The Blind Side (4 page)

CHAPTER V

Peter Renshaw came into the Ducks and Drakes and looked about him for the party he had promised to join. If it was stuffy and hot outside in the London streets, it was a great deal hotter and stuffier here. He told himself that it was an act of complete lunacy to go to a night-club in the middle of an August heat-wave. No collar on earth would stand the strain.

He looked across the dancing-floor and saw no sign of the Nelsons. What he did see was Mavis Grey sitting alone at one of the small tables. She had on an extravagantly cut dress cut of some silver stuff. A ridiculous little bag of the same stuff lay on the table beside her. Mavis was looking down at it, playing with the linked handle, snapping the clasp first shut, then open, and then shut again. She had not seen him, and he had no desire to be seen by her. If the Nelsons didn't turn up in five minutes, he meant to be off. In fact the more he thought about it the weaker he felt about giving them as much as five minutes.

Pat on the thought the party arrived—three Nelsons, a sister of Paula's, a brother of Tony's, and a red-haired girl, all hot, all hearty, all game for a couple of hours dancing. His fate was sealed, the collar must take its chance.

He took the floor, first with Paula, and then with the red-haired girl, an artless creature on her first visit to London. She had been sight-seeing hard all day and was full of information about St. Paul's, the National Gallery, and the Houses of Parliament. Peter was able to dance quite peacefully without having to supply any conversation. A vague encouraging sound at remote intervals was all that was required to keep the ball rolling.

Mavis passed them in Ross Craddock's arms—very literally in his arms. His head was bent over hers, and it was he who was doing the talking. Mavis, with her eyes cast down, seemed neither to speak nor to listen. She floated on as if she were in a dream, dark lashes against lovely tinted cheeks, dark hair in a mass of curls caught up with a silver flower. They passed again before the music stopped. This time she lifted her eyes and looked at Peter without surprise, as if she had known all along that he was there. But there was something more in the look than that. It said, “Please, Peter.”

Peter Renshaw frowned. If Mavis thought she could run him in a string with Ross Craddock she would have to think again. He wasn't asking for a row with Ross. The fact was, they had never been on very good terms, and the more they saw of one another the worse the terms were likely to be. He gave Mavis an aloof smile, and wondered where Bobby Foster was, and whether Mavis was just playing him up, or what. Perhaps she really liked Ross—there was no accounting for tastes. Perhaps she only thought she liked him because Lucinda kept telling her she mustn't.

He detached himself from a problem in which he felt no particular interest and listened in a faraway manner to the red-haired girl's description of the Tower of London. Her name was Maud Passinger, and she described everything in detail and with immense enthusiasm.

Some time during the next dance he found himself close to Mavis in a jam. She said in her pretty, empty voice,

“Oh, Peter, I never see you.”

To which he replied,

“Well, here I am. Take a good long, satisfying look. It costs you nothing.”

Mavis's dark eyes opened wide. Her lips parted in a small puzzled smile.

“Well, you know what I mean.”

“Not in the least, darling.”

“Oh, Peter!”

Paula Nelson was talking heartily to the next couple in the jam.

“Where's Ross?” said Peter.

“He saw a man he wanted to speak to. Peter, aren't you going to ask me to dance?”

“No, my child.”

“Oh, Peter—why?”

“Ross appears to have staked out a claim. I am too young to die.”

She laughed her tripping laugh at that, and said,

“Silly!” Then, in a patronizing voice, “Are you afraid Ross would hurt you?”

“Perhaps I'm afraid I might hurt Ross.”

And with that Paula was saying,

“Aren't we going to dance any more? Do you know who that was that I was talking to? Well, it was a girl I was at school with, and she was so fat we used to call her ‘Twice round the Gasworks.' And now look at her. She swears she's only thirty-four round the hips. And that's her husband, and they're over from Kenya, but they'll have to go back again. I do wonder how she's done it. You know, I'd like to be thin, but I just can't be bothered about a diet, and one person tells you nothing but boiled milk, and another says oranges and tomatoes—and I can't bear tomatoes—can you? But perhaps you like them. Such a lot of people seem to, but personally I think they're horrid.”

