VI
Mrs. Rice was energy personified. First the manager was summoned. Harold remained in his
room, keeping out of it. He and Mrs. Rice had agreed that the story told had better be that of a
quarrel between husband and wife. Elsie’s youth and prettiness would command more sympathy.
On the following morning various police officials arrived and were shown up to Mrs. Rice’s
bedroom. They left at midday. Harold had wired for money but otherwise had taken no part in the
proceedings—indeed he would have been unable to do so since none of these official personages
At twelve o’clock Mrs. Rice came to his room. She looked white and tired, but the relief on
her face told its own story. She said simply:
“It’s worked!”
“Thank heaven! You’ve been really marvellous! It seems incredible!”
Mrs. Rice said thoughtfully:
“By the ease with which it went, you might almost think it was quite normal. They practically
held out their hands right away. It’s—it’s rather disgusting, really!”
Harold said dryly:
“This isn’t the moment to quarrel with the
corruption2 of the public services. How much?”
“The tariff’s rather high.”
She read out a list of figures.
“The Chief of Police.
The Commissaire.
The Agent.
The Doctor.
The Hotel Manager.
The Night Porter.”
Harold’s comment was merely:
“The night porter doesn’t get much, does he? I suppose it’s mostly a question of gold lace.”
Mrs. Rice explained:
“The manager
stipulated3 that the death should not have taken place in his hotel at all. The
official story will be that Philip had a heart attack in the train. He went along the corridor for air—
you know how they always leave those doors open—and he fell out on the line. It’s wonderful
what the police can do when they try!”
“Well,” said Harold. “Thank God our police force isn’t like that.”
And in a British and superior mood he went down to lunch.
VII
After lunch Harold usually joined Mrs. Rice and her daughter for coffee. He
decided4 to make no
change in his usual behaviour.
This was the first time he had seen Elsie since the night before. She was very pale and was
obviously still suffering from shock, but she made a
gallant5 endeavour to behave as usual, uttering
small commonplaces about the weather and the scenery.
They commented on a new guest who had just arrived, trying to guess his nationality. Harold
thought a moustache like that must be French—Elsie said German—and Mrs. Rice thought he
might be Spanish.
There was no one else but themselves on the terrace with the exception of the two Polish
ladies who were sitting at the extreme end, both doing fancywork.
As always when he saw them, Harold felt a queer shiver of
apprehension6 pass over him.
Those still faces, those curved
beaks7 of noses, those long clawlike hands. . . .
A page boy approached and told Mrs. Rice she was wanted. She rose and followed him. At
the entrance to the hotel they saw her encounter a police official in full uniform.
Elsie caught her breath.
“You don’t think—anything’s gone wrong?”
“Oh, no, no, nothing of that kind.”
But he himself knew a sudden
pang9 of fear.
He said:
“Your mother’s been wonderful!”
“I know. Mother is a great fighter. She’ll never sit down under defeat.” Elsie shivered. “But it
is all horrible, isn’t it?”
“Now, don’t dwell on it. It’s all over and done with.”
Elsie said in a low voice:
“I can’t forget that—that it was I who killed him.”
Harold said urgently:
“Don’t think of it that way. It was an accident. You know that really.”
Her face grew a little happier. Harold added:
“And anyway it’s past. The past is the past. Try never to think of it again.”
Mrs. Rice came back. By the expression on her face they saw that all was well.
“It gave me quite a fright,” she said almost
gaily10. “But it was only a formality about some
papers. Everything’s all right, my children. We’re out of the shadow. I think we might order
ourselves a liqueur on the strength of it.”
The liqueur was ordered and came. They raised their glasses.
Mrs. Rice said: “To the Future!”
Harold smiled at Elsie and said:
“To your happiness!”
She smiled back at him and said as she lifted her glass:
“And to you—to your success! I’m sure you’re going to be a very great man.”
With the reaction from fear they felt gay, almost light-headed. The shadow had lifted! All
was well. . . .
From the far end of the terrace the two birdlike women rose. They rolled up their work
carefully. They came across the stone flags.
With little bows they sat down by Mrs. Rice. One of them began to speak. The other one let
her eyes rest on Elsie and Harold. There was a little smile on her lips. It was not, Harold thought, a
nice smile. . . .
He looked over at Mrs. Rice. She was listening to the Polish woman and though he couldn’t
understand a word, the expression on Mrs. Rice’s face was clear enough. All the old
anguish11 and
despair came back. She listened and occasionally spoke a brief word.
Presently the two sisters rose, and with stiff little bows went into the hotel.
“What is it?”
Mrs. Rice answered him in the quiet hopeless tones of despair.
“Those women are going to
blackmail13 us. They heard everything last night. And now we’ve
tried to
hush14 it up, it makes the whole thing a thousand times worse . . .”
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