Trusted Like The Fox (23 page)

Dr Safki poked his head and shoulders through the window, but he made no further effort to come in.

“Where is he?” he whispered, his great black eyes rolling, the whites gleaming.

“Damn you,” Ellis snarled. “You scared me out of my wits. What do you want? Why do you come sneaking up to the window like that?”

“Ssshush!” Dr Safki hissed fearfully. “He’ll hear us. Keep your voice down. I saw her. I heard what he said, so I came back to warn you.”

Ellis became instantly alert, his own fear dropping from him.

“What do you mean?” he demanded, leaning forward. “Warn me about what?”

“Him,” Dr Safki said, looking towards the door. “I knew what he was up to the moment he said she was Julie Brewer. You must get her away from here. Do you understand? Whatever happens you must get her away from here.”

“But why?” Ellis asked. The dread in the little doctor’s face was contagious. “Speak out, can’t you? Tell me. What’s he going to do?”

The fat face grimaced; the fat shoulders shuddered.

“I can’t tell you,” Dr Safki whispered. “I can’t tell you anything. But I beg you to get her away from here. Whatever you do, get her away.” He leaned over the window-sill and waved his pudgy hands at Ellis imploringly. “Don’t leave them alone tonight. It’s the night that’s dangerous: darkness, silence, sleep . . . there’s the danger.”

Ellis cursed him.

“Speak out, can’t you? What will he do?”

A light step sounded outside the door.

Ellis and Dr Safki became rigid.

“Don’t leave him alone with her tonight,” Dr Safki whispered imploringly, and then dropped out of sight as the door opened.

“All alone?” Crane asked as he entered the room. “I thought I heard you talking.”

“I’m alone,” Ellis said between his teeth, waited.

Crane glanced round the room, looked at Ellis with a half-smile.

“You’ve been alone practically all day, haven’t you?” he said. “Feel like some company for a while?”

He wandered to the open window, looked out, his hands clasped behind his back.

Ellis stared at the starched cuff of Crane’s evening shirt, saw a red smear on the white, glossy surface and suddenly felt sick.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

“I suppose you did that yourself?” Crane said, pointing to the scar on Ellis’s face. “That needed courage. I don’t think I should have valued my life so highly as to suffer pain and disfigurement. You’re a funny little man, aren’t you?”

Ellis snarled at him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “Why can’t you leave me alone? I’m ill. Can’t you see I’m ill?”

Crane moved away from the window, pulled up a chair close to the bed and sat down.

“When I was in the R.A.F. I used to listen to your broadcasts in the Mess. We all did. You gave us something to laugh at,” he went on. “You did talk the most utter tripe, didn’t you? I suppose they gave you the stuff and you just spouted it. What did they pay you, Cushman? Tell me about it. I’m interested.”

“I’m not Cushman,” Ellis repeated, cold sweat on his forehead. “What gives you that idea?”

Crane smiled. “It’s your voice,” he said. “It’s unmistakable. Why are you frightened? I’m not going to give you away. I don’t believe in this so-called justice. After all, it’s only another form of revenge. You’re harmless now, Cushman. There’s nothing you can do except run and hide. If I handed you over to the police they’d hang you. What’s the point of that? You’re entitled to your dreary little life. I don’t believe you realised what you were doing. You haven’t the intelligence to work anything out for yourself. I suppose you were browned off with the Army; the Huns offered you a cushy job; you thought they were on the winning side, so you threw in with them. Any weak- minded fool without a sense of duty or a feeling for his country would have done the same.” He laughed suddenly, throwing back his head. “I’m the last person to talk about a sense of duty. We’ve all a traitor within us. Do you remember what Safki said? I don’t believe in law and order. I believe we should all have an opportunity to work out our own destinies. I think it is dangerous to curtail an emotion, to suppress any so-called criminal impulse. I believe that it causes harm to one’s being to attempt to sublimate sex. I don’t believe in right and wrong. I think they are man-invented in order to run this hidebound social system of ours successfully. We’re supposed to have free will; well, then let’s have it. If someone steals my overcoat, I’ll steal someone else’s overcoat. If someone murders my brother, I’ll murder his sister. Don’t you agree?”

“What’s the idea?” Ellis said, glaring at him. “I tell you I’m not Cushman. I’m David Ellis; so shut up talking rot and leave me alone.”

