The Hunter and the Trapped (22 page)

“They may or may not believe that. The modern assumption would be different. But if you're reassured about Penny, why come here in this state, frightening us out of our wits?”

Hubert made an impatient gesture. Mrs. Allingham, who had remained standing, moved to the door.

“You mustn't forget your clinic, William,” she said, calmly. “I'll tell the girl we're ready for lunch. Will you join us, Hubert?”

“No. No, thank you. I must go. I'm meeting a friend … I'm late already. The police caught me just as I was leaving.”

Mrs. Allingham had not waited to hear the end of his excuses. Hubert turned back quickly.

“Where's Di?”'

William moved away to the window. He stood there, gripping the curtain on either side, staring down into the street.

“She took the children back to school and decided to stay in Somerset over the weekend. The Allardyces have wanted her to go for some time. They asked us both earlier, but Mother was here.”

“Why didn't you go now?”

“Mother wanted to come up about some things for the cottage. I said I'd cope. Di's been very nervy lately. I thought it would do her good.”

“When's she due back?”

“Now,” said William, trying vainly to keep the anguish out of his voice. “She's due – overdue –
now!
”

It was fortunate he did not see his friend's face at this moment; the sudden comprehension, the quick gleam of surprise, of satisfaction, almost of pleasure. The pleasure of knowing that one's suspicions were justified. The voice William heard was quiet, sympathetic.

“Expected her for lunch, did you? Well, it's not very late yet, is it?”

“She's hardly ever later than the time she gives.”

“Cars …”

“I know all about cars.”

“You don't think – I've never liked to say anything about Di – But Fawcett …”

William swung round, breathing hard.

“You don't need to, now. You know what I'm thinking and I know what you're thinking. You'd better get out!”

They glared at each other, once more enemies, with the image of Simon Fawcett between them. Only now Diana had joined that image.

“I came here,” said Hubert, slowly, “‘to tell you what was on and to say that I had not given your name – or Di's – when the inspector asked for any friends of Fawcett's I happened to know. But last week they did see John at Portsmouth. So the name of Allingham is not altogether unknown to them.”

“Get out!” William repeated. “D'you think all that means anything to me at all?”

Diana's clear voice behind them said, “Well, isn't any one going to say hello?”

The two men swung round, William gave a gasping cry that sounded more like a sob and Hubert stammered a greeting.

“I'm late,” Diana went on. “You've got a clinic, haven't you? Why aren't you eating your lunch, Bill? Is Hubert staying?”

“No. I'm just off.”

“What have you two been nattering about? You look like a pair of schoolboys discovered exchanging smut in the loo. Arguing as usual, I suppose. Oh, I know the signs. Bill, you look so
worried!
”

She went up to him and he flung an arm round her and drew her close. “Did you think I wasn't coming back at all? Did you think I'd run away?”

Forgetting Hubert, he bent to kiss her, murmuring hoarsely, “Don't torture me! I can't stand it just now.”

She moved a gloved hand up to stroke the back of his head soothingly. It was a purely maternal gesture and Hubert, seeing it, and believing her false, was sickened.

“I can tell you who has run away,” he said, harshly. “Simon Fawcett.”

Diana, not moving from William, but drawing if anything a little closer, said, “What does he mean, Bill? Run away? Why? Where to?”

“No one knows,” William answered. “Only that he seems to have disappeared.”

Mrs. Allingham looked in through the open door.

“Lunch is – Oh, there you are, Diana! It isn't like you to be so late. William, if you don't come now, you'll be keeping all those poor patients of yours waiting.”

“Yes, hurry up and get started,” Diana said, giving him a little push. “I'll follow. Don't wait for me.”

William took Hubert by the arm and they went out together.

When Diana was alone she first shut the door, then picked up the telephone receiver and dialled. An indistinct man's voice answered.

“Simon?” she said, softly and then, getting no answer, more loudly, “Simon, is that you?”

“Who?” said the voice.

“Simon? Is that Simon?”

“No,” the voice repeated.

“Have I got the wrong number?” She recited it, puzzled, sure she had not made a mistake.

