One Man's Heart Read online

  From Back Cover…

  They had met by chance in circumstances of danger and embarrassment.

  Both of them believed that love was lost for money, although they had no money and fell in love with each other. If they ran true to their beliefs, they would say goodbye and pursue their preordained course.

  Could they?

  One Man’s Heart

  by

  Mary Burchell

  CHAPTER ONE

  Hilma drew the hood of her velvet cape over her head with entirely steady fingers. It was no use embarking on an adventure of this sort with anything but good nerves. Difficult, of course, to imagine that the “adventure” was nothing less than robbing a flat. But—Hilma gave the faintest sigh of regret—necessity was the mother of a lot of things besides invention.

  This was one of the things.

  Letting herself out of the silent house, she walked resolutely to the nearby taxi rank.

  Two or three drivers, engaged in amiably ferocious discussion, were propped up against the railings. But the moment Hilma put her hand on the door of the first taxi, a fat, heavily-breathing driver detached him­self from the group, with the final dictum, “Nuts! That’s what you are—nuts!” and came towards her. “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Do you know the Glaudia Cinema?” She gave him the slight, casual smile which usually made all porters, taxi-drivers and male shop assistants jump to do her bidding.

  “Big new place on a corner, just out of Oxford Street, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, that’s it”

  “Bit late for the performance, aren’t you, miss?” The different form of address testified to the effective­ness of Hilma’s smile, and he gave a hoarse, rather bronchial chuckle as he held the door open for her.

  “It would be, certainly. I’m meeting someone there after the show.”

  He didn’t say, “Your evening’s just beginning, I suppose.” He simply said “Ah!”—but with a world of meaning and gave her a benevolent look as he shut the door and climbed slowly into the driving seat.

  The taxi turned westward, and Hilma’s thoughts ran on ahead of her.

  She had timed it very well. With anything like luck she should arrive just as the crowd from that big charity premiere were streaming out. There should be no difficulty whatever in going in at one door and out at another—the one at the back of the theatre which led almost immediately into the darker, unfrequented streets beyond the immediate fringe of London’s night life.

  The taxi drew up with a jerk.

  “Here y’are, miss. Just in time. He won’t have had no anxious minutes. You’ll just catch him.” And the driver chuckled again at his own wit as he pocketed his fare and jerked his head in the direction of the stream of well-dressed people who were beginning to issue from the ornate entrance of the Glaudia.

  It was even easier than she had imagined. Making her way through the crowded foyer, she pretended to be looking for someone. A short pause by the farther exit would have indicated to even the closest observer that she had missed whoever she was seeking, and, with the faintest shrug, she turned away to the left, walking purposefully but with no special air of hurry. A few minutes later she had become just any one of London’s theatregoers, walking home on a clear, dark night. The long dark cloak with enveloping hood wiped out identity in a very satisfactory way.

  Lucky that Charles should have elected to live in one of the few blocks of flats where there was an outside fire-escape. Almost like Providence—except that Hilma found it difficult to suppose Providence had much to do with this little escapade—that he should once have said something about his flat look­ing straight on to the fire-escape.

  She supposed she ought to feel much more fright­ened than she did. But then there was something in the saying that fortune favoured the brave. It wasn’t really fortune, of course, but just that those who kept cool and clear-thinking could work everything out to the nth degree and profit by every chance as it came along.

  Even Hilma had to admit, however, that it was sheer good luck when she discovered that the one street lamp which might have proved dangerous had, for some reason, gone out. The narrow mews which ran along the back of the block were in almost com­plete darkness.

  Perhaps, she thought grimly, this was more a case of the devil looking after his own than fortune favour­ing the brave. It didn’t really matter. The result was equally desirable, whatever the cause.

  The only thing to make sure of now was that she got the number of the floor right. Five hundred and eleven—that was the number of Charles’s flat, and the notice in the entry, where she had looked a few days ago, stated quite plainly that “the ‘hundred’ number indicates the floor on which the flat is situated.”

  Standing in a deep patch of shadow, she slowly counted up the floors. Her heart rose uncomfortably in her throat as she saw that light was streaming from one window. Then she realised that, even in this, her incredible luck had held. The lighted window was one floor above Charles’s. She would not have to pass it. It even served to throw the floor immediately below it into deeper shadow.

  With an agility born of her slenderness, as well as schoolday escapades shared with an adventurous brother, she scaled the wall which shut off the flats from the mews. There was a horrid moment when she felt that, shadow or no shadow, she must surely be outlined against the night sky. Then she was hanging by her slim, strong hands from the top of the wall, feeling for even the slightest foothold.

