1951 - In a Vain Shadow (7 page)

For a moment I wondered if she was in there. I even rapped sharply, then knowing she couldn’t be in there, that she was by now within a few miles of Paris, I went downstairs again.

On my way from the airport I had bought a bottle of whisky, a bottle of gin and a bottle of Dubonnet. The whisky had cost me seventy-five shillings, but I hadn’t had a drink for three days, and I didn’t intend to stint myself.

I poured myself out three inches of whisky, lit a cigarette and sat down before the empty grate in the sitting room.

Why had she locked her door? Had she guessed I would search her room? She was no fool. Was there something in there she didn’t want me to see? I had examined the lock. Without damaging the door I knew I couldn’t get in. It was a mortice lock, old, stiff with dirt and rust, and no pick, even if I could use one, would have shifted the catch.

There was the window.

I finished my drink and went outside and stood on the wet lawn, looking up at the house. I could see the casement window of her room was fastened by a catch. That wouldn’t be easy to open, but I might force out the screws with a chisel.

That was possible, but I would have to be very careful not to bruise the wood.

Although the house stood at the end of a lonely, winding lone, and there were no other houses within sight, the house itself wasn’t screened, and anyone corning up the lane could see me as I worked on the window.

Few people came up the lane, not more than three or four a day: odd labourers going home from a farm and using the lane as a short cut to the village. Two or three tradesmen’s vans passed the house, too.

If I was seen on a ladder trying to force the window they might stop to find out what I was doing. They might even tell Sarek when he came home.

The safest way would be to wait until it was dark, but doing a job like that in the dark wasn’t easy. I would have to watch the window frame carefully when I put pressure on the chisel. I couldn’t risk leaving marks nor could I hold a torch and work on the catch at the same time.

I returned to the house and prepared myself a scratch meal.

While I ate I wandered around the dining room, wondering how best to tackle the job. I was going to get into her room. Why had she locked the door if there wasn’t something to conceal?

I finally decided to make believe I was cleaning the windows.

If anyone spotted me up there on the ladder I had a legitimate excuse for being there.

I fetched a bucket of water, a wash-leather and a chisel.

I found a thin strip of wood that I could use to guard the window frame. Then I set the ladder against the guttering and climbed up to the window. I hung the bucket from one of the ladder rungs, took a quick look down the lane and then examined the window. The wood looked pretty rotten and the catch none too strong.

It took me less than a minute to prise out the screws. The catch fell of and dropped on the carpet. I got my fingernails under the window ledge and pulled the window open.

Then, a little late, I again glanced over my shoulder and looked down the lane. A man in a mackintosh and a black slouch hat was standing by the gate, watching me. He gave me such a start I nearly fell of the ladder. But somehow I managed to give him a casual stare, and then looked away. I slipped the chisel into my pocket, keeping it concealed by my body. Then I fished out the wash-leather from the bucket and began to wipe over the window.

I felt a trickle of sweat run down the back of my neck. I didn’t know who he was: probably the village vicar. I didn’t know if he knew her. If he did, he was almost certain to tell her he had seen me up at her window, and she would make enough of that to tum Sarek against me.

I heard a crunching sound below me and glanced down.

He had opened the gate and was coming up the short drive, still looking at me, a puzzled frown on his thin, gaunt face.

He was a tall, grey-haired man, with a long, bony nose that looked as if it enjoyed poking itself into other people’s business. I suspended operations, hung on to the top rung of the ladder and looked down at him. By now he was standing at the foot of the ladder, peering shortsightedly up at me. I was right about him being the vicar. I spotted his dog collar.

I got in the first word.

‘Did you want to see Mrs. Sarek? I’m afraid she’s away.’

‘What are you doing up there, young man?’

‘Cleaning the window.’

‘You were opening it just now. I saw you.’

‘That’s right. I’m going to clean the inside. Mrs. Sarek asked me to do the windows.’

‘It looked to me as if you were forcing the window open.’

The kind of meddler who didn’t miss anything.

I gave him my wide boy scout smile.

‘Well, I was. The wood’s swollen by the rain and I didn’t want to climb down and go upstairs and open it from the inside. Did you think I was a burglar?’

