Rolling Stone (7 page)

“Jimmy—are you there?” Her voice, a naturally vibrant one, was hushed to the very edge of audibility. She paused, drew a quick breath, and said the name again, a little louder, “Jimmy—”

Peter stood uncertain between his bushes. Was it his cue, or wasn't it? If it was, something had gone wrong with the timing, because it couldn't be more than one o'clock, and he wasn't supposed to be entering the drive until two. If it wasn't his cue, then who was Jimmy—and was he butting in on an assignation? Well, to his mind this girl didn't look as if she had come to meet a lover. She had the air of being in a kind of terrified hurry. She stood just beyond the bottom step and called again,

“Jimmy—are you there?”

Bearing in mind that he was Spike Reilly, and that Reilly's baptismal name was James, Peter concluded that he had better be there. He said, “Yes,” and moved forward, but not so far forward as to risk identification.

Just as he took that step, the glass door flashed again. A girl looked out. Peter saw that, and thought “Hullo!” He had no time to think anything else, because the first girl came running at him. She said, “Quick, quick—take them!” Then she half turned, looked back, and saw the swinging door and someone coming down the steps to the terrace, someone coming out of the door which she had left ajar behind her. With a terrified gasp she pushed what felt like a heavy string of beads into Peter's hands and ran away past him and down the path which skirted the house.

CHAPTER X

Terry Clive woke up and found the moonlight in her room. She jumped out of bed and ran to the open window. She had no idea what had waked her, but she wanted to see those heather and bracken slopes under the moon. There had been a bank of cloud when she came up to bed. It was there still, but for the moment the moon rose clear. Nice to have a view like this hanging there in the window-frame day in day out, under the sun and the moon and the stars. She thought, “I hope it's a comfort to Emily,” and thought, “It would be to me.” And then wondered whether anything would really comfort you if you had lost your baby and never had another, but only a husband who was rude to you in front of people.

She leaned out of the window and saw how the moonlight bleached the bracken and the heather. But the pines were too dark for it. They stood up black and strange and dreamed their own dreams.

She had been looking for only a minute or two, when she heard a sound, and the moment she heard it she knew she had heard it before, and that it had waked her. It was the sound of Emily Cresswell's door closing just along the passage, and it was queer that it should have waked her, because it was such a soft brushing sound. There was a strip of plushy stuff on the bottom edge of the door to keep out draughts, and it made a soft shush-shush against the thick pile of Emily's carpet whenever the door was opened.

She wondered if Emily was ill. It must be quite late. They had come up at eleven. She thought it must be one o'clock or past by the moon. She opened her own door and looked out. Emily's door was shut, and someone who wasn't Emily was walking away down the passage. There was no light in the corridor itself, but a light burned all night long in the hall. Against the glow which came up from the well of the stairs Terry saw a tall shape move as, just a few hours ago, she had seen out on the terrace a dark shape stand against the brightening sky. She thought it was the same shape. She thought—no, she didn't stop to think. She snatched a rough warm coat from the cupboard and padded barefoot after the person who had come out of Emily's room. What business had anyone to be in Emily Cresswell's room in the middle of the night, and to go sliding off along the passage and down the stairs like a black ghost? It was in Terry's mind that she would find out.

She came to the top of the stairs and looked over. There was a flight, and a landing, and another flight that turned. The bottom step was under Terry where she looked over—right under her. The light shone on it. She looked down, and saw Norah Margesson in a black satin coat that hid her to her feet. Her hair hung loose over the collar of the coat. Her face without make-up had a desperate pallor. Her hands were out before her, the right pressed down upon the left. But what she carried could not be hidden. Milk-white and lovely, Emily Cresswell's pearls were heaped between her palms. Here and there they escaped, dripped down, and caught the light. The clasp with its brilliants dazzled. Before Terry had time to draw her breath in a gasp, Miss Margesson was gone out of sight, and Emily Cresswell's necklace with her.

