Touch and Go (32 page)

Sarah ran out of her room and caught Bertrand Darnac by the arm. She was quite past wondering how he came there. She held his arm hard, and said very quick and low,

“Did you see that?”

He nodded, and began to walk along the passage with a stride that was almost a run. Sarah had to run to keep pace with him. Her bare feet made no sound. Her voice just reached him and no more.

“Who is it?”

He said, “Ricky,” and turning his head for an instant, he asked her urgently, “Whose room?”

She said, “John's.”

When Ricky had closed the door between him and the passage, he experienced an illusory sense of safety. The most terrifying moments of his life lay behind him. The door had been locked. He had had to turn the key from the outside with the gadget which Geoffrey had given him for the purpose. The sweat had run down under his gas-mask—horrible cold sweat. His shirt was sticking to him now. His feet were cold, and his hands were cold and clammy.

He leaned against the inner side of the door, and the illusory sense of safety left him. The worst part of the job was still to come. Suppose Jack waked. Suppose he struggled. Suppose he called out. Geoffrey was safe at home. He took a faltering forward step and found himself suddenly and bewilderingly in a full glare of light. The light showed an empty bed, and John Hildred no more than a yard away with his hand just dropping from the switch.

Ricky made a sound. A sort of choking cry. He turned. He snatched at the handle of the door. He dragged it open. And bumped into Bertrand on the threshold.

Mr. Darnac was in a hurry. His impetus bore Ricky back into the room he was trying to leave and, having got him there, sent the two of them sprawling.

Sarah takes the greatest credit to herself because she did not scream. She began to scream, but she stopped it by pressing the back of her hand against her lips. When she was sure that she had stopped the scream, she came into the room. And shut the door. And leaned against it.

She really did need something to lean against. Bertrand and Ricky—if it was Ricky—were rolling over and over on the floor, and sometimes a masked head like something out of a bad dream was uppermost, and sometimes Ran's face, all furious, with the teeth showing like a fighting dog. It was only for a moment really, because John intervened, and then—it
was
Ricky, because the mask was off. He was half kneeling, half sitting, and they were holding him. He looked more like a rabbit than ever, but a rabbit that had been caught in a trap. And suddenly he crumpled, bowing himself forward and weeping aloud, sobbing for mercy, tumbling over himself to give Geoffrey away.

“I didn't want to—I didn't want to—he made me—it wasn't me!” And then more tears, more sobs, more hysterical writhings.

Lucilla stirred. Outside her dream Bertrand and Sarah were running down the passage. In her dream a black cloud—very black, heavy with blackness—had covered the face of the sky. A tremor went over her and over the dragonfly which was whirring her upwards. The light that had glanced in lovely iridescence on the bronze wings went out. The light on the emerald and sapphire and turquoise and chrysoprase of the body went out. All the light went out. She woke up in the dark, and felt the fear that was in the house.

It was horrible to wake like that.

No one need think that she was going to take it lying down.

She was out of bed without any plan in her mind. And then a plan came to her. She would go to Sarah.

She pulled back the bolt, opened the door, and saw that Sarah's door was open too.

And the bathroom door.

Three doors open in a row, and no one in any of the rooms.

She stood in the passage bare-footed in her thin pink nightdress which was just ankle length, and looked this way and that. Then she too ran down the passage towards John Hildred's room. And before she reached it she could hear Ricky's sobbing voice. Other people would have heard it too if the hotel had been less solidly built and if this end room had had other bedrooms to right and left of it. It had instead on one side a second bathroom, and on the other, first a housemaid's cupboard and then the entrance to the back stairs. She turned the handle of the door, and could not open it because someone was leaning against the other side. The someone moved, and then the door moved too.

Lucilla came into the lighted room and saw that it was Sarah who had moved away from the door. Then she saw her father, and Bertrand Darnac. Then she saw Ricky. The others were all standing, but Ricky was sitting on the ground. Sarah was in her dressing-gown. It was made of yellow crepe embroidered with bright little woolly flowers. Eleanor Manifold had embroidered it. She was very clever with her fingers. The Preserver had his arm round Sarah. He was in pyjamas. They had a blue and white stripe, rather wide. Bertrand, most surprisingly, was in evening dress. There were green stains on the knees of his trousers and a smear of blood on his chin. His tie was sticking up under his left ear. Ricky was sitting on the floor and weeping, in his very old Burberry. It had some new wet stains on it. His collar had come undone and was poking out at a raffish angle. It was all very surprising, like the most mixed sort of dream.

She shut the door because there was no sense in letting Ricky wake anyone else up, and said in her clear, light voice,

“What's the matter?”

