CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER IX

In her first frenzy of fear, Marigold was ready to drop the receiver, or at least to replace it without saying a word. But Paul—his attention most unfortunately caught by a headline in the newspaper she had thrown down—was still in the room, and she had to behave in some way that would appear reasonably normal.

Yet it was impossible to say anything to Lindley which would not be understandable to Paul. And Paul, even if his suspicions were not aroused, must at least be very much alive to anything which could refer to the day's somewhat peculiar happenings.

'Hello,' she said rather faintly into the telephone when it had become impossible to remain silent any longer.

'Oh, hello, my dear. Is this as far as we have got?' She could hear from his tone how much amused he was.

'I didn't really expect to get through to you.' That was a possible remark to make to anyone, and would surely give him some hint that she could not speak freely.

'Didn't you? Then you mean it's truthfully a shock to hear my voice—in the circumstance.

'Well, yes, it is.' If only Paul would put down that newspaper and go off to change!

'We're not alone, I take it?'

'No, that's right.'

'But you are very anxious to speak to me about something?'

She remembered then that she was not in the least anxious to speak to him. It was to his servant that she had hoped so much to speak.

'No, it's not important.'

'Oh, come, Mari! You wouldn't ring me up about unimportant matters at this stage of out —friendship. Even I can't flatter myself this-- anything but urgent necessity would prompt you to do that. But you can't tell me what it is at the moment?'

'No, I can't.' What else could she say?

'The inconvenient husband is in the back ground, eh?'

'I shouldn't put it that way,' she retort at with more sharpness than her tone should have held for a friendly conversation. And Paul glanced up from his newspaper for a moment.

'Careful,' Lindley's voice said mockingly, and she hated him for knowing so surely what the situation was.

She wondered if she dared ring off with a peremptory 'Good-bye.' But she knew that she was really in Lindley's hands now, and that he Was perfectly capable of telephoning back, even at the risk of Paul's answering the telephone again. She was unspeakably relieved therefore to hear him say:

'I think we had better postpone our conversation, don't you?'

'Yes.' She tried not to sound too Niger. 'Yes, another time will do.'

'Then you had better give me your office phone number.'

'Oh, no,' she said quickly, with an inductive dread of his being able to get in touch with her at any time of the day.

'Much safer, Marigold. Then I can telephone to you and continue this most interesting conversation when the husband in safely out of the way.'

She hated and loathed the suggestion in his tone that it was amusing to have a secret with her from her husband.

'I'll telephone you another time,' she said coldly and finally, and was about to replace the receiver when he said:

'Wait, Mari. It really would be better to wail and hear what I have to say. I suppose you're at Paul's flat, and it would be a waste of time—and other things—if I had to telephone back to you this evening and ask for that office number. No doubt he too would be able to give it to me, but the answered my call, he might want to know why I needed your number. And explanations are so—tedious, aren't they?'

Marigold felt the most dreadful, clammy chill creep down her back. In that moment she thought she knew exactly what it was like to In- blackmailed. At any rate, she knew what it was like to be at the mercy of a completely merciless man.

She made her inevitable decision quite speedily after that. She even infused a certain credible friendliness into her tone, in case Paul should be listening with any real attention by now.

'My office number? Oh, yes, of course.' And she gave it to him, pronouncing it quite slowly and clearly because he said, 'Wait a moment while I write that down.'

Then the mocking voice added: 'Thank you so much. Good-bye, Mari. I'm very glad to have that number.'

And she was free to say, 'Good-bye,' and ring off.

At the same time Paul tossed down the newspaper and remarked.

'You had a pretty chatty friend on the phone, didn't you?'

'What do you mean?' She tried not to sound startled, though she felt that any remark which Paul made about the conversation must surely be fraught with danger.

'Why, only that you didn't seem able to get a word in edgeways,' he said with a laugh. ' "Yes," "no" and "really" seemed to be about your share of the conversation.'

'Oh!' She managed to smile rather faintly and stiffly. 'Yes. She—she does rather monopolise the conversation.'

'Does she?' Paul said. And she thought he gave her an odd little glance before he went out of the room, which immediately made her wonder, in panic, if he knew perfectly well it was no 'she' who had been talking.

