Run!

by Patricia Wentworth

  The foreman sniggered.

  “Some blind!” he said enviously. “And you don’t seem to have slept it off yet. We didn’t put no scaffolding across your door nor yet take any away, and if chimneypots and half tons of bricks was a-pitching of themselves off the roof, well, they’ve picked themselves up and walked away again—that’s all I can say.”

  It was perfectly true. James’s blood boiled with rage, and then cooled with the consciousness that he was making a fool of himself, and that the foreman genuinely believed him to have come home very drunk indeed. He gazed at the cobbled yard and found no trace of the avalanche which had just missed his head last night. If a chimneypot had fallen, where was it—if a hundred of bricks, who had picked them up? He could have enjoyed a row. He didn’t at all enjoy the foreman’s snigger and the foreman’s wink. He went through his own door in a very bad temper and banged it after him.

  XXV

  James reckoned to start for Fieldover with Colonel Pomeroy’s Rolls at about eleven o’clock. Colonel Pomeroy would expect him to stay to lunch, and he could catch the 4.10 at Warnley. As it was Saturday, he could have stayed the night, but he wanted to get back to town, because town meant Sally. Even if he didn’t see her, even if he couldn’t see her, she was within reach, and at the back of his mind there was the queer dogged feeling that he could and would if necessary walk into Ambrose Sylvester’s house or any other fellow’s house and walk Sally out of it. If necessary of course, not otherwise. It wasn’t in James’s nature to do spectacular things unless they were strictly necessary.

  He was having a final look over the Rolls, when Miss Callender appeared, hovering.

  “Oh, Mr. Elliot, I forgot to tell you they rang up from Colonel Pomeroy’s to know when you were bringing the car.”

  James flicked an imaginary speck of dust from the bonnet and turned round.

  “Colonel Pomeroy knows I’m coming today,” he said. “I told him so when I was talking to him yesterday.”

  Miss Callender rolled her blue eyes.

  “Oh, but he didn’t seem to, Mr. Elliot. And they asked what time and all.”

  “Well, I didn’t say what time,” said James. “And what do you mean by they?”

  Miss Callender bridled.

  “Well, that’s just a manner of speaking. I suppose it would be the butler or the chauffeur that was asking. It wasn’t Colonel Pomeroy.”

  James’s thick, fair eyebrows met in a frown.

  “Perhaps it was the same chauffeur who came nosing round here yesterday.”

  Miss Callender looked blank. She was a bright girl and conscientious, but she wasn’t really thinking about Colonel Pomeroy and his Rolls. She was thinking about Bert Simpson and whether he would say anything tonight when he took her to the pictures. It would be rather soon of course, but they had known each other for quite a long while, and after all what’s the good of wasting time? So she looked blank.

  Just at that moment the telephone bell rang and she ran back to the office.

  James continued to frown. All these odd things happening, and nothing you could take hold of let alone go to the police about, and behind them the horrid concrete fact of Jackson smashed and dead. He had nearly been smashed himself last night. Jocko had nearly been smashed at Holbrunn.…

  Miss Callender came out of the office and called to him.

  “Oh, Mr. Elliot, you’re wanted on the ’phone.”

  James took the receiver, and heard Sally’s voice say,

  “Who is it? Who’s there?”

  “James Elliot speaking,” said James, a frowning eye on Miss Callender’s fluffy head.

  “James, it’s Sally.”

  “Yes?” said James. “What is it?”

  Daisy Callender’s ear was frankly cocked. He couldn’t tell her to go to blazes, and he couldn’t call Sally darling on the office telephone whilst she sat there listening. His frown became positively murderous as he reflected that she could probably hear what Sally was saying too. He said,

  “What is it? I’m speaking from the office.”

  “You mean you’re not alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “James, I must speak to you.”

  Daisy Callender coughed, her hand on the open door.