“You disappoint me,” Crane said, shaking his head. “I thought my philosophy of life would intrigue you. Most people think I’m joking when I talk like that, but I’m not. The trouble with you is you’re scared. You set a value on your miserable little life. All you’re worrying about is saving your neck. I’m not going to give you away. Come on, admit it. You’re Cushman, aren’t you?”

“I’m not!” Ellis said viciously, sitting up in bed, his eyes wild. “I tell you I’m not.”

“Safki was out there a moment ago, wasn’t he?” Crane said suddenly. “I saw him cross the lawn from the other window.”

Ellis stiffened.

“Talk — talk — talk,” he said angrily. “That’s all you do. First it’s one thing; then it’s another. I’m not going to listen to you.”

“He told you to get her out of the way, didn’t he?” Crane went on. There was a jeering expression in his eyes. “But how can you? You can’t get yourself out of here, let alone her.”

Ellis clenched his fists furiously. He wanted to sink his nails in the fleshy, sneering face.

“You leave her alone,” he said, struggling to keep his voice steady. “I’ll fix you if you touch her.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Crane said, taking out his cigarette-case. “You can’t do anything. Even if you could stand you wouldn’t have an earthly with me. I could break your back across my knee without turning a hair.” He took a cigarette, offered the case to Ellis.

White with rage, Ellis struck the case from his hand. The case shot across the room, and cigarettes spilled on to the carpet.

“You have got rotten manners,” Crane said reprovingly. He lit his cigarette, dropped the match out of the open window. “Why can’t you discuss all this without getting into a wool? I’ve been looking forward all day to talking to you. For goodness sake, man, relax and behave like a normal human being.”

Ellis controlled himself.

“You’re up to some dirty game,” he said. “But I warn you, if you hurt her I’ll make you pay for it.”

“There’s nothing you can do. There’s nothing poor Safki can do either. I know too much about both of you,” Crane returned, leaning back in his chair and smiling. “If he gives me away, I’ll give him away. He knows what’s going to happen, but he’s powerless to stop it because he values his hide too much. You’ll be in a similar position. The way this is working out amuses me. You see, I don’t care what happens to myself. I know, sooner or later, someone will find out what’s going on, and then I shall be for it, but I’m having a grand run for my money and I’m going on until I’m caught.” He blew a cloud of smoke to the ceiling, grinned at Ellis. “I don’t put a value on my life: not like you and Safki. If I was told I was going to die tomorrow I wouldn’t give a damn. It’s the immediate present that matters: the future is too uncertain. I’ve always lived like that, and as I get older I care less what’ll happen to me.”

Ellis eased himself further down in the bed. He was puzzled; scared, not knowing how to deal with this man.

“Can’t you speak out?” he said at last. “You’re talking in riddles. What have you done? What are you going to do?”

Crane laughed. “Getting curious at last, are you?” he said. “Well, it’s only fair that as I’ve enough on you to get you hanged you should have the same advantage over me. I don’t care if you give me away, Cushman, but you’d care a great deal if I gave you away, wouldn’t you?”

“I’m not Cushman,” Ellis said obstinately. “I keep telling you that.”

“You’re so afraid of your mean, rotten life, aren’t you? And so’s Safki. You’re both rather slimy little people. You’re a traitor and Safki’s a clumsy, unsuccessful abortionist. He has four deaths on his conscience.”

Ellis then realised why Safki was frightened to speak out. So that was it, he thought. Crane had him where he wanted him: had Ellis where he wanted him too.

“You talk too much,” was all he said. “If I was Cushman, and I’m not, I wouldn’t tell you. What do you think I am — crazy?”

“They’ll have your fingerprints,” Crane said, shrugging his massive shoulders. “I have only to call the police and tell them I think you’re Cushman. They’d check up quick enough as soon as they heard your voice. Would you like me to do that?”

Ellis snarled at him.

“Can’t you leave me alone? If I am Cushman, what does it matter to you?”

“Ethically, nothing at all,” Crane replied, stubbing out his cigarette on the window-sill. “But as a materialist, I am interested. You see I have to be reasonably sure that you can’t make things difficult for me. If I know you are Cushman, then I hold the whip hand. Now, I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll telephone Major-General Franklin-Steward. He’s the Chief Constable. I know him well, and I can ask him for a description of Cushman. I might even hint I know where he can put his hands on him. Old Franklin-Steward is a regular war-horse when he’s roused. He loathes traitors and would come after you like a shot. Suppose I do that and then we’ll know how we stand?”