Just for a moment Terry felt absolutely petrified. She couldn't think, and she couldn't move. She just felt cold to her bones and rather sick. That lasted for about half a minute. Then a hot, restorative anger surged over her. Her mind raced, and her feet. If Norah was walking in her sleep she must be brought back. If she was stealing Emily's pearls she must be made to give them back. Terry didn't believe she was sleep-walking. She believed she was stealing.

She arrived at the bottom of the stairs and looked about her under the light. The drawing-room door stood open a hand's breath. All the other doors were shut. She pushed the partly open door and found the drawing-room dark beyond it—all dark except for one tall bright panel where a green linen curtain had been pulled aside from the glass door which opened upon the terrace. The curtain had been drawn when they left the room two hours ago. A cold draught met her, and she saw that the door itself was ajar. She opened it wide and looked out.

The moonlight was flooding the terrace, and there was no one there. But away to the right where the steps went down and the shadows began—tree shadows, making a black pattern on the grass and merging into the black formlessness of crowding shrubs—there something moved. Some thing or some one.

She reached the terrace and ran along it to the steps. And down them without check or pause to what she had seen amongst the shadows.

Peter stood his ground and watched her come. He felt some pardonable interest as to what this was all about. If he ran for it he would probably brain himself against a tree trunk or be tripped and flung sprawling. He didn't fancy the prospect. He thought he would stay put and see what was to be seen. He didn't think that the girl could see him. The other one hadn't until he moved.

He was full of a lively curiosity. This girl was barefoot. She had a rough coat hanging open over her nightgown. She ran straight down the steps and right up to him. She caught him by the arm and shook it. She said in a breathless tone of rage,

“Give them back at once!”

When she shook him his handful of beads rattled. She let go of his arm and took him by the wrist. Her hand was small, and strong, and icy cold. She said, still in that furious whisper,

“Give them back at once!”

Peter grinned, but of course she couldn't see him. They were in the darkest of the shadows. She couldn't see anything. But he had seen
her
, and she was the girl who had looked out the window—the one to whom he ought to have been singing his tenor solo. Well, he wouldn't have minded. But instead here she was, trying to shake him. He gave her marks for courage, because if he had really been Spike Reilly, or the Jimmy whom the first girl was expecting, she was running a rather unpleasant risk. He said mildly,

“Do you mind telling me what you want?”

She stamped a bare foot.

“Mrs. Cresswell's pearls—you've got them in your hand! If you don't give them back at once, I shall scream.”

Peter certainly didn't want her to scream. He rather fancied that this would have been the cue for Spike Reilly to take her by the throat. As he was not prepared to do this, he said with all the social charm he could muster,

“Oh, I shouldn't do that.”

“Then give me the pearls—at once!”

“Pearls, are they? Well, well!”

“As if you didn't know!” Her whisper was edged with contempt.

“Actually, I didn't. Believe it or not, that haggard female just ran down the steps and shoved them at me, after which she ran away. And if you know what it's all about, I don't.”

“And you expect me to believe that?”

Peter shook his head.

“Oh, no—it's a wicked, unbelieving world. Why, if anyone came along and found us here, do you suppose they would believe that you were doing a bit of private sleuthing? Oh, no, they would see you clasping me affectionately by the wrist, and like you they would immediately believe the worst.”

Her cold, tight grip relaxed, and then tightened again resolutely.

“What are you doing here if you didn't come for the pearls?”

“You've no delicacy,” said Peter. “But if you want to know, I had an assignation.”

She gave a little angry laugh.

“Oh, yes—with Norah—to take the pearls!”

“Any good offering you my word of honour that I've never seen Norah before—didn't know her name, and hadn't any idea what it was she was pushing at me?”

She stamped again, really hard. It must have hurt. She said in that edged voice,

“Not the slightest. Give me the pearls!”

“All right, all right, don't get excited.” He moved forward a step or two, stretched his right hand, and set the pearls dangling in a patch of moonlight.

Terry, discovering that she was holding the wrong wrist, let go of it and sprang back. They both looked at the pearls. She made a snatch and missed them, because a long arm shot up and held them, still dangling, out of reach.