CHAPTER XXXV

John Hildred came out of his room and went along the passage as far as the head of the stairs. Ricky had made a clean breast of everything, and the question was, what next?

The police?

Nausea rose in him at the thought of Ricky in the witness-box—exposing himself—hurrying to swear away his father's life. No, not quite that, since, no thanks to Geoffrey, actual murder had not been done. Yet such a term of imprisonment as he would get would be the equivalent of a death sentence. And the name on every poster, in every flaring headline:

THE HILDRED CASE. GEOFFREY HILDRED

IN THE DOCK. RICHARD HILDRED

IN THE WITNESS BOX.

What a mess!

Something might perhaps be done with Ricky. How far would he really have gone? He had probably had enough of meddling with crime.

O'Hara—suppose he could get O'Hara to try Ricky out. Suppose … There wasn't any suppose about it. O'Hara would do it if he asked him. An open-air life, plenty of good hard work, and a tight hand over him might make something of Ricky yet.

But Geoffrey was another guess matter.

Geoffrey—

Just past the head of the stairs there was a telephone-box. John Hildred entered it, shut the door, and dialled a number. He had put on a dressing-gown over his pyjamas. He had sent Sarah and Lucilla back to bed. He had left Bertrand Darnac on guard over Ricky. He was now telephoning to Geoffrey.

Geoffrey Hildred roused at the sound of the bell. It was not sleep from which it roused him, but a heavy trance of fatigue and suspense. He was not at first sure what the ringing bell might be. It might have been the door-bell—but Ricky wouldn't ring. Who else would ring at four in the morning? He had an instant's shocking vision of dark blue cloth and a tall man helmeted, pressing with a gloved hand upon the bell.

The bell rang again—here in the room, from his desk where the table instrument stood. The shocking vision darkened and was gone.

He got up with a noticeable effort, went over to the table, and took the receiver off the telephone, but before he put it to his ear he fumbled for the chair and sat down. There were heavy pulses in his head. They made a noise. Through them a far-away voice said,

“Hullo!”

Geoffrey Hildred said, “Hullo!”

The far-away voice said, “Is that you, Geoffrey?”

At the sound of his name he knew who was calling him—Jack—Jack Hildred—dead years ago—come back to life—dead again to-night if Ricky hadn't bungled—

The line cleared suddenly—or was it his head?—and he knew that Ricky had bungled.

John Hildred was speaking—a living man and a stern one.

“That you, Geoffrey?”

He heard himself say, “Yes.”

John Hildred said, “I'm letting you know that Ricky has failed you. He is here. And he's made a clean breast of everything. That's all.” The click of the receiver followed.

Geoffrey Hildred heard it. It sounded as loud in his ears as the clap of a slammed door. There were thoughts in his mind—prison—misappropriation—trust—the dock—the Hildred case—a judge in a black cap. And then, “The Lord have mercy on your soul.” … But no one was dead. Lucilla wasn't dead. Ricky had failed. No one—was—
dead
.…

He did not know that the receiver had fallen from his hand. He did not know that his forehead had struck the edge of the desk. They would find him like that in the morning, slumped forward in his chair.

John Hildred came out of the telephone-box and knocked on Sarah's door. She opened it at once. They stood there looking at each other. Then he said,

“Lucilla in bed?”

Sarah said, “Yes—she's here. We thought we'd stay together.”

“Yes. But it's all over now. There won't be anything more.”

She put a hand on his shoulder and leaned towards him.

“John, what are you going to do?”

“I don't know, darling—go back to my room.”

“And then?”

He said again, “I don't know.”

There was silence between them. He broke it when Sarah took her hand away.

“Sarah—”

“John—”

“Will you marry me very soon?”

“How soon?”

He said, “I think it takes three days to get a licence. Will you marry me in three days?”

Sarah said, “Yes, John.”

She put up her lips and they kissed.

About the Author

Patricia Wentworth (1878–1961) was one of the masters of classic English mystery writing. Born in India as Dora Amy Elles, she began writing after the death of her first husband, publishing her first novel in 1910. In the 1920s, she introduced the character who would make her famous: Miss Maud Silver, the former governess whose stout figure, fondness for Tennyson, and passion for knitting served to disguise a keen intellect. Along with Agatha Christie's Miss Marple, Miss Silver is the definitive embodiment of the English style of cozy mysteries.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1934 by Patricia Wentworth

Cover design by Mauricio Díaz

ISBN: 978-1-5040-3349-7

This edition published in 2016 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

180 Maiden Lane

New York, NY 10038

www.openroadmedia.com

EARLY BIRD BOOKS

FRESH EBOOK DEALS, DELIVERED DAILY

BE THE FIRST TO KNOW—

NEW DEALS HATCH EVERY DAY!