The Wheel Spins (24 page)

Hare was reminded of a simple circus trick he used to practise—as a boy—with a hoop and a glass of water. Apparently the same principle operated now, and the soup could not be spilt from sheer velocity of motion.

But just before he reached the reserved portion of the train he came to grief completely. As he was crossing the connecting passage, a small boy—rushing from the pursuit of a smaller girl—charged into him and received a baptism of soup, together with an undesirable name.

Hare broke off in his malediction to wipe his fingers.

“That’s torn it,” he muttered. “Well, it’s out of my hands now.”

Meanwhile Iris was actually in the grip of a brainstorm. When the professor left her she was numb with fear. Some vital mainspring in her brain seemed to have snapped, reducing her mind to a limp tangle. Miss Froy was a lost cause—so she denied her. But nothing was left but a void, without aim or hope or self-respect.

“I was her only chance,” she told herself. “And now I’ve crashed too.”

The knowledge was torture which she tried vainly to forget. But vivid little thumbnail pictures persisted in flashing before her closed eyes. Two bent old people, huddled in a lighted doorway—waiting. Sock—a woolly blunderbuss—rushing off to meet a mistress who would never come home.

She was most affected by the thought of the dog, for she assumed the senility of the aged parents. She told herself that the shock would probably kill them both, since they would be too devoted—or too used to each other—to survive singly. And then—what would become of the dog, stranded and hungry in a country cottage?

She worked herself into a positive fever about him. As her temperature rose, her head began to ache so furiously that it seemed to bang in a series of small explosions, which kept time with the frantic revolutions of the wheels.

“You’re
getting
near. You’re
getting
near.”

And then the rhythm changed and began to chop out a devil’s tattoo. “Nearer—nearer—nearer—
nearer
—
NEARER
.”

Nearer to Trieste. The express was in the relentless grip of the schedule. The pulsations of the engine throbbed through Iris like the shaking arteries of an overdriven heart. It rocked and roared over the rails—a metal monster racing an invisible rival.

It had to beat Time.

When Hare came into her carriage she hardly raised her eyes, and did not speak to him.

“Still hating me?” he asked.

“I only hate myself,” she said dully.

He looked furtively at her twitching face and burning cheeks, which, to his mind, confirmed the doctor’s diagnosis of dangerously overstrung nerves, while he assured himself that—since he could not give her that essential sock on the jaw—he was rendering her a real service.

“I’ve brought you some soup,” he said guiltily.

She shrank from it even while she thanked him.

“Sweet of you—but I couldn’t touch it.”

“Try. It’ll make a new man of you.”

“All right, then. Leave it, will you?”

“No, that’s too old a dodge. The instant I go you’ll chuck it out of the window. Well—I’m not going.”

Iris clutched her head.

“I feel so sick,” she pleaded.

“Lack of nourishment. Listen, my child, there’s a history of the try-try-again kind connected with that simple bowl of soup. I slaughtered the chef to get it in the first place. Then, on my way here, some wretched kid bowled the whole lot over. I said, ‘Kismet.’ And then I said, ‘She’s had nothing all day and she’ll have nothing until tomorrow’s breakfast.’ And I went all the way back and slaughtered another chef, all to bring you a second cup.”

“Oh, well—” sighed Iris helplessly. “But have I got to be grateful?”

She swallowed the first spoonful with reluctance, grimacing as though it were a nauseous draught; then she paused, while Hare waited in acute suspense.

“What
is
it?” she asked. “It’s got a horribly druggy taste.”

“It’s the same soup I wolfed down at dinner. That’s all I know,” lied Hare.

“Well, I’d better get it over.”

Raising the cup to her lips, she gulped it down with a shudder.

“You’ll feel better soon,” Hare assured her as he took the empty bowl from her nerveless hands.

For some time they sat in silence, while he watched her stealthily, hoping to detect the first sign of drowsiness. He knew that drugs affect people differently, and that it was difficult to gauge the right dose for Iris, because of her abnormal condition.

“If anything goes wrong,” he thought desperately, “I’ll have to take the rap.”

