The Annam Jewel (24 page)

“You won't bear it?”

She breathed a trembling “No.”

“Well, now, what will you do?”

Anita went on looking at him. All at once he put a hand on her shoulder.

“Say, Anita,” he said, “d'you ever think? If you do, right here's the time when it's going to be useful to you. Five years ago now, in New York—you do some thinking about that.”

Anita stared.

“Five years ago, in New York, what were you?”

He shot the words at her with a sudden violence which was terrifying. “How'd it suit you to go back? Think you'd enjoy it now? If you're a fool, I reckon you're not such a fool as that. I reckon you know when you're well off.”

The colour died out of her face. She closed her eyes. Hendebakker put his arm round her, and half lifted, half guided her to a chair. Then he took her hand and patted it.

“You're a mighty pretty woman, Anita,” he said, “and you've done pretty well for yourself. When you want to think, you think about that.
Quit thinking about my business
. You'll be liable to get wrinkles if you don't, and I'd hate to have you lose your looks. Sylvia Moreland is
business
. You freeze on to that.”

The large dark eyes opened, gazed at him. She lifted her hand timidly and caught the lapel of his coat.

“Business?” she breathed.

Hendebakker nodded.

“Never mix business with pleasure,” he said. “That's been my motto right along. You freeze on to business, and business'll freeze on to you. That's what I've done, and that's why we're staying at The Luxe with money to burn. The man that mixes up business with pleasure is going to come a most almighty smash. I'm not such a blame' fool; and you ought to know better than to think I am. The amount I love Sylvia Moreland needn't keep you awake at night, Anita, and that's a fact.”

“How do I know that you speak the truth?” said Anita. “Perhaps you do, perhaps you do not. Who knows with a man?”

Hendebakker laughed.

“If you can't know, you can guess,” he said. He kissed her. “You quit being jealous; it don't suit you; and what's more, it don't suit me.”

Anita threw her arms about his neck with a sob.

“Ah, I have been jealous,” she breathed. “I have suffered. I have waked in the night. I have said, ‘If he loves me no more, my life is over.' Is it that you love me no more, Virgilio?”

“No, it isn't, and you know it isn't,” said Hendebakker, laughing again. “But don't you start interfering in my business deals, or there'll be bad trouble. I don't take that from anyone. So you quit and be a good girl.”

As he bent to kiss her the telephone bell rang sharply. He pushed Anita back into her chair, and went over to the writing-table.

“Hullo,” he said, “hullo,” and heard Sylvia Moreland's voice saying:

“Oh, is that you? I've rung up.”

He glanced over his shoulder at Anita. Her large, lustrous eyes were watching him; her hands played with her pearls. With a shrug of the shoulders he turned back to the telephone.

“I reckon you have. It's Hendebakker speaking.”

“Yes; I've rung up to say I'll do it—I mean I'll do what you asked me to do this afternoon.” There was a note of defiance in Sylvia's tones.

“That's sensible of you,” he said, and heard her laugh, a hard, angry little laugh. She went on speaking at once.

“He's been here. He's only just gone. I'll do anything you want me to.”

“Good! Did you fix anything up?”

“No. I thought it would be better if it looked like a sudden impulse, as if I had just thought of asking him to go.”

“Can you get him later?”

“Yes. I've found out that he will be at his club this evening. I can ring him up there about ten o'clock. I know just what to say.”

“You're sure he'll come?”

Sylvia laughed again.

“Oh yes, he'll
come,”
she said. “Chivalry's his strong suit, you know—and I'm going to be in horrible trouble. He'll never let me trek off to Wimbledon all by myself to see a monster of a man who's blackmailing me.”

“Oh, that's the stunt, is it?”

“Don't you think it's a good one? I thought it was.” There was that odd mingling of triumph and nervousness in her voice.

“I think you're a real good liar,” said Hendebakker admiringly, “real smart. I wouldn't presume to offer any suggestions. You have him there at ten-thirty, and I'll take off my hat to you. Now, you listen a minute. At ten minutes to ten there'll be an ordinary taxi waiting at your corner. The driver will be one of my men. Just to make sure, you ask him his name. If he says Robinson, that's right. He'll take your orders until you get to Keith Lodge.”