  There was none, and, after a breathless moment of indecision, she risked the drop. As she landed she realised that she had touched the crowning point of her good luck. By a matter of less than six inches she had missed a line of dustbins.

  Even so, the nearness of the disaster shook her bad­ly, and for a moment she leant against the wall, her heart beating uncomfortably hard.

  There was nothing to be afraid of now. The iron fire-escape was just beside her, winding up and up into the darkness. Silently she took out the penknife she had with her and opened it. Even then, the very feel of it made her smile. It was Tony’s school pen­knife, and this was not the first time it had been used to slip back the catch of a window. More than one moonlight outing, when they stayed on their grandfa­ther’s farm as children, had ended in a stealthy return by way of the kitchen window.

  She hoped her hand had not lost its cunning—that was all.

  Silent as a shadow herself, she climbed upwards.

  Blessings on the lighted window! It marked the position of the floor so well. There was no fear of mis­counting the turns in the stairs and arriving at the wrong floor.

  Hilma was breathless by the time she had reached the right floor, and as she leant there in the compara­tive safety of the window embrasure, she found that her hand was shaking in a way that made it rather difficult to slip the penknife between the two sashes of the window.

  It was done at last, however, and with a slight but terrifying sound the catch clicked back.

  It didn’t really matter about the sound, of course. There was no question whatever about Charles being away for the whole week-end, but when one’s nerves were taut even the least sound seemed to twang on them as though they were tight wires.

  Very slowly—the blood pressed back painfully from her finger-tips with the effort—Hilma raised the window. The hand which she stretched out in front of her came against thick velvet curtains. The next moment she had slipped over the sill into the room, softly lowered the window, and pushed aside the cur­tains.

  It was a strange and frightening sensation, going forward into that pit of velvet darkness. Turning, she pulled the curtains close behind her and switched on the little electric torch she had in her pocket.

  There was something reassuring about that pencil of light tha
t fell across the carpet—something even more reassuring about the realisation that she had surmounted every obstacle. She was here in Charles’s sitting-room, alone in the flat, with hours—the whole week-end, if she liked—in front of her. She couldn’t possibly fail to find that wretched letter. She would go about it boldly and systematically.

  With admirable coolness she examined the curtains, ascertained that they must shut out every glimmer of light from the outside, and then crossed over and switched on the electric light.

  That was better. She could see the whole room now. She looked round almost critically.

  Rather different from the flat she used to know. More masculine—less pseudo-artistic. But then Charles was probably running some new pose by now. It was quite immaterial in any case. The only impor­tant thing was that the writing bureau in the corner was the place where a man would keep his letters.

  Hilma went over and tried it. She was almost glad to find it locked. That meant he kept things there which he valued. Letters from silly women, for in­stance. Letters that could, in certain circumstances, realise quite a lot of money.

  With the boldness of previous success, she slipped Tony’s penknife under the lock, and exerted all her strength. This time the sound of splintering wood was a good deal louder than the snap of any window-catch, but it hardly disturbed her. She felt sure success was almost within her grasp.

  Hilma lifted back the flap of the bureau and bent eagerly over the confusion of papers inside.

  Compromising letters would hardly be among that haphazard pile. Rather they would be tucked away in the pigeonholes at the back. Her hand was actually on the first roll of papers when a voice spoke almost casually behind her.

  “I hate to disturb anyone so deeply occupied. But do you mind telling me what you are doing?”

  For a moment Hilma was so terrified that she could not bring herself to turn round. Then she swung round abruptly, her hands spread out either side of her against the bureau.

  The man who was regarding her was tall and dark and not a little grim. He leant against the side of the doorway, one hand thrust into the pocket of his smok­ing-jacket, and his eyes were slightly narrowed as they watched her.

  Hilma made a desperate attempt to think quickly and coolly. What was he doing there?—There was only one possible explanation. Charles had lent this friend of his the flat for the week-end. She must bluff. Quickly, quickly! But what to say?

  It was really only a matter of seconds before her answer came, and it was wonderfully, incredibly cool.

  “What a terrible start you gave me! And what are you doing, might I ask? Mr. Martin happened to lend me this flat for the week-end.”

  “So?” He didn’t seem enormously impressed by the statement, and, coming a step or two into the room, he carelessly bent and picked up the penknife which she had let fall on the floor. “And you return the favour by opening his bureau?”

