Run! (8 page)

And Sally had said softly, “They mightn't know—how much—you had seen.”

James shook himself. Hang it all, what on earth had all this got to do with Jackson going off on a binge? The thing that talked in the dark corner of his mind said, “Hazeby wanted to know who had been driving the car, and Jackson butted in and said that he had.” So someone did want to find out who had been driving the Rolls. And they thought they had found Jackson. They thought they had found Jackson. And where is Jackson now?

“Sleeping off his binge, I should think,” said James with furious common sense.

He got back just before six. There was no word about Jackson. Mr. Parkinson, the manager, was being stuffy about it in a superior, high-hat sort of way. He really could not imagine—he could not conceive—he was at a loss to understand—he had been obliged to send Smiles out with an American client, a thing that should really never have been allowed to happen. “I really am entirely at a loss to understand what has become of Jackson.”

Next day there was still no Jackson. James had to go down to Chislehurst again. The Misses Palmer wished to see a smaller car. They had both rung up about it, one at nine o'clock, and the other at five minutes past. Each hoped separately that it would be Mr. Elliot who would bring the car down—such a good driver and so reliable.

Miss Callender, rather paler than usual, attempted a rallying smile.

“Looks as if you'd got off too, Mr. Elliot—doesn't it?”

James made a face.

“Too?” he enquired.

“Mr. Jackson,” said Miss Callender, and the smile faded out. “You don't think anything's happened to him, do you?”

“Rubbish! What is there to happen?” said James, and went to pick a mild, well-mannered car for the Misses Palmer.

He found the large Miss Palmer waiting for him at the corner of their road. When he drew up she came up to the window and told him in a brisk, domineering manner that he was to discourage her sister from attempting to drive.

“She is very highly strung, Mr. Elliot, and not at all fitted to handle machinery. I shall be obliged if you will tell her so. It will be more acceptable from a stranger and an expert. I do not wish to have to tell her that nothing will induce me to enter the car if she insists upon driving it.”

James felt a certain amount of sympathy for the large Miss Palmer.

“Well,” he said, “she would have to pass a driving test.”

“I believe not. Unfortunately she took some driving lessons a few-years ago. I am informed that anyone possessing a licence before the new regulations came in is not obliged to pass the test.”

James said, “I see.” And then, “Well, I'll do my best, Miss Palmer. I don't think she would be very safe on the road.”

She shook her head gloomily.

“I shall refuse to enter the car. Drive on to the house, Mr. Elliot. I do not wish her to know that I have spoken to you.”

James drew up at the rustic gate. Half way down the pergola which led to the front door he encountered the little Miss Palmer in a state of considerable agitation.

“Oh, Mr. Elliot—good morning! You haven't seen my sister? I did want if possible to have a word with you, but I shouldn't like her to think—I don't know if you are a gardener, but perhaps I might be showing you the new rockery.”

She took him round the house and down another pergola. The new rockery was very new indeed. It appeared to consist entirely of rocks and labels.

“We are devoted to rock-gardening,” said the little Miss Palmer in a twittering whisper. “We have the only monifera semper-florens in Chislehurst. Oh, Mr. Elliot, I do implore you to use all your influence with my sister to dissuade her from attempting to drive the car. It is quite useless for me to say anything, but the idea terrifies me. She is so abrupt in her movements, and she does not like to be thwarted. I do hope you will do your best. My nerves are still upset after yesterday.”

“Why don't you have a driver?” said James.

The little Miss Palmer drew herself up.

“Thank you, Mr. Elliot, that will not be necessary. I have driven for some years. I may be a little out of practice, but I feel sure—”

“Will Miss Palmer have to pass the driving test?” said James.

“Miss
Ethel
Palmer. I am Miss Palmer, though everyone takes my sister for the elder. Oh no—she has had a licence for years, because we used occasionally to drive our brother's car. Not very often—gentlemen are so fidgety about their cars—but it was a great pleasure, so we always had our licences. Hush! There is my sister! Yes, we intend to continue the crazy paving as far as it will go. It should look very well, I think. Ethel, here is Mr. Elliot. So kind of him—I'm sure all these cars are so delightful that it is very difficult to decide—but we must not take up too much of his time—we had better start at once.”

