Trouble on the Thames (10 page)

“Hullo!” he muttered. “Where the devil am I?”

Sally came a step nearer, keeping the torch focused on his face.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

“That's—that's just what I'm wondering myself.” He made a feeble attempt to sit up a little higher. “All I know is that I've got a peach of a head. Feels as if it was going to explode.” A wry smile twisted his lips, and with another involuntary groan he sank back again into the same position.

Sally stood where she was, staring at him silently. As far as looks went he was not in the least like her idea of a murderer. Despite his rain-soaked clothes and a large smear of blood across his forehead, there was something about his appearance which seemed to inspire her with a sudden queer sense of confidence. Anyhow, for some unaccountable reason she no longer felt afraid of him.

“But you must remember your name,” she persisted.

“I was trying to when you shoved on that light. It's no good, though—can't think of a damned thing except this foul pain.”

“Have you ever heard of a man called Granville Sutton?”

“Granville Sutton? No—what's he got to do with it?”

“This is his bungalow. I had an appointment to meet him at ten-thirty.”

The grey eyes stared at her blankly.

“When I got here,” she continued, “I found the door open and the whole place in darkness. The first thing I saw was Sutton's body. It's lying on the floor the other side of that table.”

“His body!” With a sudden fumbling movement the stranger reached out towards the chair beside him, and grabbing hold of the arm, dragged himself to his feet. The effort seemed to have exhausted his strength, and for a moment he stood there swaying dizzily.

“You mean—you mean that he's dead?”

Sally drew in a long breath. “You can see for yourself.”

She turned her torch in the direction of the sprawling figure, and abandoning his grip on the chair, her companion took a step forward. Then, supporting himself by the table, he stood gazing down at the gruesome object in front of him.

“I say, this is a bit grim. Looks as though we'd butted in on a murder.” He raised his head and turned slowly towards Sally. “Are you by any chance under the impression that I did it?”

“I was at first: now I'm not so sure.”

“Thanks.” Another twisted smile flickered across his lips. “Considering everything, that's uncommonly handsome.”

“But you're mixed up with it in some way—you must be. What made you come here, and how did you get hurt yourself?”

For a moment he remained silent.

“You can believe me or not, but I haven't the remotest notion. As I told you, I don't even know who I am. All I remember is waking up in the dark with what felt like a red-hot gimlet boring into the back of my head. How long I'd been lying there God knows. Somebody must have given me a clout from behind, and it seems to have wiped everything clean out. I suppose my memory will come back, but—” His face suddenly contracted with pain, and groping for the edge of the table, he sat down abruptly.

“Of course it will, but you oughtn't to try to walk about. I'm sure it's the worst thing you could do.” Sally moved a pace nearer.

“I must get the hang of what's been happening here. One can't just sit still gaping at a corpse. For a start, do you mind telling me exactly where we are?”

“We're in a bungalow called Sunny Bank, about half a mile from Playford. It belongs—at least it did belong—to this man Sutton.”

“Was he a friend of yours?”

“I hardly knew him. I only came to see him on a matter of business.”

“What did he do? I mean, what was his profession?”

“I believe he lived chiefly by blackmailing people.”

The stranger gave a low whistle. “Blackmailing!” he repeated. “Well, well, that seems to clear things up a trifle. Tried it on once too often and somebody turned nasty.”

“I don't blame anyone for killing him. It's only what he deserved.” Sally paused. “In fact, if I knew who it was I—I'd do my best to help him escape.”

“Supposing it
was
me after all?” The speaker had swung round again and was eyeing her curiously. “I don't feel like the sort of bloke who goes around stabbing people in the back, but how can I possibly tell?”

“You'd know it instinctively.”

“Think so? Well, perhaps you're right.”

“I'm certain I am. If you'd killed him, you'd have choked him to death or something like that.”

“Sounds more up my street. All the same, one can't get away from the fact that I was lying here right alongside of him. Going to be a bit awkward when people start asking questions.”

