Beyond this place (10 page)

Paul compressed his lips on a sharp reply.

CHAPTER XIII

WHEN Paul went up to his attic room it was nearly eleven o'clock. He could not sleep. Pacing the confined space between the rickety wash-stand and the truckle bed, scarcely hearing through the thin walls the inevitable nocturnal noises of his fellow lodgers — the Parsee medical student, playing his radio on the floor below, James Crocket, the accountant's clerk brushing his boots and whistling mournfully next door, old Mr. Garvin, the retired auctioneer, creaking downstairs to refill his ewer — he struggled with the excitement to which the evening had strung him.

At last he undressed and got into bed. He slept badly for his thoughts were still seething, his nerves keyed for action. He was glad when the first grey streaks of dawn reached over the chimney pots and filtered through the dingy bedroom panes.

All that day, at the store, he was strained and preoccupied. When Lena Andersen took him his luncheon from the cafeteria he ate the sandwiches without his visual appetite. Perhaps she noticed this for, with a serious and impersonal air, she remarked:

"Don't you like the ham?"

He came out of his abstraction, glanced up, and forced a smile.

"I do. I just don't happen to be hungry today." He added: "You're much too good to me. I know Harris said I could have a snack. But you bring me a regular spread."

"It's not a proper lunch. Sandwiches aren't too good for anyone. But I suppose you have your dinner in the evening?"

He did not contradict her. Despite the burden of his mood, he was pleased by the way in which she stood and talked with him, not easily, but with a sort of painful tenseness, almost

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against her will. Perhaps his wordless gaze, to which custom had given a certain intimacy, had caused her to break silence. It was as though each had sensed the others loneliness and had, because of that, been moved to speak.

"You're in digs, by yourself, I suppose."

"Yes," he agreed. "Are you?"

"Oh, no. I'm very lucky." A quiver of pride came over her face. "1 have a nice place — two rooms in a friend's house in Ware Terrace."

"That's quite an establishment."

She nodded simply, looking away. Her eyes, of a dark hazel, seemed to express the desire and the burden of life.

"I can do it. I work hard, you see. Often I go out in the evenings to public banquets. It's good pay."

"Don't you ever go dancing, or to the movies, like the others?" he asked curiously.

"No." She shrugged her shoulders. "I don't bother about that."

She stood, gazing ahead absently, then she took his emptv cup and with a faint half-smile went back to the cafeteria.

The duration of Lena's conversation with Paul had not passed unnoticed by some of the sharp-eyed waitresses and, since business was slack, when she returned to her counter, one of the younger girls, named Nancy Wilson, nudged her neighbour. She was a pert, dressy little character, a product of Ware Street gutters, who wore a red patent belt with her uniform, openwork stockings, and button boots with cloth uppers.

"D you see that?" She made a sly movement of her head. "Miss Andersen had a long music lesson today."

"Doh, ray, me!" sang out a second girl.

"Oh, Lena!" another called over, with a broad smile. "Was you arranging to have your piano tuned?"

A general titter of laughter went up and Nancy Wilson attempted to cap the joke.

"Be careful, Lena," she exclaimed sweetly. "Once bitten, twice shy."

There was an uncomfortable silence. The girls suddenlv became busy again and several gave Nancy a quick angry glance.

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Lena, who had given no sign of having heard, picked up her charge-list and began to add up the figures. Usually she had a good-natured answer for any sort of banter. But on this occasion she said nothing.

Although Paul wondered what was being said, the incident soon passed from his mind. He was, indeed, existing in a state of unbearable expectancy, unable to concentrate upon anything but his next meeting with Burt, counting the days until the week should pass.

At last Wednesday arrived and Paul's keyed nerves were more tautly strung by the sense of impending action. Somehow he managed to get through the day. He had arranged to meet Mark outside the Bonanza at seven o'clock, and at closing time he was amongst the first to leave. Since Boulia had not yet arrived, he took up his stance under an electric standard on the opposite pavement, eagerly glancing up and down the street. The other assistants had now begun to emerge, singly and in pairs — chattering and with linked arms — from the half-shuttered doorway of the store. Towards the end of the procession Lena came out, alone, wearing a raincoat and a small brown felt hat, that looked anything but new, pulled low over her bright hair. Despite her commonplace dress, as she moved off, with her hands in her raincoat pockets, there was something in her graceful, high-breasted, well-proportioned form which pleased and arrested the eye. Paul watched, and suddenly he saw her wave her hand as, in the crowd, an elderly woman appeared, short and stout, carrying several parcels. The newcomer greeted Lena with manifest affection and they moved off in the direction of the Ware Cross.

