The White Room

by L. P. Davies

  His eyes, eyes that missed nothing, rested on the polished leather of Axel’s brief case, moved up over his grey suit, rested finally on his face. He leaned forward a little, frowning, his expression now that of someone confronted with a face that he is sure he has seen before but to which, just for the moment, he is unable to fit a name. Still frowning, he turned to sway his way back to the front of the bus and the interrupted business of collecting fares.

  Axel found himself a seat behind a woman with grey hair that straggled from beneath the down-turned brim of a very faded blue hat.

  She turned in her scat to favour him with a yellow-teethed smile. “They do have hearts, some of them, sometimes,” said she.

  “Yes,” Axel said, and looked out of the window. He focussed his eyes from his own reflection on the smeary glass to the darkness behind. A handful of haloed lights slid distantly by. Trees loomed closely, a confusing fresco. Then came open space backed by a grey line of horizon. They were out of the town already. He looked at his watch. Quarter past ten. He had expected it to be later than that. The last bus, the conductor had said. Either the service finished early or else there was a long run ahead. To another town? He didn’t want that. He wanted somewhere quiet, a village perhaps, somewhere where he could hide while he waited for the drug to wear off. Axel listened to the destinations of the other passengers.

  “The Square.” That, from a cloth-capped workman, didn’t have the right sound. Neither did “Binnock Road, one an’ a ’arf,” from a woman with a greasy-mouthed, scat-clambering child.

  “Littledene Corner,” from the blue-hatted woman in front of him, was more like it. Axel felt in his pockets and found a few odd coins. He spread them across his palm.

  “Where to?” the conductor asked.

  “Littledene Corner.”

  The money was scooped up. “Been hoarding these?” And: “You’re one penny short.”

  Axel reached for his wallet. “I’m afraid I only have a note-”

  “Let it go,” the conductor said ungraciously.

  Buttons were punched, a slip of paper was laid on Axel’s palm. He looked up to meet the other’s curious gaze.

  “I keep getting the feeling,” mused their owner, “that I’ve seen you somewhere before.”

  “It’s most unlikely.”

  “Your spitting image, then.” The conductor raised his voice. “Any more fares?”

  The bus rocked through the night, a small, self-contained world of nodding heads, cracked leather and petrol fumes. An unreal world …

  IT have to be something, Axel thought, looking down at the brief case on his lap. I’m going to find a hotel or an inn and book a room. People ask questions. I’ve got to have something to tell them—a name, a reason for having no luggage.

  The bus lurched violently, rattling as if it were about to fall apart.

  “High time they took these old bone-shakers off the roads,” the woman in the blue hat complained loudly.

  “It is indeed,” Axel agreed automatically, thoughts far away. And then wondered how he had been able to agree so fervently and without hesitation. He owned a fleet of cars and employed a chauffeur. For longer trips he had a plane and a pilot. This was the first time in his life he had ever made a journey by bus. And yet he had known, as if from personal experience, the difference between the discomfort of this antiquated bus and the smooth, effortless glide of the modern coaches.

  He looked through the window. His own face stared back at him. The strange feeling of unreality increased. He was asleep and dreaming. He closed his eyes. There was something soothing, relaxing, about the continual jolt and sway of the bus. Something almost—hypnotic. It was so easy not to think about anything at all, not to worry about what lay ahead, so very easy to drift off into nothingness—

  He came awake with a jerk, blinking, remembering where he was, aware then that the bus had stopped. The seat in front of him was empty, the blue hat gone. He came hurriedly to his feet. The conductor took his hand from the bell push. “You nearly missed it.” He drew his stomach in for Axel to push by.

  It was cool and fresh outside after the sickly, smelly warmth of the bus. Axel, brief case under arm, stepped onto a grass verge. The conductor, about to reach up to the bell push again, paused, leaning forward, steadying himself with one hand on the curved rail of the steps while he peered down at Axel as he had once before.

  And this time his face cleared. His face, a thin, sour, deeply lined face, never meant for smiling, broke into a grin.