“You'll have to tell them what you've told me.”

“Do you suppose they'll believe me?”

“Not till you have been examined by a doctor. Besides, there's another thing you've got to think about. If you start trying to explain now you may be landing yourself into some frightful mess. You see—you see, in a way, that's how it is with me. I can't tell the truth, because if I did I—I should be letting down a friend.”

“But there's nothing to prevent you clearing out.”

“Oh, I couldn't run away and leave you like this; it wouldn't be fair. What you've got to do first is to get your memory back. When you know who you are and—and why you came here—”

“ 'Fraid it won't work. Before I'd gone a hundred yards I'd just flop down and pass out. That'd make things look fishier than ever.”

“I've got a car outside. I can give you a lift.”

“But what would you do with me? You'd have to dump me out somewhere. We can't just drive around vaguely waiting for my memory to start functioning.”

“No, you must go to bed and rest. If you have a good long sleep you may be all right again by to-morrow.”

“That would mean trying to get in at a hotel or a lodging-house.”

“I wasn't thinking of a hotel. They'd see that you'd had an accident and they would probably ring up the police.”

“What am I to do, then? Crawl up to a hospital and park myself on the doorstep?”

Sally hesitated. “I—I was going to suggest that you might come back to our place. We have a room in the basement where you could stay for the night. It's a kind of workshop really, but there's a big sofa in it, and you would be quite comfortable. I should have to explain to my partner, of course. You see, we live together above the office, and she'll be waiting up for me.”

“That's damned sporting of you.” The stranger paused, surveying her with a kind of puzzled admiration. “I wonder if you quite realise how much you're risking. You know, it's a pretty serious business hiding a bloke who may have committed a murder.”

“But you haven't.” Sally shook her head firmly. “I'm positive of that now or I shouldn't have suggested it.”

“You certainly have the knack of encouraging one.”

“I feel that we're both in a horrible jam and that we ought to help each other. You must have had some reason for coming here, and you must know what happened before you were knocked down and stunned. As soon as you're better you'll remember all about it, and then we can decide what we're going to do. We shall have to talk it over with Ruth. She's my partner, and she's frightfully sensible and level-headed.”

With a wan smile and a faint shrug the other dragged himself to his feet. “I'll leave it to you,” he observed wearily. “I oughtn't to let you stick your neck out like this, but I feel too groggy to start arguing. By the way, have you any objection to telling me your name?”

“It's Deane, Sally Deane. Ruth and I run a decorating business. We've got a place in the King's Road, Chelsea, and that's where I'm going to take you.” She switched the light back upon the body, and repressing an instinctive shudder moved reluctantly towards it.

“What are you doing?”

“I came to see him about a letter, a letter he was using to get money out of a friend of mine. It may be in one of his pockets.”

“I'll have a look. You stay where you are.” Bending down shakily, the stranger made a hurried search through the dead man's clothing. In a few seconds he had completed his task. “Nothing here,” he announced. “At least, only a cigarette case and a lighter. Somebody's been through him already, and done the job pretty thoroughly.”

“Damn!” Raising the torch, Sally glanced hastily round the room. For the first time she realised that the whole place was in a state of wild disorder. Every drawer and cupboard appeared to have been wrenched open, and a large proportion of their contents lay scattered about the floor. She stared at the wreckage with a feeling of sick dismay.

“We can't search through all that stuff: it would take ages. We must get away at once before anyone comes along and finds us.” Without waiting for a reply, she put her hand on her companion's arm. “The car's quite close—just the other side of the lane. You'll be able to manage that, won't you? Hold on to me, and I'll help you if you feel faint.”

***

Slumped down in the corner of the back seat, his eyes closed and his head still throbbing with a dull, persistent ache, Owen battled valiantly against a strong inclination to be sick. The effort of crossing the road and climbing into the car had left him completely exhausted. He felt so ill and dazed that any further attempt to wrestle with the incredible situation in which he found himself seemed for the present to be utterly beyond his power.

