Dancers in Mourning (39 page)

Campion was sitting on the low wall of the terrace, his long arms resting on his knees and his head bent, when Linda appeared before him. He had not seen her leave the others and her sandalled feet had made no sound upon the grass.

He looked up at her and preferred not to see the shadows in her eyes.

‘How long?' she said.

‘Soon.' The word escaped him involuntarily. It was the last thing he would have chosen to say and he rose, angry with himself and a little frightened.

To his relief she did not seem to see its significance.

‘I hope so,' she said.

As they walked over the turf together it occurred to him that it was for the last time, ever.

They were both silent for a while, and when she spoke it was with a directness which startled him.

‘Everyone knows except me. Jimmy knows. You know. So, I think, does Eve. You'll stay with me until I know?'

‘Yes, I'll stay.'

‘I shall be very sorry when you go,' she said.

He did not reply and was grateful to her when he realised that she did not expect him to.

Her next words appalled him.

‘When it's all over we shall go to America, Jimmy and Sarah and I and perhaps Uncle William. They like Jimmy over there, you know, and it's a wonderful country, especially for children. American children really have a childhood. Sarah will be wildly happy – nearly as happy as she is now with old Lugg. They're going to write to each other when he goes away, she says. It ought to be a grand correspondence. You were very kind to lend him to me. He's been appreciated.'

Campion glanced sharply towards the house, but he was wrong. The phone bell had not rung. He glanced down at the girl and she caught sight of his expression. To his amazement she took hold of his hand and walked along looking down at it.

‘It's going to be difficult to say this,' she said, ‘and I probably shouldn't dream of doing it if things were remotely normal. But I like you better than anyone I've ever met. You're not a boy, so you won't go away with your head swelling and your virtue outraged because you think I'm telling you I've fallen in love with you – which I haven't, yet. But I don't think I shall see you again. We shall rush off to the States, for one thing. Anyway, it's in my mind to say this now. I like you because you're the only person I've ever
suddenly
liked who hasn't turned out to be a dreadful error of judgement. I made a fool of myself to you and you understood it. You didn't make love to me when the idea occurred to you and I rather wanted you to. And you've been loyal to our interests when it was obviously very awkward for you to do anything of the kind. Because you began on our side you stuck to us. I thought I'd like to say “Thank you,” that's all. What's the matter? Why are you looking like that?'

Campion turned his hand and took her own in it. He held it very tightly for a long time. It was firm and heart-easing and very hard to have to lose.

When he looked up again he was laughing a little.

‘When one kicks over a tea-table and smashes everything but the sugar-bowl one may as well pick that up and drop it on the bricks, don't you think?' he said lightly. ‘That was the phone, my lost, my lovely one. I've been waiting for it all day.'

He left her standing among the rose trees, a puzzled, frightened expression in her eyes.

Before he was half-way across the lawn Lugg came out of the glass door at the back of the hall to summon him.

The hall was empty as he crossed to the table and he paused for a moment before picking up the instrument. His face was blank and he felt breathless.

‘Hullo,' he said at last.

‘Hullo. That you, Campion? Everything all right your end?'

To his surprise he recognised Stanislaus Oates at the other end of the wire. The Central Branch Superintendent sounded quietly jubilant.

‘Yes,' said Campion steadily. ‘Yes, quite all right.'

‘Fine. Are you alone?'

‘I think so.'

‘I understand you. I'm being discreet myself. Country exchange, you know. Congratulations, son. Nice work. We'll be with you. Get that?'

‘Where are you?'

‘At the local station.' Oates laughed self-consciously. ‘I couldn't keep out of it. I came down with the Sergeant and we brought the necessary authorisation. Campion …'

‘Yes?'

‘I think I might tell you this. I'll wrap it up. The woman cracked at once. Yeo phoned us in Town before noon. She gave him all he wanted to know. Seemed glad to talk. We went ahead at our end and found the church. It's in Brixton. The date in the register is nineteen-twenty. Suit your reckoning?'

