The Shadow In The House

by Maxwell March

  “Latcher is the only good man who ever really liked me,” she said. “I wonder if that proves he’s a fool?”

  Beron shook his head. “It’s no good, Mother. Latcher’s getting old. He’s got his reputation to think of. He daren’t risk it. If he smells a rat he’s bound to investigate.”

  “Ah,” said Mrs de Liane quickly, “we don’t want that.”

  Her son looked at her sharply, but there was not the glimmer of a smile upon her lips.

  “She has married Richard, that is one thing,” she said. “That’s important. That will carry a lot of weight with Latcher.”

  Beron nodded. “It’s got to. Well, suppose we get away with it—and we’re going to—what does that mean exactly? The entire fortune is in her control, I suppose?”

  “And in her husband’s.” Mrs de Liane was complacent.

  The man picked up her words.

  “Do you mean that, literally?”

  The dancing blue eyes were raised to meet his own.

  “Well, no. But she is in the control of her husband and incidentally in mine. Once this identification business is settled I don’t think it will be very difficult to persuade her to sign any documents we care to put before her. After all, she doesn’t understand the position, and anyway she’s not the person to be unpleasantly interested in detail.”

  He looked at her admiringly. “You have it very neatly planned out, haven’t you?”

  “I have considered it,” she said gently.

  “Her husband’s control …” Beron repeated the words slowly. He made an impressive figure standing on the hearthrug, his hands still clasped behind him and his chin raised a little, his eyes fixed upon the farther wall. His mother looked affectionately at the flecks of white at the sides of his smoothly brushed black hair.

  Suddenly he turned and looked down at the woman.

  “She’s an attractive girl,” he said, a note in his voice which made her look sharply at him. “A very attractive girl. With the right clothes and makeup she could be a beauty.”

  He was silent again, and then, just as she had framed a cautious question in her mind, he answered it himself, dispelling her momentary anxiety.

  “Do you trust Richard?”

  To his relief she did not laugh, and he realized that aspect had been considered by her also.

  “Yes,” she said deliberately. “Yes. Richard has never been impressionable, and I don’t think his good sense is deserting him now. However, if it should, I would know immediately.”

  He dropped a hand on her shoulder.

  “Wonderful woman,” he said lightly. “Wonderful woman.”

  Mrs de Liane patted the hand resting so affectionately on the sleeve of her gown, and at that moment anyone who had seen them could not have helped being impressed by the charming picture of filial and maternal affection which they portrayed so clearly.

  They went on to discuss the girl. The confidence they had in each other and the obvious bond of something that could only be called affection which held them together added to the chill horror of that dreadful conversation.

  After a moment of silence Mrs de Liane mentioned the name that was so prominently before both their minds.

  “Latcher …”

  He nodded. “Half-past four. That’s the time of the appointment, isn’t it? It’s hopeless to reason with her. She’ll agree to anything and then go back on it. Where is she now?”

  “With Louise. I sent the girl up by train this morning. I showed her the passport photograph, and she thought that with a fringe and one or two slight alterations—fortunately girls do makeup so heavily these days—quite a passable likeness could be achieved.”

  Beron shrugged his shoulders.

  “I only saw the other girl when—well, after the accident. The face was practically pulped and——Sorry, my dear.”

  Mrs de Liane had put up her hand appealingly, and he was all apology.

  “It doesn’t matter in the least,” he said. “After all, it’s the photograph Latcher will see. How is she taking to the idea?”

  “Very well. She was quite calm and subdued when I told her.”

  He nodded. “That’s a bad sign. I—I wonder if I dare …”

  The remark was so unlike him that the old woman glanced up at him questioningly and he explained.

  “There’s some stuff called hembutal,” he said slowly. “It’s really an anæsthetic, but rather different from the ordinary kind. They use it in cases where the assistance of the patient is required. It produces a curious effect. It destroys memory—not from hour to hour but from moment to moment. It might make him think her a little queer, but I don’t think it would occur to him … D’you see what I mean?”

