In Spite of Thunder (12 page)

“God knows,” Brian said after a pause. “Understand this!” he added bitterly. “I’m not taking any self-righteous attitude about lying. I’m dead sure that’s what really happened; but it’s not the real reason why I say it. Now go on! Preach a moral lecture; call me a selfish and insensitive swine. If you choose to tell the police and give the show away, I can’t stop you and I couldn’t even blame you. But there it is.”

Dr. Fell, who had been turning away with a more startled and cross-eyed expression than any he had yet shown, suddenly wheeled back and reared up.

“Tell the police? Give the show away?”

“Yes.”

Dr. Fell surveyed him up and down.

“Sir,” he declared with polished courtesy, “you might be called many things, all of them more temperamental than you believe yourself to be. But selfish or insensitive you are not. And do you really take me for such a pious Goody Two-shoes as all that?”

“I only said—”

“Hear me!” interrupted Dr. Fell. “Is formal observance of law so mighty and potent a ritual? Does upholding the status of Big Brother count one featherweight in the balance against protecting the foolish or shielding the innocent? The strong ones of this earth, the Gerald Hathaways for instance, can take care of themselves. But the weaker ones, the Audrey Pages and the Desmond Ferriers …”

“Ferrier? Are you calling him weak?”

“By all the Archons, I am! But I promised him help. To conceal the presence of Miss Page, in my humble opinion, is the best possible way of doing that. Now we had better have a look at the study.”

“Dr. Fell, we can’t leave her down there any longer. We’ve got to ring the police!”

“In a very short time, yes. Meanwhile, since we insist on committing perjury, there is no headlong rush to commit it. Will you lead the way?”

Instantly Brian stepped out through the open window. The other more gingerly followed.

Though not a drop of rain had fallen, the continual thunder still rolled and split its echoes down the sky. Their legs felt shaky on the open height over a gulf. The wind swooped into their faces, blowing the ribbon on Dr. Fell’s eyeglasses as he lumbered towards the two windows of the study.

“Now then! Just where did this happen? Where did Mrs. Ferrier go over?”

“Here.” And Brian took up a position about four feet to the left of the far window, facing the hand-rail. “Just where I’m standing now. With her back turned.”

“With her back turned towards Miss Page?”

“Yes.”

“Could you see her face?”

“No. Not at any time.”

“Take care!” Dr. Fell said sharply. He touched the hand-rail. “This balustrade is uncommonly shaky. A sudden shock against it might send anybody over, and Mrs. Ferrier was a tall woman. Hang it all, though! It should have been at least waist-high for her?”

“She was wearing high heels, as I told you.”

“With slacks? Is that customary for any woman?”

“Not unless she’s in a very unusual state of mind. Which we know Mrs. Ferrier was.”

“Which we know! Which we know! Oh, ah! Now be good enough to describe what happened. Describe it again.”

While Brian repeated it, Dr. Fell glanced past him through the window into the study. He looked at the big writing-table against the east or left-hand wall, where a chromium desk-lamp illumined a pile of manuscript-sheets in dark blue ink. His gaze travelled across to the west wall and the mantelpiece, where a white-faced clock pointed at twenty minutes to ten. He looked towards the closed door opposite the windows.

And then, in a terrifying instant, values shifted. Over Dr. Fell’s face went an expression of such utter and complete dismay that Brian, who had known him for fifteen years, felt cold to the heart.

“What is it? What’s got into you now?”

“Sir, I greatly fear—” Dr. Fell began. His throat seemed to close up. “A while ago, I believe,” he added with some violence, “you locked that door and put the key in your pocket? Will you unlock the door now? Unlock it!”

“Unlock the door? Why?”

“Because I am afraid,” replied Dr. Fell, “that I was terribly wrong and Hathaway was terribly right. Whether we like it or not, Miss Audrey Page can’t be kept out of this affair after all.”

“
What are you saying?
”

“I say what I mean: no more and no less. You have just stated a factor that changes everything. You cannot possibly tell the story you had meant to tell.”

Whereupon, with a rush of emotion like the rush of the thunder, he in turn saw Brian’s face.

“In the name of Almighty God,” Dr. Fell said in a voice he very seldom used, “will you try to believe me for Miss Page’s sake? You must not deny she was here or that she saw Mrs. Ferrier fall to death. If you deny it, you let that girl walk straight into a trap and you are doing the very thing you have been trying to avoid. Will you take my word for this?”