‘Near enough.'

‘Are you still alone?'

‘Yes. Why?'

‘I thought you sounded a bit subdued. It's probably the line. Well, that was that. We had plenty for a pull-in on suspicion, but to be on the safe side I called up the P.P. But the publicity still scared him. He said “Wait”. However, I'd hardly put down the phone when the Austrian stuff came through. Campion, it's magnificent! Just what we want. K. was actually under surveillance up to last week. Eh? Oh, concealing arms. I ask you! The Austrians were more than civil. I'll show you the wire. Seven forms of it and all relevant.' He chuckled. ‘You can't help being excited, can you?' he said happily. ‘It goes on, too. I must tell you. Things began to move at once. Last night I sent a routine call to the hotels and this afternoon, just as we were coming away, we had a reply from a little place in Victoria. We rushed down there and got everything intact. It was all there in K.'s luggage. We got the name again, the address, everything, all in a tuppenny notebook. It was blackmail all right. Then we hurried down here and found this end busy. The railway people had started remembering things once they had the name. It was a childish trick on Friday. The same tuck as Petrie's. The train wasn't used at all. Follow me? We found the spanner, too. It belonged to the car, as we thought. The whole thing has dropped together like a puzzle running out. It's open and shut. We've got everything. Pleased with yourself?'

‘Howlingly.'

‘You don't sound it. You've got nothing to worry about. You couldn't have done it more quickly. Yeo's here. He sends his regards and takes back all hard thoughts. He says he misunderstood you, but now that he sees what you were working up to he'll be happy to buy you a beer at the first opportunity. It's such a pretty case, Campion. There's not a flaw in it.'

‘How long will you be?'

The younger man's voice was very quiet.

‘Half an hour at most. We're practically set. I just phoned to warn you and to make sure there was no hitch your end. We can serve the doings at White Walls now, can we?'

‘Yes.'

‘You'll stay there with your eyes glued till we come?'

‘I will.'

‘Right. Half an hour, then. Good-bye.'

Campion replaced the receiver and looked down at the polished surface of the table where a light film of summer dust had collected since the morning. A childish inclination to scribble in it assailed him and he wrote the three words which he was trying to keep in the forefront of his mind against the intolerable temptations which besieged him: ‘The porter's wife.'

He regarded the inscription helplessly for some seconds before he rubbed it out with his handkerchief.

As he crossed the hall he kicked something small and round in his stride and stooped to retrieve it. It was a small yellow button with a flower painted on it. He recognised it as one of the six on Linda's yellow dress. He turned it over, hesitated, and finally dropped it into his pocket with a secret, comforted sense of acquisition.

He saw Sutane as soon as he stepped out into the garden again. The dancer was seated on the last step of the terrace outside the morning-room windows. He had his back to Campion and in the tight black sweater which he had pulled over his white flannels his body looked kite-shaped and angular, like a modern drawing. He sat with his knees pulled up to his chin and his head resting upon them. No other man in a similar position could have appeared so completely comfortable, at peace and at ease.

Far down at the end of the garden Linda was walking with Slippers. Their dresses flickered white and yellow among the leaves. Eve had returned. She was lying in the hammock-couch at the far end of the lawn. Her hands were behind her head and her eyes, Campion guessed, were staring with dark resentment at the little skiffs of pink cloud floating so serenely in the painted sky.

Sock had vanished, but the sound of his voice, punctuated by squeals of delight from Sarah, echoed from the kitchen lawn on the west side of the house and indicated that the three-card tricksters had found a suitable mug.

Campion sat down beside Sutane. In the cool depth of the morning-room behind them Mercer was still strumming. His new tune, ‘Pavane for a Dead Dancer,' had grown from a motif into a completed thing, and he played it over several times, working a flight of spontaneous conceits into it before skimming off into other phrases, some amusing and others reaching that substratum of banality which has at least always the merit of provoking astonishment.