  “Will you just let me know when you’ve done, Mr. Elliot?” she said. With a roll of the eye and a sympathetic smile she tiptoed out of the office and closed the door behind her.

  James said fervently, “She’s gone. Darling, what’s the matter?”

  “Jocko. I knew he was boiling up for something. He’s gone to Rere Place.”

  “When?”

  “This morning. He left a note for me.”

  James whistled.

  “Well, you can’t stop him.”

  “It isn’t safe,” said Sally with a sob in her voice. “He’s gone down all by himself.”

  James considered. A week ago he would have said, “Why? What could happen to him?” Now it seemed to him that quite a number of things, all of them rather final, might happen at Rere Place to anyone who knew or was on the brink of knowing too much. Someone had suspected Jackson of knowing too much, and Jackson was dead. Someone—possibly—suspected James Elliot of knowing too much, and bricks fell on him in the dark, said bricks and the scaffolding from which they had fallen being carefully tidied away during the night. Rere Place was a house where people shot at you as a hint that they were not at home to callers, and they kept a most convenient ghost story to account for the row. James wondered very much who had put Daphne up to telling that story last night.

  Sally said, “Are you there? Oh, don’t cut us off!”

  “I’m here all right,” said James. “I was thinking.”

  Her voice was warm with relief.

  “I thought they had cut us off. I’m so frightened about Jocko. He won’t believe there’s any danger or anything.”

  “Look here,” said James, “I’m taking Colonel Pomeroy’s car down to Fieldover this morning. It’s quite near Warnley, you know, and if you like, I could blow in on Jocko and stay the night. I needn’t be back here till Monday morning.”

  Sally gave a sort of gasp. He thought she said “No!” And then she caught her breath and said, “Oh, no—you mustn’t! Oh, no!”

  James’s heart gave a bump, because if that meant anything at all, it meant that Sally was frightened about him—more frightened about him than she was about Jocko. He immediately felt very fierce and aggressive, and enquired,

  “Why on earth not?”

  “Not both of you!” said Sally a little wildly. “James, I must see you. I don’t know how it’s to be done, but I must.”

  James thought for a moment.

  “Could you drive with me part of the way and come back by train?”

  He heard her catch her breath.

  “Yes, I could.”

  “Then I’ll pick you up at Sloane Square—outside the tube station. Will that do? In twenty minutes. Is that all right?”

  “Yes,” said Sally. Then she said, “Oh, James!” Then she rang off.

  XXVI

  James drew up to the kerb, and Sally opened the door and jumped in beside him. The car had hardly stopped before it was off again.

  “I got here,” said Sally.

  She was clasping a suit-case. James looked out of the corners of his eyes and said,

  “What’s that?”

  “Just a suit-case,” said Sally. She slewed round and threw it on the back seat. “I’m going on to stay with some people.”

  James noticed that she was rather brightly flushed. She ought to have had plenty of time to get to Sloane Square, but when girls were in a hurry they rather tended to run round in circles. This reflection merged into appreciation of the fact that the bright colour was very becoming. He took his left hand off the wheel and put it down hard on Sally’s right hand for a moment. Then he gave his attention to the traffic again.

  Sally sat beside him feeling happy, miserable, frightened, and adventurous in laye
rs. The happy layer was on the top just now, like the icing on a cake, but down underneath there were horrid dark places of fear. Presently she said,

  “Do you mind being talked to when you’re driving?”

  “Not if it’s just talk. I’d rather not get down to business till we get out of this.”

  So they talked. James told her all about his father putting his foot down and telling the world in his best parade voice that the Elliots had always been in the army, and if any son of his didn’t go into the army, he would want to know the reason why.

  “There was the most frightful row. If he hadn’t shouted at me so, I should probably have wanted to go into the army. But you know how it is when people shout. It makes you quite sure they must be in the wrong or they wouldn’t make so much noise about it. I mean you don’t have to make a noise if you’re in the right.”

  “Are you sorry you didn’t go into the army!” said Sally quickly.