“And then?” There was more nervousness than triumph now.

“Now, don't you get rattled. This is a plain business deal. We come to terms, and all go home again to bed.”

“And if he won't?”

“He will,” said Hendebakker cheerfully. “Don't you fret about that—he will. In the seclusion of that rural retreat we shall come to terms.”

“But if you
don't
?”

Hendebakker hung up the receiver and rang off. Anita was still watching him.

“To whom did you talk, Virgilio?”

“I talked to Sylvia Moreland.”

“Ah yes, something told me so—something here.” She laid her hand upon her bosom.

“Well, it told you right. You're getting smart, Anita.”

He came quite close to her, bent down, kissed her—and then, with his face quite near to hers, he said with a sudden drop in his voice:

“Don't you be too smart, Anita. It don't pay.”

CHAPTER XXIX

Peter was writing letters at his club when Sylvia rang up. Mrs. Jones had mended his dinner jacket rather under protest. She sniffed when she took it from him, and sniffed again when she brought it back neatly brushed and with the burst seam repaired. Both sniffs accused Peter of midnight roystering, and intimated, without the actual use of words, that Mrs. Jones didn't hold with such goings on.

Peter went to the telephone rather resignedly. He was in the middle of a letter to his partner, and had no wish to be interrupted. He wished he had not told Sylvia that he was spending the evening at the club. Later on he was to wish it again, and a good deal more fervently.

“Oh, Peter, is that you?” said Sylvia's voice; and Peter said that it was. “Oh, I'm so glad, so thankful you're there still. Peter …” Her voice choked for a moment. “I—I'm in the most dreadful trouble.”

Peter very nearly said, “Again?” but restrained himself, and tried to infuse a proper amount of sympathy into his “What is it? What's the matter?”

“I can't tell you on the telephone, but my affairs have come to a crisis.”

“What? Since I saw you?”

“Yes, I was frightened then, but I've had a most dreadful letter since, and—and a telephone call. Peter, isn't it what they call blackmail when someone says you must go and see them and pay up at once or they'll do perfectly dreadful things to you?”

“It might be,” said Peter guardedly. “Is anyone doing that to you?”

“Oh
yes
.” There were tears in Sylvia's voice. “Peter, he says I must come and see him tonight, or—or he'll do the most dreadful things. And, oh, Peter, I'm afraid to go by myself.”

“You mustn't
dream
of going.” Peter was very emphatic.

“I must. I must go. I don't want to, but I can't help myself. But I don't want to go alone. I don't think I can face it. And you said—you said you'd help me. Oh, Peter, will you come with me? Will you?”

“Look here, Sylvia, there can't be all this urgency. I'll come round tomorrow and go into it with you. It's perfectly ridiculous your thinking of going to see anyone at this hour of night.”

“You don't understand.” He could hear her voice trembling. “You simply don't understand. I must go. The only question is, will you come with me, or have I got to go alone?”

Peter was feeling justly annoyed. How women did panic over business! But, of course, he couldn't let Sylvia go and interview some brute of a money-lender by herself. He said without enthusiasm:

“Oh, I'll come,” and heard her give a sort of gasp before she answered:

“I'll call for you, then; I've got a taxi.”

The ring-off followed immediately. Peter went back and finished his letter. He had meant to polish off half a dozen more, but he supposed that they would have to wait.

When he got into the taxi beside Sylvia he was feeling a good deal ruffled. He began to express his feelings.

“You know, my dear girl, this is the most awful rot. It is really.”

“What is?” said Sylvia coolly.

“Your charging off at this time of night to go and do business with some beastly money-lender. Who is the brute, anyway?”

“His name's Robinson,” said Sylvia, “and he isn't exactly a money-lender. He's—he's—I don't exactly know how to describe him.”

The taxi was going along at a good pace.

“I don't want you to describe him; and I don't want you to go and see him. I want you to let me take you home. If it's absolutely necessary, I'll go and see him myself. But it's all nonsense your running after the man at this time of night. I can't see where this frightful hurry comes in.”

