Who Pays the Piper? (32 page)

Antony leaned back against the shabby red leather of the chair. He looked at the blaze of sparks which rushed up from the log Garrett had kicked. He said soberly, “I thought a lot of him. I wanted to do the sort of things he did. That's the normal reaction of the small boy to a thirteen-year older brother. I always thought of him as my brother. He was awfully good to me.”

“I want to know if he was straight.” Garrett's tone was brutally direct. “You're fencing, and I haven't got time to fence. Out with it! How much of a liar was he?”

The sparkle returned to Antony's eyes.

“Oh, most accomplished.”

“Money?”

“I don't know about that.”

“What did he lie about?”

Antony lifted a hand and let it fall on his knee.

“Anything—everything.”

“Why?”

Antony sat up, leaned forward a little.

“I think power. I didn't size up that way at the time of course, but looking back and checking up on it, I think that's what it was—and is. He likes power—he wants power. He hadn't the capital to give him any real standing in the firm. He couldn't get higher than he got, and it isn't enough to work his brain or satisfy his abilities. And that's why he looked beyond it. Intelligence work is meat and drink to him. It keeps him on the stretch—gives him adventure and the sense of power. He can gather a thread here and a thread there, and when he's got all the threads in his hand he's got a pull, and that's what he likes. He looks as stolid as an ox, but he's nobody's fool. He's an adventurer, a gambler, and a respectable Dutch citizen. That's the best I can do for you.”

Garrett smoked in silence. Then he said, “Meaning that he might be double-crossing us. Or the other side. Or both. Whichever way there'd be most entertainment for Mr. Cornelius Roos?”

“Something like that, sir. But it's guesswork—I don't
know
anything. I haven't seen him since April.”

“Would you know if you did see him?”

Antony watched him. “I might—I think I should.”

Garrett bent down and knocked out his pipe against the side of the grate.

“Then we'll get down to talking about it,” he said.

II

Delia Merridew had been deeply, dreamlessly asleep. That was on one side of the imperceptible line which separates moment from moment. On the other side of this line she was instantly and completely awake. The change was as sudden as the change from total darkness to flooding light. She did not know where she had been—her sleep kept its secrets—but she knew exactly where she was now. She was sitting up in bed in her own room at Fourways, her uncle Philip Merridew's house in Surrey. A hand on either side of her pressed down upon the mattress, her chin lifted, her ears strained for the sound which had waked her. It might have been a bomb, or gunfire—somewhere—not very near. You did wake like that these nights without quite knowing what sound had waked you. Sometimes it came again, and sometimes it didn't, in which case you just went to sleep.

She shook back her hair—very thick, fair hair curling on her neck in a long bob—and in a moment the sound did come again, the patter of gravel glancing off the open casement window and rattling down upon the floor. She pushed back the clothes, jumped out of bed, and ran to look out.

There was light from the waning moon, enough to show her the windowsquare, with the sky misty and luminous. When she leaned out over the sill, there was the lawn, all hazy, and the trees about it with that underwater look which half-veiled moonlight lends. There were bushes against the house—a group of lilacs, and a tall musk rose reaching up with a spray of glimmering bloom. Someone moved, and a voice said, “Delia!”

Delia said, “Antony!” and then they both laughed.

“Romantic, isn't it?” said Antony.

Delia laughed again.

“Not a bit. I thought you were a bomb.”

Their voices and their laughter were muted to the moonlight. The distance between his face upturned and hers looking down was no great matter. But it was too great. He said, “Delia—come down!”

“Darling, it's the middle of the night.”

“Long past that—it's half past three. Come down!”

“Why? I oughtn't to.”

“I know. I've got to see you. Be quick! And put on everything warm you've got—it's biting cold.”

A ghost of a laugh came floating down. “You're telling me!”