“That is the number here. Who did you want to speak to?”

“Mr. Fawcett. Is he in, please?”

Must be a friend of Simon's, but what a queer way of talking.

“Mr. Fawcett is not in. Who is speaking?”

At once she was on her guard. They had never slipped up yet, she and Simon. She was not going to begin now.

“Perhaps you would tell me who you are?” she said. “And when you expect Mr. Fawcett back?”

“I am a police officer,” the voice said, “and I must ask you to give me your name and address.”

Diana put down the receiver very quietly and stood staring at the instrument. Oh, God, she thought, what has he done? Where is he now and what has he done?

Diana lay on the sofa in her drawing room, with her eyes closed, exhausted by the strain of keeping up trivial conversation during lunch. Mrs. Allingham had been more than customarily tiresome: abstracted, solemn, unresponsive to the mildest of jokes. William, on the other hand, had been almost frighteningly cheerful and even frivolous. He had capped her little stories of amusing episodes at the Allardyces over the weekend with absurd tales of his own, mostly medical and not all funny. It was quite obvious to her that both he and his mother were suffering from a reaction to previous anxiety. It was also perfectly clear that the anxiety had been on her account. They had thought because she was half an hour late that she was not coming back. It was as bad as that. They had thought she had run off with Simon.

Simon. Released from the others, alone in her quiet drawing room, Diana let her thoughts run wild. Since his break with Penelope he had come back to her, as she had always known, in spite of her jealousy, that he would do. Not that he had ever quite neglected her. But she had resented shared favours, and had not tried to conceal this from him. Now he was more completely hers, she told herself, than he had ever been. But he had disappeared and all the small hints he had given her from time to time about his poverty, his cheap digs, his horrid neighbours, the dreadful charwoman with the old lag of a husband, all this floated back into her mind, with behind it the charwoman's murder and the police in Simon's flat.

The obvious conclusion was both possible and incredible, terrifying and absurd. Behind her closed eyelids in the darkened chamber of her imagination her thoughts whirled, lurid, beautiful, episodes of horror, scenes of bliss.

“Asleep, my darling?”

Simon's voice at her ear brought her upright on the couch, staring, gasping, almost ready to faint with shock. He was looking down at her with his ready smile lighting the haggard lines of his face, whose tan had turned a sickly yellow and which was streaked with grey dust from his wanderings.

Diana recovered herself quickly.

“Where on earth have you
been
?” she asked him in a frantic whisper. “What have you been
doing?
”

He took her hands to pull her to her feet and into his arms. His kiss was reassuring but his condition frightened her.

“Where have you been?” she repeated, still in a whisper. “Your clothes – straw – dirt – you smell awful! Why didn't you go home first for a bath and change?”

She said this, unthinking, and then remembered the police voice and clutched his arms.

“You couldn't go back there, could you?” she said. “You know they're there. Oh darling, my darling, what have you done? If it's money, I can lend …”

“It isn't money,” said Simon. He pulled her close again. “I came to you because I want you – I need you.”

It was the first time he had ever said that his dealings with her had been more than a benefit conferred, not received. She was deeply touched and as usual filled with desire by his presence.

“The girl's gone,” she said. “But Mrs. Allingham is here again. I've been away since Thursday. I don't think we can possibly …”

“Where is she?”

“At the moment in her bedroom, lying down, I expect, with the Times.”

“Then I will lie down in here – with you.”

They both laughed and went on giggling together as they undressed. He took her more roughly than ever before: there was more pain than pleasure for her in the act. It was over very quickly. Neither looking at the other, conscious of failure, they dressed again quickly. Diana was only just ready when the door bell rang.

Cold fear struck at her. She turned to Simon, who was standing strangely quiet by the wall near the door.

“You must go!” she said. “Go into the study while I let them in and then go down while I keep them in here.”

“Them?” he asked. “Who do you mean?” Then he took a step forward. “You knew I couldn't go home! How did you know?”

“I rang up.” Her mouth had gone dry: she was terrified. “When Bill and Hubert said you'd disappeared, I rang up, and the man who answered said he was – the police.”