“All right,” Ellis said, looking past Crane out of the window: He was suddenly sick of this feinting. The fellow had him anyway. If he was determined to find out who he was he could do it. “I’m Cushman.” It was almost a relief to admit it. “Now, what are you going to do about it?”

“It’s taken you long enough to make up your mind, hasn’t it?” Crane said; there was a calculated, sly look in his eyes. “I told you before, I’m not going to give you away. I don’t care what happens to you; and if you behave yourself, there’s no need for anyone to know that you’re here.”

Ellis studied him, decided he meant what he said. He couldn’t make the fellow out. There was something furtive, sly about him, and he talked so oddly.

“Well, now you’ve admitted being Cushman I can tell you something about myself,” Crane went on, leaning back in the chair and crossing his legs. “Ill be interested to hear your reactions. I dont get much chance of talking about myself. Safki was the last person I talked to. He was most interesting; had all kinds of scientific ideas about me. Of course you’re different. You’re not well-educated, haven’t many ideas, but I suppose you’re of average intelligence. You may be able to throw some light on the business.”

Ellis made an impatient movement.

“Why must you go on and on? Speak out. Don’t beat about the bush so much. What are you up to?” he said angrily.

“I’m interested in death,” Crane said, smiling. His eyes had darkened and, in spite of his effort to appear nonchalant, he was suddenly keyed up, tense, unsure of himself. “Does that seem strange to you.”

“Your own death?” Ellis asked, suddenly alert.

Crane shook his head. “Oh no,” he said. “My own death doesn’t matter to me at all. I don’t care when I die or for that matter how I die. No, I’m interested in the death of women.”

There was a long pause. Ellis felt a chill run down his spine. “What are you trying to tell me?” he said at last.

Crane smiled. It was a lop-sided smile and gave his face a strange, frightening expression. “It’s intriguing, isn’t it? The death of women. I mean exactly what I say. My principal interest is to take a woman’s life. I’m what the newspapers call a monster. Interesting, isn’t it?”

Ellis, startled by the expression on Crane’s face and by what he had said, blurted out, “You mean you kill women?”

“Oh, come,” Crane said, lighting another cigarette. “Use your intelligence. I don’t go in for it in a wholesale way, you know. I don’t get the opportunity. You have no idea how difficult it is to find a girl who has no parents or relations who’ll ask awkward questions. And besides there’s always the police . . . No, not in numbers — yet. But when the opportunity arises I take it.” He blew smoke towards Ellis, waved his hand airly. “To date I have only killed one woman; not much to boast about, I know, but in a day or so, I hope to kill another.”

“You mean — Grace?” Ellis asked, aware that his heart was thumping against his ribs.

Crane regarded him for several moments before he replied. His face was now set, pale, mask-like. His eyes were dark and seemed to have receded deep into their sockets.

“Yes — Grace,” he said, and smiled.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

“Ever since I can remember,” Crane said as he poured a liberal amount of whisky into a cut-glass tumbler, “I have been fascinated by death.” He held up the bottle, looked inquiringly at Ellis. “Won’t you have a spot? It won’t hurt you, you know.”

“No,” Ellis said shortly. His head felt hot, and his leg ached. There was a sick, cold feeling in his stomach. He kept asking himself, “Is he pulling my leg or is he serious? If he’s serious (and I believe he is) then he must be mental. Does he really mean to kill Grace or is this a method of torturing me?” The calm, matter-of-fact way the fellow talked made it difficult to believe he was serious.

Crane had left the room for a moment or so to fetch the bottle of whisky, a siphon and two glasses. While he was gone Ellis had made a desperate attempt to get out of bed. He felt he must reach the window to see if Safki was still out in the garden — to beg him not to go away, but the effort was too much for him. He had hoped to have been able to drag himself across the room to the window, but he found he couldn’t even get his leg out of bed.

On his return, Crane had looked at him, seen the sweat and the lines of pain on his face, and the disturbed blankets and had smiled jeeringly, but had said nothing.

Now he was sitting by the open window, the glass of whisky in his hand, a cigarette between his thick fingers, his legs crossed. He appeared quite at ease, and he spoke quietly and fluently, not hesitating for a word as if he had rehearsed the story over and over again as an actor learns his part.