She drew back into the room with a shiver running over her from head to foot. There was ice in the air, and a wind from the north. But it was not only the cold that made her shiver. Something else had touched her. She slipped into a dress—shoes for her feet—but stockings wouldn't matter—

She came down the dark stairs, groping her way by the banisters, and put on the light in the hall. Philip Merridew was in London, and the maids would not wake. Her bedroom was over the study. She left this dark, felt her way to the window, put back the curtains, and pushed the casement wide.

“Antony!”

He was there, with his back to her, so close that she could have touched him. As he swung about, his shoulder brushed her hand.

She said, “Come in!” and he, “Come out!” and they laughed again as they had laughed before, a soft hurrying laughter with an undercurrent of emotion and mutual awareness. Their hands groped and met. Hers tugged at him.

“Come in at once! I'll put on the fire. We'll freeze out there.”

“All right—in for a penny, in for a pound! Let's hope the guardian sleeps sound. This isn't the sort of thing he'd approve of, you know.”

She stood clear whilst he scrambled in, and then latched the window and drew the curtains close before she said, “He's in London—sleeping in a cellar, poor dear. I hope he does sleep sound. He doesn't often get down except at week-ends now.”

She went by him in the dark. His hand just touched her dress—something soft like velvet. A switch clicked and light came on from a clouded bowl in the ceiling.

Yes, it was velvet—a deep-blue velvet house-coat, right down to her feet, long and straight and plain. It made her look incredibly tall and slim. Above the deep colour her fair hair shone like gold.

She ran over to switch the fire on, and turning, caught at his hands. “You're frozen! Let's go and make coffee in the kitchen.”

Antony shook his head.

“I haven't got time. I'm due—somewhere else—in a brace of shakes. I oughtn't to be here, but I had to come.”

That cold something touched Delia again. She said, “What is it, Antony? Is anything the matter?” The words came tumbling, catching a little with the caught breath.

She stood there, holding him, nearly as tall as he—nineteen, and only just out of the stage of being all arms and legs. Just when she had stopped being the half awkward, half graceful creature whom he had teased, bullied, and protected, Antony hardly knew. She had been like a young colt, and then, somewhere or other in the last eighteen months, the awkwardness had fallen away, leaving a kind of untamed grace instead. She had grey eyes, widely opened and widely, deeply set, the lids arched to show a black-ringed iris. They were fixed now upon his face with a mournful, agonizing question.

“Something's happened. Tell me!”

He shook his head.

“No, it hasn't. Delia, don't look like that! I—”

She let go of his hands and reached up to clasp his neck. All the things which he had meant not to say came boiling to his lips.

“Delia—I love you! I couldn't go without seeing you.”

She put up her lips. St. Anthony himself would have fallen. Antony was no saint. Delia's hands pulled him down. He kissed her. They stood pressed close together, whispering, kissing, whispering again, whilst time flowed past and left them unaware.

The clock struck four, and brought them back. Antony lifted his head, put her a little away, and looked at her transfigured face.

“I didn't mean to do this. I only meant to see you—and I'd no business to do that.”

“Where are you going?”

“I can't tell you.”

“Is it for long?”

“I can't tell you that either.”

A shadow touched her eyes.

“You mean perhaps you won't come back?”

Had he meant that? He didn't know—it was in his mind.

He said, “No, of course not,” and saw that she didn't believe him. They had been together too much, known each other too well. Lies wouldn't pass—not with either of them. He said in another voice, “It's a job, darling. Don't worry—I'll come back. Look here, I'll tell you why I've come.”

“You said—to see me.”

“Yes. You can help me.”

“How?”

She saw a familiar sparkle in his eyes.

“Can you act a bit?”

“Of course! What do you want me to do?”

He laughed, and rubbed his cheek against hers.

“Pretend we've quarrelled.”

“Why?”

“Because. Will you do it?”

“I shall hate it.”

He laughed again. “No, you won't. Women love telling lies in a good cause.”

“They don't!”

“My child, they do—it's engrained in them—they get no end of a kick out of it. You will, you know—everybody thinking we've had a row, or that you've thrown me over, or I've turned you down, and you saying to yourself, ‘Antony's mine—every single bit of him's mine, and every little bit of me is his.'”

