The Case Is Closed (15 page)

‘Then how do you know there were two men?’

Hilary put out the tip of her tongue and drew it back again.

‘Because they carried me. One of them had me by the shoulders, and the other one by the knees. Besides — one of them spoke — I told you. He said, “Be quick — we’ll make a job of it!” And he wasn’t talking to me!’

‘Did you know his voice?’

Hilary said ‘No’ with heartfelt regret. It would have been so nice and easy if it had been Mercer’s voice and she could have sworn to it. But it wasn’t, and she couldn’t, so she had to say so. As a matter of fact this did her good with Henry, because if she had dreamed the whole thing she would probably have tacked the voice on to Mercer.

He frowned and said, ‘You only heard one man speak?’

‘That’s all. But there were two of them carrying me, and they dumped me face downwards in the road and got into the car again to run me over.’

Henry stiffened perceptibly. A beastly dream if it was a dream. And if it wasn’t… He felt as if he was walking in the dark upon a road which might at any moment collapse. A preliminary tremor stirred the very ground upon which his foot rested, and at the next step he might become aware of an opening gulf. If Hilary’s life had really been attempted, there must be some strong motive behind the attempt. If the attempt had failed, the motive remained. If it was strong enough to impel murder once, would it not be strong enough again? He wished with all his heart he could be sure that it was all a dream.

He looked down at the stains on the front of Hilary’s dress and coat. She said that they had put her down on her face in the road. Her jumper was stained right up to the throat. He knew what he wanted to believe, but there is no help in believing what isn’t true. He said,

‘Who do you think the two men were? Have you any idea?’

‘Yes, of course I have. I think one of them was Mercer.’

‘But not the one you heard speak?’

‘No, not that one.’

‘Mercer wouldn’t have a car.’

He was arguing as if the thing was true instead of being fantastic.

‘Oh no — the car belonged to the other man. It was a big car.’ She gave a little shudder as she remembered it rushing down upon her. Then she said in a defiant voice, ‘It was Bertie Everton’s car. I’m sure it was.’

‘What makes you say that? What have you got to go on?’

‘Nothing — I’m just sure. And he did come round to the shop on purpose to tell you Mrs. Mercer was mad after she’d talked to me in the train.’

Henry felt a most overwhelming relief. He had very nearly swung over to believing in Hilary’s villains, but thank goodness he had been pulled up in time. The whole thing was fantastic. On this point at least he could bring proof.

‘Look here, Hilary, you mustn’t go saying things like that — you’ll be getting yourself into trouble. And you’re wrong — it couldn’t have been Bertie Everton because he was in London.’

‘Oh — did you see him?’

‘No, but Marion did.’

‘What?’

‘Marion saw him. You know you told me to ring her up and say I was bringing you home. Well, he’d just left her then. She was in a white rage about it. He rang her up at her shop. She only just managed to choke him off coming there, I gather, and when she got back to the flat he was waiting for her. So you see —you mayn’t like Bertie Everton, but he didn’t try and run you down. He’s got a perfectly good alibi.’

Hilary lifted her head with a jerk.

‘I think Bertie Everton has too many alibis,’ she said.

Marion was still in a cold rage when they arrived at the flat. A hot anger would have been so much easier to meet. When you love someone and they look at you as if they had never seen you before and never want to see you again, it does rather take the edge off coming home.

Hilary subsided on to the floor in front of the fire. There was a chair to lean against. She folded her arms on the seat and pillowed her head upon them. Henry, in the open doorway, was very well aware that he hadn’t heen asked to come in, and that he was not expected to stay.

Marion had walked to the window. As she turned, Henry came in and shut the door. With a lift of her eyebrows, she said,

‘I think Hilary ought to go to bed.’

Hilary said nothing. Henry said,

‘I think you’d better hear what she’s got to say first. It concerns you — quite a lot.’

‘Not tonight. I’ve had one visitor already, and I’ve run out of polite conversation.’

‘So I gather.’

‘Then will you please go, Henry.’

‘Not just now.’

Without lifting her head Hilary spoke in a muffled voice.

‘Please, Marion.’

Marion Grey took no notice.

‘I really want you to go,’ she said.

Henry leaned against the door. He had his hat in his hand.

