Rolling Stone (20 page)

He turned on his mattress and faced the wall. On the other side of that wall, on the other side of the locked door by his feet, was the passage with the area door at one end of it and Terry Clive's door at the other. But halfway along there was another door which, he felt sure, concealed the stairs. Maud Millicent had spoken of these stairs. She had said that they had a door at the top as well as at the bottom, and that the doors were locked, and that she herself had the keys. Peter's fancy played about those doors and the stair which led to the upper part of the house. No interior door would have so strong a lock as an outside door, and no upstairs window would have bars. Give him ten minutes alone in the house and he would back himself to smash those locks, and, once upstairs, he could take Terry Clive out through the nearest window into that safest of all safe places, a street commanded by a thousand other windows. Daylight and the King's highway—he asked no more.

He fell asleep on that, and plunged into a vivid dream. He was on safari in a taxi driven by the Bruiser. Jake and he were shooting bull-terriers with machine-guns at about eighty miles an hour. The bull-terriers ran like the wind, and presently they put up Terry Clive out of a patch of spiny cactus, and she ran like the wind too. She was barefoot and in her nightgown, just as he had seen her at Heathacres, but she had dropped her coat and left it lying on the yellow sand. One of the bull-terriers was Alf, and he ran with her step for step. And just as he was beginning to gain on them Peter suddenly felt that he couldn't bear it. He tumbled his machine-gun out of the taxi and jumped after it. Then he and Terry and the dog were all running together, whilst Jake sprayed them with bullets. They ran all across the Sahara and down the Nile. And then he caught an aeroplane by the wings and pulled it down and they flew away, with Jake and the Bruiser coming after them in another plane. It was a very exciting flight. Peter sang at the top of his voice, and the wind sang in his ears, and Alf twined himself affectionately about Terry's feet and was sick. And Terry said, “I want the pearls. Give them back to me at once,” and the bullets began to fall all round them again, so they jumped for it, he and Terry and Alf, and came down by the Marble Arch. They had to run for their lives, because Jake and the Bruiser were after them on motor-bicycles. And all at once they had turned a corner and were sprinting down Sunderland Terrace where his Aunt Fanny lived, and, quite without any intermission, they were in her drawing-room, where she sat drinking tea with her friend Miss Hollinger. The odd thing was that neither Aunt Fanny nor Miss Hollinger seemed to know that they were there. Alf snuffed at the furniture, and Peter and Terry stood there holding hands like ghosts come back to visit the glimpses of the past. But Terry's hand was warm in his—Aunt Fanny said, “O dear—I never thought he would be taken first.” And she put her handkerchief to her eyes and said, “I haven't bought my mourning yet. I wouldn't like not to wear mourning for Peter.” But Miss Hollinger passed up her cup for some more tea and said primly, “We must look on the bright side, dear Miss Talbot. It's an ill wind that blows nobody any good.”

He woke up. The kitchen was dark, the fire dead in the range. Alf and the Bruiser snored. The dream was gone.

Peter turned over and went to sleep again.

CHAPTER XXIX

Terry Clive ate her breakfast—a boiled egg, bread and butter, and a hot, strong cup of tea. Then she looked in the glass, thought how pale she was, and took steps to remedy this. No one was going to think she was afraid, or that she hadn't slept, or anything of that sort. Especially not the young man who had boiled her egg and who had tried to steal Emily's pearls.

He knocked presently on the door, and stood just inside it when she said, “Come in.”

“I hope the egg was all right.”

“Yes, thank you.”

Peter looked pleased.

“I hope you like eggs, because I can see that cooking is going to be the difficulty. Jake has just got back, and the Bruiser is going off. I left them arguing about how to cook a steak. None of it sounded right to me.”

“There are always eggs,” said Terry. “But, actually, I thought about going home.”

“To the fatted calf? I'm afraid you're expected to stay to lunch.”

“Look here,” she said, “I want to go home. What are you going to get out of keeping me here? Whatever it is, I'll double it. If you're afraid I'll talk, I won't. You're not like those other two men—you don't want to hurt me. Let me go.”