How stupid of her to have over-elaborated once more! Why couldn't she have left it at 'he,' without adding an unnecessary lie through sheer guilty nervousness? Quite possibly, now she came to think of it, Paul had not only heard the operator speak at the beginning of the call, but a word or two from Lindley too.

Marigold sank down in her chair again with a little groan and pressed her hands over her face. But even that slight physical relief was not to be allowed for more than a minute or two. Paul might come back again at any moment, and, however desperate and frightened she felt, it was essential to appear happy and carefree.

Was she not a happy bride, sharing her first evening at home with her husband?

After that, strangely enough, a few uneventful days drifted past, in which Marigold was unbelievably happy, in spite of all her anxiety. It was a fragile, perilous happiness, of course, but all the more precious because it might vanish at a touch.

If there had been no Lindley in the background, no Nemesis called up by her own folly, Marigold would have been the happiest girl alive.

But she knew, when she allowed herself to face the facts, that all this was only a lull in the storm. Presently there would be some further sign from Lindley, and it could hardly herald anything but another crisis.

It was late one afternoon of the following week when he chose to take a hand in her affairs again. By good chance Stephanie, who had come into her room to talk over some question in connection with the records, had just left her when the telephone bell rang.

To be sure, it rang often enough, but never without giving an unpleasant little jar to her nerves, and she told herself that it was really no surprise when she heard Lindley's voice again.

'Mari, is that you? Oh, how fortunate to find you in. Look here, my dear, I want to have a talk with you.'

'About what?' Marigold asked, so coldly that one might have supposed that she held all the cards in this unpleasant game.

He laughed, perhaps at what he considered her effrontery.

'Well, we have a conversation to finish, for one thing,' he reminded her.

'I've nothing more to say to you,' Marigold said curtly.

'But there is your reason for ringing me the other night. I've never heard about that, you know.'

'There's nothing to hear about,' Marigold assured him. 'I've found out what I wanted to know from someone else.'

'Really? Oh, I'm sorry. I should have liked to be of service to you. But I have something to discuss with you.'

'You'd better tell me what it is now, then.' She was surprised and pleased to find that she could speak to him so crisply.

'I'm afraid it can't be discussed over the phone.'

'I'm afraid it will have to be,' Marigold told him.

Then she wondered if she had gone too far, because there was a curious and frightening silence. It lengthened, and her tightened nerves prompted her to ask sharply:

'Are you still there?'

'Oh, yes. I was re-lighting my cigarette. It had gone out.'

She could imagine him so easily, smiling away to himself, calculating to a nicety the effect of his words or his silences.

'Well, what did you want to say to me?'

'That we must arrange to meet.'

'It's quite impossible,' Marigold said with all the firmness she could muster.

'I don't think so, Mari. I could even—call, if you prefer it that way.'

Immediately she was conscious of that dreadful, clammy chill again. He was not even threatening her, in so many words. Merely indicating that he had it in his power to wreck everything, unless she did what she was told.

'Lindley, can't you possibly say what you have to say over the telephone?' She had descended to pleading now, and she knew it was fatal, but what else could she say?

'I'm afraid not. When can I see you?'

'I—don't know,' she said despairingly.

'It must be soon. I leave for the States in a day or two.'

Her heart gave such a leap at that that it almost seemed to choke her. He was leaving in a day or two! Then some sort of relief was almost in sight. Nothing could be overwhelmingly terrible if that were true. It was the news she had been waiting for—and been willing to do almost anything to hear. And he had given it to her himself, quite casually.

'I—didn't know you were going so soon.'

'No. It's unexpected. And I must see you. Somewhere where we can talk quietly. Can you arrange to stay overtime this evening and I'll come along to you?'

'No!' she exclaimed sharply. But, even as she said it, she knew they might do very much worse than that. Paul was working late that evening, and only ten minutes ago she had said something to Stephanie about staying one evening and getting up to date with one part of the work which had been neglected by her predecessor. It might be simple to arrange. Much simpler than going to his flat again, or courting some sort of dramatic encounter in a restaurant.

'What is your suggestion, then?' He sounded slightly impatient and she said quickly:

'Wait a moment. I might arrange it.'

'Good girl!' He sounded amused and approving.

'When could you come? Seven? Half-past?'

'Say seven o'clock. Will there be anyone there but ourselves? Anyone who will talk, I mean?'

'Only the caretaker. I'll tell him just that a friend is calling to take me out to dinner, and that I'm staying on to work until then.'