‘Just a minute, Marion. And I think you’d better listen, because — well, I think you had better. Hilary’s had a very narrow escape.’

She took him up there and echoed the word.

‘Escape. From what?’

‘Being murdered,’ said Hilary in a mournful, muffled tone.

Marion turned her head sharply.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Being murdered. I nearly was. Henry can tell you — I’m too tired.’

Marion looked from one to the other. She saw Henry’s brows drawn together, frowning. She saw the look in his eyes as they rested on Hilary’s untidy curls. Something melted in her. She let herself down into a chair and said,

‘All right, Henry, say your piece.’

Henry said it. The odd thing was that repeating Hilary’s story gave him the feeling that it was true. He continued to assert that he was not convinced, but as he told her tale he found himself endeavouring to convince Marion, and in the end he didn’t know whether he had convinced her or not. He simply didn’t know. She was leaning her head on her hand. Her eyes were screened. Her gaze was turned inward upon her own guarded thoughts.

‘The heart knoweth its own bitterness, and a stranger intermeddleth not with its grief.’ She was not angry now, but she was stilt cold. There was no warmth in her. When he had finished she sat silent, and when the silence had gone on too long Henry broke it bluntly.

‘You’ve had Bertie Everton here. Hilary thinks he was one of the men who tried to do her in. It’s quite unreasonable, but she does think so — there you are. I think you’ve got to tell her what time he rang you up, and when he rolled up here, and how long he stayed. Hilary seems to think it’s rather compromising to have an alibi, but the fellow can’t have been in two places at once.’

‘I didn’t say he could,’ said Hilary in a buried voice. Then she lifted her head about an inch. ‘An alibi isn’t being in two places at once — it’s doing a crime in one place and pretending you were somewhere else.’

Henry burst out laughing.

‘When did you make that up?’

‘Just now,’ said Hilary, and dropped her head again.

Marion said, without looking at either of them,

‘He rang me up about five o’clock. I was showing some models which had just come in. We sold three of them. It was just after five — I heard the clock strike as I came out of the showroom.’

‘Did he say where he was calling you from?’

‘No. He must have been in town though, because he suggested coming round to Harriet’s, and when I said he couldn’t possibly, he said he’d go to the flat and wait for me. He was here when I got back.’

‘And what time would that be?’

‘Some time after seven. I told him I should be late—I thought it might put him off.’

‘What did he want?’ said Hilary to the chair.

Marion stiffened. Her hand dropped. Her eyes blazed.

‘I don’t know how he dared to come here and talk about Geoff!’

‘What did he say?’ said Hilary quickly.

‘Nothing. I don’t know why he came. He had some rambling story about having met someone who had seen Geoff get off the bus the evening James was shot, but he didn’t seem to know who the man was, and it didn’t seem to add anything to the evidence. Anyhow, it couldn’t do any good now. I don’t know why he came.’

‘I do.’ Hilary sat up and pushed back her hair. ‘He did it to have an alibi. If he could get you to believe that he was in London all the afternoon, well then he couldn’t be murdering me on the Ledstow road —could he?’ Her hair stood up in little fluffy curls. Her no-coloured eyes were as bright as a tomtit’s.

‘But, my blessed darling child!’ said Henry. He laughed. ‘You’re a bit groggy about alibis tonight. Have you any idea what time you had your smash?’

She considered.

‘Well, I hadn’t got a watch, and it wouldn’t have been any good if I had because of the fog and being dark, but I had tea at the pub in Ledstow because it was tea-time, and it wasn’t dark then — only foggy and Novemberish. And I suppose I was there about half an hour, so should think it was about five when I saw Mercer and bolted. And after that I don’t know how long I was. It seemed ages, because I had to keep getting off my bicycle — the fog was simply lying about in lumps. It’s very difficult to say, but I should think the smash was somewhere getting on for half past five.’

‘Well, then, with the worst will in the world, it couldn’t have been Bertie Everton who ran you down if he was in London telephoning to Marion at five o’clock.’

Hilary wrinkled her nose.

‘If,’ she said.

‘Well, Marion says it was five o’clock.’

Marion nodded.

‘I heard the clock strike.’

