The Wheel Spins (11 page)

“I do not,” the professor assured her. “I am convinced it is your mistake. But, since you’ve raised the point of fairness, you must admit that the weight of evidence is against you, I have to be fair. Can
you
explain why six persons should He?”

Iris had a sudden flash of intuition.

“I can’t,” she said, “unless one person started the lie, and the others are backing her up. In that case it’s only her word against mine. And as I’m English and you’re English and this concerns an Englishwoman, it’s your duty to believe
me
.”

As she spoke Iris challenged the baroness in an accusing stare. Although the personage heard the charge with complete composure, the professor coughed in protest.

“You mustn’t confuse patriotism with prejudice,” he said. “Besides your insinuation is absurd. What motive would the baroness have for telling a lie?”

Iris’ brain began to swim.

“I don’t know,” she said weakly. “It’s all such a mystery. No one could want to injure Miss Froy. She’s too insignificant. Besides, she was proud of having no enemies. And she told me herself that the baroness had been kind.”

“What have I done?” asked the baroness blandly.

“She said that there was a muddle about her place and you paid the excess-fare for her to travel in here.”

“That was charming of me. I’m gratified to hear of my generosity. Unfortunately I know nothing of it. But the ticket-collector should be able to refresh my memory.”

The professor turned to Iris dutifully.

“What am I to do?” he asked. “You are making things rather difficult by persisting in this attitude. But, if you insist, I will question the man.”

“I’ll dig him out,” offered Hare.

Iris knew that he wanted a chance to escape. She felt that his sympathies were with her while he withheld his faith.

After he had gone the professor began to talk to the baroness and the doctor, presumably for the sake of further practice. Suspicious of every glance and inflection, Iris believed that he was explaining the delicacy of his position and stressing the absurdity of the charge, for the baroness looked almost as benevolent as a sated tigress that kills just for the sport.

She was glad when Hare—his rebellious tuft sticking out like a feather—battled his way down the corridor, followed by the ticket-collector. He was a sturdy young man, in a very tight uniform and he reminded Iris of a toy soldier, with two blobs of crimson-colour on his broad cheeks and a tiny black waxed moustache.

As he entered the baroness spoke to him sharply and then waved to the professor to continue.

By this time Iris’ nerve was shattered; she was so sure that the ticket-collector would prove another victim to mass-hypnotism that she was prepared when Hare made a grimace.

“He’s telling the old, old story,” he said.

“Of course he is.” Iris tried to laugh. “I expect he was one of her peasants. He looks bucolic. She seems to own the lot—including you and the professor.”

“Now, don’t get het up,” he urged. “I know just what you are feeling, because I’ve been through this myself. I’ll tell you about it, if I can dislodge this young lady.”

The little girl, who had been making precocious eyes at Hare, responded to his invitation to move with shrugs and pouts of protest. All the same she reluctantly went back to her original place while he squeezed into the corner originally occupied by the elusive spinster.

“Cheer up,” he said. “Unless your Miss Froy was invisible, other people in the train must have seen her.”

“I know,” nodded Iris. “But I can’t think. My brain’s too sticky.”

The professor, who was just leaving the compartment, caught the drift of Hare’s argument, for he turned back to speak to Iris.

“If you can produce some definite proof of this lady’s existence, I’m still open to conviction. But I sincerely hope that you will not expose us and yourself to further ridicule.”

Iris felt too limp for defiance.

“Thank you,” she said meekly. “Where shall I find you?”

“In the reserved portion.”

“We’re sharing a bunny-hutch,” supplemented Hare. “Didn’t you know we’re rich? We started a prosperity chain.”

“I hate that man,” burst out Iris when the professor had gone.”

“Oh, no,” protested Hare, “he’s not a bad old fossil. You’ve got him scared stiff because you’re young and attractive.”

Then the grin faded from his lips.

