Trusted Like The Fox (22 page)

“I don’t think so, sir,” James said. “This is very awkward now I know your daughter. . .”

“Why should it be awkward? Unless, of course, you’ve well, go on, tell me. I may as well know the worst.”

“Well, sir, I took the liberty of obtaining the young lady’s fingerprints.”

Sir Hugh groaned. “My dear fellow . . .” he began, but James hurriedly broke in.

“It was done very tactfully. I persuaded her to handle my watch and obtained her prints that way. I’m sure she had no idea what I was after, but I have a shrewd suspicion that Mr Crane, who was present, guessed. I sent the watch to Headquarters to have the prints checked.”

“Bless my soul,” Sir Hugh said, getting up and pacing the room. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. It’s a wonder Mr Crane hasn’t been on to me. When did you say this happened?”

“Yesterday morning, sir,” James said and cleared his throats He wondered what Sir Hugh would say when he had learnt the whole truth. James was aware of a trickle of perspiration running down his nose and he took out his handkerchief and mopped his face. “There was no record of the prints, sir,” he went on gently.

“Well, of course there wasn’t,” Sir Hugh said angrily. “I could have told you that in the first place.”

“But there was a reason for that, sir,” James said. “The watch had been tampered with. The young lady’s prints had been removed and my daughter’s prints substituted. Naturally there was no record.”

Sir Hugh blinked. Your daughter? How does she come into this?”

“At one time, three or four months ago, sir, Mr Crane and my daughter were very friendly, I regret to say. I believe Mr Crane persuaded Daphne to wipe the watch clean of prints and then handle the watch herself.”

There was a long pause, then Sir Hugh said in a strangled voice. “I hope you realise what you’re saying.”

“I’m afraid I do, sir,” James returned unhappily. “I have tried to persuade Daphne to tell the truth but she denies everything, and yet her prints are on the watch.”

“I don’t give a damn about that. You have no right to say Mr Crane persuaded your daughter to do such a thing,” Sir Hugh said, anger in his voice. “This is a very serious accusation, James.”

“I believe Mr Crane was most anxious that the young lady calling herself Mrs Brewer should not have her prints checked, because her real identity would have been discovered. I am certain that Mr Crane, for reasons best known to himself, is sheltering this young woman. I’ve been to Somerset House, sir, and he has no sister. I’ve checked the records of his family.”

Sir Hugh sat down abruptly. His face was a study.

“But this is really fantastic,” he said. “If she’s not his sister, then who the devil is she?”

“You have seen the secret report that came in yesterday about the man Cushman, sir?” James asked.

Sir Hugh’s eyes widened. “Of course I have. What the devil . . . ?”

“You’ll remember this Cushman chap was last seen in the company of a woman, identified as Grace Clark, wanted for theft and an ex-convict?”

Sir Hugh nodded.

“I think the young lady with Mr Crane is Grace Clark,” James said and waited for the storm to break.

“You must be cracked,” Sir Hugh said, clenching his fists and glaring at James. “You say she . . . but, damn it, you’ve just told me her name is Julie Brewer and you’ve seen her identity card.”

“Julie Brewer is a prostitute, sir,” James said slowly. “I’ve gone into details concerning her and have learned that Mr Crane has been associating with her. She is now missing, but I think Mr Crane got hold of her identity card and gave it to Grace Clark.”

“What an abominable insinuation,” Sir Hugh said, now very angry. “I think you’ve said quite enough. Frankly, I don’t believe a word you say. I must speak to your Superintendent about you. The only explanation is that you’re heading for a nervous breakdown and don’t know what you’re saying. How dare you say that Mr Crane associates with a prostitute!”

“I’m very sorry, sir,” James returned, pale but determined. “I have all the necessary evidence otherwise I wouldn’t make such a statement.”

“I don’t believe it!” Sir Hugh barked. “And I’m not listening to any more of this. Return to your station immediately. I shall take this up with your Superintendent.”

James got to his feet. He stood before Sir Hugh and looked him straight in the eyes.

