Outrageous Fortune (2 page)

“Is he bad?”

The day sister hesitated.

“He's not ill,” she said—“it's just that he doesn't remember anything.”

Nesta folded up the paper with the radio message on it. She folded it quite small. Then she said,

“He hadn't any letters or papers on him, I suppose?”

“A note-case with some money in it—pound notes—seven or eight, I think.”

“Nothing else?”

The day sister hesitated. Then after a moment she asked in her slow voice,

“Do you know anyone called Caroline?”

“I might,” said Nesta Riddell. “Why?”

The name went round in her mind. The only Caroline she knew was old Caroline Bussell. Had she written? What had she written?

“Why?” she said sharply.

The sister hesitated again. She didn't want to make trouble between husband and wife. Then she gave way before the pressure of Nesta's will.

“Oh, it was nothing really—just the torn-off end of a letter with the signature.”

“Caroline?”

The day sister nodded.

“Nothing else?”

“No.”

“Anything the other side?”

“No. It was really only the smallest scrap.”

Nesta slipped the paper she was holding into her red bag and snapped down the catch.

“I'd like to see him,” she said.

As she walked beside the sister along the left-hand passage, she was wondering about that marked linen. What would Jimmy be doing with his initials on his shirt and pants? Why, the last thing on earth he'd want when he was out on a job would be anything like that—and this had been the biggest job yet. If his things were marked, it wasn't any of her marking; and that was certain. All her muscles tightened up a little as they came into a light airy room with a row of windows down one side and a wide verandah at the far end.

The ward was rather empty. Half a dozen beds were out on the verandah, and the sound of cheerful conversation came back into the empty space and echoed there. Between two of the windows there was a bed with a couple of screens about it. The day sister pulled the nearer one back, and Nesta Riddell went past her and stood at the foot of the bed.

There was a man in the bed, and he was lying on his side with one arm thrown up across his face. She could see the line of his limbs, the hump of his shoulder, and the crook of the arm. Her heart began to beat very fast.

“Is it your husband?”

Nesta Riddell turned slowly round. The sister was behind her, with a hand on the screen.

And then all at once the rosy girl who had opened the door was there, full of hurry and importance.

“Oh, sister—Dr Sutherland wants you on the 'phone. There's been an accident.”

The day sister was gone before the girl stopped speaking.

Nesta Riddell put up her hand and closed the screens. They made a sort of red twilight about the bed. She went past the foot and stood above the sleeping man. His head was not bandaged. She could see rumpled brown hair, and a bit of brown forehead, and a bit of brown unshaven chin. Her heart went on beating very fast.

She bent down and touched the arm that was hiding the man's face, and at once he said, quite clearly and distinctly,

“The finest emeralds in the world.”

Nesta drew back her hand with a jerk. A look of terror passed over her face. To lie here in an open ward and talk about emeralds! The man's voice lost its distinctness and fell to a mutter, but she could hear what he was saying well enough:

“Like a lot of green glass..… like a kid's green beads.… funny to think you'd kill a man for a thing like that..… kid's beads … green …… Jimmy Riddell..…”

Nesta took hold of his arm and dragged it down.

The man's face was brown and haggard against the coarse white pillow. A two days' stubble made him uncouth. His eyes were half open. He seemed between sleeping and waking.

“Jimmy Riddell?” said Nesta harshly.

His eyes opened—dark grey eyes with black lashes. He gave her back the name like an echo:

“Jimmy Riddell.”

Nesta shook him.

“Yes—Jimmy Riddell?”

“I don't know … no one knows … nobody knows but me..… and they're the finest emeralds in the world..… the Van Berg emeralds … and nobody knows where they are but me..…”

His eyes began to close again. He pulled his arm away and flung it up across his face. She heard him mutter:

“Green … like a kid's beads..… Jimmy Riddell..…”

She straightened herself and stood looking down at him—the long limbs, the rough brown hair, the sunburn, the arm thrown up to shield his eyes. Her face worked for a minute, then muscle by muscle it hardened. When she turned at the sound of hurrying steps, those short dark brows of hers made one straight line and her lips another.