“I want to bore you with a true story,” he said. “Some years ago, I was playing in an international at Twickenham. Just before the match both teams were presented to the Prince of Wales and he shook hands with all of us. Well, after I’d scored the winning try—I had to slip that in—I got kicked on the head in a scrum and passed out. Later on, when I was fairly comfortable in a private ward at the hospital, the nurse came in, all of a flutter, and said there was a special visitor to see me.”

“The Prince?” asked Iris, trying to force an intelligent interest.

“The same Of course, he didn’t stay more than a minute. Just smiled at me and said he hoped I’d soon be all right and he was sorry about my accident. I was so steamed up I thought I wouldn’t sleep a wink, but I dropped off the instant he had gone. Next morning the nurses said, “Weren’t you pleased to see your captain?”

“Captain?”

“Yes, the captain of the team. It was definitely
not
the Prince. And yet I saw him as plainly as I see you. He shook hands with me and said something nice about my try. He was
real
. And that’s what a spot of head trouble can do to the best of us.”

Iris set her lips obstinately.

“I thought you believed in me,” she said. “But you’re like the rest. Please go away.”

“I will, because I’m sure you ought to keep quiet. Try and get some sleep.”

“No. I’ve got to think this out. If I let myself believe all of you, I should be afraid I was getting mental. And I’m not. I’m
not
.”

“Now take it easy.”

“What a soothing nurse you’d make. You only want a silly cap. Listen.” Iris dropped her voice. “I’m extra in the dark, because I couldn’t understand these questions. Do you really
know
the language?”

“Better than English now. And it was so elementary that even the professor couldn’t slip up. Sorry—but there are no holes anywhere. But you look all in. Let me get you a life-saver.”

“No. Miss Froy promised she’d get me something and I prefer to wait for her.”

Her defiant eyes told Hare that she was nailing her colours to the mast. Since he regarded Miss Froy as a kind of ghost, he did not think that Iris would derive benefit from anything she might bring, so he resolved to renew his offer later. Meanwhile he could serve her best by leaving her alone.

Just as he was going he remembered something and beckoned Iris into the corridor.

“There was just one bit I didn’t tumble to,” he confessed. “The baroness spoke to the ticket chap in a dialect which was Chinese to me.”

“Then that proves they came from the same district,” cried Iris triumphantly.

“Hum. But as we don’t know what she said it’s not too helpful. Salaams. See you later.”

After Hare had gone Iris crouched in her corner, rocking with the vibration of the train. It was clattering through a succession of short tunnels and the air was full of sound, as though a giant roller were flattening out the sky. The noise worried her acutely. She had scarcely eaten all day and was beginning to feel exhausted. But although she was unused to being ill, and was consequently frightened, she was far more alarmed by the jangling of her brain.

She started violently when a nursing-sister appeared in the doorway and beckoned to the doctor. She hardly noticed the relief of his absence, because her thoughts raced in a confused circle round the central incident of the black-out.

“I was on the platform, one second—and the next second I went out. Where did I go? Was the waking up in the waiting-room, and all those women, and the funny little old porter—
real?
Of course they were, or I should not be on the train. But I met Miss Froy
afterwards
. They say she’s only my dream. So, if she’s a dream, it means that I’ve dreamed the waiting-room and the train and that I’m not on the train at all. I’m not awake yet. If it was true, it would be enough to drive any one mad.”

She resolutely fought back the rising tide of hysteria.

“But it’s absurd. I
am
awake and I’m here in this train. So I
did
meet Miss Froy. Only I’m up against some mystery and I have to fight a pack of lies. All right, then, I
will
.”

At this stage her concern was for herself, rather than for Miss Froy. She had been spoiled since her birth, so it was natural for her to be selfish; and because that self was a gay and charming entity, the world had united to keep her fixed at her special angle.

But now her ego was getting involved with the fate of an obscure and unattractive spinster. Once again she began to review the incidents of their meeting. And then, suddenly, her clouded brain cleared and a sealed cell in her memory became unblocked.

The baroness looked at her as she sprang from her seat.

“Is madame worse?” she asked.