At intervals he heard the whine of the professor’s voice, as he strained it in an effort to be audible above the uproar of the train. He was in the next compartment, improving an acquaintance with the Misses Flood-Porter, which he hoped to authorise with the discovery of a third-party link.

“You live in Somersetshire,” he remarked. “It is a county where I have stayed often. I wonder if we know any mutual friends.”

“I hate every single person living there,” said Miss Rose vehemently, sweeping away any claimants to friendship.

“Stag-hunting,” supplemented Miss Flood-Porter.

Relieved by the explanation the professor began gently and skilfully to extricate a few worthy persons from under the wholesale ban. He was rewarded when the ladies recognised a name.

“Oh, yes. Charming people. Great friends of ours.”

The contact was complete and they all shouted against each other.

Iris recognised the voices for, after a time, she spoke to Hare.

“That’s the professor, isn’t it? I wish you’d tell him I want to sleep, but can’t, because he’s making too much noise. And slip in something about him being a public nuisance, will you? He’d appreciate it. Because that’s what he called me.”

The speech was so unexpectedly jaunty, that Hare stared at her in surprise. He did not know whether he were imagining changes, but her eyes were less strained, while her face seemed to have lost the glazed flush of fever.

“That doctor’s sold me a pup,” he thought wrathfully. “She is
not
settling down. She’s gingering up. At this rate she’ll be fighting-mad at Trieste.”

As a matter of fact their little conspiracy was hampered by their ignorance of working conditions. On the rare occasions when Iris was unwell, her response to treatment was almost immediate. In her abnormal state she was now beating her own speed record. Although its effects were bound to be short-lived, she was feeling miraculously restored by the nourishment, while the drug was beginning imperceptibly to soothe her brain-storm, like the first film of oil spreading over a rough sea.

She was conscious of a glow of spurious strength, followed by a rush of confidence, as she climbed out of the traitor’s hell into which she had hurled herself.

“Lost causes are the only causes worth fighting for,” she told herself.

In her relief at her own restoration, she smiled at Hare, who grinned back at her.

“Didn’t I tell you you’d feel better after that nice strong good nourishing soup?” he asked.

“It tasted as though it was made from a mummy—but it has picked me up,” she admitted. “My head’s clearer. I realise now that the professor was right. I’ve made an awful fool of myself.”

Hare chalked up a good mark to the properties of the drug.

“You mean—you’ve chucked Miss Froy off the train?” he asked incredulously.

“Please, don’t bring her up again. Of course, there’s no such person. I told the professor so.”

Iris felt a momentary pang as she looked into his guileless eyes.

“It’s a shame to trick him,” she thought.

She had resolved on a policy of stratagem. She would sham docility, to avert suspicion. When Trieste was reached, she would contrive to give them the slip and hire a taxi, in which to follow the ambulance. They would not suspect any outside interest in their movements, since she was definitely out of the running.

Having warned the taxi-driver in advance to memorise the address to which Miss Froy was taken, he would drive furiously back to the British Embassy. She had always found Italians gallant and suspectible, so she was sure of enlisting their sympathies and getting immediate action.

Her jammed brain was now clicking on with amazing speed. She told herself that the success of her plan depended on whether she could fool them all. She must return to her own carriage, which was full of the doctor’s spies, and sham the requisite limp submission.

“I mustn’t overdo it,” she thought. “They might want to fuss over me if they thought I was ill.”

She counted on the confusion when the passengers, with their luggage, changed trains at the terminus. Hare must be sent off on some errand, since he was her only obstacle. The rest of the travellers would remain true to type and look after their own interests.

She raised her eyes and met Hare’s earnest gaze. He was thinking of the nice long sleep which awaited her in the Italian train.

“It’s a shame to trick her,” he thought.

Although it was still some distance from Trieste, the train was already astir with the projected bustle of its arrival. Passengers were beginning to lock opened suitcases and to pull on their coats and hats. Infected by the unrest, the leisurely professor left the Misses Flood-Porter and entered his own coupé.