“Mr. Elliot will drive,” said the large Miss Palmer.

“Mr. Elliot first—oh, yes—oh, of course. And then I thought I would take the wheel—”

“No, Emily!”

“Really, Ethel!”

“No, Emily!”

“Really Ethel—as the elder—”

The large Miss Palmer snorted.

“What has that got to do with driving a car? You haven't got the hands for it!”

“I have extremely light hands, Ethel.”

“Emily, if you insist on driving that car, you drive it alone!”

“Really, Ethel!”

“Mr. Elliot, I beg of you—”

James looked from the large, flushed Miss Palmer to the little, pale one, who seemed to be on the verge of tears.

“I think you had better let me drive. There's such a lot on the road now, and you haven't had much practice, have you? I should really advise you to think about having a driver, for a time at any rate.”

“He could give Emily lessons,” said Miss Ethel, breathing heavily.

Emily gave a little gasp of pure rage.

“You needn't decide about it now,” said James hastily. “See how you like the car first. It's really awfully good value for the money. A cousin of mine's got one, and she's never been stuck on the road yet. That's what you want, you know, a car that will never let you down—six cylinders, hydraulic brakes, synchro-mesh gears, S.U. carburettor—”

It was hard work, but he got them into the car and through half an hour of driving without an open outbreak of hostilities. The large Miss Palmer sat beside him on the way out, and the little Miss Palmer on the way home. They talked a good deal to James and at one another, and when he set them down at their garden gate they told him that they would ring up in the morning.

He drove away feeling rather sorry for them. Horrible to handle anything as badly as they handled a car. He felt pleased with his own easy mastery, and then sorry for them again. They ought to get a driver—they seemed quite comfortably off.

He came back to tragedy and a tearful Miss Callender. The police had called up. Mr. Jackson's absence was explained. He had been found dead in a Surrey lane—run over.

“They found him yesterday, but they didn't know who he was, not at first. Mr. Parkinson's been sent for to identify him. They traced him by the laundry-marks on his clothes, poor fellow, and his landlady told them he worked here. It's only a form Mr. Parkinson going. Poor Mr. Jackson—it's him all right. I wish I hadn't said the things I did about him. Mr. Elliot, you won't say anything, will you? I don't want to get drawn into any inquests or things like that. You
won't
say anything—will you?”

James had an odd feeling of shock. He hadn't liked Jackson very much. That seemed to make it worse. He said,

“I don't know, Daisy. I won't say anything, but I think perhaps you ought to.”

“Well, I'm not going to,” said Miss Callender with decision. “It won't bring him back—will it? And what's it going to look like me standing up in court and saying I listened in like that? And my picture in the
Mail,
and Lenny going off the deep end as likely as not! He's always had a sort of jealous feeling about Mr. Jackson and you—as if a girl couldn't be friendly without its meaning anything! And as sure as I got into a Court they'd have it out of me that what Mr. Jackson was waiting about for was the chance of taking me to the pictures. No, thank you, Mr. Elliot!”

XI

The odd feeling of shock persisted. Mr. Parkinson came back a good deal upset in a pompous sort of way. The dead man was poor Jackson all right. He had been found yesterday morning as Miss Callender had said, but he had been dead some hours then—eight or nine at least, the police surgeon opined. There had been a heavy shower round about eleven that night, but the ground beneath the body was dry.

“There is some satisfaction in thinking that the poor fellow was killed instantly. Probably never knew he'd been hit,” said Mr. Parkinson. “Only what took him down into the country like that is what I don't understand. Walking too—must have been to be run down in that way. I should never have put Jackson down as a walker myself.”

Mr. Parkinson continued to hold forth, but James only heard the sound of his voice. His mind was occupied with a most insistent fact.

Jackson never walked.

The idea of his leaving town for the purpose of taking exercise in the dark along a country lane was purely fantastic. Even old Parkinson was finding it difficult to swallow. Somebody else could believe it if they liked, but to James it was a sheer impossibility. He followed Miss Callender into her little office, stood with his back against the door, and said abruptly,

“What was the name of those people who telephoned—the firm of solicitors?”

Miss Callender sat down because her knees were shaking.

“Now, Mr. Elliot, you promised—”

“It was Hazeby, Meredith & Hazeby, wasn't it?”

