under rather compromising circumstances. The Polish ladies apparently spoke no English, but they might nevertheless understand it a little. The woman might have known the meaning of words like “jealousy” and “husband” if she had chanced to overhear their conversation. Anyway it was clear that it was something she had said to Clayton that had aroused his jealousy. And now—his death. When Clayton had died, he, Harold, had been in Elsie Clayton’s room. There was nothing to show that he had not deliberately assaulted Philip Clayton with the paperweight. Nothing to show that the jealous husband had not actually found them together. There was only his word and Elsie’s. Would they be believed?
A cold fear gripped him.
He did not imagine—no, he really did not imagine—that either he or Elsie was in danger of being condemned to death for a murder they had not committed. Surely, in any case, it could be only a charge of manslaughter brought against them. (Did they have manslaughter in these foreign countries?) But even if they were acquitted of blame there would have to be an inquiry—it would be reported in all the papers. An English man and woman accused—jealous husband—rising politician. Yes, it would mean the end of his political career. It would never survive a scandal like that.
He said on an impulse:
“Can’t we get rid of the body somehow? Plant it somewhere?”
Mrs. Rice’s ast
onished and scornful look made him blush. She said incisively:
“My dear Harold, this isn’t a detective story! To attempt a thing like that would be quite crazy.”
“I suppose it would.” He groaned. “What can we do? My God, what can we do?”
Mrs. Rice shook her head despairingly. She was frowning, her mind working painfully.
Harold demanded:
“Isn’t there anything we can do? Anything to avoid this frightful disaster?”
There, it was out—disaster! Terrible—unforeseen—utterly damning.
They stared at each other. Mrs. Rice said hoarsely:
“Elsie—my little girl. I’d do anything . . . It will kill her if she has to go through a thing like this.” And she added: “You too, your career—everything.”
Harold managed to say:
“Never mind me.”
But he did not really mean it.
Mrs. Rice went on bitterly:
“And all so unfair—so utterly untrue! It’s not as though there had ever been anything between you. I know that well enough.”
Harold suggested, catching at a straw:
“You’ll be able to say that at least—that it was all perfectly all right.”
Mrs. Rice said bitterly:
“Yes, if they believe me. But you know what these people out here are like!”
Harold agreed gloomily. To the Continental mind, there would undoubtedly be a guilty connection between himself and Elsie, and all Mrs. Rice’s denials would be taken as a mother lying herself black in the face for her daughter.
Harold said gloomily:
“Yes, we’re not in England, worse luck.”
“Ah!” Mrs. Rice lifted her head. “That’s true . . . It’s not England. I wonder now if something could be done—”
“Yes?” Harold looked at her eagerly.
Mrs. Rice said abruptly:
“How much money have you got?”
“Not much with me.” He added, “I could wire for money, of course.”
Mrs. Rice said grimly:
“We may need a good deal. But I think it’s worth trying.”
Harold felt a faint lifting of despair. He said:
“What is your idea?”
Mrs. Rice spoke decisively.
“We haven’t a chance of concealing the death ourselves, but I do think there’s just a chance of hushing it up officially!”
“You really think so?” Harold was hopeful but slightly incredulous.
“Yes, for one thing the manager of the hotel will be on our side. He’d much rather have the thing hushed up. It’s my opinion that in these out of the way curious little Balkan countries you can bribe anyone and everyone—and the police are probably more corrupt than anyone else!”
Harold said slowly:
“Do you know, I believe you’re right.”
Mrs. Rice went on:
“Fortunately, I don’t think anyone in the hotel heard anything.”
“Who has the room next to Elsie’s on the other side from yours?”
“The two Polish ladies. They didn’t hear anything. They’d have come out into the passage if they had. Philip arrived late, nobody saw him but the night porter. Do you know, Harold, I believe it will be possible to hush the whole thing up—and get Philip’s death certified as due to natural causes! It’s just a question of bribing high enough—and finding the right man—probably the Chief of Police!”
Harold smiled faintly. He said:
“It’s rather Comic Opera, isn’t it? Well, after all, we can but try.”
VI
Mrs. Rice was energy personified. First the manager was summoned. Harold remained in his room, keeping out of it. He and Mrs. Rice had agreed that the story told had better be that of a quarrel between husband and wife. Elsie’s youth and prettiness would command more sympathy.
On the following morning various police officials arrived and were shown up to Mrs. Rice’s bedroom. They left at midday. Harold had wired for money but otherwise had taken no part in the proceedings—indeed he would have been unable to do so since none of these official personages spoke English.
At twelve o’clock Mrs. Rice came to his room. She looked white and tired, but the relief on her face told its own story. She said simply:
“It’s worked!”
“Thank heaven! You’ve been really marvellous! It seems incredible!”