He looked surprised and a little embarrassed, and gave one of those rich, juicy laughs clergymen cultivate.

‘Well, I wouldn’t say that. But I haven’t seen you before, and you’re up there at the window . . .’

I climbed down the ladder and faced him, still with the wide, friendly smile.

‘I haven’t been here long. I’m Mr. Sarek’s chauffeur. He and Mrs. Sarek are having a week in Paris. I’ve been left to look after the chickens.’

I could see he was still uncertain of me, but his suspicions were receding.

‘I was about to make myself a cup of tea. Maybe you’ll join me?’

The lingering suspicion vanished, and his face brightened.

I had offered him the thing he had come for: the universal bond between clergymen and parishioners. I couldn’t be a burglar if I was going to give him tea.

‘Now, that’s very kind of you...’

I led into the dining room and sat him down. I could have strangled him and shoved him down the old well at the back of the house, but I had to be on the right side of him. I didn’t know how well he knew her, and what he would tell her.

While I waited for the water to boil, he talked. He unfolded, the story of his narrow, dreary life with tender and loving detail. He told me about his early struggles in South Africa about his ill health, what his bishop said, what the wife of his bishop said, and of course, what he said himself.

He had a quiet soft voice that was as unstoppable as the Niagara Falls. I gave him his tea and sat on the edge of the table, and waited for him to stop. I didn’t listen to a quarter of what he said, but it didn’t matter because he didn’t seem to expect me to say anything. It was the most devastating and persistent monologue I have ever encountered, and as dull and boring as anything I have ever had to listen to. He sat there from half past two to twenty minutes to five, talking ceaselessly about himself.

I could have stopped him, but only if I had been rude, and I wasn’t taking any chances of him complaining about me. So I had to sit there and take it. Nothing would have pleased me more than to smash the teapot over his flat, sleek head: nothing less would have been adequate.

Finally I could stand it no longer.

‘Sorry to interrupt you, but I’ll have to feed the chickens The light’s going.’

He paused in mid-stride, his mouth hanging open, then looked blankly out of the window.

‘Bless my soul, is it as late as that?’

He had been so engrossed with the sound of his own voice he had completely lost count of time.

‘Well, I must be getting along. My wife will be wondering where I’ve got to.’

I got him to the door before he could start another story.

‘Perhaps you would tell Mrs. Sarek I looked in? I have tried so often to meet her. Whenever I’ve called I could get no answer.’

I could have hit him then. I don’t know how I kept the exasperated fury out of my face. He didn’t even know her!

Whenever she had seen the damned old driveller coming she had dived into the house and kept out of sight. And I had put up with him for two hours because I thought he knew her!

‘Perhaps during the week you would care to come down to the vicarage. We could have another interesting little chat. I have some photos of the African Veld that are really worth seeing.’

‘I keep pretty busy. You’d better wait until Mrs. Sarek comes back before you call again. I’m not being paid to talk to callers. Mr. Sarek wouldn’t like it.’

He looked startled.

‘Well, perhaps one evening...’

‘I’m busy in the evenings too. Good night.’

I shut the door in his face.

It wasn’t until eight o’clock that evening when it was dark that I climbed the ladder again and entered her room. It wasn’t quite so large as it had looked from the loft doorway. It was a little shabbier, the furniture was scratched, a thin film of dust covered the wardrobe mirror, and there were bits of fluff on the floor. It was an unloved, uncared for room.

Maybe she wanted something prettier and more modem, and couldn’t be bothered with it. The smell of musk and her own faint and peculiar body odour hung in the stuffy, close atmosphere.

The top of the dressing table was littered with pots of cream, half-empty bottles of perfume, a bottle of T.C.P. and a wad of cotton wool. On the chest of drawers was an ashtray crammed with cigarette butts, smeared with lipstick.

I glanced under the bed. Several pairs of shoes lay anyhow in the dust, as if she had kicked them of when going to bed and had forgotten them.

As I lit a cigarette I noticed my hand was unsteady. I don’t know why it was but the untidiness and her personal things lying in full view strangely excited me: as if she was in the room herself, standing before me, naked.

