Dorothy Eden (11 page)

The policeman, very young beneath his helmet, gave a half-nod, an embarrassed grin, and moved on.

William said to Kate, “Thought you’d slipped out the back way and caught a plane back to Rome.”

“No, I didn’t, but we’ve talked to them. At least, Mrs. Dix has.”

“And?”

“And Francesca at this moment is playing in the Borghese Gardens in the dark. With, I suppose, Caesar’s ghost. They couldn’t even think up something better than that to tell me.”

“Mrs. Dix believed it?”

“She’d believe anything. She’s been at the brandy bottle, and anyway she doesn’t care.”

William sniffed. “I’d say you’d been at the bottle, too.”

Kate shivered and moved close against him. “Br-r-r. It’s cold. And I’ve got a nightmare.”

William methodically switched off all the lights and took her in his arms. She was enveloped in tweed and the scent of tobacco smoke, and she was kissed with gentle and prolonged affection. She lay quietly, feeling his exploring lips on her closed eyelids, her cheekbones and then her own lips. The sensation was agreeable, but somehow shadowy, as if it were happening to someone else. Finally William delicately lifted one of her eyelids with his fingertip.

“I told you, I’ve got a nightmare.”

“That’s what lovers are for, catching burglars and dispersing nightmares.”

Kate sat up. “You’re not my lover.”

“Soon will be, sweetie. I keep my fingers crossed.”

She wouldn’t let him come in to her flat. She was going straight to bed because tomorrow she wanted to be fit and alert for what she had to do.

“Such as?” William inquired.

“First I’m going to see Rosita, Francesca’s mother. If nothing comes of that I’ll get another inspiration.”

“Don’t stick your neck out too far.” For the first time William’s voice was anxious. “It’s really none of your business, you know.”

“The welfare of a child is everybody’s business,” said Kate heatedly. “How can you be so callous?”

Mrs. Peebles popped out swiftly as the front door opened.

“It’s you,” she said. “Back.”

“Yes, I’m back. Any messages?”

“Not if you’ve seen Mr. Howard.”

“You know very well I’ve seen him,” Kate retorted. “You were looking out of the window just now.”

“I wasn’t looking at you and him, Miss Tempest. I was seeing if that prowler was still there.”

“Prowler?”

“Someone’s been strolling about rather more than necessary. I’d lock your windows tonight, if I was you.”

Kate’s heart missed a beat. “If he looks suspicious, why don’t you call the police?”

“He doesn’t look suspicious, exactly. I wouldn’t have noticed him except that he had that Chinese look. That’s why I remembered him the third time he passed. But he’s gone now. Lor’, Miss Tempest, you don’t look like your holiday did you any good.”

“It wasn’t a holiday,” Kate snapped.

“I can see that. Regular washed out, ain’t you? I’d go straight to bed, if I was you. But call if you hear anyone scrabbling at the window.”

“Don’t be absurd, Mrs. Peebles. Who is going to scrabble? A burglar doesn’t make a noise.”

“Not if he’s a good one. But he has to learn, doesn’t he? Some of them amatoors must scrabble, by accident, anyway. Dear, oh dear, it’s a sad thing my husband isn’t alive. He’d have dealt with him, Chinese or not.”

S
O THE PROWLER, ACCORDING
to Mrs. Peebles, was already a burglar. Kate tried to dismiss the suggestion as absurd, but the coincidence was too strong. A Chinese-looking face, which meant he must be the man who was already her familiar, and the fact that last night in Paris her handbag had been searched. And her room, too, probably, when that sketch of Lucian had disappeared.

She had a panicky desire to ring the police and ask for protection. Or at least to summon William back. Then she told herself not to be absurd. Mrs. Peebles, a widow living alone except for the lodger in her basement, had taken exceptional care to make the house burglar-proof. All the windows had bars, and the doors double locks. No one could get in. It was perfectly safe. And, anyway, why should anyone get in? The person who had ransacked her room in Paris must have discovered that she had no valuables.

But if the man with the yellow and slant-eyed face were the same, how had he found where she lived? He had not followed her here because he had been here first.