“I must go,” said Sylvia in a low, despairing voice. “I must go. I'd give anything in the world to go home again, but I can't. If I don't see him tonight, it's all up.”

“I don't believe it,” said Peter crossly.

“You needn't.” Her voice was full of sadness. “You can stop the taxi this minute, and get out and go home. I oughtn't to have asked you to come; it was stupid of me.”

Peter was very angry. He thought Sylvia a most unreasonable woman, and he would have liked to take her home and lock her in her flat out of harm's way. This course being impossible, he told her gruffly not to talk nonsense, to which Sylvia replied by slipping one of her hands into his and saying, in a voice shaken by emotion:

“You
are
coming with me, then? Oh, I knew you wouldn't fail me.”

Peter took his hand away.

“If you insist upon going, of course I'll come with you. Where does this man hang out?”

“It's a house at Wimbledon,” said Sylvia.

“Wimbledon? Good lord, Sylvia!”

“It's his own house,” said Sylvia meekly. “He's going abroad tomorrow, so it's my only chance of seeing him personally. I do dread being put off by a clerk who says he has no authority. I do think a personal interview with the man who has really got the whole thing in his hands—well, it means so much more, doesn't it?”

“I don't know,” said Peter. “I should have everything in writing if I were you.” Then, after a pause, “You know I'm absolutely in the dark. Who is this fellow? Do you owe him money?”

“Y—yes,” said Sylvia. She dreaded Peter's downright questions, but for the moment she could think of no way of escape from them.

“How much?”

“I—I don't like to say.”

Peter prayed for patience.

“My dear girl, what do you want me to do? Am I to talk to this man for you? Or am I just to stand by whilst you talk to him?”

“Yes, I think so,” said Sylvia.

“All right. I just wanted to know, that's all. Then I won't ask you any more questions.”

They drove on in silence. It was dark, cloudy, and rather airless. Presently they left houses behind them, and emerged upon a stretch of common.

“Do you know the place? Are we nearly there?” said Peter.

“I've never been there,” said Sylvia rather faintly.

As she spoke the car left the main road, turned in amongst trees, and followed a long, winding drive. Keith Lodge stood by itself in large wooded grounds. The drive was a very long one, and there were trees everywhere. At times the overhanging branches barely cleared the top of the car. They drew up with a grinding sound on a gravel sweep. The driver jumped down and opened the door.

Peter felt Sylvia's ungloved hand tremble in his as he helped her out; her hand was very cold. His heart smote him for his ill-humour, and he gave her arm a little reassuring pat.

“It'll be all right. Don't worry,” he said, and heard her draw a sharp breath.

She made no other reply, and they went up to the front door in silence.

Peter thought the house very dark and forbidding. The windows on their right were shuttered. A pencil of light came through a knot-hole. The fanlight above the front door showed a faint glow. Otherwise the house was in darkness. With his hand on the knocker, he turned.

“Look here, Sylvia, I don't like the look of this place,” he said. “There's something fishy about it. Why on earth does the man want to see people at night? You'd much better let me bring you down tomorrow at a reasonable hour.”

She reached past him, caught at the knocker, her hand on his, and knocked sharply. Her hand was not cold now, but burning hot.

“No, no, we can't go back,” she said.

She had not looked behind her, but she knew very well that the taxi-driver had followed them. There was certainly no going back.

“Go and sit in the car,” said Peter. “I can see the man.”

As he spoke the door opened, not widely; about a foot of tessellated pavement showed in a dimmish light.

Peter put his hand on Sylvia's arm and asked:

“Is Mr. Robinson at home?” He spoke to the merest silhouette of a man standing there in the narrow opening.

The man drew back, the door opened a little wider. With a sudden jerk Sylvia freed herself and passed quickly into the hall. Clear in Peter's memory there rose the very feel of that wet and windy night, twelve years ago, when little Rose Ellen had pulled her hand from his and run to meet adventure at Merton Clevery. He stepped forward, following Sylvia as he had followed Rose Ellen, and sharp across the moment of dreamy recollection there struck the sound of his own footsteps and Sylvia's, echoing as footsteps only echo in an empty house.