“Better, thanks,” replied Iris. “And I’m going to test some English memories, just for a change. I’m going to talk to some English visitors from my hotel who saw me with Miss Froy.”

Now that she was about to establish Miss Froy’s existence, Iris began to wonder what had become of her. When she remembered her exhaustive search of the train it seemed positive that she could not be there. But it was also impossible for her to be anywhere else.

The corridors and carriages were thronged with tourists, so that she could not open a door or window to jump out, without attracting immediate attention. It was equally certain that no one could make a parcel of her and dump her on the permanent way, without becoming an object of general interest.

There was no place for her to hide—nor could Iris conceive any motive for such a course. In short, she was protected from any form of injury—accidental or intentional—by the presence of a cloud of witnesses.

In despair Iris shelved the problem.

“She can’t be proved missing until it’s proved that she was there in the first place,” she argued. “That’s my job. After that, the others must carry on.”

As she remembered the professor’s standard for reliable evidence she felt she could understand a showman’s pride in his exhibits. Her witnesses must satisfy the most exacting taste—being British to the core.

The baroness looked at her when she opened her bag and drew out her pocket-mirror and lipstick. Although her detachment was complete and her face void of expression, she somehow conveyed an impression of secret activity, as though she were spinning mental threads.

“She’s pitting her brain against mine,” thought Iris, in a sudden flurry. “I must get in first.”

Directly she began to hurry she went to pieces again. Her hands shook so that she painted her mouth with a streak of vivid red—more suggestive of crushed fruit than the crimson blossom after which the tint was named. Unable to find her comb she gave up the attempt and dashed out into the corridor.

Men stared at her and women muttered complaints as she pushed them aside without apology. As a matter of fact she was hardly conscious of them, except as so many obstacles in her way. After so much delay, every wasted moment was a personal reproach. In her excitement she could only see—a long way off—the blurred figure of a little spinster.

She must hurry to reach it. But faces kept coming in between her and her goal—faces that grinned or scowled—the faces of strangers. They melted away like a mist, only to give place to other faces. There was a flash of eyes and teeth—a jam of bodies. She thrust and struggled, while her cheeks burned and a wave of hair fell across her cheeks.

When at last she won through to the clearer stretch of corridor, the sight of the professor—smoking, while he looked through the window—reminded her of the conventions. She felt ashamed of her haste and she spoke breathlessly.

“Do I look like a jigsaw? It was that devastating crowd. They wouldn’t let me through.”

The professor did not smile, for in spite of a picturesque attraction, her wild hair and brilliant colour produced a wanton effect which did not appeal to him. Neither did Mr. Todhunter approve her, as he criticised her through the open door of his coupé.

Although he claimed to be a judge of feminine charm, he was of the type that prefers a lily-pond to a waterfall. He never lingered before an unframed picture, for he exacted the correct setting for beauty. Abandon was only permissible in a negligée and definitely bad form on a train journey. Although he had often seen Iris, when she looked like a member of an undress beauty chorus, he had never noticed her until the evening when she wore a becoming frock.

“Who’s the girl?” asked the bride as she flicked over the pages of a pictorial paper.

He lowered his voice.

“One of the mob from the hotel.”

“Help.”

In the next coupé Miss Rose Flood-Porter raised her head from the soft leather cushion without which she never travelled. Her movement roused her sister from her doze, and she, too, strained to listen.

Unconscious of her audience Iris spoke to the professor in a high excited voice.

“Your marvellous witnesses have let you down. They were all telling lies. The six of them.”

He looked at her burning cheeks with cold concern.

“Is your head worse?” he asked.

“Thanks, I’m perfectly fit. And I can prove Miss Froy was with me, because the English visitors from my hotel saw her, too. We’ll get in touch with the English Consul when we reach Trieste and he’ll hold up the train for a thorough examination. Oh, you’ll see.”

Iris thrilled at the prospect of her triumph. At that moment she seemed to see the Union Jack fluttering overhead and hear the strains of the National Anthem.

The professor smiled with dreary patience.

“I’m waiting to be convinced,” he reminded her.