I went over to the dressing table and pulled open the drawers. I found nothing except the kind of junk any woman would keep in her dressing table drawers: powder puffs, compacts, more lipstick, handkerchiefs, a pair of fancy garters, a hairnet, and stuff like that.

I missed nothing, disturbing the jumble of things as little as possible. I closed the drawers and stood back, aware suddenly of my face in the mirror. I looked queer: there was a red flush on my face, my eyes were over-bright and my forehead was shiny with sweat beads.

‘You’ve got it bad, haven’t you? A real case, and you know it, and she knows it too.’

Handling her stuff, breathing the air in which she slept had me talking to myself. I was ready to walk up the wall and across the ceiling. I went over to the wardrobe, a little unsteady at the knees and opened the doors.

There were a number of frocks, coats and skirts, and summer dresses banging on hooks the length of the wardrobe.

At the far end of the row were three costumes: short white tunics covered with sequins and trunks to match. White kid, sequin-covered knee boots stood in the comer of the wardrobe.

I lifted down one of the costumes to examine it: the kind of costume a professional ice skater might wear, but when I looked at the boots I knew she hadn’t worn this outfit for skating.

The costumes puzzled me. Had she been on the stage?

The maker’s tab on the neckband of the tunic told me the outfit had been made in Cairo. I remembered Sarek telling me he lived in Cairo. Probably that was where they had met.

I put the costume back and continued my search. I didn’t hurry for I had to be careful not to disturb anything. Every article I handled I put back exactly as I found it. It took time, but I did it.

In one of the drawers of the wardrobe I found a wooden box, its lid secured by a length of black ribbon.

I carried the box to the light, and opened it. It was crammed with letters and photographs; almost the first photograph I looked at was of her in the sequin tunic and high boots.

A tall, broad-shouldered man in a white-silk shirt and black-Spanish trousers was balancing her on his hand. She was standing upright, both her feet gripped in his hand, her arms folded. It was remarkable balancing trick, and a still more remarkable feat of strength.

There were other pictures, taken, apparently in a nightclub, showing she was an expert gymnast and acrobat.

Her partner just stood around and let her climb over him. He was a handsome hunk of beef, as good-looking as a movie star and as strong as a bull. I had no idea what she weighed then, but from the look of her she had the same curves and solid hips as she had now.

Nine and a half stone would have been a conservative guess, and to hold that weight at arm’s length meant strength. Big and tough as I am, I knew I couldn’t have done it.

I put the box aside. The letters would make interesting reading when I was in bed. I had already taken my sheets into the guest room and made up the bed. I could be uncomfortable if I had to, but while she was away I was going to pamper myself.

I spent over two hours going through the drawers in the wardrobe and the chest that stood by the door. I found nothing to explain why she had locked the door. The answer might lie in the box of letters, but I didn’t think so. They weren’t hidden.

If she had anything to hide I knew she would make a job of ft.

I took off the lock on the door and went downstairs, fetched up the bottle of whisky and the breast of a cold chicken and continued the hunt.

I searched everywhere, even unmade the bed, took of the mattress and handled every inch of it. I worked from the window, covering the floor, the wall and the furniture, and I finally found what I was looking for behind the wardrobe Hanging on a hook, out of sight and almost out of reach was a portable typewriter in a worn leather case. I fished it out and took of the lid.

Even without the blue, deckle-edged notepaper that was clipped in the lid of the case I knew by the letters e and d that were so obviously out of alignment that this was the machine on which the threatening letters to Sarek had been written, and it followed that she must be the writer.

I sat back on my heels and grinned at myself in the dusty wardrobe minor.

I had her now.

I had her just where I wanted her.

chapter seven

A
fter four days of living in that lonely house I got sick of my own company. I spent most of the time going through the hundreds of letters I had found in the box. The bulk of them were from men admirers. I was surprised to come across letters from two men whose names were, at one time, quite often in the press: a fellow with a title and an M.P. They didn’t offer marriage; the best they could do was a flat and a regular income and, of course, an occasional visit when they weren’t tied up with their wives or their business.