  “I got it!” It was a small moment of triumph. “I knew I’d seen you before. I don’t blame you for not letting on.” The grin, a knowing, conspiratorial affair, broadened. “It’s Adrian Wolfax.”

  He put up his hand as the bus moved away.

  “Good night, Mr. Wolfax,” he called back. “Good luck to you.”

  3

  Axel watched the bus until its dwindling shape had melted into the darkness, until a bend in the road hid its lights from view.

  Adrian Wolfax … It seemed to him that he had met the name somewhere before. But that didn’t mean a thing. He came across so many names in the course of business; names without faces, for the greater part—signatures scrawled on documents, letters, contracts.

  He looked about him. He was standing on the rim of a circle of pale light east by a lamp across the road. It stood at the entrance to a narrow, tree-lined lane. And there was the woman with the blue hat, standing by the lamp-post while she rearranged her load, changing a basket from one hand to another, tucking a parcel under one arm. A bag tilted and spilled its contents—oranges, no, onions—in all directions. Smiling at the sight, Axel went across to help her retrieve them.

  Flushed, breathing heavily, she turned to thank him, discovering: “You’re the man what was behind me in the bus.”

  He dropped the last onion into the bag. “That’s right.”

  “I remember now—I heard you ask for the Corner. You’ll be going to the village then?”

  “The village …” He gazed into lonely darkness. “I suppose so.”

  “Someone there you know?” She made no effort to hide her rural curiosity. “Maybe I can ‘elp if you’re new here. I know everyone in Littledene.”

  “I’m a stranger to this part of the world.” Dozing on the bus, an expression had come to mind. He remembered it now and held up his brief case. “Consumer research.”

  Surprisingly, she knew what that meant. “Going round asking folk questions.” She sounded disdainful. “About soap powders, soups and things.”

  “Someone has to do it.”

  “I suppose so. You won’t get much out of Littledene, and that’s for sure. Not more’n fifty souls, all told. Hardly worth your time.” She puckered her face in sudden perplexity. “At this time of night?”

  Lying was coming easy to him now. He could almost believe in the part he was playing.

  “I’ve finished work for the day,” he explained glibly. “Littledene was my next area. I thought it might be a good idea if I was to stay there the night so that I could start bright and early tomorrow.”

  “You’ve got no choice but to stay here now,” the woman said drily. “Not unless you fancy a five-mile walk. That was the last bus. We’ll just ‘ave to hope Bert can put you up.”

  He was grateful for the friendly “we.”

  “Bert?”

  “Bert Loveday. He and his wife, Mary, run the local. The Swan. They take in visitors sometimes. If you can get in there, you’ll be as right as rain. Real nice folk, they are.”

  She set off, confident Axel would follow. He reached to take one of her baskets. “Allow me—” Busy with her thoughts, she let him take it without offering any thanks.

  “There’s two rooms they let out. One’s took, though. I don’t see why they shouldn’t let you have the other.”

  They walked side by side between lines of dark trees.

  “Just tell them that Betty sent you,” said the woman. “They’ll know. Everyone kno
ws Betty Wick.”

  On the left, sandwiched between trees, a wooden barred gate. _

  Mrs. Wick jerked her head at it. “The farm. Goodish walk from the lane. If I was you, I shouldn’t bother about there.”

  “I won’t,” Axel said gravely. “Thank you.”

  The trees came to an end. Fields gave way to cottages. Mrs. Wick listed names, proving that she did indeed know everyone who lived in the village.

  A lane led off on the left. A plain-fronted building, nothing more than a house, was set at an angle across the triangle of the opening.

  “Here we are,” said Mrs. Wick.

  There were lights in the windows on either side of the porchless front door. A piano tinkled tinnily, voices sang. Over the door, fastened crookedly to the wall, was a board. Someone, an amateur, Axel felt, had tried to paint the shape of a white swan on it. Even the letters underneath were uneven.

  Mrs. Wick took her basket back. “Just go right in,” said she. “Go in the door on the left. The other goes to the bar. Full, by the sound of it. Bert doesn’t bother much about licensing times.”