She was out of the shadow now, and he could see her face. She looked young and angry, and her eyes were very bright. Her hair curled all over her head like a child's. She had a soft round face and a soft red mouth. Peter Talbot felt a dangerous desire to pick her up and kiss her. He wondered what she would do if he did.

His hand came down and offered her the pearls politely on an open palm.

“Here you are. I'm not really a thief, you know. And if I were, there's something I'd rather have than pearls.”

Terry had held his wrist, but she took care not to touch his hand. She picked up Emily Cresswell's necklace, whisked round, and ran up the steps and into the house. Peter watched to see if she would shut the door, but she left it ajar.

He went back to his place, and wondered what was going to happen next.

CHAPTER XI

The first thing that happened was the reappearance of the haggard female, whose name he now knew to be Norah. She came up the steps at the other end of the terrace, stood there for a moment, and then went quickly to the door, which still stood ajar. She opened it, went in, and shut it after her. Peter thought he heard the click of a turning key. A curtain was drawn across the glass. The moonlight struck on its pale folds. Nothing else happened.

The question was, did this close tonight's performance, or was it only the end of the first act? Peter had a look at his watch. It was not quite half past one. His instructions had said definitely, “Enter drive at 2
A
.
M
.” That meant either that he had not been intended to come on until the second act, or that the scene in which he had just played an unrehearsed part didn't belong to his play at all, but to a highly dramatic curtain-raiser by some other hand. It was, of course, possible that he had been sent here to meet Norah and take over Mrs. Cresswell's pearls from her. If this was the case, it would account for the fact that no one else seemed to be on hand to do so. If he was not the Jimmy Norah expected, well, where was that other James? He was to know later, but at this time it puzzled him a good deal.

The interval between the acts lasted a long time. He reflected that even if nothing else happened, he was bound to wait here until half past three, and it seemed an extraordinarily flat, cold, and unprofitable way of spending the night. The wind was rising, and was now definitely in the east. Cloud was rising too, and the moon was veiled, though not yet darkened.

It was about ten minutes to two when he became aware that there was going to be a second act after all, and that the curtain was rising. Literally and physically, the curtain behind the glass door had once more been drawn aside. Its pale folds, which had caught what faint diffusion of light there was, stirred and withdrew, leaving a darkness in their place. He heard the click of a key again, and just perceived the movement of the opening door. Someone came out on to the steps and descended to the terrace. It got suddenly darker. In the close dusk it was impossible to see who it was that came. Peter could distinguish neither shape nor contour, only a moving shadow. If it had not moved, he would hardly have known it was there. When it ceased to move, he only made it out because he knew that it was there. His eye had not had to follow it very far. It had come towards him for a yard or two and stopped where the next window fronted on the terrace, a window which the moonlight had shown to be closed and curtained. And here the shadow stayed. There were faint sounds—oh, very faint. But Peter's hearing, at all times acute, was now strained to the utmost. He came out from his cover, and foot by foot crept nearer until he stood by the steps which led to the terrace.

It was just there that he caught the unmistakable tinkle of broken glass. The sound set his thoughts racing. Broken glass in this connection could mean only one possible thing. Someone was cutting a pane of glass from the window next to the long glass door. All the sounds he had caught corroborated this. But the person who was cutting out the pane had come from inside the house to do it. Why? There was an easy answer to that, and Peter had no difficulty in supplying it. Act II was going to stage a burglary, and a burglary had got to be an outside job. The stage manager was a careful soul. Nothing would be left to chance, and very little to Spike Reilly. Afterwards he was to wonder what would have happened if he had run in then and there and caught the shadow
in flagrante delicto
with his treacled paper, and his professionally smashed-in pane of glass. It wouldn't have been very easy to explain away. At the time, it simply never occurred to him to do anything of the sort. All that was in his mind was to play his part right through. He wanted to do that—to meet his fellow actors, to get the hang of the plot.