'Really, Mari, you're awfully good at this sort of thing,' he told her mockingly. 'I find it hard to believe that you're a beginner.'

She saw no reason to answer that, and merely enquired shortly:

'Do you know how to get here?'

'I can find it. Expect me about seven o'clock.'

She rang off without bothering to say goodbye, and sat there, with her hand still on the telephone, wondering already if she had been foolish lo let him arrange things this way. But she had to let him arrange it some way. She had no choice about that. And she was terrified of any further meeting with him in public, for it seemed that, however unlikely the circumstances, some irony of fate always involved her in an unforeseen crisis. And, in her present state of mind, it appeared to her not at all improbable that Paul would come strolling into whatever restaurant they chose, or that Stephanie and David Trevlin would choose just that place in which to dine before going to the theatre.

As it was, she had some little difficulty with Stephanie when she announced that she intended to stay that evening and work.

'Oh, Marigold, I shouldn't! It's horrid and lonely in this place by oneself. I know. I stayed once, and decided not to do it again.'

'Nonsense!' Marigold laughed. 'I'm not a bit nervous. And anyway, what is there to be nervous about?'

'Oh, nothing, of course. I just don't like it. There's Sanderson within call, I know, but —well, I just don't like it.'

'Well, I don't mind it at all,' Marigold assured her with considerable lack of truth. 'And I'll feel much happier if I do get these books straight It means a lot of extra work each day until they're up to date.'

'Are you sure?' Stephanie Looked doubtful.

'Yes. And this evening is just the time for it Paul said he didn't know what time he'd be home. Probably not until really late. I'll ring up and leave a message that I'll be late too, in case- he gets home before me, but I 'm sure he won't.'

Stephanie still looked dissatisfied.

'I'd stay too, only I'm going out with David tonight, and we meant to have dinner at—'

'Why, of course! Don't be absurd, Stephanie. There's nothing much in staying late at one's office on an odd evening. You go on out with David and enjoy yourself.'

The very idea of Stephanie remaining too, in the circumstances, made Marigold so emphatic in her refusal that Stephanie laughed, finally convinced!

'Oh, all right. If you feel like that. Get Sanderson to bring you up a hot drink or something if you're here really late.'

Marigold promised that she would, and finally got rid of the persistent and inconveniently concerned Stephanie.

She was not at all nervous, in the ordinary sense of the word, and though the various sounds of departure made her feel slightly melancholy, in view of the interview which was awaiting her, Marigold certainly had no sinking of the heart just because the big old house grew quiet, and the sound of her crackling fire grew louder in contrast.

At last the heavy front door closed for the last time, and she settled down to some concentrated work—not only because she had stayed for that declared purpose, but because it took her thoughts from the unpleasant scene ahead.

She was actually surprised at the lateness of the hour when at six o'clock the fatherly caretaker came in with a large cup of cocoa and a slab of home-made cake—in the making of which his wife excelled.

'I didn't know it was so late, Sanderson.' She looked up from her work and smiled at him.

'No, ma'am. Mrs. Marne told me you'd be staying a bit, but I suppose you'll be going vet y shortly?'

'Well, not for another hour or so.'

'Oh,' commented the caretaker in such an uncertain tone that Marigold glanced at him again.

'Why? It doesn't matter, does it, Sanderson^ I mean, you don't want to do anything in thin room, do you?'

'No, Mrs. Irving, but me and the missus were going to the pictures. We always go of a Tuesday and—'

'But you can go! Of course you can go. Don't bother about me. I'll be perfectly all right.'

'Well, if you're sure—'

'Of course I'm sure,' said Marigold, who suddenly found she felt anything but sure when she thought of interviewing Lindley alone in this place.

'Well, I've stoked up the furnace, and locked up everywhere. You've nothing to do but bang the front door as you go out and make sure it's shut.'

'I'll make sure,' Marigold promised.

And then the old man went away, and she slowly stirred her cocoa.

It was ridiculous to feel uneasy. Lindley might a plausible and heartless scoundrel, but he certainly was not the kind to resort to physical violence in any circumstances. All that was Involved was a talk—quite possibly an unpleasant talk—but certainly nothing more. All the same, Marigold was very sorely tempted to put her papers together, don her hat and coat, and go home, leaving Lindley to make what liked of the empty house. But with that would go every possible chance coming to terms with him. And certainly he would not be bothering to come along here and talk to her if there were not some new aspect of the situation to be discussed Anything might have happened. It might even conceivably be something to her advantage. Something which would make the situation just a little less frightening and uncertain.