“There is one more thing, sir,” he said evenly, “and then I’ve finished. Rogers is missing. He went out last night, and I suspect he went up to Mr Crane’s place. He hasn’t been seen since. I’m drawing my own conclusions. Grace Clark was seen with Edwin Cushman. She is now with Mr Crane. Cushman may be there too. He is a dangerous man. If Rogers found him, he might . . . It sounds dramatic, I know, but he might have killed Rogers. Look at his record, sir. He’s a killer. Something has happened to Rogers. That’s why I’ve come to you. The responsibility rests with you now, sir. I want orders. What am Ito do?”

PART FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“Where is he?” Ellis asked as Grace came into the room.

The light of the pink-shaded bedlamp accentuated the faint flush on her face. Her eyes were bright, and there was a radiance on her face that transfigured her: made her look beautiful.

“He’s finishing his cigar,” she said. There was a new note in her voice that conveyed to Ellis that she was even happier than she looked. “Is there anything you want?” she went on. “Or shall I turn out the light? You should sleep better now.”

“How happy she is,” Ellis thought bitterly. “To think a few hours ago she was a drudge, ready to accept what I threw at her, and now — look at her.”

“Won’t you talk to me for a few moments?” he asked, false humility in his voice. “I’ve been alone all day. It’s not much fun being lonely. But, of course, you have each other now.”

She came further into the room.

“I can’t stay long,” she said and closed the door. “What did you want to talk about?”

Ellis controlled himself with difficulty. It was no use showing his anger: she would only go away. He had to talk to her: reason with her: save her if he could.

An hour or so ago, Crane had said, “You must congratulate me. Grace has promised to be my wife,” and he had left Ellis alone, stricken, as if he had received a physical blow. He had lain in the bed listening to them talking while they had dinner; he heard the murmur of their voices, the sudden soft laughter, the sharp pop of the champagne cork as it came from the bottle.

Grace has promised to be my wife.
The sentence bit into his brain like vitriol. What did it mean? Crane wouldn’t marry a girl like Grace. Ellis was sure of that. He was leading her up the garden path; he was going to seduce her, and this promise of marriage had been made to lull her suspicions. And because she was stupid, uneducated and romantic she believed what he said: believed he loved her and would marry her even though they had met for the first time only a few hours ago.

But how could he warn her: save her from being hurt? She disliked him; distrusted him now. Crane would have poisoned her mind against him. Anything he said would be useless, but he had to try.

All right, admit it, he thought savagely. You’re in love with the girl yourself. For the first time in your life you’ve discovered someone to care for. You don’t want her to get hurt. That’s a joke after the way you’ve hurt her yourself in the past; after the beastly things you’ve said to her. Now, all of a sudden, you’re in love with, her, and you know unless you’re smart you’ll lose her. You’re in a panic. You’d do anything to keep her. And the joke is she doesn’t care a hoot for you; hates you. You can see the indifference in her eyes when she looks at you. It’s Crane she loves. Crane she’s thinking about now. She wouldn’t believe that you want to save her from Crane: wouldn’t believe, anyway, that Crane intended to hurt her.

“He says he’s going to marry you,” Ellis said slowly, watching her.

She looked away, a dark flood of colour rising in her face.

“I’d rather not talk about it,” she said, twisting and untwisting her hands. “It’s — it’s something between Richard and me . . .”

Ellis clenched his fists under the sheet. He wanted to shout: “Stop it, you sloppy bitch!” but he kept control of himself, kept his voice steady as he said: “But I don’t understand. Why you two have only met today. He’s joking, isn’t he? You don’t want to marry him, do you?”

She smiled secretly and that smile frightened him. He saw at once how hopeless it was to persuade her; to try to show her that the whole thing was a trap.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “He loved me the moment he saw me. He told me so. I loved him too.”

Again Ellis longed to tear at the fabric of sentimentality that clothed her mind, but again he restrained himself.

“But he can’t marry you,” he persisted. “You’re not in his class. You must realise that. He’s rich, well educated, a gentleman. What are you?”

Again she smiled secretly.

“He says it doesn’t matter. We had a long talk about ourselves after supper. You see, he’s lonely. He needs someone to look after him, and he says he needs someone like me.” She looked wistfully at Ellis. “I couldn’t believe it at first. No one has ever wanted me before. But I believe it now. He wants someone to run this place; not a society beauty as he calls them. I could do it. I could do anything for him. I could learn to do things, and — and — anyway, he loves me.”