  “It sounds excellent,” said Mrs de Liane with composure. “I leave all that to you, my dear Edmund. You understand these things. Is there any other effect?”

  The man hesitated. “I’ve had it on my mind for some time,” he said. “There’s only one thing.”

  “And that?”

  “Frankly, it’s dangerous. It has rather gone out of fashion lately because of the deaths. Some people die under it, and some people don’t. They can’t explain why. Shall we risk it?”

  Mrs de Liane looked up at him, and her eyes danced. There was a gleam of something that could only be called excitement in them.

  “Why not?” she said.

  CHAPTER XII

  The Open Boor

  MARY STOOD looking at herself in the full-length mirror in Mrs de Liane’s austerely furnished bedroom at the flat. Outside the window rain was pouring down on the noisy streets, turning them to muddy rivers. A thick overhead fog had materialized, and although it was barely half-past three the street lamps were lit, and the glaring bulbs in the bedroom showed her the results of Louise’s handiwork.

  She, who had known Marie-Elizabeth in the flesh, could not help smiling at the complete falsity of her impersonation of that vigorous, unforgettable creature.

  However, when she thought of the photograph in the passport she realized once again how very clever they were. Although a suspicious observer might have detected several flaws in the likeness, no one who merely glanced at the girl and then the photograph would hesitate to pronounce them the same.

  She had allowed Louise to cut a fringe and to dress her hair in the style the real Marie-Elizabeth had affected. The heavy makeup bothered her, but she put up with it and had climbed into the new clothes which had been brought to her without objection.

  Louise had been silent to the point of sullenness all through the preparations, and now she stood looking at the girl, an inscrutable expression on her square, heavy face, her dull black eyes betraying nothing of the personality behind them, the existence of which the girl did not even suspect.

  Mary had been glad that the woman had not talked. It had given her time to think. Now that the hour had come she had made up her mind what to do. She had decided to assist Mrs de Liane and her sons in every way and await her opportunity to escape.

  She did not allow herself to think further than that lest her heart should fail her. No money, no friends; only London waiting for her, a cold, wet, unresponsive London which would swallow her up in its muddy skirts.

  Alone with the Frenchwoman, she had persuaded herself that she had nothing further to fear from Mrs de Liane now that her mind had been made up to take the vital step. Once that remarkable personality was out of sight she found it easy to think of her as merely a very clever and dangerous old woman, and yet when the door opened softly behind her and she heard the rustle of the silk dress her heart turned over in her side even before the gentle voice had spoken.

  “Oh, clever, Louise, very clever. You’re a good girl. I shall not forget it. You may go now.”

  “Oui, madame.” The words were whispered, and the woman fled on silent feet, leaving the two together, the old woman and the transformed girl.

  “My dear, how very interesting.”

  Old Mrs de Liane held the passport in
her hand, and her eyes travelled over the girl’s slender figure clad in the new rough tweed costume, and then travelled up to the face again and the red-gold hair peeping out from under the small brown felt hat.

  “It is the eyebrows,” she said. “Yes, definitely, the eyebrows. Louise is a genius. You’re going to be sensible, Mary?”

  The question slipped out unexpectedly in the midst of the stream of chatter, and the girl started violently. The old woman came very close to her.

  “My dear, you were very stupid this morning,” she said. “I hope you have learnt your lesson.”

  Mary took a deep breath. “Yes,” she said unsteadily and shivered. Even now the memory of that sodden cemetery could chill her and the recollection of the bearer’s face send a thin trickle of terror through her.

  To her relief Mrs de Liane seemed in the mood to be easily persuaded. She even made friendly overtures.

  “You won’t come to any harm, you know,” she said, “unless you bring it on yourself. I’m sure we’re all very fond of you. I am—and Richard.”

  She watched the girl’s face closely on the last word, but there was nothing in the grey-blue eyes to tell her if her shot had gone home.