And then his saying that he was leaving the country in a day or two! That seemed to Marigold, at the moment, to promise limitless possibilities of escape. If she saw him this evening and could stave off immediate action, she would gain precious time, during which any solution might arise.

He might meet someone in the States whom he really cared about. He might want his own freedom then—be glad to let the divorce me through, after all. It was not specially like but stranger things had happened. He might decide to stay in America indefinitely—

But then, she remembered, that would hardly solve Stephanie's difficulties, so that would not do.

With a sigh, Marigold returned to her accounts, but this time the columns of figures refused to add up to their correct totals.

Her attention was only half on her work for now. She was listening for the sound of the bell which would announce his arrival. And then she would have to make the final and irrevocution decision to admit him. She would have to go down and bring him through the darkened! blacked-out house to this brightly lit room of hers, which looked so pleasant and innocent now, but would, she knew, take on a different and slightly sinister aspect when it contained Lindley as well as herself.

He was punctual, almost to a minute. The hands of her little office clock pointed to one minute past seven as the bell sounded through the silent house.

She started rather violently at the sound, but after that she was perfectly calm as she went downstairs, switching on the light as she went. The well of the staircase seemed stiflingly warm as her, but that was probably because the blood was singing in her head, and when she opened the heavy front door, a rush of stingingly cold air mined to come with Lindley.

'Phew! It's warm in here,' he remarked, as casually as though he were in the habit of calling every evening. And she said, just as calmly:

'Yes. The caretaker stoked up the furnace an hour ago. I expect he rather overdid it. Come this way. We may as well go up to my room. There's only a fire there—no radiator.'

He followed her up the stairs, remarking with a laugh as he did so:

'So this is where you earn an honest living?' 'Yes.'

'And Stephanie too?' 'Yes.'

'Queer taste—looking after other people's children.' She felt a rush of fury for him at that. By his tone he presumed to despise Stephanie, whose life he had done his best to ruin. She remembered with cold clarity how he had wished him dead, not more than an hour ago, and she thought: 'It was the most sensible wish I ever had. He doesn't even know what decency is.'

He looked round her room with amusement and interest, and remarked:

'It was nice of you to agree to see me here.' 'I had very little choice,' she said dryly as he sat down in the chair she indicated. 'No, that's true.'

He seemed in no special hurry to open whatever subject he had come to discuss, and after a moment she said sharply:

'Well, do you mind telling me why it was so necessary to see me? I've had some trouble to arrange this—this interview and—

'And naturally you want to know what it's all about, and get it over as soon as possible, eh?' He smiled at her.

'That just about describes it,' she agreed.

'Well then, Mari, I've come to make a proposition to you. Something I've been thinking over carefully in the last few days.'

In spite of herself, she felt her heart begin to thump with wholly illogical hope.

'Something to—to do with your divorce?' She tried to speak casually.

Indirectly, yes. At any rate, something to do with the relationship of all four of us, as it now exists.'

'All four of us?'

'Why, yes. Paul and Stephanie are in this too, you know.'

'Yes. Yes, of course they are.'

She caught her breath and waited with an impatience she found hard to conceal.

He looked across at her with those slightly smiling, watchful eyes.

'You're very fond of Paul, aren't you?'

'Of—course. You didn't need to come here to ask me that.'

He laughed.

'No, naturally not. I was only wondering how valuable his happiness might be to you.'

'I don't know that that's any business of yours,' she said with angry impatience.

'But it is. It enters into what I'm going to say.' He paused for a moment, as though choosing his words, and then he went on. 'I'm leaving for America in a few days '

'You've told me that already, and I've never been more glad to hear anything,' she interrupted savagely.

'And I've been wondering,' he went on coolly, 'if you'd care to come with mo.'

'Are you mad?' Marigold asked coldly.

