Rolling Stone (17 page)

Mr. Ridgefield went on talking about stamps with considerable enthusiasm whilst he partook of three cups of tea and a muffin-dish full of hot buttered toast. But when the muffin-dish was empty and he had replaced his cup on the tray he fell suddenly silent, and then said with a complete change of manner,

“Terry, my dear, I've been thinking over what you said about going to the police, and I don't think it will do.”

Terry said nothing. Her mouth set firmly, and an obstinate gleam came into her eyes. She had told everyone what she was going to do, and she meant to do it. They could badger her till they were black in the face, but she meant to do it.

A fatigued expression passed over Basil Ridgefield's features. He had not been Terry's guardian since she was ten years old without being able to recognize these danger signals. His ward had some extremely charming qualities, but she could be as determined as a mule. He said in his gentlest voice,

“You see, my dear, you are still very young. You do not think about the social repercussions, but I am bound to think about them for you. I don't want to press you to tell me what you saw, but don't you think it would be better if you could bring yourself to talk the whole thing over in a friendly manner before you risk the scandal and publicity which may result from going to the police? Let us suppose that one of our fellow guests was involved—though I find it impossible to believe such a thing. What is likely to result? Consider pain and embarrassment not only to the Cresswells, who are my very old friends, but to all the innocent members of the house-party, and—though perhaps this will not weigh with you—a considerable measure of social discredit for yourself. Odium of that sort is not to be incurred lightly. You will probably think I am being old-fashioned, but it doesn't do a young girl any good to be mixed up in a social scandal, still less in a police-court case. It doesn't look well for her to put herself forward as an accuser. You mustn't mind if I say that it takes a good deal of the bloom off.”

Terry listened. Her expression became less stubborn. Distress came into it. She felt the impact and the pressure of age, authority, and experience. He was much older than she. He had always been kind to her. He knew his world. He was trying to be kind to her now—she felt quite sure about that. And he would think her stupid and ungrateful. A bright colour came into her cheeks. She tried to explain.

“It isn't what you think—it really isn't. I don't want to accuse anyone. You see, if they give the picture back, I won't say anything—I won't feel I've got to. Whoever took it has got the chance of sending it back. I've thought about it a lot, and if they sent it back, I think it would mean that they wouldn't take any more pictures, because they would know that I knew something, and they would be afraid to go on, because of course if they did, I should
have
to go to the police.”

Basil Ridgefield adjusted his monocle and looked at her with rather an odd expression.

“And hasn't it struck you that you may be putting yourself in a very difficult not to say dangerous position, my dear? I don't know what you saw, and you don't seem inclined to tell me, but I should strongly advise you to forget the whole thing. Shall we say you had a bad dream—quite a vivid dream, but one which can now be forgotten? I think it would be much safer to look at it that way.”

Terry leaned forward. Her eyes were very bright.

“Who wants to be safe?” she cried.

A faintly sarcastic smile just touched Mr. Ridgefield's lips.

“Oh, I do for one.” He got up from his chair. “I must go round and tell Horace Wimpole about the auction. He hated missing it, and I promised I'd look in.”

When he had gone Terry ran after him to the door. Her soft heart smote her, because he really had been very sweet. He might have stamped, and said his foot was down, and things like that. And he hadn't.

She looked over the stairs and saw him, half way down. He looked back at her. She blew him a kiss.

CHAPTER XXV

It was about six o'clock when the telephone bell rang again. This time the voice that said “Miss Clive?” was an entirely strange one. Terry said, “Yes,” and the voice said, “Miss Terry Clive?”, and Terry said “Yes” again. It was a woman's voice. At least she thought it was a woman's voice; she wasn't quite sure. There was a curious whispery sound about it. It said,

“This is rather a delicate matter. Are you alone? You don't mind my asking, do you?”

Terry wondered what was coming next. She said,

“No—I'm alone.”

“Well then—I think some friends of yours are anxious to recover a piece of lost property.”