  Mary was forcing herself to think clearly. She realized she would need every ounce of her courage and intelligence to get away. The first opportunity of slipping silently out into the crowds must be seized, and there must be no mistake this time.

  Meanwhile, she must be careful.

  Mrs de Liane took her into the big living room of the flat where Richard and Edmund Beron sat waiting. Mrs de Liane looked round as the two men rose when she entered.

  “Ted not back?” she said, and raised her eyebrows. “I hope there’s been no trouble.”

  “Oh no, none at all. He telephoned.” Beron spoke easily. “He’ll be here waiting for us when we come back.”

  Mary had not noticed the incident. She was acutely conscious of Richard staring at her. She thought she read surprise and distaste in his eyes, and somehow the discovery pleased her. She did not allow herself to analyze the feeling, to face the fact that she was pleased because he obviously preferred her as herself.

  Mrs de Liane beckoned him forward, and he came over sulkily, like a small boy, fumbling with something in his pocket.

  Mary drew back when she saw the jeweller’s box in his hand. Mrs de Liane took it from him calmly and, opening it, produced a small platinum wedding ring.

  “Now, my dear,” she said briskly, “Richard has brought you a proper ring of your own. You must give me back mine.”

  Mary laughed. The request touched her sense of the absurd, and, holding out her hand, she allowed them to twist and turn at the little diamond ring until they realized, as she had done long before, the impossibility of removing it save with a file.

  It was when Beron came to help his mother and twisted her flesh so that she winced that Richard interfered.

  “This is my prerogative, isn’t it?” he said casually, and stepping forward, he took her hand from theirs and looked down at the little torn finger.

  Mary glanced up and caught the expression in his eyes. She looked away hurriedly to find Mrs de Liane watching her furtively.

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible, Mother. We must put the new ring over it.” Richard spoke perfunctorily, and, taking the platinum circlet from the old woman’s hand, he slipped it onto the bruised finger.

  “With this ring I thee wed,” he said lightly.

  Mary snatched her hand away, but she did not utter the protest which rose to her lips. Instead she contented herself with looking her dislike and hastily pulled on the new brown gloves which Louise had given her.

  “We ought to start,” said Richard hastily. “I’m quite ready. Marie-Elizabeth and I will wait here for you, shall we?”

  A slow smile passed over Beron’s face.

  “I don’t think so, Richard,” he said. “I should like to have a word or two with Mary before we start. I want to give her a short lecture on Australia.”

  Richard hesitated. Mary caught a glimpse of him, his eyes bright and suspicious as his glance travelled swiftly from Beron to his mother. Quietly the old lady took him by the arm and led him unwillingly from the room.

  When the door had closed behind them Beron turned to the girl.

  “Sit down?” he said, pointing to a deep tapestry chair with its back to the window.

  He spoke quite quietly, but there was a professional note in his tone, the command firm but impersonal. Mary obeyed him nervously. Mrs de Liane was an enemy, she knew, but this man was unknown. His suavity terrified her.

  “Now,” he began, placing himself directly in front of her and looking down into her face, “there are just one or two things that I want you to remember, Mary. You are not to forget them. They are to stay in your mind. Your real name is Marie-Elizabeth Mason.”

  The girl drew back from him. There was an intensity in his cold eyes which was alarming. To her relief he laughed.

  “You’re frightened, aren’t you?” he said. “Well, there’s no need to be. There’s nothing to worry about, nothing at all.”

  He leaned forward, and his hand closed over her forearm.

  “Look at me,” he said. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  She looked up at him again, and his eyes held her whole attention so that she forgot the growing pressure on her arm.

  “You are Marie-Elizabeth Mason,” he repeated.

  Mary blinked at him, uttered a sharp cry and attempted to spring up in her chair.

  “My arm!” she exclaimed. “My arm! You stuck something in my arm!”

  Edmund Beron slipped the little silver hypodermic back into his pocket.