He caught her hard in his arms, and she felt the beating of his heart. Presently he held her away again and said, “Will you do it?”

Her heart was beating too, but there was something in her which had to know. She couldn't just do what Antony wanted because he was Antony and she loved him so much that it hurt. Delia would always have to know. She said, “I must know why. I can't do things blind—I never could.”

“Not even for me?” His voice was not quite steady, teasing her.

“No.”

He shook her a little, gently. “Tiresome toad—aren't you? Well, I'll tell you why. I shan't be able to write, and I don't want any chat about it. Unfortunately I've been the world's prize correspondent. I should think I'd averaged about six fetters a week to you the last six months or so, and a steady one a week to the guardian. Well, there it is—letters can't stop suddenly without a bit of chat. Household staff, guardian, kind relations, interested circle of friends. ‘How is dear Antony? I'm sure he writes to you
every
day'—‘I hope, my dear, that you have news of Antony. I suppose I mustn't ask where he is, but I am sure as long as he is
somewhere in England
you will have frequent and delightful letters from him.'”

Delia gave a little chuckle. “Oh, Antony, they
don't!”

“They do, and you know it, and you've got to choke them off without letting them think there's anything hush-hush about it.”

“I could say I'd heard from you—”

“Delia, you shock me! Would you tell a lie?”

“Well, you wanted me to just now.”

“You shock me very much. What would Mrs. Barrock say? Besides, the simple truth will do. Always tell the simple truth if you can, because unless you're a very good liar indeed you're apt to forget what you said last time, and then the fat tips over into the fire and there's a nasty stink.”

“Well, what do you want me to say?”

“You simply say, ‘Antony and I are not friends any longer.' Put across with a little moisture in the eyes, a faint tremor of the lip, and just the suspicion of a catch in the voice, it should, I think, do the trick.”

She dissolved into laughter. “Antony, you're a devil!”

He nodded. “Mrs. Barrock always suspected it—now she'll be sure. It will please her consumedly. I shall have spread sunshine in the Barrock's heart—I shall not have lived in vain.”

“She's not as bad as that,” said Delia weakly.

“Oh, isn't she?” He pitched his voice in accurate mimicry. “‘No young man as goodlooking as Antony Rossiter is a safe companion for a girl like Delia. I wouldn't trust him a yard.' I heard her say that to the guardian with my own ears.”

“You didn't!”

“I did.”

“You eavesdropped!”

“I did. If I hadn't, I should have had to come out and talk to her. I was on the window-seat behind the curtains.”

“What did Uncle Philip say?”

He laughed a little. “Said he had every confidence in me. He was so polite that she ought to have withered up.”

“She doesn't wither easily.”

“No—practically indestructible.”

His voice slid away. They stood looking at each other, all the gay light armour gone. Delia threw her arms round his neck with a sob.

“I must go—
Delia!”

She clung to him.

“Antony—you'll come back—you'll come back!”

Philip Merridew said, “Come in!” and went on writing.

Emanuel Holt came in, waited a moment, and said in a deprecating voice, “A man to see you, sir.”

Still writing, Mr. Merridew said, “Has he an appointment?”

“Well, no, sir.”

“You know I don't see anyone without an appointment, Holt.”

Emanuel coughed. He had worn a zealous air, which now became a little dashed. He said,

“Well, sir, Mr. Peterson being engaged, I took leave to trouble you. It's about Mr. Rossiter.”

Philip Merridew lifted his pen and looked up. There was a sense of suddenly arrested interest.

“What sort of a man, Holt?”

Emanuel coughed again.

“Rough, sir. Might be a seafaring man by the look of him.”

“Show him in.”

A fat man came in with a rolling walk. He wore shabby civilian clothes which gaped on him, and a loose raincoat, with a coloured handkerchief at his bulging neck. A string bag dangled from his left hand. Between the meshes a parcel showed some kind of square box done up in brown paper.