Paula's talk went on and on and on. She had nursed him through a baddish bout of fever, and he felt properly grateful. Beneath the paralyzing dullness of the present moment ran a steady current of affection. He bore up until the party dispersed, and then thankfully retrieved his hat.

A last look back into the room showed him that Mavis and Ross were still together. They were not dancing now, but sitting out under an electric fan. The light just overhead shone through a many-coloured prism upon Mavis's silver dress and the champagne in her glass. Marvellous heads girls had nowadays, but it looked to him as if she had had just about enough. Perhaps a little more. Anyhow it was none of his business.

On the steps he collided with a large young man who said “Sorry,” and then clutched him.

“Peter!”

He surveyed Bobby Foster without enthusiasm. The clutch became a bruising grip.

“Peter! Is she still in there?”

Peter's diagnosis was that Bobby had had quite as much to drink as he could carry, and that he was spoiling for a scene. He slipped a hand inside his arm and began to walk away.

“Who is in where?” he enquired soothingly.

Bobby stopped dead and struck an attitude.

“Do you know that she was coming out with me, and when I went to fetch her she'd gone with that—that—”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” said Peter, most untruthfully.

A hand like a ham came down upon his shoulder. Most of Bobby Foster's weight appeared to be resting upon it. He swayed on a pair of unsteady legs and said in a broken voice,

“Mavis—he's stolen her—cut in on me and stolen her—I can't give her champagne—like Craddock—”

Peter frowned. He remembered the dazzle of lights on Mavis's glass. What a dratted nuisance girls were. Bobby was a good fellow if a bit of an ass. He couldn't possibly be allowed to go barging into the Ducks and Drakes in the sort of state he was in. A complete toss-up as to whether he would give Ross a black eye or weep on Mavis's shoulder. Either proceeding was bound to create a scandal.

“Look here, Bobby,” he said, “it's simply foul in there—Black Hole of Calcutta isn't in it—temperature about ninety-six and still going up. What you want is nice fresh air. You come along with me. If you feel you've got to, you can tell me all about it.”

Bobby took no notice.

“I'll knock his head off!” he said in alarmingly loud tones. “Knock it right off and kick it into the gutter!” His voice rose to a bellow. “Shooting's too good for him—that's what I say! The dirty swab! Ouch!” He sprang back with extraordinary agility, managed to retain his balance, and demanded with indignation, “What'd you do that for?”

“It's nothing to what I'll do if you don't stop making such a row.”

Mr. Robert Foster nursed his left arm, made several attempts to pronounce the word jujitsu, and fell back upon “Damned dirty trick!”

“Apologize or I won't go another step. Do you get that? Apologize!”

The fact that he could pronounce these four syllables without a tremor appeared to please him so much that he went on doing it.

“You know, if I were you I should go home,” said Peter.

“Would you?”

“Yes—and I'd go to bed.”

Bobby stared at him with round, blank eyes.

“You'd go home?”

“Yes.”

“And go to bed?”

“Yes, I would.”

Mr. Robert Foster became suddenly overcome with emotion.

“Ah, but then you haven't lost the only girl you ever loved. And I have. And I've not only lost her, I've had her stolen from me. And by a dirty swab with pots of money. Pots, and pots, and pots of money. And what I say is, shooting's too good for him.” He dropped suddenly back into the common-place. “And now I'll go home.”

“Yes, I should,” said Peter with relief.

Having got Bobby into a taxi before he could change his mind, he continued on his way.

It was a little short of twelve o'clock when he got back to Craddock House. Mary Craddock's Dresden china clock was striking the hour as he came into the flat and shut the outside door with a bang.

CHAPTER VI

It was more than an hour later that he waked with great suddenness. Waked, or was awakened? For the moment he wasn't sure, but the more he thought about it the more it came to him that something had waked him up. He put on the light and looked about him. The clock made it half past one.