‘I’m sure he telephoned at five o’clock,’ said Hilary. ‘He meant to —it was part of his alibi. He knew very well that Marion wouldn’t let him come round to Harriet’s, and he could telephone from Ledstow or from an A.A. box and she’d never think for a minute that he wasn’t ringing up from his rooms in town. That’s how you do alibis if you’re a criminal. I should have been very good at it.’

‘And suppose she had said, “All right, come along”?’

‘She wouldn’t. Marion never lets anyone go anywhere near Harriet’s. She’d get the sack if she did. He could bank on that.’

Marion looked hard at her.

‘Well, then what happened? This is your story. What happened next?’

‘Well, he must have picked up Mercer at the pub. And after they’d tried to kill me and I’d got away, I think he just stamped on the gas like mad, because he was bound to get back to London and finish up his alibi. I expect he shed Mercer in Ledlington, and then he either just got a train by the skin of his teeth, or else drove on like fury up the London road. I looked up trains while I was waiting for Henry, and there’s a five-forty from Ledlington that gets in at seven. It’s a non-stop theatre train. He could have caught that, and it would account for their not going on looking for me any longer than they did. You see, he’d simply got to have that alibi if I escaped. But I don’t really think he went by train, because he wouldn’t want to leave his car in a Ledlington garage and have someone remembering about it afterwards.’

‘An hour and a half from Ledlington would be pretty good going in a fog,’ said Henry. ‘I don’t believe it can be done.’

Hilary tossed back her hair.

‘You wait till you’ve tried to murder someone and you’ve got to have an alibi to save you, and then you just see if you can’t break a record or two. Even people who aren’t making alibis go blinding along in a fog — you know they do.’

Marion spoke again.

‘It must have been quite ten past seven before I got back. Mrs. Lestrange and Lady Dolling didn’t go away until twenty past six, and then we’d all the models to put away, and Harriet wanted to tell me about her brother’s engagement, and there was the fog. It never takes me less than half an hour to get back.’ She looked at Henry. ‘What time was it when you rang me up?’

‘Oh, it was after half past seven. I was ringing up from the station just before my train went.’

‘There!’ said Hilary, ‘he’d have had plenty of time. I told you so. And I think’ —she sat bolt upright and clasped her knees — ‘I think we ought to get a detective on to that other alibi of his, because I’m quite sure he made that up too, and if he did, a really clever detective would be able to find him out. Marion —’

‘No,’ said Marion.

Hilary scrambled up, ran across, and caught her by the hand.

‘Don’t say no, darling — don’t don’t, don’t! It couldn’t do any harm. It couldn’t hurt Geoff. Marion, don’t say no! I know you can’t bear to have it all raked up — I know exactly how you feel —but won’t you let Henry have the file and go through it with someone? Geoff didn’t do it. There’s some devil at the back of this who has made it look as if he did, but he didn’t — I know he didn’t.’

Marion pushed her away and got up. Without a look or an answer she went to the door, opened it, and went out. It closed behind her. They heard her bedroom door close too.

Hilary ran to the chest, flung up the lid and came running back with the file in her outstretched hands.

‘Here it is! Take it and fly! Quick — before she comes back and says you’re not to!’

Hilary woke up in the dark. One minute she was very fast asleep, plunged in the drowning depths where no dreams come, and the next minute she was clear awake and a little frightened, with the night air coming in smoky and cold through the open window. The curtain was pulled right back, but the room was dark. There was a middle-of-the-night sort of feeling. But if it was still the middle of the night, she could only have been asleep for a very little time, because it was well after midnight when she got into bed.

Something had waked her, she didn’t know what. Something had frightened her awake. She had come up with a rush out of the deep places of her sleep, and she had waked afraid. But she didn’t know what she was afraid of.

She got out of bed, went softly to the door, and opened it. The sitting-room door was open too. The light shone through it into the hall, and in the lighted room Marion was talking to someone in a low, desperate voice. Hilary heard her say,

‘Why don’t you tell me you did it? I’d rather know.’

And with that she went back and sat on the edge of her bed, and didn’t know what to do next. Marion — at this hour! Who was she talking to? Who could she possibly be talking to? It just didn’t fit in —it wasn’t true —Marion wouldn’t. It w.asn’t any good your eyes and ears telling you the sort of things you simply couldn’t believe.

Well, if you didn’t believe this, what did you do next?