Mrs. Rice said thoughtfully:
“By the ease with which it went, you might almost think it was quite normal. They practically held out their hands right away. It’s—it’s rather disgusting, really!”
Harold said dryly:
“This isn’t the moment to quarrel with the corruption of the public services. How much?”
“The tariff’s rather high.”
She read out a list of figures.
“The Chief of Police.
The Commissaire.
The Agent.
The Doctor.
The Hotel Manager.
The Night Porter.”
Harold’s comment was merely:
“The night porter doesn’t get much, does he? I suppose it’s mostly a question of gold lace.”
Mrs. Rice explained:
“The manager stipulated that the death should not have taken place in his hotel at all. The official story will be that Philip had a heart attack in the train. He went along the corridor for air—you know how they always leave those doors open—and he fell out on the line. It’s wonderful what the police can do when they try!”
“Well,” said Harold. “Thank God our police force isn’t like that.”
And in a British and superior mood he went down to lunch.
VII
After lunch Harold usually joined Mrs. Rice and her daughter for coffee. He decided to make no change in his usual behaviour.
This was the first time he had seen Elsie since the night before. She was very pale and was obviously still suffering from shock, but she made a gallant endeavour to behave as usual, uttering small commonplaces about the weather and the scenery.
They commented on a new guest who had just arrived, trying to guess his nationality. Harold thought a moustache like that must be French—Elsie said German—and Mrs. Rice thought he might be Spanish.
There was no one else but themselves on the terrace with the exception of the two Polish ladies who were sitting at the extreme end, both doing fancywork.
As always when he saw them, Harold felt a queer shiver of apprehension pass over him. Those still faces, those curved beaks of noses, those long clawlike hands. . . .
A page boy approached and told Mrs. Rice she was wanted. She rose and followed him. At the entrance to the hotel they saw her encounter a police official in full uniform.
Elsie caught her breath.
“You don’t think—anything’s gone wrong?”
Harold reassured her quickly.
“Oh, no, no, nothing of that kind.”
But he himself knew a sudden pang of fear.
He said:
“Your mother’s been wonderful!”
“I know. Mother is a great fighter. She’ll never sit down under defeat.” Elsie shivered. “But it is all horrible, isn’t it?”
“Now, don’t dwell on it. It’s all over and done with.”
Elsie said in a low voice:
“I can’t forget that—that it was I who killed him.”
Harold said urgently:
“Don’t think of it that way. It was an accident. You know that really.”
Her face grew a little happier. Harold added:
“And anyway it’s past. The past is the past. Try never to think of it again.”
Mrs. Rice came back. By the expression on her face they saw that all was well.
“It gave me quite a fright,” she said almost gaily. “But it was only a formality about some papers. Everything’s all right, my children. We’re out of the shadow. I think we might order ourselves a liqueur on the strength of it.”
The liqueur was ordered and came. They raised their glasses.
Mrs. Rice said: “To the Future!”
Harold smiled at Elsie and said:
“To your happiness!”
She smiled back at him and said as she lifted her glass:
“And to you—to your success! I’m sure you’re going to be a very great man.”
With the reaction from fear they felt gay, almost light-headed. The shadow had lifted! All was well. . . .
From the far end of the terrace the two birdlike women rose. They rolled up their work carefully. They came across the stone flags.
With little bows they sat down by Mrs. Rice. One of them began to speak. The other one let her eyes rest on Elsie and Harold. There was a little smile on her lips. It was not, Harold thought, a nice smile. . . .
He looked over at Mrs. Rice. She was listening to the Polish woman and though he couldn’t understand a word, the expression on Mrs. Rice’s face was clear enough. All the old anguish and despair came back. She listened and occasionally spoke a brief word.
Presently the two sisters rose, and with stiff little bows went into the hotel.
Harold leaned forward. He said hoarsely:
“What is it?”
Mrs. Rice answered him in the quiet hopeless tones of despair.
“Those women are going to blackmail us. They heard everything last night. And now we’ve tried to hush it up, it makes the whole thing a thousand times worse . . .”
VIII
Harold Waring was down by the lake. He had been walking feverishly for over an hour, trying by sheer physical energy to still the clamour of despair that had attacked him.
He came at last to the spot where he had first noticed the two grim women who held his life and Elsie’s in their evil talons. He said aloud:
“Curse them! Damn them for a pair of devilish bloodsucking harpies!”
A slight cough made him spin round. He found himself facing the luxuriantly moustached stranger who had just come out from the shade of the trees.
Harold found it difficult to know what to say. This little man must have almost certainly overheard what he had just said.
Harold, at a loss, said somewhat ridiculously:
“Oh—er—good afternoon.”
In perfect English the other replied:
The Labours of Hercules Page 13