IV
That evening, Harold went to his room a little after ten. The English maid had arrived and he had
received a number of letters, some of which needed
immediate1 answers.
He got into his
pyjamas2 and a
dressing3 gown and sat down at the desk to deal with his
correspondence. He had written three letters and was just starting on the fourth when the door was
suddenly flung open and Elsie Clayton staggered into the room.
Harold jumped up, startled. Elsie had pushed the door to behind her and was
standing4
clutching at the chest of drawers. Her breath was coming in great
gasps5, her face was the colour of
chalk. She looked frightened to death.
She
gasped6 out: “It’s my husband! He arrived unexpectedly. I—I think he’ll kill me. He’s
mad—quite mad. I came to you. Don’t—don’t let him find me.”
She took a step or two forward, swaying so much that she almost fell. Harold put out an arm
to support her.
As he did so, the door was flung open and a man stood in the
doorway7. He was of medium
height with thick
eyebrows8 and a
sleek9, dark head. In his hand he carried a heavy car spanner. His
voice rose high and shook with rage. He almost screamed the words.
“So that Polish woman was right! You are carrying on with this fellow!”
Elsie cried:
“No, no, Philip. It’s not true. You’re wrong.”
Harold thrust the girl swiftly behind him, as Philip Clayton advanced on them both. The latter
cried:
“Wrong, am I? When I find you here in his room? You she-devil, I’ll kill you for this.”
With a swift, sideways movement he
dodged10 Harold’s arm. Elsie, with a cry, ran round the
other side of Harold, who swung round to
fend11 the other off.
But Philip Clayton had only one idea, to get at his wife. He
swerved12 round again. Elsie,
terrified, rushed out of the room. Philip Clayton dashed after her, and Harold, with not a moment’s
Elsie had
darted14 back into her own bedroom at the end of the corridor. Harold could hear the
sound of the key turning in the lock, but it did not turn in time. Before the lock could catch Philip
Clayton
wrenched15 the door open. He disappeared into the room and Harold heard Elsie’s
frightened cry. In another minute Harold burst in after them.
Elsie was standing at bay against the curtains of the window. As Harold entered Philip
Clayton rushed at her
brandishing16 the spanner. She gave a terrified cry, then snatching up a heavy
paper-weight from the desk beside her, she flung it at him.
Clayton went down like a log. Elsie screamed. Harold stopped
petrified17 in the doorway. The
girl fell on her knees beside her husband. He lay quite still where he had fallen.
Outside in the passage, there was the sound of the bolt of one of the doors being
drawn18 back.
Elsie jumped up and ran to
Harold.
“Please—please—” Her voice was low and breathless. “Go back to your room. They’ll come
—they’ll find you here.”
Harold nodded. He took in the situation like lightning. For the moment, Philip Clayton was
hors de combat. But Elsie’s scream might have been heard. If he were found in her room it could
only cause
embarrassment19 and misunderstanding. Both for her sake and his own there must be no
scandal.
As noislessly as possible, he
sprinted20 down the passage and back into his room. Just as he
reached it, he heard the sound of an opening door.
He sat in his room for nearly half an hour, waiting. He dared not go out. Sooner or later, he
felt sure, Elsie would come.
There was a light tap on his door. Harold jumped up to open it.
It was not Elsie who came in but her mother and Harold was aghast at her appearance. She
looked suddenly years older. Her grey hair was dishevelled and there were deep black circles
under her eyes.
He sprang up and helped her to a chair. She sat down, her breath coming painfully. Harold
said quickly:
“You look all in, Mrs. Rice. Can I get you something?”
She shook her head.
“No. Never mind me. I’m all right, really. It’s only the shock. Mr. Waring, a terrible thing has
happened.”
Harold asked:
“Is Clayton seriously injured?”
She caught her breath.
“Worse than that. He’s dead . . .”
V
moment or two.
He repeated dully:
“Dead?”
Mrs. Rice nodded.
She said, and her voice had the flat level tones of complete
exhaustion25:
“The corner of that marble paperweight caught him right on the temple and he fell back with
his head on the iron fender. I don’t know which it was that killed him—but he is certainly dead. I
have seen death often enough to know.”
Disaster—that was the word that rang
insistently26 in Harold’s brain. Disaster, disaster,
disaster. . . .
“It was an accident . . . I saw it happen.”
Mrs. Rice said sharply:
“Of course it was an accident. I know that. But—but—is anyone else going to think so? I’m
—frankly, I’m frightened, Harold! This isn’t England.”