The brief scene gave to Paul a passing sense of warmth but now, abruptly, he looked at his watch which, to his surprise, indicated twenty minutes past seven. What on earth was delaying Mark? Renewing his glances up and down the busy thoroughfare Paul sought with growing impatience for Boulia's advancing figure. Now it was half past seven and still there was no sign of him. Anxiety was added to Paul's impatience, every minute he kept looking at his watch. At last he could wait no longer and,

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with a worried frown, started oft at a fast pace in the direction of the library. In ten minutes he was there, saw that Mark was still on duty, and hurrying to the desk, he exclaimed:

"What's the matter? Aren't you coming?"

Boulia had flinched perceptibly at the sight of Paul. He hesitated, then, with a nervous glance behind him, answered in a low voice.

"I'm on duty. I can't make it."

Paul stared at the other in amazement. His tone, his manner, even his appearance, were so completely altered. His flippancy, all his natural carefree air, was gone, he seemed subdued, even cowed, indeed, his eyes kept darting about the reading room in a thoroughly intimidated fashion.

"You might surely have let me know," Paul protested, with justifiable annoyance.

"Not so loud," Boulia muttered. He came close to Paul, spoke in a'hurried undertone. "I'm sorry to let you down, Mathry, but the truth is . . . I'll have to drop out of our arrangement. I went into it without thinking, just for a lark, but it isn't such sport as it looks."

"What's happened?"

"I can't tell you . . . but listen," Mark's voice fell to a lower key, "take my advice and drop it, too. I can't say more, but I'm serious, never was more serious in my life."

A strained silence followed.

"At least I'll see you again?" Paul said slowly.

With averted eyes, Mark shook his head. His words came stiffly.

"I've been transferred out of the city ... to the public library at Retwood. I have to leave the end of the week."

Again there was silence, rigid and prolonged. Paul drew in a slow, comprehending breath. He had not, in truth, built too heavily on Mark's co-operation. Yet now even that was gone. He was alone again . . . must face the future single handed. And more, he glimpsed, for the first time, in the young librarian's change of front, the sudden crumbling of his morale, something of the dark and unseen dangers which he himself must face.

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A score of questions rose to his tongue. But he perceived that Boulia was on edge for him to go. So he held out his hand, and said simply:

"I'm sorry if I've got you in a mess. Thank you for all you've done. Good luck. I hope we'll meet again."

The next minute he turned sharply and went out of the library to the nearest telephone booth. Perhaps it wasn't yet too late. With urgent fingers he fumbled through the tattered dogeared book that hung on the brass chain, at last found the number he was seeking, and placed two coins in the slot. After a delay that seemed interminable he got through.

"Is that the Royal Oak?"

"This is the Royal Oak Inn. Jack speaking."

Paul thought he recognized the voice of the waiter who had served him the week before.

"This is one of Miss Burt's friends calling. I had to meet her tonight at seven. Will you give her a message? Tell her I've been delayed but that I'm coming over straight away."

"I'm sorry," the waiter's voice came back, "Miss Burt isn't here."

"Didn't she come in this evening?"

"She came in as usual and stopped for half an hour. She left around eight."

Paul dropped the receiver back upon its hook, reflected for a moment, then left the booth. In three minutes he was in the Square where he took a tram direct to Porlock Hill. His watch showed half-past eight when he arrived at the end house in the Avenue.

The front of the house appeared to be in darkness, but there was a light in one of the side windows upstairs. Paul opened the gate and entered the drive; then, nerving himself, he walked round by the service entrance and knocked on the back door. Immediately a dog barked inside, then the door was opened by a thin, placid-faced woman of about fifty, in a black housekeeper's dress.

"Could I see Miss Louisa Burt, please?"