Peter gazed at her with as much sarcasm as he could muster and said,

“There's nothing doing. Here you are, and here you stay, with Jake and Alf and me to see that you do. And Alf's about the only one of the three you might be able to bribe.”

“And who is Alf?” There was a hopeful note in Terry's voice.

As if he had heard the repetition of his name, the bull-terrier came padding down the passage, ears at half-cock, nose wrinkled, and hackles ready to rise. He came snuffing into the room, and straight into Terry's heart. Peter saw how she could look when she was friendly.

She said, “Angel!” and went down on her knees to put her arms round Alf's neck. There was a moment of suspense. Most dogs like you or they don't. Bull-terriers are very quick off the mark. They love you—or they hate you, and Terry's face and her unguarded throat were horribly near those very sharp, strong teeth. Peter's heart gave a jerk, but before he had time to move he saw Alf's expression change. The hackles lay down, the eyes goggled, the lips stretched with an idiotic grin, a large pink tongue came flopping out in an attempt to lick as much of Terry's face as possible. She fended him off, laughing, and with joyous woofs he launched a playful attack which nearly bowled her over.

A growl from the Bruiser and a piercing whistle from Jake restored order. With a final lick and a regretful eye, Alf slunk back to the kitchen. Terry, still laughing, said,

“Oh, what a
lamb!”

“Eminently bribable. But you'd better be careful. He belongs to Jake, and Jake—”

A little cold shiver ran down Terry's spine. She said, “What about Jake?” and did not know that she had stopped laughing.

“The less the better, I should say.”

Terry looked at him.

“What do you mean by that?”

Peter did not answer her directly. He frowned, came nearer, and suddenly said in a quite, non-carrying voice,

“You've got a bruise on your arm.”

Terry's hand went to her elbow. She said,

“Why—yes. It isn't anything. It'll be gone in a day or two.”

Peter shook his head.

“I don't think so—not if you've any gumption.”

She felt the shiver again.

“What do you mean?”

Peter dropped his voice lower still.

“Your arm is very badly hurt. You are all black and blue. Say so in front of the others if you get the chance. Make the most of it.”

He turned and went away past the door which led to the stairs and on into the kitchen. The shutters had been opened. A grey light came in through the upper part of the windows. The Bruiser was making preparations to depart.

“You've got a lot to say to that girl,” said Jake suspiciously.

Peter put on a swaggering air.

“You've got your orders, and I've got mine. I'm to soft-sawder her, jolly her along, keep her from worrying—or trying to get away. She got bruised bringing her here. My orders are to keep her quiet till the bruises are gone. You get on with your job, and I'll get on with mine.”

“Oh, you're doing fine,” said Jake with a sneer, and went out to lock up after the Bruiser.

Terry slipped into the kitchen as soon as he was out of it. He found her there looking at the rusty range with disfavour. He opened his mouth to speak, but Peter got in first.

“She says she can cook.”

Jake stared.

“Who does?”

“She does. Why not let her?”

“I cook very well,” said Terry. “I got a diploma. You might as well let me do something. It's frightfully cold in my room. After all, I'd be earning my keep.”

Jake looked from her to the windows as if he were measuring the distance.

“You can't see in,” said Peter. “And if you could, what would you see? A girl cooking—the most ordinary, natural, every-day thing in the world.”

Jake lit a cigarette. Then he went over to the Bruiser's mattress and lay down. All his movements were quick and jerky. He called Alf to him and made the dog lie down at his feet. Then he said,

“Cook away if you want to—I've no orders against it. But no nearer the windows than what you are now, or I'll set the dog on you.”

“On me?” said Peter.

Jake used language.

“No, on her.” He used more language.

Terry stuck her chin in the air and asked where the larder was. It was heaven to have something to put her hand to. If she had had to stay in that cold room with nothing to do but sit on the edge of her bed and think, she might have found horrible things to think about. But you can't think about horrible things when you are cooking, especially when every solitary thing you've got to use has been put away dirty and has to be scraped and boiled and scrubbed before you can do anything with it.