  “You are jumpy, aren’t you?” he said. “There’s nothing to worry about, old lady, nothing in the world.”

  He was talking very swiftly now, as though time had suddenly become vitally precious.

  “Nothing to be frightened of. Just remember your part. You are Marie-Elizabeth Mason. You married Richard for love. For love,” he repeated, and it seemed to Mary that the word grew in enormous letters before her eyes. “You married Richard for love. You were glad to leave the Hendricks. They were nice people but not your sort. You are very happy at Baron’s Tye. You love Richard very much.“

  Mary sat stiffly in the chair, her eyes fixed upon his face in an unwavering stare. After a moment or so a puzzled expression came into her face. She looked down at her arm and rubbed it thoughtfully. Two minutes later she had forgotten it, forgotten the strange numbness which was creeping up her side.

  “You are happy,” said Edmund Beron steadily. “You have never been so very, very happy in your life before. That’s so, isn’t it, Mary? Isn’t it?”

  The girl frowned at him. Somewhere in the back of her consciousness she knew vaguely that something was wrong, but her main sensation was that of first waking, when the mind flits about from subject to subject and feeling is reduced to half-formed impressions too fleeting to be caught.

  “You are happy.”

  “Yes,” said Mary unsteadily. “Yes,” she repeated with more conviction. “Yes, yes, I’m happy.”

  “You love Richard. He is your husband. You love Richard. You love your husband.”

  “I love my husband,” she said, and it was as though an oppressive weight had been lifted from her heart. “I love my husband. I love Richard.”

  She had risen on these words and now, turning her head, saw the man of whom they were speaking standing in the doorway. There was an odd expression on his lean face. The creases in his cheeks had disappeared, leaving his mouth firm and his eyes unusually hard. Mary took two or three uncertain steps towards him.

  “I love my husband,” she repeated mechanically. “I love you, Richard.”

  The man strode across the room to face his brother.

  “What the hell are you playing at now, Beron?” he said bitterly.

  Edmund Beron glanced at his watch.

  “We must hurry,�
� he said. “It’s nearly a quarter-past four. Besides,” he added, glancing at the girl, “we haven’t any too much time.”

  Five minutes later they came down the steps of the block of flats. Mary was clinging to her husband’s arm, looking up into his face, unusual colour in her cheeks, her eyes dancing. Behind them Mrs de Liane walked, a picture of happy maternal affection, while behind her, a wary expression on his broad, by no means unhandsome face, came Beron, acutely conscious of the watch ticking away the minutes on his wrist.

  The chauffeur held open the door of the car, and if he felt any surprise at the sudden change in the girl’s demeanour he did not show it.

  The rain descended in a cold, desultory fashion, soaking relentlessly everyone who ventured out into the gleaming streets.

  But there was one lounger, one man in a light fawn raincoat who leant against the railings on the opposite side of the road, who was oblivious of the rain. Neither the girl nor her captors dreamed of his existence or his interest in them, but as soon as the great car slid away from the curb he sprang into a passing taxi and, after murmuring instructions in the driver’s ear, crouched down on the rough mat within so that his eyes should not miss for a moment the taillamp of the big black car in front.

  Inside the car the four were silent. Mary sat by her husband’s side, her arm through his and her eyes fixed upon his face with new interest.

  On her other side Mrs de Liane leant back among the leather cushions and glanced under her lashes at the two young people, amusement and frank interest in her bright blue eyes.

  Edmund Beron had resumed his original seat opposite the three of them, and he too watched the girl, but there was no amusement in his glance. His eyes were cautious, and there was anxiety upon his heavy face.

  The tonneau was softly lit, and for the time being, at any rate, Mary entirely forgot the world of glistening streets without, her attention absorbed by the man at her side.

  Richard de Liane did not appear to notice her. His easy, playful attitude had vanished, and he remained cold and ominously quiet. He sat staring straight in front of him, his mouth narrowed and his eyes bright and angry.