The woman looked Paul up and down.

"She's gone to her room with a headache."

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"Couldn't she come down for a minute?" Paul pressed. "I'm her friend."

"I'm sorry." The housekeeper shook her head. "Followers are not allowed here. It's one of the rules of the house."

She closed the door with a conventional murmur of regret. Discouraged, he nevertheless told himself he was not beaten. He must see Burt at all costs.

The night was dry and crisp, with a darkness made soft and luminous by the stars. The hint of frost, which had polished the sky, made the fallen plane leaves crackle underfoot as Paul retraced his steps to the front of the house. Here, through a large illuminated window, over which, perhaps because of the beauty of the night, the curtains had not yet been drawn, he made out the master of the house, the man whom he had already seen walking to the mail-box, and an elderlv woman with an amiable, kindly expression, who was obviously his wife. Another couple, apparently guests, were in the sedately furnished drawing room. All wore evening dress.

Sheltered by the laurel bushes Paul stood watching the scene, so dignified and gracious, remote from the dark and painful passions warring within his breast. He saw that a bridge table was set out beside them. From their leisured progress, the laughter and conversation, it would be late before they finished and he resigned himself to a lengthy wait.

Suddenly, in the shadows, he heard a heavy step behind him. He swung round, and found himself confronted bv a police officer.

CHAPTER XIV

"WHAT are vou up to?"

At the officer's words an icy wave rushed over Paul, and for an instant he almost bolted. But he took a grip of himself.

"I wanted to see someone in the house."

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"Is that how you make a call — hiding among the bushes in the dark?"

"I wasn't hiding."

"Yes, you was. I been watching you ever since you arrived. Loitering with intent, I call it."

"No, no," Paul protested. "I can explain everything, if you'll only listen."

"Explain to the sergeant at the station," the other interrupted. "You'd better come quiet."

With a hard face, Paul stared at the uniformed figure before him. This, of all conceivable misfortunes that could have befallen him, was the worst. But there was nothing for it but to submit. He set off beside the policeman in silence.

It was a long march back through the lighted, crowded streets to the centre of the city. Significantly, Paul realized that he was not being taken to the nearby local station. At last they passed through an archway lit by a square blue lamp, and entered the charge room of the Wortley Police Headquarters.

The room was small and bare, brightly illuminated, with a grated window, two doors — one with a small square grille — and two benches against the walls. Standing at a high desk, with the collar of his tunic undone, writing laboriously like a schoolboy over his copy book, was a stout, red-faced sergeant, whose name, conspicuously stamped on the charge-sheet, was Jupp. He had the stolid air of a country innkeeper, and his square head, with its sparse hair oiled and neatly parted in a cowlick, shone beneath the green shaded electric light.

He kept Paul waiting before him for five minutes while he dotted the last "i" and crossed the last "t" to his satisfaction; he looked up, turned a fresh page, and exclaimed:

"Well, now, what's all this about?"

In routine, almost perfunctory fashion, Jupp took down the particulars offered him by his subordinate, twirling the waxed end of his moustache, glancing at Paul queerly from time to time, out of the corners of his eyes. Finally, he pointed the butt end of his pen towards the bench.

"I've an idea the Chief would like to see you. Sit there till I tell you."

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Paul did as he was bid. By this time he was convinced that he had not been picked up by accident, that his presence here was part of some broader design. He sat on the bench for perhaps half an hour. During that time two seamen were brought in, both drunk, looking as though they had rolled in all the gutters of the city, and a raddled creature with a stony face and a broken feather in her hat — a street-walker charged with soliciting. All three were removed, through the grilled door on the left. When the door opened there came through, quenched but not obliterated by the odour of disinfectant, the faint sour smell of soiled humanity.

At last Paul received a signal from Sergeant Jupp. He rose and followed him down a passage to the right. Then a baize covered door was opened, and Paul found himself in a comfortable office, furnished with leather armchairs, a wide mahogany desk, and a large glass-fronted cabinet filled with silver cups and trophies. Displayed upon the walls were numerous framed "annual groups" of the force, photographs of police football and athletic teams, also an interesting show case of antique truncheons. A thick red carpet covered the floor.