He got up and looked into the sitting-room. There were some heavy portraits there. One of them might have fallen. That was the impression that he had brought with him out of his sleep—a crash—something heavy falling. But old David Craddock in neckcloth and whiskers still gloomed between the windows; his wife, Elizabeth, stood stiff in puce brocade; whilst over the mantelpiece his daughters, Mary and Elinor, in white muslin and blue ribbons, played with an artificial woolly lamb.

He went back to the bedroom and listened. He could hear nothing, but that impression of having heard some loud and unfamiliar sound was very strong. The bed stood with its head against the wall which separated this flat from the next. Ross Craddock's sitting-room lay on the other side of it. If something had crashed in that room it might very easily have waked him from his sleep.

A crash—yes, that was what it had been. The impression was getting stronger all the time. He hesitated for a moment, and then went to the outer door and opened it. A light burned on the landing all night long. Rather a dingy light, but sufficient to show him the empty lift-shaft, two flights of stairs, one up, one down, and the perfectly bare landing with Lucy Craddock's door facing him across it, and Ross Craddock's door on his right facing the entrance to the lift. There wasn't the slightest sound of anything stirring. The whole great block might have been uninhabited except for himself.

He was just stepping back, when the door of Ross's flat was wrenched open and Mavis Grey ran out. Her silver dress was torn. She tripped and stumbled over it as she ran, and it tore again. Before Peter had any idea what she was going to do she had flung herself into his arms, and before he had time to say more than “What on earth—” Ross Craddock stood in the open doorway staring at them.

He stared, and he stood there swaying as if he were drunk. Peter thought he was drunk. And there was Mavis shuddering in his arms. He said,

“Look here, hold up. What's happened?”

She was clutching him and sobbing violently.

“Oh, Peter! Oh, don't let him touch me!”

Peter said, “It's like that, is it? What have you done to her? Mavis, pull yourself together. Has he hurt you?”

“Of course I haven't,” said Ross.

He laughed in a confused sort of way. He had one hand on his head. He dropped it now and held it out palm upwards. The palm was darkly stained. Blood ran down his face from a cut above the eye. He laughed again and said heavily,

“I was the one that got hurt.”

“Well, we can't have a scene about it here,” said Peter. “Come in if you've anything to say.”

Mavis sobbed and clung to him.

Ross said, “Thank you, I've had enough.” He stood there and watched them, swaying.

Peter stepped back and banged his door. He was in a state of pure rage. This
would
happen as soon as Lucy had gone away. And a bit of pure luck if no one had heard Mavis sob. She had made enough noise over it in all conscience. He removed her arms from about his neck, put her firmly into Mary Craddock's big armchair, and said,

“You'd better tell me what's happened.”

Mavis let her head fall back against the magenta cushion and closed her eyes.

“Something to drink—” she said faintly.

Peter brought her cold water. She revived sufficiently to register indignation.

“I don't call water something to drink!”

“If you'd stuck to the water-wagon you wouldn't be here tonight,” said Peter grimly.

Mavis shuddered. She was suddenly young and disarming.

“You don't seem to notice what a lot you're drinking when everyone's doing it too, but it does make you do things you wish you hadn't afterwards—doesn't it?”

“It has been known to.”

She leaned forward.

“But I wouldn't have come here tonight if I'd known Aunt Lucy had gone—oh, Peter, I really wouldn't. He said she'd put off going—something to do with business. And he said it was so late, why not come back here and get her to put me up? Because the Greys do fuss most frightfully if I'm not in before twelve. And I didn't know she'd gone till I got here, and then he said he'd made a mistake.”

“It's the sort of mistake he'd be likely to make—isn't it?”

Mavis looked puzzled.

“I don't see how he could. Do you? Not really. I mean he couldn't have thought she had put off going unless she had told him so herself—I mean there couldn't have been any mistake. And anyhow everyone always knows everything that's going on in these flats.”

Peter looked piously at the ceiling.

“Let's hope, my dear, that everyone doesn't know what's been going on tonight.”

“Oh!” said Mavis on a shocked breath. And then, hopefully, “But they're nearly all away, aren't they?”