It was exactly like getting an electric shock. She felt it run tingling all over her as she said,

“What do you mean?”

“I think you know very well what I mean. You offered certain terms. Well, now we want to know whether we can rely on your keeping your part of the bargain.”

Terry said, “Of course you can.”

“If the property is recovered, no further steps will be taken?”

“Not by me.”

“You undertake to hold your tongue?”

“Yes.”

“But have you held your tongue? That's the question.”

“Yes, I have.”

“You haven't told anyone what you saw?”

“I haven't told anyone.”

“Nobody at all?”

“Nobody at all.”

The voice became brisker.

“Very well then, it only remains to hand the property over to you.”

“To me?” Terry heard how surprised her own voice sounded.

“Certainly to you. We are not in a position to approach your friends.”

“You could send it by post, or carrier, or something.” She wasn't really sure how you did send pictures.

There was a laugh, instantly suppressed.

“My dear Miss Clive! A valuable piece of lost property like this? Your friends wouldn't thank you. Suppose it got damaged or—stolen. One has heard of such things.”

Terry's cheeks burned. She was being laughed at, and she didn't like it. She said in a stiff young voice,

“What do you propose?”

“Well, since we are being so obliging, we thought you might care to come half way to meet us. We can't very well come to you, and we're not quite in a position to give you our address, so the idea was that the transfer should take place upon what one might call neutral ground. If you will take a taxi to the corner of Massingbourne Crescent, someone will meet you there and hand the property over.”

Terry put her hand over the receiver and thought. It sounded all right. She could ring up the garage they always dealt with and have a taxi from there. And she wouldn't get out. Whoever it was who was going to meet her would just have to come and talk to her where she was. She didn't see how anything could possibly go wrong.

There was a crackling against the palm of her hand. She thought, “You can laugh at me, but you can't make me listen unless I want to.” Then she put the thing to her mouth and said,

“All right, I'll do it.” She rang off, and rang up the Rockingham Garage.

Miss Lamb, the young lady who sat in a glass cage and answered the telephone, said, “Oh, certainly.” And then, “Yes, it's a nasty fog, Miss Clive, but I'm sure it will be all right.”

Miss Lamb hung up the receiver and continued in her own mind the highly dramatic rehearsal of what she intended to say to Ted Williams when he came round at half past six to walk home with her—“It's all very well you thinking you can go on as if you were one of those sheikhs, but if you think I'm the sort of girl that's going to put up with being one of a crowd, well, you've just to begin and think all over again—that's all. And if you think you can take Mabel Hill out Saturday, and Ruby Pope Sunday, and then come along on the Monday and expect me to walk home with you as if nothing had happened, well, I'm not having any, and you can go back to your Mabel and your Ruby if they'll have you, which I shouldn't think they would, not if they've got any proper pride in themselves—but that's their look-out and not mine, thank goodness.” Well, then, of course he'd be angry—bound to be, and there'd be a bit of a flare-up, and after that he'd come round and want her to make it up with him. And perhaps she would, and perhaps she wouldn't. It didn't do for a girl to make herself too cheap—

She was still undecided when the telephone bell rang again. A woman's voice said,

“The Rockingham Garage?”

“Speaking.”

“Miss Clive has just ordered a taxi—”

“Yes—it'll be round directly.”

The voice said, “Will you please countermand it. Miss Clive has decided that it is too foggy to go out.”

Miss Lamb put back the receiver.

Terry powdered her nose, touched up her lips, put on her hat and coat, and ran down the stairs. The taxi arrived on one side of the hall door as she arrived on the other. She thought how quick they had been. Jenkins was opening the door as she got to it. She told him to say that she wouldn't be long, and ran out to the car.

The fog was much worse than it had been in the middle of the day. She did not much like being out in it, but it fascinated her too. Everything had such a queer under-water look, and the street lamps were like milky moons, each in a halo of its own but not really giving any light.

She wasn't quite sure where Massingbourne Crescent was, but the taxi driver seemed to know. They were getting along at a good speed. She lost her landmarks almost at once, and wondered how he was able to make his way with so much certainty.