  “You’ve been most kind,” Axel told her, now standing full in the light. To the woman’s features came a duplicate of the conductor’s earlier puzzlement, the same expression of someone trying to find a name for a familiar face.

  “When I first saw you in the bus,” said Mrs. Wick slowly, “it struck me I’d seen you somewheres before. You don’t come from these parts at all?” .

  “It seems I have a double in these parts,” Axel said easily. “I don’t know if you noticed the conductor: he fancied he knew me too. He finally decided I was someone called Adrian Wolfax.”

  “Adrian Wolfax.” Mrs. Wick repeated the name and then shook her head firmly. “I’ve never come across that one before. A new name to me, that.” She put her head on one side, the floppy blue brim of her hat covering one eye. “A picture in the papers, maybe?” she hazarded hopefully.

  “Not me,” he told her flatly. Which was the truth. He had always made a point of never allowing himself to be interviewed by reporters, never offered his face to the photographers. Norville, Petersen and the rest were a different matter: they revelled in publicity.

  ‘Til fret till it comes to me,” she declared. “You ever worked in one of the Norwich shops?”

  “Never,” Axel assured her, trying to restrain growing impatience.

  In the Swan, the voices died away, the piano was silent.

  “It’ll come to me,” said Mrs. Wick. “Well, good night to you, Mr.—?”

  He had been waiting for that, had expected it some time ago, was ready for it. Ready with a name that had the same initials as those embossed in gold on his case.

  “Carter. Arnold Carter.”

  She nodded, ready to turn away. “Most likely I’ll be seeing you on Monday then, Mr. Carter. When you comes asking your questions. Maybe with a free sample or two—”

  He hadn’t thought of that. To go from door to door, knocking, asking pointless questions—

  “After what you’ve told me,” he said quickly, “I don’t think I’ll bother with Littledene after all. I’ll take a few days off instead. I think I’ve earned a holiday.”

  “Some folks is lucky,” she retorted without malice, and turned to go off down the lane into the darkness, a friendly, garrulous, stumpy little woman, laden down with parcels, bags and baskets.

  A small group of men emerged explosively from the Swan, talking loudly, arguing, by the sound, leaving the door open behind them. They muddled by without even appearing to notice Axel. He made use of the ready open door.

  In a narrow hall with an uneven tiled floor he had to squeeze against the wall to allow more people to file by. The door behind them framed a smoke-filled room with white walls divided into squares with strips of black wood, each square holding a decoration of some kind—a brass plate, a hunting horn, a stirrup.

  In the wake of the customers came the man who, by his shirt sleeves, white apron and towel, had been looking after them. A man in his fifties, with sleek, brushed-back white hair, a great deal of forehead and very little face. But a red and pleasant face, for all its wizened foxiness. Smiling at the back of his late customers, he still smiled when he saw Axel.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “I’m afraid we’ve just closed.”

  “Not refreshment,” Axel told him. “I was hoping you might be able to put me up for a day or two. A lady called Betty said that I was to mention her name.”

  “Which means she’ll want a stout on the house next time she’s in.” Still smiling, wiping his hands on the towel, the landlord opened another door. “You’d better come through to the lounge, sir.”

  The lounge … A tiny room with more whitewashed walls cut up into squares. It contained two small tables, a threadbare carpet that had once been cherry red, a miniature counter and an assortment of chairs, no two of which were the same.

  The landlord produced a packet of cigarettes from somewhere under his apron and offered it, asking: “And how long would you be staying?”

  Axel took a cigarette, leaned forward to the flick of lighter. “I’m not sure.” He inhaled deeply, pleasurably. “Three, four days.”

  “I reckon we can manage that all right, sir. I’ll just have to have a word with the wife about food. Let’s see, it’s Mr.-?”

  “Carter.”

  “Loveday. Bert Loveday. We’ve got one guest in already, but I’m sure Mary’ll be able to cope.” The landlord turned to consult the clock behind the counter. “Miss Salter should be back any time now for her supper. Sit you down, Mr. Carter.” He raised his voice, calling: “Mary?”