But you wouldn’t be happy,” Ellis said, probing, trying to find a weakness in her armour of happiness. “It might be all right for a year or so, but you’ll get fat and coarse. You know you will. Think of your mother. You’ll be like her in a few years — over-blown. Then how do you think he will like you?”

It was a shot in the dark but it brought a deep flush to Grace’s face.

“I won’t be like my mother,” she said angrily. “You don’t know what you’re saying. She was bad — wouldn’t do anything for my father. Well, I’d do anything for him — Richard.”

“You’ll disgrace him. You’re a thief,” Ellis said, feeling that he had gained a point and pressing his advantage. “His friends won’t want to meet you. “Why should they? You having nothing to offer, no manners, no idea how to entertain; why, you can’t even speak grammatically.”

She turned away.

“I won’t stay if you’re going to say things like that.”

“Don’t go,” he said, alarmed. If she left him now he would have no chance of saving her. “I told you I didn’t trust him. I don’t. He’s promised to marry you for a reason. I know he has. He wants you. Don’t you understand?” He groped about for the word, hesitated, went on, “He wants to seduce you, you little fool, and then throw you aside. I know that’s what he plans to do.”

“I won’t listen to you,” she burst out, facing him. “You’re evil. He said you were. He warned me not to listen to you. We love each other, and nothing you can say will make any difference. You’d better get well and go. Can’t you see you’re in the way? You’re not wanted. We both hate you!”

She ran from the room, slamming the door behind her.

Ellis dropped back on his pillow, his face a mask of frustrated anger and despair. He had wanted to tell her to leave Crane and come with him. He would have offered her a home; she could have looked after him, helped him. But it was no use: she wouldn’t listen to him.

He closed his eyes while he thought what he could do now. Perhaps he’d better talk to Crane; warn him not to hurt her: threaten him. But he knew Crane would only laugh at him. If only Scragger were here. Scragger would settle Crane’s hash and take Ellis and Grace away. Once she was away from Crane’s influence, Grace would see reason. But how to get hold of Scragger? Was he on the telephone? It was a chance: unlikely, but a chance.

Where was the telephone book? How to get hold of it without raising suspicion? And then how to reach the telephone which was in the hall? If he could only put through a call to Scragger he might . . .

He suddenly had a feeling that someone was watching him, and without turning his head, he glanced cautiously out of the corners of his eyes towards the window. All he could see was the reflection of the room on the window-pane against the darkness of the night. Yet he was sure that someone was looking into the room and he felt the hair on the nape of his neck bristle.

He could not bring himself to look directly at the window. He had an absurd idea that if he did not look at the window, the person who was looking in mightn’t notice him. Was it the police? Who could it be? It wasn’t Grace or Crane. He could hear them talking in the other room.

Terror suddenly seized hold of him, paralysing every sense except the seeing-sense. Somewhere in the high trees outside an owl hooted, and then silence closed in again, but still the person outside continued to look into the room, stare at him.

Ellis opened his mouth to call to Crane, but thought better of it. He suddenly put out a shaking hand and snapped up the switch on the electric lamp. The room went dark, and instantly he could see the dim shape of trees and hedges through the window in the half-obscured light of the moon. He saw something else too. Something that made him stiffen, chilled his blood, gave him a restricted, choking feeling in his throat. There was a man outside, crouching just below the window, his head and shoulders silhouetted against the semi-darkness.

With a strangled cry, Ellis started up in bed. He saw two staring eyes and a flattened nose against the window-pane, but the face was shapeless, appeared to be non-existent. It was a horrible, terrifying sight: a pair of gleaming eyes, the shape of a flattened nose and a faceless head.

Then the stillness of the room shuddered with the terror of sound — a sound, faint and momentary like the soft scratching of mice.

The window gently opened.

Ellis felt the hot night air on his face, saw the head and shoulders of the man outside moving towards him, and dimly outlined hands on the window-sill.

“Don’t make a noise,” Dr Safki whispered. “It’s me. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Still stupefied with terror, Ellis somehow or other managed to put on the lamp. The shock of seeing the little Hindu as he saw him now and not as an apparition in the moonlight still caught at his throat, and he lay staring at him, feeling the depth of his own fear, wondering at it.