Then she began to think about other things—about who was going to meet her at the corner of Massingbourne Crescent, and whether it would be the young man to whom Norah had given the pearls, and from whom she herself had recovered them. Because of course he must have been waiting there to take the picture, and if he had taken it he might be the one to bring it back. Terry hoped he would. She had got the better of him once, and that naturally put her in good heart.

When they had been driving for about twenty minutes the car stopped. The man got down and opened the door.

“You didn't say what number, miss.”

“No. I'm expecting someone to meet me.”

They both peered into the fog. It was thickish here. You could just see the houses on this side of the road, but not on the other. With the door open and the fog seeping in, Terry had a drowning feeling. It was bitterly cold, and a quick shudder shook her. Just as it passed, she heard steps on the pavement—slow, hesitating steps, coming on and stopping, coming nearer. They came right up to the car. There was the sound of a cough. A woman said,

“Miss Clive?”

Terry leaned out and looked. She couldn't see very much, but what she saw was reassuring. The voice was an elderly voice, and the woman who stood on the kerb was an old woman with a stooped figure, decent elderly garments, and a tremulous gentility of speech. She coughed feebly with her hand at her mouth, and half whispered,

“So stupid—such a bad cold—and this fog. May I get in and talk to you?”

Terry moved to make room and put out a hand to help her in. The driver shut the door and remained close by on the pavement. It did not enter Terry's head to be nervous. She would not have found it possible to believe that she was in any danger.

The woman coughed for some time. In the semi-darkness Terry could see her dimly, one hand pressed down upon the straining chest. The paroxysm passed. She leaned back with a heavy sigh.

Terry said, “You oughtn't to be out. Let's be as quick as we can, so that you can get home. Have you come about the picture?”

“Oh, yes—about the picture.”

“Have you got it?”

“Not here. We must drive a little way. Oh dear!”

“They oughtn't to have sent you—you're not fit to be out.” Terry's voice was indignant. She opened the door and called to the driver, “We'll have to go on.” Then, to the woman in the corner, “Which way?”

“Along the Crescent. Oh dear!” She coughed again.

The car began to move. Looking to right and left, Terry could see nothing. She guessed at houses on one side and trees on the other behind a wall of fog. She felt blind, and didn't like it. The woman had opened her bag and was fumbling in it. She still coughed.

Then, with the extreme of suddenness, a hand took Terry by the elbow. Not a large hand but a very strong one. It held her rigid and startled. And on that the other hand came up with a stabbing motion. Needle-sharp and deep, something stabbed right into her arm. She cried out and tried to wrench away, but the grip on her elbow held. The needle that had prickled her was withdrawn. The hand which had held it came round her neck and pressed a pad of something down upon her nose and mouth. She tried to drag herself free, but she was in a clasp of steel. She tried to scream, but the small sound which came was muffled and died against her lips. No second scream would come. She could no longer feel that hard and cruel grip. She could no longer remember why she ought to scream. An unconsciousness as deadening as the fog closed down upon her senses.

After a minute or two the woman released her, pushing her over into the corner of the car. She picked up the hypodermic syringe from the seat where she had let it fall and put it carefully away in her bag. Then she leaned forward and rapped on the glass. The car stopped.

The driver got down and came round to the window. He stood looking in and said,

“O.K.?”

The woman laughed and said,

“Perfectly. Did you hear anything?”

“Not enough to swear by. What next?”

“Drive to the house. Don't be afraid—she won't come round.”

He got back into his seat. The car moved on.

CHAPTER XXVI

About twenty minutes later Alfred, the page at the Edenbridge, knocked at Peter Talbot's door and told him he was wanted on the telephone. Peter's eyebrows went up. He whistled softly, dropped the book he was reading, and strode off down the passage to the telephone-box which the management had recently installed there. He remembered that in Vincent's time you had a choice between making a call in the lounge hall with everyone listening, and in the office where the audience consisted only of the clerk.