'No, Mari, very sane. And the proposition I'm making to you is just that. Would you care to come with me to the States, as my—secretary, shall we say? For, of course, you would have to have an official status. No, wait a moment'—for Marigold had made a furious little effort to interrupt. 'You say that Paul's happiness is of great concern to you. But when he finds out—a:, he must find out during the divorce proceedings—just what his wife was doing before he met her, I don't know how much of his happiness you suppose will be left. Then you told me once that Stephanie's happiness was of some interest to you—'

'I don't know what all this has to do with your preposterous suggestion about America,' she interrupted. She was very white by now and her breath was coming unnaturally fast.

'Why, you see, Mari, if you decide to come with me to America—and I can promise you a very good time—I will undertake to let that divorce go through on evidence other than what I might call "the hotel incident." Stephanie will get her divorce without trouble or opposition, and Paul will never know that the girl with me and that dramatic occasion was his own wife.'

'I hardly see how that will comfort him if meanwhile I have gone off to America with you.'

'Ah, well, of course, there would have to be a main—lack of frankness about your explanation of that,' he admitted with his most charming mile. 'Paul is anchored to his job in London. It might not to be outside the bounds of possibility to invent a dying parent in the north of Scotland or—'

'My parents are both dead,' she said curtly. 'I thought you knew that.'

'Of course. I'd forgotten. We could make up something else, no doubt, if we really gave any thought to it.'

'You know perfectly well there's no story that would hold water. And in any case, do you suppose that for anything in the world I would go with you for so much as a day? And why do you even want it? You made out only a few days ago that there was nothing that would induce you to give up the pleasure of spoiling Stephanie's divorce suit against you. Now you speak as though you're willing to toss the whole thing aside for a whim.'

'Oh, not a whim, Mari,' he said, with a protesting smile.

'For what, then?'

'For the pleasure of your company.'

'I don't think you can set a very high value on that,' she said scornfully.

'So high a value, my dear, that I'm willing to forgo the pleasure of spoiling Stephanie's divorce suit, as you put it, for the chance of four week in your company. For it wouldn't be more, have to be back within the month. Come, Mari, think carefully. It ought not to be difficult to find a reason for a month's absence and——'

'No, I tell you! You must be crazy even to think of it. Nothing would make me agree. Nothing!'

She got to her feet suddenly, for she saw he was going to stand up too, and all at once she was afraid at the thought of him towering over her. She was afraid, too, at the extraordinary atmosphere which the room had taken on. It also had become over-poweringly hot, like the rest of the house —or else it was the excitement and fear had again sent the blood rushing hotly to her head.

It seemed to her that there were strange noises in the house—not at all as though they were alone, but as though some busy, unseen presence were rustling and creaking through passages and stairway.

And more than all that was the sudden, frightening consciousness that the man who had risen slowly to his feet was no longer the cool, self- contained, mocking person she knew, but a passionate, purposeful, not very well controlled adversary, who might love her or hate her with equal intensity.

Instinctively, she backed away from him towards the door. Not for all the gold in the world could she have turned her back on him, though the impulse to flee was almost more than she could control. She felt the door behind her, and she groped with one hand for the handle.

As she did so, he leant forward and caught her by the other wrist, lightly, but so that she could not get away without a struggle.

'Listen to me, Mari,' he said, with a sort of impatient pleading. 'I'll give you a more wonderful time than that staid fool Irving ever dreamed of giving you. I'll make you remember how much you loved me before he came blundering in. I'll guarantee to make you want to stay with me when we come back from America, so that there'll be no need for any stories to explain your absence or justify your silence. You'll have cast your net in more colourful waters and——

He stopped suddenly, because she had brought her other hand round from the door-handle and struck him full on the mouth.

'Don't you dare speak to me like that! Don't you dare talk of Paul like that! You're the most infamous, conscienceless beast I know. Let me go. I've had enough——'

'But I've not had enough,' he exclaimed roughly, and with one movement he jerked her against him, holding her so that it was impossible to escape, while he bent her back and kissed her on her mouth, slowly, bruisingly and insultingly.

She struggled madly in his grasp, realising in terror that her strength was absolutely nothing beside his. And with the horror of that discovery there came something else, which was as much of a shock. From the floor below came the strange and unmistakable sound of crashing glass.

'God in heaven!' He released her abruptly. 'What's that?'

She didn't stop to answer him. Wrenching herself from his loosened grasp, she tore open the door.

As she did so, thick billows of smoke came rolling into the room, and in the draught from the

broken window and the open door, an enormous, unbelievable sheet of flame roared up the well of the staircase, as though it would devour the very walls of the house.

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