Terry scraped, cleaned, boiled, and scrubbed. There was a bar of yellow soap, and you can do wonders with soap and boiling water. She washed dish-cloths, dusters, and the roller towel from the lavatory. She set Peter to scrub, first the kitchen table, and then the kitchen floor. She would have liked to put Jake to black-leading the range, but that would have to be done when the fire was out, and she wanted the oven for her beefsteak pie. There was plenty of food in the larder—a large piece of steak; eggs; onions; apples; bread; milk brought in by Jake; a six-pound bag of flour; a hunk of cheese; and a dozen bananas.

Beefsteak pie and banana fritters for lunch, and something with eggs and cheese for supper. There was sugar, so she could make a cake.

When everything was clean she began her pie. Peter found himself admiring. He thought a good many girls would have gone limp in the spine and pink about the eyes. He watched Terry rolling out dough, and putting little dabs of butter all over it, and rolling it out again. She had firm, pretty, capable little hands.

On the other side of the kitchen Jake lay on the mattress smoking, with his eyes half shut.

Terry sprinkled more butter and rolled out her dough again. She said without looking up,

“Why do you do this sort of thing?”

“Kidnapping?”

“Yes.”

Peter laughed.

“One must do something for a living.”

She said viciously, “You might scrub floors. I expect you'd learn in time.”

“Women have no sense of justice. This floor is beautifully scrubbed.”

She folded the dough over and rolled it out again.

“What is your name? I suppose you've got one.”

Peter said, “Spike,” and then, “Pretty—isn't it?”

“Frightful! And I don't believe it either. Nobody could possibly be called Spike.”

“Lots of people are—in America.”

“But you're not American.”

“I'm afraid not. As a matter of fact they threw me out.”

“What for?”

“Kidnapping,” said Peter pleasantly.

She looked up quickly, and their eyes met. He saw hers wide and startled—yes, definitely startled—before they brightened into anger. She changed colour—a sudden pallor, a sudden flaming blush. She bit her lip like a child that doesn't want to cry, and brought the rolling-pin down hard upon her folded dough.

Peter had sensations—anger because she could take him so easily at his word, and something softer than anger because her youth and courage plucked at his heart and she was in danger. And for the matter of that so was he. He looked past her at Jake, and saw him with his eyes shut and a cigarette hanging crooked from the corner of his mouth. He might be asleep, or he might not. Probably not.

Peter laughed just under his breath and said, “Let us tell each other the story of our lives.”

“Thank you, it doesn't interest me,” said Terry. She set the dough aside and began to cut up the steak.

Peter sat on the corner of the table and watched her. He had no idea that cooking was such a complicated business. It seemed only fair to provide entertainment by the way.

“Shall I tell you about my first crime?”

“No, thank you.”

“A pity about that.
Tout comprendre, c'est tout pardonner
—to understand is to forgive. You're a little inclined to misjudge me, you know. In the matter of Mrs. Cresswell's pearls now—you simply jumped to the conclusion that I was going off with them.”

“Weren't you going off with them?”

Peter laughed.

“Miss Margesson would have been very much surprised if I had.”

“But she gave them to you.”

“Not to me, but to someone she was expecting by the name of Jimmy. As an alternative to Spike, I have been called Jimmy too, so when she said Jimmy and pushed the pearls into my hands I didn't know what to think, and before I could get going she ran away, and you came along and told me off.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“I don't know. You're young and innocent—you might.”

She flushed again, more vividly than before.

Peter leaned sideways and wrote with his finger on the spilled flour beyond the pastry-board: “Say your arm hurts.”

Terry said, “Why?”

He rubbed the flour smooth with the flat of his hand and wrote again: “Don't be a fool.”

Terry swept the words away with an indignant hand and went over to the range. She brought back a frying-pan with some melted fat, tipped the cut-up steak into it, and went back to the fire.

“I hope you're grateful to me, cooking for you like this. I feel a lot more like having my arm in a sling, I can tell you.”