It was more than strange. It was rather frightening. Kate put out the light and drew aside the curtain to look up on to the street. There was no one about. It was a quiet street. A cold wind and a smell of soot drifted in. She was back in London. She was safe—surely…

But as she drew her head back slow footsteps went past. She could see dark trousers, and a small, neat foot. Without leaning out and drawing attention to herself, she could not see more. As she waited, breathless, the small feet and the trousers disappeared. The footsteps died away. They did not come back.

The streets were public. Anyone was entitled to stroll down them. Kate told herself not to be foolish. If she were going to listen to every step that went past she was not going to get much sleep, and she needed sleep.

But it was odd about that prowler.

Mrs. Peebles’ tap at the door made her start violently.

“I forgot these. They arrived this afternoon.” She thrust a bunch of carnations into Kate’s arms. Her narrow face was alive with curiosity. She knew very well that William did not send Kate carnations.

The note with them was from Johnnie Lambert.

“In case Mrs. D. forgets to give you my message. I’m devastatingly sorry about being pushed off on another trip straight away, but I’ll be seeing you—maybe sooner than you think. Love and kisses, Johnnie.”

Kate said aloofly, “Thank you, Mrs. Peebles,” and wondered why, for that wild moment, she had thought they might be from Lucian Cray. He did not even know her address. He had not asked for it. She wouldn’t be seeing him again—ever. She hadn’t even a sketch of him. She just carried his face in her mind.

It was nice of Johnnie to send her carnations. Life was always this way, William meeting her, Johnnie sending her flowers—the one with the dark, exciting face that she couldn’t get out of her mind, silent.

The only face that should be in her mind was that of Francesca.

There was one more thing she could do tomorrow, if her visit to Rosita proved as unsatisfactory as had been her visit to Mrs. Dix. When Mrs. Dix had asked for the telephone number in Rome she had surreptitiously written it down. The feeling had grown on her since that Mrs. Dix and the person at the other end had been talking at cross-purposes. While someone had chattered bewilderedly in Italian, Mrs. Dix had improvised a conversation suitable for Kate’s ears.

But tomorrow, if necessary, she would ring that number herself.

Now she was too tired, mentally and physically, to do anything but sleep.

It was some hours later that she was aroused by the scrabbling at the window.

No, oh, no, a burglar wouldn’t make a noise like that. He would be stealthy and silent.

Kate sat up, breathing with difficulty. The windows were locked. There were bars across. She was perfectly safe.

But who was out there?

It was useless sitting here shivering. That got her nowhere. She would have to go to the window and look out. Quickly, before the would-be intruder knew he was being observed.

With resolute speed she sprang out of bed, crossed to the window and pulled back the curtain.

She found herself looking into the face of a large, black-and-white cat. It stood on the sill opening its mouth in a soundless miaou. Kate collapsed weakly.

This was all of a piece with the whole affair. The freckle-faced Annabelle sitting up in the bunk in the train, the grandfather clock with its bland white face in what she had thought had been a coffin, and now this stupid cat, pretending to be a burglar, or worse.

Perhaps everyone was right and she was turning into a nightmare something that was perfectly simple and explainable. Francesca was in Rome with her father; Lucian Cray was home from an innocent business trip; Johnnie Lambert, bored and fretful, was halfway to Arabia; Mrs. Dix was deep in a brandy-induced sleep, dreaming not of a lost child but of her lost husband; Madame and her confederates in their ghoulish night-club in the Latin quarter were looking for another prey with a well-filled purse; the man with the Oriental face was merely looking for lodgings, or a friend’s house.

And she, startled by a wandering cat, was very definitely going back to bed to sleep.

It was as well for her peace of mind that she did not notice the shadow, as long and thin as a tree, that fell across the wall, and that moved stealthily when her curtain was drawn across the window once more. Her sleep, after that, was too deep to be disturbed by the second furtive but useless testing of the very efficient bars of the window.

The sun shone the next morning. Kate got up feeling well and cheerful. When Mrs. Peebles called her to the telephone she sprang up the stairs full of excited but unreasonable anticipation. Things were going to happen today. She would make them happen.

The caller was Miss Squires. “Good morning, Kate. Could you come in as soon as possible.”

Was it news of Francesca? “Why?” Kate asked eagerly.

“Just a little errand. Mrs. Dix suggested you do it.”

“Of course. In an hour?”

“Is that as soon as you can make it?”

“Afraid so,” said Kate, keeping silent about her intended call on Rosita on the way. She was learning to be circumspect.