The day sister had her question on her lips.

“Well? Is it your husband?”

Nesta Riddell nodded. It seemed as if her lips were set too close to speak.

II

“Tom!”

Tom Williams had been staring idly at that blue hands-breadth of sea and thinking that it was just the day for a dip. He hadn't had a proper swim this year, what with the weather and Nesta's affairs. That bit of blue water was just about right.

“Tom!”

He turned with a start. Nesta had the door of the car open. She was very much flushed, and her eyes were bright and hard.

“We're taking him back with us,” she said.

“Then it's Jimmy?”

Nesta frowned and went on speaking in a hurried, jerky voice.

“Of course it's Jimmy. We're taking him back with us, and you'll have to drive right in, because he's pretty dicky. They wouldn't let me take him away, only there's been a charabanc smash at the cross-roads and the doctor's just run up to say they've got to take in six whether they've got room for them or not.”

“What's the matter with him?” said Tom Williams.

“Crack on the head. Now look here, Tom—I've had to fight to get him away. If it hadn't been for this charabanc business, I wouldn't have got him. Even as it is, they wouldn't have let him come if they'd known it was the best part of sixty miles, so I've told them we've come from Marley.”

“Marley?”
said Tom. “Why Marley?”

“Because I remembered the name, and it's only about eight miles from here—and don't start asking questions or I shall scream.”

She stepped back from the car, but kept her hand upon it. Tom Williams looked at her curiously. The flush which had covered her face had now drawn together into a brilliant patch high up on either cheek, leaving the rest of the skin white and wet.

“What is it?” he said. “What's the matter?”

That something was the matter was very certain. Nesta didn't look like that for nothing. Not for the first time, he felt as if her affairs were a sort of trap in which he was caught and from which he had no hope of ever getting free. If it wasn't for Nesta's affairs, he and Min might be as happy as the day was long. Yet for the life of him he couldn't keep out of Nesta's affairs. What had been happening to make her look like that? He felt a horrid pang of apprehension, and his voice shook.

“Nesta—what's the matter?”

Nesta Riddell's hand tightened on the side of the car. Just for a moment she had felt as if she were going to faint—“And a nice thing that would be!” she said to herself furiously.

“Nesta—
”

She straightened up, leaning on the car, and said in a voice that was as low as a whisper but much harder.

“He's talking about the Van Berg affair.”

Tom Williams felt as if someone had hit him in the face with a wet towel. His jaw dropped, and his eyes bolted.

“What?”
he stammered.

Nesta's colour became the normal colour of an angry woman.

“Be quiet, you fool!”

“The Van Berg—”

“Will you be quiet!”

“But why?” said Tom Williams. “I mean why—I mean—”

Nesta jumped into the car, sat down, and held him by the arm.

“Because he's out of his head. Now shut your mouth and listen to me, because I'm not going to say it twice! I went in, and I'd hardly got in when the sister was called to the telephone about this charabanc affair! She left me alone with him, and there he was, muttering to himself like she said he'd been doing all along. All they'd been able to make out was ‘Jimmy Riddell'—and we may thank the Lord for that. He kept on saying it, but whilst I was there he said a pack of other things too—and my Lord,
what
things!”

Tom shifted away from her, moving round so that he could see her face. A chill of foreboding ran up his spine.

“What sort of things?” he said uneasily.

“Damned dangerous things.”

“What sort of things?”

Nesta slipped her arm through his and brought her mouth close to his ear.

“He was talking about the emeralds.”

Tom turned the colour of a tallow candle.

“The—the emeralds?”

“He kept right on about them—how he'd hidden them, and no one else knew where they were. I tell you he kept right on. I've got to get him away before anyone tumbles to what he's talking about.”