“You rang up! Stupid, greedy as ever, thoughtless!”

The bell rang again.

“Go, go!” Diana urged, “I must answer it. You know I must.”

He followed her out of the room and went into the study, shutting the door behind him. Diana opened the front door and found Penelope and John outside.

Without a word all three moved into the drawing room.

“Has he been here?” John asked, quickly, as soon as the door was closed. He spoke in a low urgent voice, looking about him.

“He has been and has now gone,” Diana answered, exulting inwardly.

Penelope covered her face with her hands. John said, “You will have to tell the police that when they come.”

Diana looked at them both coldly. She had recovered herself and was now prepared to fight.

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“I think you do,” he answered.

Penelope, struggling to speak calmly, said, “Inspector Mont rang me up just now at the shop where I work. He asked me if I had tried to ring Simon at his flat. I said I hadn't. A little later John turned up at the shop.”

“This man Mont is in charge of the Morris case. He asked me some questions a few days ago. Friday, I think it was. Yes, Friday. He got my name from Hubert.”

“Damn Hubert!” said Diana, furiously. Hubert had always made things difficult for her, with his suspicions and his prejudices. “Damn him!”

“They're asking round, you see,” John went on, ignoring her outburst. “They were on to me yesterday again. That's why I'm here now. If they've contacted Hubert he'll most likely have given your name, yours and William's.”

“Simon has masses of other friends he may have spent the weekend with,” Diana said, knowing well from the state he was in that he had not done so.

“When was he here?” John insisted. “Don't you see the only way for you to keep out of it is to tell the truth about Simon's whereabouts? Make it appear you're a friend, but no more than a friend.”

So Penny had told John, the miserable little bitch.

“I can do without your insults,” she told John, glaring at the girl as she did so, “and Penny's squalid imagination, too. I'll tell the police nothing – nothing at all.”

“Bravo!” said Simon, from the doorway. Swift and silent-footed, as usual, he was inside the room before the three had realised his presence.

“If they come here,” he said, “I'll talk to them myself. I've nothing to hide. I rid the world of an evil pest, as I meant to do. As I was sent to do.”

He lifted his head, listening to applause and approval unheard by the other three.

They shrank away from his changed demeanour and voice. He appeared to them now as he had appeared to Mrs. Morris, remote, but compelling, exalted by his vision of personal greatness and personal power. John had already accepted this condition. Penelope, who had listened with horror to John's description of Simon's attack upon him, was prepared for these clear signs of madness. But Diana, whose passion blinded her to every abnormality, was simply frightened by her lover's recklessness and angry with him because he frightened her.

“I told you to go!” she cried, moving forward again and catching at his arm to lead him to the door. “Why are you still here? It's madness!”

A strange look of cunning came into Simon's dark eyes, replacing the haughty stare with which he had confronted them when he entered the room. He shook off Diana's propelling hand, giving her a smile so cold and so full of secret malice that even she was shaken and recoiled from him again. At that moment William came into the room, followed by Hubert.

When he saw Simon, Hubert said, “Ah!” on a lingering note of satisfaction, but William's eyes and thoughts were for Diana only.

“Thank God!” he said, and turning to John repeated, “Thank God you were here, John.”

Diana drew herself up.

“I don't know what you mean,” she said, on a high note of anger. “Why aren't you at the hospital?”

“Mrs. Stone phoned me there. She had seen Simon coming into the house.”

“Why should she do that? Of all the damned impertinence …”

“You don't understand.”

He glanced at Simon, who was standing perfectly still, looking at Hubert. The latter had gone to the telephone and was there with the receiver at his ear, having dialled Scotland Yard. Hubert nodded to John, who moved quietly to the door. William drew close to his wife and speaking in a low voice, continued, “Listen, Di. The Yard tried to ring me here, downstairs, so Mrs. Stone took the call. She told them where they could find me. I spoke to them from the hospital. They thought he might come here. I agreed that he was a friend of ours. I warned Mrs. Stone to look out for him, which she did. She couldn't get me at once. The hospital lines were engaged. When she did I collected Hubert and came.”