“Good morning, Mrs. Peebles,” she called cheerfully. “I did have the scrabbler in the night. A cat.”

Mrs. Peebles gasped.

“Oh, dear! Didn’t you scream?”

“Almost.”

“Ever so brave, aren’t you?”

“Oh, I can face a cat. I’m a craven coward in real danger.”

“Better keep out of it, then,” said Mrs. Peebles sensibly.

It was a nice enough day to wear her grey suit. She was meeting William for lunch. She might as well look pleasant for him, as for whatever elderly client she had to meet off a train or take shopping. And also for Rosita.

She had the doll Pepita in her bag. It was Rosita who had first mentioned the doll. She would probably shed tears over it, and perhaps talk more than she would otherwise have done. In this way perhaps Kate would discover whether Francesca’s mother were satisfied or happy about her child’s whereabouts.

It seemed more than four days since Kate had first gone to the house in Egerton Gardens. So much had happened since she had walked up those steps to the elegant oak door with its shining brass knocker.

A woman who had been cleaning the hall opened the door. Kate thanked her and said she wanted to see Mrs. Torlini.

The woman looked puzzled.

“No one of that name lives here, Miss.”

“Yes, there does. In that room at the top of the stairs. I called the other day.”

“That door, Miss? That’s Mrs. Thompson’s room.”

“Mrs. Torlini was there the other day,” Kate said pleasantly. “Let me go up and see.”

“You can do that, but you’ll see it’s Mrs. Thompson. We don’t have no foreigners here.”

The thin, dark, suspicious face of the cleaning woman watched her as she went up the stairs. Can she see my heart beating? Kate wondered. Can she see the nightmare coming on again? Because of course Rosita is in that room. I know she is!

A completely strange, elderly woman with straggly, grey hair opened the door. She peered irritably at Kate and said, “Yes? What is it? What do you want?”

“I want Mrs. Torlini. This is her room, isn’t it?”

“You’ve made a mistake, dear. I’ve been here fifteen years. You must be in the wrong house.”

“But I’m not,” Kate insisted earnestly. “This is the house. I remember the carpet on the stairs, and that picture. Why, I was here only four days ago, and I saw Mrs. Torlini. In this room, lying on the couch.”

“Well, she’s not here now,” said the old woman tartly. “I’ve never heard of her in my life. Have a look, if you don’t believe me.”

Fascinated, Kate edged into the room and stared.

It was the same room. She could swear to that. There were the long windows, the dark-red damask curtains, the numerous chairs and couches, the fireplace where she remembered it. It was the same, yet different. For it had a musty fuggy air, as if years had passed, and dust and cobwebs and an accumulation of junk had been strewn over it. A Rip Van Winkle of a room belonging to an old woman who didn’t open the windows, and who kept two elderly Pekingese which came snuffling towards Kate, as bleary-eyed and suspicious as their mistress.

“But I was here,” Kate protested.

“You can’t have been, Miss, unless it was before 1954.”

“We talked about Francesca, Mrs. Torlini’s little girl. I was going to Rome to get her. Rosita was lying on that couch—no, not that one, perhaps. It looked different.”

Of course it had looked different, it hadn’t been covered with a shabby rug sprinkled with dog’s hairs, it hadn’t even been in that position facing the fireplace. Or had it?

Was
she dreaming?

“You see, you are in the wrong house, dear,” the old woman said. “It’s easy enough to make a mistake. All these big rooms look alike. I certainly never saw you before, and neither did Mrs. Lusk. Did you, Mrs. Lusk?”

“Did I what?” called the thin, dark woman from the bottom of the stairs.

“See this young lady before?”

“Never seen her in my life.”

“Rosita let me in herself that day,” Kate said weakly.

“Not in here, she didn’t.” The old woman chuckled maliciously. “Timmy and Tommy might look harmless, but they nip the ankles of intruders. Yes, they do, don’t they?” She scooped one of the over-fat, snuffling animals into her arms.

The fuggy atmosphere hit Kate afresh and her head began to swim. She must have made a mistake. It was the child in the train situation all over again, the strange, freckled face staring at her. In the same way this old woman with the straggling grey hair was not Rosita. Inexplicably, the normal bright morning had once more turned into darkness and nightmare.