  Axel chose a chair with a straight back. He propped his brief case against one of the legs.

  “Come far?” asked Mr. Loveday companionably.

  “I do a great deal of travelling,” Axel told him.

  “Your luggage will be in your car. I’ll bring it in for you later.”

  “I came by bus,” Axel said. “This”—looking down at the brief case—“is all I’ve got with me.”

  Stroking his chin, Mr. Loveday looked faintly embarrassed.

  “Our terms is five a day. That’s with meals included, of course.”

  Axel reached for his wallet. “I’d like to pay something in advance.”

  The other was even more put out. The towel flapped from one of the hands lifted in protest. “There’s no need for that, Mr. Carter. It’s just that being in this business one has—”

  He was saved from further embarrassment by the entrance of his wife. A country wife to match a country husband. Short, plump of face; grey-white hair arranged in soft curls; smiling eyes behind quite an elaborate pair of glasses; plain blue linen dress strained over heavy curves.

  Another guest? Of course she could cope. She was just seeing about supper now. “We have to eat by opening times, Mr. Carter. It means a rather late last meal. I hope that’s all right.” She put her head on one side, listening. “That sounds like Miss Salter’s car now.” She bustled away.

  “I’ll take you up to your room, Mr. Carter,” said her husband.

  Axel followed him into the hall, along it and up a steep and narrow flight of steps.

  “Bathroom.” His guide tapped a door, moved on, opened the next. “Here we are.”

  A small room, a pink-walled box after what Axel had been accustomed to, barely room to turn round between bed and wardrobe, between chair and tiny, chintz-curtained window. The bed wasn’t made up.

  “Mary’ll see about that while you’re eating.” Mr. Loveday smiled and nodded. “I’ll leave you to settle in, then. We serve up in the lounge. Come down when you’re ready. No hurry; it’ll be all of half an hour before Mary has the food on the table.”

  Left alone, Axel put his case on the chair, took off his jacket and went along to the bathroom. From below came the sound of a woman’s voice, a pleasant voice with laughter that came easily, naturally. It was a long time since he had heard anyone laugh li
ke that. He took his time over washing the smell and grime of the bus off his face and hands. Back in the bedroom he switched off the light before going over to the window to draw the curtains aside. The window overlooked the two lanes that met at the front of the building. A small dark-coloured saloon had been drawn up on the triangular forecourt.

  Resting his hands on the white window sill, Axel looked along the darkness of the main lane. He felt relaxed, at ease. The muzziness in his mind was still there, but not nearly so bad as it had been. The house was a million miles away. It was an eternity since he had stood with his back to the french windows listening to Carla telling him of her husband’s treachery.

  He knew now—he was sure he knew—why she had drugged the whiskey, why the phone had been made useless, why they—for there had to be others working with her—had tried to turn the house into a prison. There was no point in going through all that in his mind now, wondering what would have happened if he hadn’t managed to get away. What he had to do now was concentrate upon finding some way of putting a spoke in Kendall’s wheel before it was too late. That could wait until tomorrow. A good night’s sleep and he should awake with his mind free of the effects of the drug.

  Drawing the curtains, he groped his way back across the room and out into the light of the passage, then down the stairs and into the lounge.

  To where the girl who sat at one of the tables looked up from the book she was reading to smile and say: “Mr. Carter, so Bert tells me.”

  Nearer thirty than twenty, Axel judged automatically as he went to take the hand offered over the top of her book. Attractive, but more by virtue of personality than features, with little to lift those slightly irregular features out of the rut of mediocrity apart from down-curving eyes that almost closed when she smiled. Her hair, smooth, light brown, curled inwards at the tips, a wing of it left free to fall loosely over one side of her forehead. She wore a white blouse and a black skirt, almost an office uniform. Her bare legs were very brown, her shoes low-heeled.

  “The very last thing I expected was to find myself with fresh company.” she said, laying her book face downwards on the table. “A pleasant surprise. Are you staying long, Mr. Carter?”