Neither of the two men on the terrace spoke immediately. Sutane sat very still. He had not altered his position save that he had turned his head and now sat watching Campion with his dull black eyes intelligent and questioning.

‘Hello,' he said softly at last. ‘Come to make your report.'

Campion regarded him gravely. His own gamut of sensation had been played through. He had heard the whole scale and knew the last thin flat note. He was emotionally finished and was strangely at peace.

Sutane stirred and the familiar bent smile passed over his wide mouth.

‘I thought you had.'

Campion looked at his own long brown fingers and spoke without taking his eyes from them.

‘The police have a copy of Chloe's marriage certificate,' he said slowly. ‘I told them about it. They got it from a church in Brixton. When she came down here and increased her blackmailing demands on her husband he lost his temper with her and …'

Sutane stretched himself suddenly.

‘Oh, it wasn't so simple as that, my dear fellow,' he said, turning over so that he lay on his stomach on the grass, with his elbows resting on the low, flat step. ‘He didn't know he
was
her husband, you see.'

Campion stared at him in fascinated resignation and Sutane went on, his pleasant voice playing dreamily with the words:

‘She was a strange woman when she was younger. I don't know if you'll know what I mean, but she had that quality of recklessness which is the essence of passion. When the war was first over there was a feel for it. People talk of youngsters
drifting
into a life of good times. They don't know. There was energy, force, ecstasy put into those good times. There was no “drifting” about it. We hurled ourselves into them and made them riotous.

‘Here and there a particular woman was thrown up out of them like a bubble on the brew. She became not a leader, but an embodiment of the spirit of the urge for enjoyment. The old anxiety to fill the day because of the death that was coming tomorrow had become a habit with our immediate elders and we caught it from them, but without their fear. We were young. We weren't tired. We weren't shattered. Our nerves weren't shot to pieces. We were repressed. We'd grown up in a world where there wasn't any fun. And suddenly, just when our blood was rising, it came.

‘Chloe was a little older than the rest of us. She was successful and at the height of her looks. She married lightly in a fit of exuberance and a few months after, when she tired of it, she took another man. There was a row. The poor idiot of a husband thought he was in love with her and tried to hold her and she annihilated him by explaining cheerfully as she packed her clothes that he had no possible claim on her. She'd been married before, in the War, she said. Her husband was alive. She must be a bigamist and wasn't it amusing? She was not very sorry and he was not to be silly, not to be
vieux jeu
. It had been a rather jolly experience, she thought.'

Sutane's voice ceased and he glanced down the garden to where the two women were still walking.

‘The husband was broken-hearted, silly young ass, but he recovered,' he added presently.

In the long pause which followed much that had been dark to Mr Campion became suddenly and painfully clear. He saw the garden again as it had been on that twilit evening a fortnight before when Chloe had gone down to the lake to dance to
Love, the Magician
.

Sutane was waiting and Campion roused himself to speak.

‘I had not seen that,' he said.

‘How could you?' the dancer murmured. ‘You never knew the real Chloe.'

Campion took up his story again. He was acutely conscious that there was very little time and that there was much that had to be said.

‘When she came to London this time she found it impossible to get hold of her husband alone,' he began. ‘He was too busy, too closely surrounded. In despair she forced herself down to his home and begged or cheated him into meeting her in the garden at night. When the moment came and she actually had him before her in a lonely and romantic setting she must have played her trump card immediately. I didn't know how strong it was. She told him she was still his wife. Either her previous marriage had been a fabrication invented on the spur of the moment when she wanted to be rid of him, or her first husband had died before her second marriage took place.'

‘There was no first marriage,' said Sutane.

Campion felt intolerably weary. His bones were weighing him down and his head ached. He struggled on.

‘She was alone, dancing, when he found her that night,' he said, ‘and she must have talked to him with the gramophone still running. The whole interview couldn't have taken long because the last record of the set was still on the machine when I found it that night. I think she simply walked up to him and told him she had lied long ago and could prove it. Something like that?'