“No, I will not. If there is so much objection to falsifying—”

“On the contrary! There is none. But you must not use
that
story, which will get her arrested, when I can provide you with another. Listen to me!”

The savagery of his tone struck Brian silent.

“What is one really damaging point against Miss Page? It is the open quarrel with Eve Ferrier, the accusation that she was stealing Mrs. Ferrier’s husband, the row which threatened to end in violence. This must never be told; it should not come out in any case because it is so damnably misleading.”

“For the last time—!”

“WILL you listen?”

The ferrule of Dr. Fell’s stick banged on the floor of the balcony.

“Eve Ferrier,” he said, “made no accusation in front of the others. Miss Page
was
frightened, as everybody knew. She
did
telephone you at eight; this you admit freely. Now shall I tell you the rest of what you say?”

“Go on.”

“You arrived here to take her away. You spoke to me, and I told you where to find her room. You went upstairs to her room. You rapped at
that
door; you entered when there was no answer. Miss Page was standing at the window and looking to the left in horror. You ran to her side in time so that both of you saw Mrs. Ferrier fall.

“There is no unconvincing tale of a woman ‘talking to herself’ in the study. Instead it provides an alibi, both for you and for Miss Page, which no questioning can shake if you hold to it. Is this, or is it not, a better account than your own?”

Ten seconds crawled by, while thunder assaulted the balcony.

“Yes. Yes, it’s better.” Brian’s old sardonic mood surged back. “You’ve had more experience, of course. But Audrey ran away! And I told her to!”

“Oh, no.
I
told her.”

“You—”

“The girl was shocked and hysterical; she could do no good. I advised her to leave while you and I took charge. I am slightly acquainted with M. Aubertin, the Director of the Police; he has visited London half a dozen times. Can you trust me in the matter, as you and others have trusted me before?”

“It’s not a question of trusting you! Dr. Fell, do you know the real explanation of this business?”

“For some part, yes. I think I do.”

“Will you tell me that explanation?”

“Yes! As soon as we can leave here without suspicion, I must question Miss Page and you will learn the truth. I could not hide it if I would; everybody will learn in less than twenty-four hours. If you agree, I can protect the girl with whom you are so obviously in love. If you refuse—”

“God’s truth, how can I refuse? But Audrey—!”

“Oh, ah! Miss Page must agree with the story.” Dr. Fell wheezed heavily, moving his shoulders and groping within his scatterbrain. “She left here, you said, at about twenty minutes past nine. What, exactly, did you tell her to do?”

“Audrey can’t drive a car, or she could have used mine. But it’s only three kilometres, less than two miles, to the outskirts of Geneva. She was to walk there and get a taxi.”

“We must speak to her before the police do. You understand that?”

“That’s simple. She can’t be far away. I can drive after her and—”

“No! Every move of ours will be scrutinized later. Never chase a witness after you have dismissed her as guilelessly unhelpful. Somebody will report it and the authorities are going to wonder. By the same token we can’t leave a message at the Hotel Metropole or have her ring this house. Did you tell her not to speak a word of this to anyone until you saw her?”

“Yes.”

“Then that should suffice. Or I hope it will. I hope so!”

And yet Brian, as the other persuaded him through the window into the study, hesitated amid all the fangs of uncertainty.

“Oh, ah!” grunted Dr. Fell. “If you say you have no relish for this affair, your liking is still ecstatic compared to mine.” He spoke with a kind of sick violence. “But I failed miserably to prevent one tragedy. There must not be another. Now unlock that door before they think us the conspirators we are. And if, unfortunately, we must probe into Miss Page’s relations with a certain actor …”

Conspirators.

Another tragedy.

Miss Page’s relations with a certain actor.

The girl with whom you are so obviously in love …

Well, it was true he was in love with her; he couldn’t deny it to himself, now, though he might deny it to others. And Audrey’s image never left him.

The light of a chromium desk-lamp shone down on a manuscript, leaving most of the study in shadow. Brian went over to the door, taking the key out of his pocket. An enormous crash of thunder, rattling the glass ashtray and the bowl of roses and every picture-frame round the walls, struck at them as he unlocked the door.

Just outside, knuckles raised as though to knock, stood Desmond Ferrier.

D
ESMOND FERRIER.