Harold said slowly:
“I can confirm Elsie’s story.”
Mrs. Rice said:
“Yes, and she can confirm yours. That—that is just it!”
Harold’s brain, naturally a keen and cautious one, saw her point. He reviewed the whole
thing and appreciated the weakness of their position.
He and Elsie had spent a good deal of their time together. Then there was the fact that they
had been seen together in the pinewoods by one of the Polish women under rather compromising
understand it a little. The woman might have known the meaning of words like “
jealousy30” and
“husband” if she had chanced to overhear their conversation. Anyway it was clear that it was
something she had said to Clayton that had aroused his jealousy. And now—his death. When
Clayton had died, he, Harold, had been in Elsie Clayton’s room. There was nothing to show that
he had not
deliberately31 assaulted Philip Clayton with the paperweight. Nothing to show that the
jealous husband had not actually found them together. There was only his word and Elsie’s.
Would they be believed?
A cold fear gripped him.
He did not imagine—no, he really did not imagine—that either he or Elsie was in danger of
being
condemned32 to death for a murder they had not committed. Surely, in any case, it could be
only a charge of manslaughter brought against them. (Did they have manslaughter in these foreign
countries?) But even if they were
acquitted33 of blame there would have to be an inquiry—it would
be reported in all the papers. An English man and woman accused—jealous husband—rising
politician. Yes, it would mean the end of his political career. It would never survive a scandal like
that.
He said on an impulse:
“Can’t we get rid of the body somehow? Plant it somewhere?”
Mrs. Rice’s astonished and scornful look made him blush. She said
incisively34:
“My dear Harold, this isn’t a detective story! To attempt a thing like that would be quite
crazy.”
“I suppose it would.” He
groaned35. “What can we do? My God, what can we do?”
Mrs. Rice shook her head despairingly. She was frowning, her mind working painfully.
Harold demanded:
“Isn’t there anything we can do? Anything to avoid this
frightful36 disaster?”
There, it was out—disaster! Terrible—unforeseen—
utterly37 damning.
They stared at each other. Mrs. Rice said
hoarsely38:
“Elsie—my little girl. I’d do anything . . . It will kill her if she has to go through a thing like
this.” And she added: “You too, your career—everything.”
Harold managed to say:
“Never mind me.”
But he did not really mean it.
Mrs. Rice went on bitterly:
“And all so unfair—so utterly untrue! It’s not as though there had ever been anything
between you. I know that well enough.”
“You’ll be able to say that at least—that it was all
perfectly40 all right.”
Mrs. Rice said bitterly:
“Yes, if they believe me. But you know what these people out here are like!”
connection between himself and Elsie, and all Mrs. Rice’s denials would be taken as a mother
lying herself black in the face for her daughter.
Harold said gloomily:
“Yes, we’re not in England, worse luck.”
“Ah!” Mrs. Rice lifted her head. “That’s true . . . It’s not England. I wonder now if something
could be done—”
“Yes?” Harold looked at her eagerly.
“How much money have you got?”
“Not much with me.” He added, “I could wire for money, of course.”
Mrs. Rice said grimly:
“We may need a good deal. But I think it’s worth trying.”
Harold felt a faint lifting of despair. He said:
“What is your idea?”
Mrs. Rice spoke decisively.
“We haven’t a chance of
concealing44 the death ourselves, but I do think there’s just a chance
of hushing it up officially!”
“You really think so?” Harold was hopeful but slightly incredulous.
“Yes, for one thing the manager of the hotel will be on our side. He’d much rather have the
thing hushed up. It’s my opinion that in these out of the way curious little Balkan countries you
can
bribe46 anyone and everyone—and the police are probably more
corrupt47 than anyone else!”
Harold said slowly:
“Do you know, I believe you’re right.”
Mrs. Rice went on:
“Fortunately, I don’t think anyone in the hotel heard anything.”
“Who has the room next to Elsie’s on the other side from yours?”
“The two Polish ladies. They didn’t hear anything. They’d have come out into the passage if
they had. Philip arrived late, nobody saw him but the night porter. Do you know, Harold, I believe
it will be possible to
hush45 the whole thing up—and get Philip’s death
certified48 as due to natural
causes! It’s just a question of
bribing49 high enough—and finding the right man—probably the
Chief of Police!”
Harold smiled faintly. He said:
“It’s rather Comic Opera, isn’t it? Well, after all, we can but try.”
分享到: