Trusted Like The Fox (30 page)

“No!” Crane screamed. “I don’t want to die. I want to live. Help me! Grace! Save me. Get a doctor! Don’t let me die!”

Grace ran to him, caught him as he fell, but his weigh dragged her with him to the floor.

“I don’t want to die!” he raved, while she pillowed his head against her breasts. “I’m afraid to die. Do something for God’s sake! Get a doctor!” He gripped Grace so tightly as he writhed in his agony that she cried out.

Ellis hobbled over to them.

“You said you didn’t care when you died, you boasting cur,” he said. “You’ve talked yourself into this. I was determined you wouldn’t touch her.”

“Help him!” Grace cried wildly. “You can’t let him suffer like this. Please get help . . . get Safki . . .”

Crane suddenly stiffened. A dry gasping sound came from his throat.

“He’s finished,” Ellis said, contemptuously.

Grace felt a shudder run through the great body. She could no longer support him, and he rolled away from her.

“Leave him,” Ellis said. “Come on. We’ve got to get out of here before anyone comes.”

But she paid no attention. Sobbing wildly, she turned Crane, looked down at his blue, puffy face, into his fixed, sightless eyes.

“Come on,” Ellis said. “You don’t want to be caught, do you?”

She turned on him, hate blazing through her tears.

“You’re not going to get away,” she cried. “He wouldn’t have hurt me. I could have saved him. I knew all along you’d spoil our happiness, but you’ll pay for it. I’ll see you don’t get away.”

“Leave him and stop talking rot,” Ellis said, balancing himself with difficulty on the crutches. “It’s over. We came together; we leave together.”

“I’ll get the police,” she sobbed, sprang to her feet and darted to the door.

He grabbed at her, but she gave him a quick push and he overbalanced, sprawled heavily on the floor. Pain, like the steel teeth of a trap, bit into his leg. Before he could move, she snatched up his crutches and threw them out of the window.

“You and your love,” she cried. “Do you think I ever believed you loved me? You wanted to hurt me. You’ve always wanted to hurt me. Well, it’s my turn now.”

She ran from the room, stumbled blindly into the hall, reached the telephone. As she lifted the receiver she looked up, the telephone receiver slipped from her fingers.

Inspector James was standing in the hall. There was mud on his trousers and boots and his face was stern.

“It’s all right,” he said. “I’m here.”

She waved her hand to the bedroom. There was a singing in her ears and the hall seemed to her to be darkening.

“It’s Cushman,” she said haltingly. “Don’t let him get away. Cushman . . . the traitor.”

She felt herself falling, and her mind cried out for Crane.

Ellis heard James’s voice and he lifted his lean shoulders in a gesture of resignation.

Well, anyway, he had saved her life; had beaten Crane. It was probably the only decent, unselfish act he had done in his life, and the stupid little fool hadn’t realised it.

Let them come! He was sick of hiding, running away, being too frightened to speak. Grace was the only woman he had ever cared for, and life without her would be too lonely. He had lost her for good. The ironic thing was she’d have been happier if Crane had killed her.

He looked at the whisky bottle. Should he finish his life quickly? No! Let them spend some of the country’s money on him. He’d give them a show; give them something to read about in the papers. The trial might last days. Anyway, there’d be many weeks yet before they hanged him: many weeks to think of Grace.

He lay back, stretched out his aching leg and waited for James to come in. For the first time in his life he felt at peace.

The End