  “Sometimes,” said James. He gave his attention to passing between a bus and a lorry full of gravel. As soon as he was through he said, “My mother was wonderful. You’ll like her. She’s the most comfortable person I ever met. She used to say ‘Yes, darling’ to my father about half the day, and then she used to come along and say ‘Yes, darling’ to me—whilst the row was going on, you know—and she never turned a hair. And in the end I went to Atwells.”

  “Oh—” said Sally. And then, “What would you really like to do now if you could choose?”

  “Design engines,” said James. “I’ve got ideas I’d like to work out. I shall too. I came in for a little money last year. I’m just waiting to make up my mind what I’m going to do with it. The worst of it is that experiments run away with an awful lot of money, and until you get down to experimenting you can’t be sure whether you’ve really got something good or not. I’ve got three thousand pounds, but I don’t like breaking into capital if I can help it.”

  Sally bit her lip. She looked straight in front of her for about five minutes. Then she said in a young, uncertain voice,

  “I’ve got some money too.”

  “Yes,” said James—“Jocko told me. He said you had three hundred a year.”

  Sally said “Oh—” Her colour was very bright indeed. She looked sideways at James out of her green eyes and murmured, “Do you mind?”

  “Why should I?” said James.

  Sally bit her lip again—quite hard.

  “Would you mind if it was more than three hundred?”

  James frowned at the King’s Road.

  “What has it got to do with me? I don’t suppose Niemeyer will object.”

  “James!”

  “Yes, Sally?”

  “Are you being a pig on purpose?”

  “Yes, Sally.”

  “James!” Sally’s green eyes were full of tears.

  He grinned at her for a moment.

  “I owed you one for saying you were practically engaged to him.”

  “It wasn’t a joke,” said Sally in a miserable voice.

  “What was it—blackmail?”

  “Sort of.”

  “All right, wait till we’re clear of the traffic and you can tell me all about it.”

  They made a quick run through Putney, and as they swung into Roehampton Lane, James looked round at her and said,

  “Now.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you,” said Sally. “Jocko’s gone to Rere Place. I don’t think it’s safe for him there. I don’t think it’s very safe for him anywhere if he means to try and find what Aunt Clementa hid.”

  “What did she hide, Sally?”

  Sally flashed him an odd, fleeting smile.

  “You never believed it was a diamond necklace—did you? Not even after Daphne’s story.”

  “No,” said James. “Did Daphne make the story up?”

  Sally shook her head.

  “Oh no—it’s a real story. No one knows what happened to the necklace. Aunt Clementa always said Giles pinched it. The Reres were a pretty queer lot.”

  “Well, what did your Aunt Clementa find,” said James, “if it wasn’t the necklace?”

  “It was a book,” said Sally slowly. “I think it was a list of names in a book—names of people who were doing something they could be run in for, and enough about what they were doing to get them run in. That’s what I think it was. I think they were using Rere Place. I think Aunt Clementa made a very good screen for them. She was old, and she was ill, and she was bedridden. At least that’s what they thought.”

  James looked around.

  “I meant to go and see that maid of hers, Annie What’s-her-name, but I haven’t had time.”

  “I went first thing,” said Sally. “I asked her whether Aunt Clementa could get out of bed, and she twinkled—she’s a jolly, fat old thing—and said, ‘Many’s the time, miss, only I never let on that I knew.’ So I said, ‘You mean she did get out of bed?’ And Annie laughed and said, ‘Pretty near every night, miss, only she didn’t want no one to know, and I never let on.’ So I said, ‘Do you mean she got out in the night and walked about in the house?’ And Annie said, ‘Upstairs and down, miss.’ So then I said, ‘Do you think anyone else knew—anyone except you?’ And she said no, and she never told anyone, because she didn’t think it was anyone’s business what her ladyship did in her own house. So you see—”

  James saw.

  “Well then, you think she found something that compromised these people who were using the house?”