Hilary got up, put on her dressing-gown, and crossed the hall. The sitting-room door stood open about halfway. Without touching it or pushing it she stood by the left-haud jamb and looked into the room.

There was no one there but Marion Grey. She was in her nightgown. Its pale green colour made her look even paler than she was. Her hair hung loose — fine, waving, black hair that touched her shoulders and then turned up in something which was not quite a curl. In this soft frame her face had a young, tormented look. Its mask of indifference and pride was down. Her eyes brimmed with tears. Her lips were soft. They trembled. She was kneeling on the hearth, her hands spread out to the fire that had died an hour ago.

Hilary felt as if her heart would break with pity and relief.

She said, ‘Darling — ’ just under her breath, and Marion said in a low voice of pain,

‘You don’t tell me. I could bear it if I knew — if I knew why. There must have been a reason —you wouldn’t have done it without a reason. Geoff, you wouldn’t! Geoff —Geoff’

Hilary caught her breath. Marion wasn’t talking to her, she was talking to Geoff. And Geoff was in Dartmoor.

She began to plead with Geoffrey Grey whose body was in Dartmoor but whose visible image moved and spoke in her dream. She put up a hand as if to hold him.

‘Geoff—Geoff—why don’t you tell me? You see, I know. She told me — that daily woman. You didn’t know about her. But she came back. She had dropped something in the study and she came back for it, and she heard you talking — quarrelling. And she heard what James said. She heard him say, “My own nephew!” and she heard the shot. So you see, I know; It won’t make any difference if you tell me now — they won’t hang you now. She won’t tell —she promised she wouldn’t tell. Geoff, don’t you see that I’ve got to know? It’s killing me!’ She got up from her knees and began to walk in the room, to and fro, bare foot and silent, with the tears running down her face. She did not speak again, but once in a while she sighed.

Hilary did not know how to bear it. She didn’t know what to do. That sighing breath was more piteous than any sob. She was afraid too of waking Marion, and she was afraid to let her go on dreaming this sorrowful dream.

And then Marion turned from walking up and down and came towards the door. Hilary had only just time to get out of the way. She would not have had time if Marion’s hand, stretched out before her, had not gone to the switch. With a click the light went out. The bulb glowed for a moment and faded into darkness. Marion’s fingers touched Hilary on the cheek — a cold, cold, icy touch which left her shivering.

Hilary stood quite still, and heard no sound at all. It was very frightening to be touched like that in the dark and hear no sound. It needed an effort to go back to her own room and put on the light. She could see then that Marion’s door was ajar, but the crack showed no light there. She took a candle, pushed the door softly, and looked in. Marion was in bed with the clothes pulled round her and only her dark head showing against the pillow.

Hilary shut the door and went back to bed shaking with cold. As soon as she got warm she went to sleep, and as soon as she was asleep she began to dream. She dreamt that she was talking to Mrs. Mercer in a railway carriage, only instead of being an ordinary railway carriage it had a counter down one side of it. Mrs. Mercer stood behind the counter measuring something on one of those fixed yard measures which they have in draper’s shops. Hilary stood on the other side of the counter and wondered what she was doing. She could see everything else in the dream quite plainly, but the stuff in Mrs. Mercer’s hands kept slipping, and changing, and dazzling so that she couldn’t see what it was, so she asked — and her own voice frightened her because it boomed like a bell — ‘What are you measuring?’ And Mrs. Mercer said, with the stuff slipping, and sliding, and shimmering between her hands, ‘That’s just my evidence, Miss Hilary Carew.’

In her dream Hilary said, ‘Do you sell evidence? I didn’t know it was allowed.’ And Mrs. Mercer answered and said, ‘I sold mine.’ Then Hilary said, ‘What did you sell it for?’ And Mrs. Mercer said, ‘For something I’d have given my soul to get.’ And then she began to sob and cry, and to say, ‘It wasn’t worth it — it wasn’t worth it, Miss Hilary Carew.’ And all at once Alfred Mercer came along dressed like a ticket-collector, only somehow he was the shop-walker as well. And he took a breadknife out of his trouser pocket and said in a loud fierce voice, ‘Goods once paid for cannot be returned.’ And Hilary was so frightened about the bread-knife that she ran the whole way down the train and all up the Fulham Road. And just as she got to Henry’s shop a car ran over her and she woke up.