From one fact alone he was able to derive a certain defin-ite comfort. Whatever effect the injury had produced upon his memory, it had not altogether robbed him of his wits. The events of the last ten minutes were at least perfectly clear and distinct. He could recollect everything that had occurred from that first bewildering moment when he had recovered his senses, and grimly fantastic as the whole business was, he could see no substantial grounds for questioning its reality. The man in the bungalow had undoubtedly been murdered, and judging by the circumstances, it was quite conceivable that he himself had committed the crime. For some reason, however, this girl, Sally Deane, who had made such a timely and miraculous appearance on the scene, was evidently convinced of his innocence. Anyhow, she was prepared to run the risk of sheltering and concealing him until his memory returned, and in his present state of physical prostration that was the only matter which seemed to be of immediate importance. What he needed was sleep—a long spell of deep, refreshing sleep, from which he would wake up into a sane and familiar world.

After a little while the feeling of nausea became rather less acute, and in spite of the swinging and bumping of the car he began to drift into an uneasy, half-conscious doze. He was vaguely aware of the fact that the fields and hedges had given place to rows of villas, and that these in turn were being superseded by long vistas of closed and depressing-looking shops. Buses and trams loomed up out of the darkness and clattered past the window, while every now and then an abrupt halt in front of some forbidding traffic-light sent a fresh spasm of pain shooting through his head.

At last, just as he was recovering from a particularly vicious jolt, the car swung round a corner and glided forward into what appeared to be a narrow and ill-lighted alley. In another second it had pulled up, and before he had had time to rouse himself properly, the girl in front had slipped down from her seat and jerked open the door.

“Here we are,” she announced with a reassuring smile. “It's quite close to my place, so you won't have far to walk. How are you feeling now—any better?”

“Just a shade, I think—still a bit wobbly about the knees.” By a colossal effort he succeeded in scrambling out.

“Well, sit down on that step while I shove the car in. It's quite all right: no one's the least likely to come along.”

Obediently as a child he parked himself in an adjoining doorway, from which position he looked on in a sort of vague trance until his companion had completed her task. She was in the act of closing the garage door when a neighbouring clock chimed out the hour of twelve.

After that things became a trifle blurred. He had a confused impression of being helped to his feet, guided out into a deserted side street and shepherded towards another and broader thoroughfare, up and down which a certain number of belated vehicles still appeared to be making their way. Ten yards beyond the corner, in front of an old-fashioned shop window, obscured by a drawn blind, a warning pressure on his arm brought him to a standstill. There was a brief pause followed by the click of a key, and the next instant he found himself stumbling forward through an open doorway with a small determined hand still directing his progress.

“Stop where you are,” came a low whisper. “You'll knock something over otherwise.”

A sudden rose-shaded glow flooded the apartment, revealing various pieces of attractively arranged furniture and casting its soft, becoming light on the face of his companion. For the first time the fact that she was adorably pretty began to dawn slowly upon his muddled brain. Almost immediately, however, she was back again at his side, and before he quite realised what was happening he was being piloted carefully down a short flight of steps and ushered into a long, low-ceilinged room which seemed to be provided with an inordinate number of shelves and cupboards. Up against the wall in one corner stood an ancient but comfortable-looking divan.

“This is the place I was telling you about. You will be absolutely safe here. Now what you've got to do is to lie down on this couch and keep perfectly still and quiet. I'm just going to run up and fetch Ruth. I shall be back again in a moment, and then I'll have a look at your head. I'm sure it ought to be sponged and bandaged.”

“Feel I'm being a crashing nuisance.” He sank back gratefully against a pile of cushions, and looked up into the beautiful but troubled blue eyes that were anxiously studying his face. “Nice name, Sally,” he murmured drowsily. “Just right for a guardian angel.”