Trusted Like The Fox (16 page)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The fat little Hindu came into the room so silently that Ellis was not aware that he had entered until he happened to look up and found him standing at his side.

For a moment Ellis thought that the sad-looking little man was a hallucination, then realising that he wasn’t, he started violently, his face revealing his fear.

“I am Dr Safki,” the little man said in a soft, sibilant voice. “I’m sorry if I startled you.”

For a moment or so Ellis could only think of Crane. If this nigger was the doctor then Crane must be back and had probably caught Grace prying in his room. At that moment Crane came into the room. He seemed quite at ease although Ellis thought his face was a shade paler (or was it a trick of the sunlight?). He came to the foot of the bed, smiled at Ellis.

“Dr Safki will fix you up,” he said. “You can have every confidence in him. He’s an extremely clever fellow.”

Ellis looked at the Hindu. The big, moist, bloodshot eyes were sad, the small sensual mouth was sulky, and the fat, knobbly little chin weak: not a man to inspire confidence, Ellis thought, but he was feeling too ill to worry about such trifles. The fact that the fellow was black gave him an inward satisfaction. He felt superior, patronising. After all, these blackies hadn’t earned the right to civilisation, he argued. They were parrots, merely imitating the white man, without an original idea in their thick skulls.

Dr Safki had taken Ellis’s wrist, his little fingers pressed the pounding pulse. There was a sharp acid smell coming from the doctor which repelled Ellis. Then the doctor released Ellis’s wrist, took his stethoscope from an inside pocket, hung it round his neck.

“If you’ll just open your pyjama jacket,” the soft voice murmured.

Ellis undid the buttons. Where was Grace? he thought. What had happened to her? Had Crane caught her in his room? Was that why he was looking so pale?

The cold little funnel of the stethoscope rested on his thin chest, moved, stopped, moved again.

The greasy, bullet-shaped head, smelling of a sickly perfume, was within a few inches of Ellis’s nose. He noticed the doctor was suffering from dandruff.
Physician heal thyself,
he thought, and suddenly giggled.

The unexpected sound made Crane start. Dr Safki sighed, said gently, “Please don’t do that; it disturbs my diagnosis.”

Ellis, flushing angrily, controlled himself. What was the matter with him? He must be light-headed — worse than he thought. He glared at the black, greasy hair, wanting to push the head away, curse at them both; be rid of them.

Dr Safki stood back, his moon-shaped face impassive. He folded his stethoscope, put it away. His starched cuffs rattled as he moved his hands.

“Now I think I would like to look at your leg,” he said and pulled down the blankets, revealing Ellis’s stunted body in the fine black and gold pyjamas.

Crane was standing by the window, his back half turned, staring out into the garden. Ellis eyed the tremendous width of shoulders — a dangerous customer, he thought, and remembered Scragger. Scragger had shoulders like Crane, but Ellis would back Scragger in a fight with Crane. Scragger knew all the tricks; he’d been reared in a tough school, not like this fop whose background was luxury and lavender water.

The blankets were gently replaced.

“The leg looks excellent,” Dr Safki murmured. “A beautiful piece of work. I won’t disturb the splints.”

Ellis suddenly had an extraordinary feeling of emotion: the girl was clever. She had done a lot for him. It wasn’t her fault that she had fallen for this rich playboy. A girl of her education and background was easy meat to a man like Crane.

“You have a remarkable resistance,” Dr Safki was saying. “By rights you should be desperately ill. Mind you, I’m not saying you’re out of the wood — you’re not, but you’re doing quite well considering everything.” He opened the black morocco bag he had brought with him, put a bottle of tablets on the bedside table. “Take one of these every two hours. You’ll be better by tomorrow. I’ll see you again.”

Ellis nodded bleakly, looked at Crane who was moving away from the window.

“That’s fine,” Crane said. “Thank you so much.” He went with the little Hindu to the door.

Dr Safki paused, looked at Ellis.

“You’re a very silent young man,” he said. “Haven’t you anything to say for yourself at all?”

Ellis pursed his thin lips, looked away.

“He’s shy,” Crane said and suddenly laughed. “I believe he has an acute inferiority complex.”

Dr Safki nodded. “Ah!” he said. “Yes, I can understand that. Each of us has his own traitor within. Extravagance is my traitor.”