“I don’t want to disturb you,” he hinted to Iris. “But we shall soon reach Trieste.”

Iris showed none of her former morbid reluctance to return to her own carriage.

“I must get my suitcase,” she said, eager to impress the professor with her obedience.

He rewarded her with an approving smile. For the last time she made the shaky journey along the train. Nobody laughed at her or took any notice of her, for every one was too preoccupied with affairs. Suitcases and bags had already been lifted down from racks and stacked outside the carriages, increasing the congestion. Mothers screamed to collect those children who were still chasing each other in the corridors. They washed their chocolate-grimed mouths with corners of moistened handkerchiefs. Banana skins were thrown out of the windows—newspapers bundled under the seats.

The heat and the jam were so oppressive that Iris was actually glad to reach her own compartment. But before she could enter, she shrank back as the doctor came out of the invalid’s carriage. His face looked dry and white as the pith of willow above the black blotch of his spade-beard, and his eyes—magnified by his glasses—were dark turgid pools.

As he looked at her, she felt that it was useless to try to deceive him. Like an expert chess player he would have for-seen any possible move of her own and would be prepared with a counter stroke.

“Is madame better?” he asked.

“Oh, yes. I’m merely slack. Everything seems an effort. And once I sit down I shan’t want to move again.”

Iris was encouraged by the success of her strategy when the two men exchanged a glance of understanding. She went inside her compartment, but no one appeared to take any interest in her return. The mother and child were reassembling the contents of the family suitcases, while the blonde made an elaborate toilet. The father had taken charge of the baroness’ dressing-bag and was evidently prepared to act as temporary courier.

Iris sat and watched them until the spectacle of noses being powdered and waves reset reminded her of her own need to repair. It was essential to make a good impression at the Embassy. She opened her bag languidly and drew out her flapjack, yawning the while with sudden drowsiness. Blinking her eyes violently, she began to apply powder and lipstick.

But before she could finish, her lids were drooping so continuously that she could not see properly. To her dismay, she realised that she was being overwhelmed with waves of sleep. They were too powerful to resist, although she struggled vainly to keep awake. One after another they swept over her, piling up in a ceaseless procession.

The other passengers began to waver like shadows. Outside, Trieste was visible as a quivering red glow on the night sky. The engine thundered and panted in a last stupendous effort to breast that invisible tape stretched in front of the buffers. Almost abreast, skimmed the vast shadow, with beating wings and swinging scythe.

There was exultation in the stokehold and driver’s car, for they were actually ahead of the schedule. Time was beaten, so they relaxed their efforts and slackened speed gradually in readiness for their arrival at Trieste.

Iris’ head had fallen forward and her eyes were closed. Then a dog barked in the distance, jerking her awake. As she stared out of the window with clouded gaze, a few scattered lights speckling the darkness told her that they were reaching the outskirts of Trieste.

In that moment she thought of Miss Froy.

“Trieste,” she agonised. “I
must
keep awake.”

Then, once again, everything grew blurred and she sank back in her corner.

When Hare returned to the carriage his jaw dropped at the sight of her huddled figure. He called to the doctor, who merely rubbed his bony hands with satisfaction.

“Excellent,” he said. “She has responded with most extraordinary rapidity.”

“But how will I get her out at Trieste?” demanded Hare.

“You will have no trouble. You can wake her at a touch. This is merely preliminary—what you call a cat’s-sleep. She will be merely somewhat dazed.”

The doctor turned away, but paused to give a word of advice.

“Better leave her alone until you have secured porters. If you wake her too soon she may sleep again. Each time it will be for longer.”

Hare took the hint and stood in the corridor, staring out of the window. The reflection of the lighted train flowing over the masonry of roofs and wails transformed them to the semblance of quivering landscape and water. In every carriage luggage was being lowered. Voices shouted for service. The fleeting friendships of a railway journey were being at once sealed and broken in handshakes and farewells.

Iris slept.

In the coupé of the bridal pair, the barrister—Todhunter, for a few minutes longer—was doing his utmost to reconcile a gesture of renunciation with a strategic retreat.