Tom leaned back against the side of the car and fixed an alarmed gaze upon his sister's face. His eyes were of the same shape and colour as Nesta's; he had the same straight nose and short dark brows, the same line of cheek and chin. But the driving force was lacking. He felt the steel teeth of the trap, and struggled ineffectually.

“Look here, Nesta—”

She mimicked him.

“Look here, Tommy—”

“'Tisn't fair to go bringing me and Min into this. You go off on your own and marry a man we've never so much as set eyes on, and then all in a hurry you come along and tell me he's a crook, and before I know where I am you've dragged me into this Van Berg affair, and there's a man shot and emeralds worth no one knows what missing—and why should I be dragged into it when all I ever get was to lend him my motor-bike? Why, all I saw of him was to hand it over in the dark.”

“Hold your tongue!” said Nesta sharply. “You won't come to any harm if you do what you're told. Now look here, Tommy, you're not to get rattled. It's not the first little job we've done together—is it?”

“I'm going straight now I'm married—I told you I was.”

She patted his arm.

“So you shall. But we've got to get Jimmy away from here. Listen! He came to himself yesterday, and he didn't know a thing—not his name, nor who he is, nor anything. When he's awake that's how he is; but when he's asleep he talks all the time, and the sort of thing he talks about is the sort of thing that'll land you and me in quod. Now you've got it straight—and now you know why I'm not leaving him here to talk. I want my share of those emeralds, and I bet you want yours. You can got straight afterwards as much as you like, but you've got to help me now.”

“Nesta.”

She gave his arm a squeeze.

“Buck up, boy! We'll pull it off. I'll get you safely back to Min—don't you worry. Now drive right in—and remember we come from Marley, and all you've got to do is to hold that wheel and keep your tongue between your teeth.”

III

“Miss Leigh?” said the day sister.

“Oh yes,” said Caroline Leigh in that warm, dark voice of hers.

Someone once said that Caroline's voice was like damask roses. He was an infatuated young man who wrote poetry. Caroline laughed at him kindly but firmly, and all her friends chaffed her about her crimson voice. All the same there was something in it.

“We're up to our eyes,” said the day sister. But she did not say it as firmly as she might have done if Caroline had not been gazing at her with the sort of melting intensity which very few people had been known to resist.

“I know,” said Caroline. “And I'm
too
sorry to bother you, but I've come about the message that was broadcast last night, because I think the man who was picked up may be my cousin, Jim Randal. And oh, please may I see him?”

The day sister took the time to look at Miss Caroline Leigh. They were busy in the ward, but perhaps not quite so busy as she had said. The six charabanc cases were none of them desperately serious, and they had all been got to bed and had their injuries dealt with. She could spare a moment to look at Miss Leigh, who was a very easy person to look at—shining eyes and pretty hair, and a way with her. She was sorry to have to disappoint the eager creature. She didn't look as if she was used to disappointment; she was more like a child that puts out its hands and expects to have them filled with flowers or sweets. “Life isn't like that—well, she'll soon find out,” said the day sister to herself.

“I'm sorry,” she said aloud, “but I'm afraid it wasn't your cousin who was here.”

“
Was
?” Caroline was the picture of dismay. “Has he gone?”

“The name was Riddell,” said the sister. “And his wife came and took him away.”

“Oh, his wife?”

“We let him go because she seemed so keen on it, and there was a charabanc smash we had to take in. Mrs Riddell's one of those people who will have it their own way—at least that's how she struck me. I'm sorry it wasn't your cousin.”

“Oh,” said Caroline—“so am I.”

“He was on the
Alice Arden
?”

“I don't know. Oh, I hope he wasn't!”

“If you don't know, I should go on hoping,” said the day sister.

Caroline looked at her with shining eyes.

“Yes, I can—can't I? You see, I haven't seen him for a long time—oh, not since I was about fifteen—and he's been all over the world—he's an engineer—and he came home in July, and I was in Scotland. Then he wrote from London, and I wrote back and said why not come and join us. And he said he would. And he was going to come by coastal steamer because he liked the sea.”