“And you know mine,” Crane said, his eyes suddenly odd.

“Yes, I know yours,” Dr Safki returned, and for a brief moment disgust showed on his face. Ellis, who was watching him, noticed the change of expression. He knows, he thought. There is something fishy going on and this nigger knows what it is.

Crane laughed lightly. He seemed now completely at ease. “Well, we mustn’t keep you, Doctor, no doubt you have things to do. Come and see him tomorrow. Perhaps he’ll say something then. He has a remarkable voice,” and he laughed again.

Ellis gritted his teeth. A furious hatred for this big, handsome fellow boiled up inside him.

Dr Salki nodded. “I’ll come,” he said, and to Ellis, “You mustn’t excite yourself. If you want to get well quickly you should relax and not worry about anything.”

“Difficult advice to carry out,” Crane said, looking at Ellis with a friendly smile. “But doctors are all the same. They give advice so easily although I don’t really believe they expect you to carry it out. It’s just something to soothe their own conscience.” He patted Safki’s plump little arm. “And some doctors have the most peculiar consciences, haven’t they, my friend?”

“It is very probable,” the doctor returned, looking sad again, and he went out of the room, Crane following him.

Grace was waiting in the hall. She looked quickly at the two men as they came towards her, looked away as she met Crane’s quiet, calm gaze.

“Is this the young lady who set his leg?” Dr Safki murmured.

“That’s right,” Crane said. “I’d like you to meet Dr Safki,” he went on to Grace. “You’ll be glad to hear that our friend is not as ill as we thought. Doctor thinks he’ll pull through, and has admired the brilliant way you set his leg.” He touched Dr Salki’s arm. “This is Julie Brewer.”

Dr Safki, up to this moment, was looking at Grace with interested, kindly eyes. He admired her so respectfully that Grace, in spite of her nervousness, felt flattered, but when Crane said, “this is Julie Brewer,” the little man stepped back abruptly and his coffee-coloured skin turned pale. He looked at Grace, at Crane, then muttering something under his breath, walked to the front door, opened it and without looking back went hurriedly down the long drive.

Grace and Crane stood for a moment staring after him, then Crane shrugged.

“Funny little man . . . I don’t think he really cares for women,” and he moved to Grace, stood before her and looked into her eyes.

“Now let’s talk,” he said. “Shall we go into the sitting-room?”

She walked ahead of him, and they sat down in armchairs opposite each other.

“He told you to search my room, didn’t he?” Crane asked.

She shuddered. “I shouldn’t have done it,” she said. “Oh, I wish now I hadn’t . . .”

“But he told you to do it?” he asked again, as if anxious that she should excuse herself.

“Yes.”

Crane nodded. “Well, don’t worry. You mustn’t think I’m angry. I’m not. Some people make a great fuss about their privacy, but I don’t. At least, perhaps that’s not quite true. I wouldn’t like everyone to know what you found in that drawer.”

Grace recoiled. “Please . . . don’t speak about it.”

“I want to speak about it. I feel, now you’ve seen it, you must have an explanation. Otherwise you might think I’m a murderer or something equally dreadful.”

“Of course I don’t,” Grace blurted out, wringing her hands. “I had no business to pry . . .”

“You know nothing about me, do you?” Crane said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs, “and yet I feel you don’t dislike me.”

“I — I’m very grateful to you . . .” Grace stammered.

“Only grateful?” There was an encouraging smile in his eyes. “Nothing more than gratitude? You know, I hate gratitude; it’s like pity.”

“You’ve been so kind to me,” Grace said, her face scarlet: “I — I — of course I like you.”

“But only because I’ve been kind to you? Not for myself?” He got up and went to her, offering her his hand.

She sat still, staring at the big, fleshy hand, ill at ease, and yet weak with physical excitement.

“I want you to like me,” he said gently. “Because I like you. I think you have courage; and besides, you’re pretty. I like the way you walk, the way you hold your head, the way you look at me. It’s extraordinary. The moment I saw you . . . frightened . . . alone in the clubhouse . . . you interested me very much.”

Grace slid her hand into his. She scarcely knew what she was doing. It had happened, as she had hoped it would happen. He was making love to her.

“Oh, I do like you,” she said.

The warm, strong hand pressed hers, and then he moved away from her.