Miss Calender's large blue eyes were frightened. Her brightly made-up lips took an obstinate line.

“I'm not saying anything—I told you I wasn't.”

“That was what you did say.”

He took pencil and paper off her table and wrote the names down. Then he stood back against the door again.

“Now look here—these people rang up and Jackson took the call. But are you sure he was talking to them all the time? You told me you heard him making an appointment. Oh yes, you did, and you can't get out of it now. And are you sure, absolutely dead certain sure, that he hadn't stopped talking to Hazeby and got on to someone else by the time he was making that appointment?”

“I'm not saying anything at all,” said Miss Callender firmly. “I'm not going to get drawn in—I told you I wasn't.”

“Well, I don't believe you heard anything. Bits and scraps in the middle of your accounts—I don't call that anything. If you heard one word, you imagined three. I didn't really believe it when you told me. For one thing, I don't believe you could possibly follow what was said at the other end of the line.”

“Well then, I could!”

James made an unbelieving face. The telephone bell rang.

“All right,” said Miss Callender, “you take this call. And you go away as far as the flex will let you like Mr. Jackson did, and see if I can't tell you what they're saying at the other end.”

The flex took him some four feet away. He said, “Hullo!” and then, “Speaking.” And then after a pause, “Yes, that's right … Yes, tonight if you can … Thank you.”

He hung up the receiver, and Miss Callender tossed her head.

“That was Lucas's, and they're sending off the coil and distributor for Mr. Haydon's Lagonda. Well?”

James laughed scornfully.

“You just chanced that. You knew they were to ring up.”

“Well then, I didn't! And I heard what he was saying—every word. And I heard what that Mr. Hazeby said to Mr. Jackson, all except a bit here and there like I told you.”

“Look here, Daisy, will you swear Jackson made that appointment with Hazeby?”

“Well, he did. And if you're going to call me a liar, we shan't be friends any longer!” She had a bright natural colour in her cheeks and she looked very pretty.

“I'm not calling you a liar. I just thought he might have switched over to someone else without your noticing.”

“Well, he didn't!”

“You're sure about that?”

“Of course I'm sure! That Mr. Hazeby said he was to be outside the B.B.C. and wear a buttonhole because the young lady wouldn't be sure of him on account of only having met him in such a fog. And he said—Mr. Jackson did—that he couldn't be sure of getting a buttonhole so late, so he'd carry his handkerchief instead, and Mr. Hazeby said that would be all right. And I'm not going into any court to swear about it, and you needn't think you'll make me, because you won't! But I could, because it's true.”

James had got what he wanted. If you made a girl angry, she'd blab anything. Kitty, Hester and Lilian had taught him that. He said in a pacific voice,

“I don't want to make you do anything.”

Miss Callender produced a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.

“I've had a most awful row with Lenny, and I just don't feel I can stand any more, Mr. Elliot.”

James felt some remorse.

“I say, I'm most awfully sorry. What's it all about?”

Daisy Callender gulped.

“Sometimes I wonder if I'm doing right marrying anyone so jealous as Lenny is. I just happened to say we were all quite worried about Mr. Jackson not turning up—yesterday, you know—and there he goes off the deep end. ‘You mean
you're
worried,' he said, and then a lot about my thinking more about other men than I would about him if he didn't turn up, and how I needn't think he'd break his heart if I changed my mind, because if there were other men in the world, there were other girls too, and if poor Mr. Jackson was so good-looking, he wasn't the only one—only
he
didn't say
poor
Mr. Jackson. Well, you know how they go on, Mr. Elliot. And I'm sure if I'd known what Lenny was like, I'd never have said how good-looking Mr. Jackson was, because he's got a most terribly jealous disposition, and there's no getting away from it. And when I think that poor Mr. Jackson was lying dead in that lane all the time—or I suppose he wasn't in the lane last night, but you know what I mean—well, I can't help feeling bad about it, and if Lenny sees I'm upset, there'll be another row. So I can't help wondering whether it's worth it—marrying Lenny, I mean—because there's always the chance Mrs. Rowbotham mightn't like it with her friend, and if she said she was coming to us and Lenny said she could, well, I don't see what I could do about it, Mr. Elliot—do you? Once we were married, I mean.”