He wore pyjamas, slippers, and a brocaded dressing-gown. Tall, unshaven, hair tousled in morning light, he looked every minute of his fifty-eight years. But the intense vitality remained, though the swagger and the smile had vanished.

It was almost as though, behind that lifted hand, his eyes awaited or expected something he dreaded to hear.

The echoes of the thunder died away. Dr. Fell, who had been standing with his back to the windows, lumbered forward in a mood of heavy and lowering distress.

“Sir,” he said gravely, “I have news which will come as a very unpleasant shock. And yet, in a certain sense, it may be that the news is not unexpected. Your wife, as you see, is not here.”

The Adam’s apple moved in Ferrier’s long throat. A fixed kind of look, almost a glare, sprang into his eyes before it was masked.

“Last night,” continued Dr. Fell, “you said Mrs. Ferrier might try to kill Audrey Page, might try to kill herself, or might try to kill you. I believed, if you recall, that the danger was to Mrs. Ferrier.”

The famous voice went a little off-key.

“Eve’s a decent old girl. Always has been. What is it?”

“However, even if I warned you, it does not excuse my stupidity in failing to see—”

“Oh, so-and-so! What’s happened?”

“No!” said Dr. Fell, as the other took a step forward. “Not in here. Let us go down to the drawing-room, and I will tell you. Mr. Innes!”

“Well?”

Brian spoke curtly as he watched Ferrier. When he thought of Audrey Page in this man’s arms, his mind grew as poisoned with jealousy as Dr. Fell’s had grown poisoned with self-reproach. And yet he couldn’t really hate the man, and he wondered why. Then he saw something else.

Paula Catford, a look of horror and compassion on her face, stood not five feet away in the hall. She was fully dressed, her nails red-varnished, her hands clasped together.

“Mr. Innes,” roared Dr. Fell, “in Miss Page’s bedroom there is an extension telephone. Be good enough to get in touch with the Bureau of the Police at Geneva. Ask to speak to M. Gustave Aubertin, and say you have a message from me. No matter how difficult it may be, have no traffic with anyone else. When you speak to M. Aubertin, tell him as much or as little as you think fit.”

“Sweet Christ!” said Desmond Ferrier, from deep in his throat. “Have you got to do that?”

“Yes!” retorted Dr. Fell. “You asked for my help, and you shall have it. But this must be done in good order.” He controlled himself. “Mr. Innes?”

“I’m listening, thanks.”

“Speak to M. Aubertin, please, and then join us downstairs.”

Emotional currents, in that group, were as heavy as the pressure of the freak weather. Brian stalked out, suddenly conscious of his stained and dishevelled appearance. He went into Audrey’s room, or the one they called Audrey’s room, and closed the door.

It was here that Audrey had told him most of her stammered, faltering story. The one small suitcase she had brought—open, but not fully unpacked—lay where he had first seen it on a chair near the foot of the bed.

She had committed no murder, of course. That ought to have satisfied him. But it didn’t.

The telephone was on a small table at the head of the bed. Reaching out to pick it up and dial zero, he hesitated.

A whole genie-bottle of images swam in his head. Audrey’s presence remained as vivid as Paula Catford’s eyes or as Eve Ferrier’s haggard air. It was the recollection of the unmade bed in Hathaway’s room and of the ivory crucifix above it, curiously enough, which gave him the strongest sensation of evil flowing out from a source he could only feel: not see.

Stop this!

The time must be getting on. At his flat, in the Quai Turrettini, Madame Duvallon would have come in at nine-thirty to get his breakfast. …

Breakfast, Madame Duvallon. Madame Duvallon, that stout and hearty elderly woman, who was as loyal as a bull-terrier and could be trusted with anything.

Brian sat down on the bed and dialled his own number. The ringing-tone had hardly buzzed before he heard Madame Duvallon’s voice.

“It is you, monsieur?”

“It is I, madame. No, no, I shall not be there! But listen: a young lady will be there, I cannot tell how soon. Will you wait for her, if necessary? Will you give her an important message?”

He hardly needed the instant attention or shivering assurance.

“Say to her, ‘My dear, our plans are changed.’ Say that she is not to leave the flat or speak to anyone until I arrive. She is not to speak by telephone or open the door if anyone rings. Madame Duvallon! When you yourself go, leave your latch-key in the mailbox downstairs. Is it understood?”