“I’m glad you said that,” he said, leaning against the mantelpiece. “Now I feel I can talk to you not as a stranger but as a friend. I know that knife gave you a shock — my sister killed herself with it.”

“Oh!” Grace stiffened, her hands gripping the arms of the chair. “How awful . . . how dreadful for you.”

He moved restlessly. “It was pretty awful,” he said. “You see we meant a lot to each other. We’d grown up together, lived here together, shared things together. She was part of my life.” He turned abruptly and wandered across the room to the window. She watched him and for several minutes he kept his back turned, then as abruptly he came back. “I haven’t really got over it yet,” he said, running his fingers through his straw-coloured hair. “Forgive me if I am a little emotional. She was a lovely person and my only real friend.” He broke off, stared at Grace. “You remind me of her. The moment I saw you . . .”

Grace couldn’t find words to express what she was feeling. She wanted to cry, to go to him and hold him in her arms, to tell him how sorry she was for him and that she would do anything to help him, but she was tongue-tied and said nothing.

“She married a chap who turned out to be a first-class swine,” Crane went on. “I won’t go into details; they’re too revolting to talk about. She left him on their wedding night and came to live with me, but the damage was done. She couldn’t clear her mind of his beastliness and the poor kid went off her head. I kept her here for a month, not telling anyone but Safki — he was splendid and helped me no end — and we hoped she’d get well. She didn’t . . . she killed herself.” He drew in a quick breath, beat his fist on the mantelpiece. “It was horrible. Can you blame me for wanting to hush it all up? She had so many friends and I couldn’t bear the thought of the whispering campaign that would have been inevitable if I’d reported her death to the police. Safki gave the death certificate — natural causes, and no one knows the truth. I’m sorry you saw the knife. It’s lain in that drawer for months. I’ve not had the nerve to touch it, and I’ve never been to the drawer since it happened.” He felt in his hip pocket, pulled out a gold cigarette case, lit a cigarette, tossed the match into the fireplace. “Well, now you know. You and Safki are the only two people, except myself, who do know. Will you keep my secret?”

“Oh, yes,” Grace said, her eyes filling with tears. “Of course I will. I can’t say how sorry I am. I’ll never forgive myself for going into your room, but he kept on and on . . .”

“He doesn’t like me, does he?” Crane said, his eyes watchful. “No. He says there’s something about you . . . he doesn’t trust you . . .”

“But you do, don’t you?”

“Yes. I knew there was nothing . . .”

“I’m lonely,” Crane broke in abruptly. “You don’t know how lonely I am. There’s no one for me to talk to now. No one who really understands me. She was always with me and now . . .” He lifted his shoulders. “I’m glad you have her room. You don’t know how much you remind me of her.”

“I’m glad,” Grace said, not sure that this was true. Did he like her only because she reminded him of his dead sister? Wasn’t there something of her own self that he liked?

“Come on,” he said, going to the door, “Let’s talk to Ellis. I have other things to tell you, and he must know too. I’ve been busy.”

As she came to the door, he put his hand on her shoulder. “You haven’t even asked about the watch. You don’t think of yourself, do you?”

“What do I matter?” Grace said. “I’m nobody. I’ve never been anybody.”

“But wouldn’t you like to be?” Crane said, smiling at her. “Have you ever thought of running a place like this? Having money to spend, finding a little happiness.”

She stared at him, her eyes wide with delighted surprise. “Oh, yes,” she said.

“Well, sometimes dreams do come true,” he said gently, “but now let’s go and see Ellis.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

By six o’clock, the evening sun seemed to gather strength and a shimmering heat lay over the garden. From his bed Ellis could see the hard black shadows of the trees on the lawn, sharp-edged and still. The colours of the flowers had taken on a new vividness in the blaze of light and the sky was cloudless, like an azure umbrella.

Ellis had been alone for three hours. Every so often he heard Grace and Crane talking in the garden, and twice he had caught a glimpse of them as they walked up and down the lawn, close together, she looking up at him so that she could read the words as they formed on his lips. But for over an hour now he had seen nothing of them and he wondered anxiously where they were and what they were doing.

The tablets given him by Dr Safki had eased his fever, and he found himself clearer in mind; his sense of self- preservation sharpened. He was able to appreciate his position: one of danger and uncertainty, depending on how Crane was going to react.