  “Yes.”

  “And hid it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And wrote and told Jocko where to find it?”

  “Yes, I think so. They must have been most awfully afraid of what was in that letter to risk pushing him over the cliff. It was so dangerous that—”

  “That the letter must have been more dangerous still?”

  Sally nodded.

  “And now if they think he’s remembered what was in the letter—James, I’m so frightened when I think about it.”

  “Do you think he has remembered?”

  Sally nodded again.

  “Something, but I don’t know how much. He won’t say. He’s gone there alone. And they’ll never let him find whatever it is—they’ll stop him somehow.”

  “Well,” said James in his most practical voice, “if it’s all that compromising, why not burn the house down and get rid of it? There’s been plenty of time.”

  Sally shivered.

  “I thought of that. But you know, James—fire—it’s so awfully uncertain. I don’t believe they’d risk it. We’ve got a frightfully keen local fire-brigade, and if there was anything compromising hidden in the house, you bet someone would rescue that whilst everything else got burnt to ashes. I believe it would be simply bound to happen. Besides it’s a big house, and the blighted thing may be anywhere. They wouldn’t risk it.”

  James said without looking at her,

  “Who are they, Sally? Don’t you think it’s about time you told me?”

  XXVII

  Sally did not speak or move. She looked straight in front of her. A queer sort of stiff silence seemed to close her in. James could feel it there like a sheet of glass between them. He stopped the car and took her by the shoulders.

  “Do you want me to shake you till your eyes drop out?”

  The silence broke up.

  “You c-can’t,” said Sally with something between a sob and a laugh.

  “Oh, can’t I?”

  She felt his grip tighten.

  “James! Not on the Kingston by-pass! Oh, d-darling—don’t!”

  “Sally,” said James, “I’ve run out of patience—right out. If you’re going to talk, I’ll listen, but if you’re going to drop a few hints and then dry up, well, you’ll get your shaking, and I don’t suppose you’ll like it a bit.”

  “All right,” said Sally, “I will talk—I will, darling. I’d like to—really. I—oh, darling, do let go! Those people were looking at us!”

 
“Let them look,” said James. He gave her a little shake and took his hand away. “Now we’ll go on, and you can tell me all about it. And don’t try to keep anything back, because if I’m to be any use to you, I’ve got to know everything that you know.” He started the car. “Now you can begin. You said they wouldn’t risk it. You just shove along and tell me who they are.”

  “Ambrose,” said Sally in a little breathless voice. “At least I think so. But I don’t know about Hildegarde. I don’t like her, and that makes it so difficult. I mean it’s so difficult to know whether you’re being fair when you simply loathe someone and never want to see them again.”

  There was a nice clear stretch of road before them, and James put the Rolls up sixty. He said,

  “Is that how you feel about Ambrose too?”

  “No,” said Sally. “I wish I did. James, that’s why I’ve been such a fool about it. You see, I used to love Ambrose—terribly.”

  James spoke roughly.

  “How do you mean you used to love him?”

  “He used to come and see me at school. He was frightfully famous—it’s faded a bit now, but everyone was talking about him then—and when he came down to see me everyone thought he was too marvellous. I wasn’t the only one. We all fell passionately in love with him.”

  James grinned. He couldn’t help it, the relief was so great. He had been black afraid, and here was the sort of thing that Kitty, and Chloe, and Meg had broken him in to—the schoolgirl passion for an actor, a film star—or Ambrose Sylvester.

  “I can’t think why,” said James, “but I suppose girls must have something to pash for.”

  “He’s frightfully handsome. Nobody could possibly say he wasn’t. And it was frightfully nice of him to come down and take me out, but of course he oughtn’t to have made love to me.”

  “Sally!”

  “Oh, nothing to look like that about. But I thought he meant it. In a way I think perhaps he did. I think he was wondering whether it mightn’t be a good plan if he married me.”

  “Was he your guardian then?”