  Another horrible moment—but she surmounted it with a brazen little laugh.

  “All right, I’ll own to the most ghastly curiosity about something in that desk. It’s a feminine vice, you know, and I don’t know that I’m prepared to accept your condemnation of it.”

  He considered that, balancing the knife thoughtful­ly on the palm of his hand.

  “You know Mr. Martin very well, of course?”

  “Oh, yes.” She gave a much more casual little laugh that time. “I’ve known him for years.”

  “And often visited him here?”

  There was only a second’s hesitation. But if she claimed sufficient familiarity with him to borrow his flat it would be hopeless to say “No” to that ques­tion.

  “Why, certainly.” She even infused considerable surprise into that, and a delicate intimation that she was finding this catechism impertinent and unneces­sary. “But—”

  “You were”—he glanced reflectively at the win­dow—”you were unconventional enough to arrive by the window?” he suggested politely.

  Again Hilma hesitated a moment for an answer, and he seemed to take her silence for agreement.

  “It’s a novel idea, certainly—very novel.” Those disturbingly penetrating eyes came back to her face. “But in future, young lady, I advise you to use the door. It may be dull, but at least it ensures that you get the number right.”

  “The—number?” Hilma’s eyes widened until their startling blue was almost swallowed up in the black­ness of her pupils. She didn’t know that the man regarding her thought she made a wonderful picture, with the dark velvet hood falling back from her corn-coloured hair, and her face very white except for the red, parted lips.

  “Exactly. The number,” he agreed pleasantly. “Now suppose you wash out the rest of the invention and tell me just why you were rifling my desk. The other story was good for a speedy invention, but it had a lot of holes in it, you know.”

  Hilma was not quite sure whether he made an ironi­cally hospitable gesture towards the arm-chair, but in any case she sank into it. For one thing she was inca­pable of standing any longer when her knees felt so unsteady.

  He seemed quite willing to let her take her time, but she thought, as he lounged against the table, he showed every expectation of getting his answer even­tually.

  “Your knife.” He leant forward and politely returned it to her, but when she curled her fingers nervously over it he quite calmly took her hands in his and gently unclasped them. “No, don’t do that. You’ll hurt yourself. There’s no need to register terror, you know. You’re much too lovely to be really afraid of a mere man. Besides”—he smiled, and the smile even touched his eyes—”surely young women who find the courage to break in via the fire-escape are brave enough to tackle awkward explanations.”

  She glanced at him then and recovered a little of her nerve.

  “I don’t think,” she said coolly, “that I feel inclined to make explanations to you.”

  “And I think,” he retorted with a hint of that dangerous pleasantness again, “I think that you’d bet­ter.”

  “Better?” She gave a proud little lift of her chin. “Better! Why, pray?”

  “Because,” he told her carelessly, “if you refuse, I shall give you five minutes to come to a wiser decision and then I shall send for the police.”

  “The—police!” She went very white again. “You couldn’t?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because—“ She made a helpless little gesture that he found more pathetic than his expression sug­gested. “Oh, it’s not a reason. Only you sounded more lenient, more—human, just now when you spoke about—about my being beautiful.”

  He laughed then, with real amusement, but he shook his head.

  “Oh, no. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but that counts more against you than for you.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Don’t you?” His dark eyes travelled over her with an open appreciation that was entirely inoffensive. “Well, you’re quite lovely enough to confuse any is­sue, so I shall be brutally suspicious in order to be on the safe side.”

  Against her will, that appealed to her sense of hu­mour. She smiled faintly, but almost immediately spoke very earnestly again.

  “I did make an honest mistake. I thought this was Charles Martin’s flat.”

  “After having visited it so often?” He studied the pattern of the carpet with a reflective smile.

  “Oh!” She flushed deeply, which played havoc with her little air of sophistication. “I’m sorry. You—you win there. That was a lie.”

  “You are not, I hope, expecting me to believe that all the rest was the truth?” he murmured deprecatingly, rather as though he hated to call her a liar to her face—but there it was.

  That did nothing to reduce the flush and, with a nervous gesture, she pushed back her fair hair. It fell over her forehead again in a heavy wave, and the man watched all the time with a curious degree of interest.

  “Before anything else,” she stated firmly, “I’m go­ing to ask you a qu
estion.”

  “We-ell, I don’t want to seem discourteous, but you are not really very well placed for that. Not to put too fine a point on it, I am the one to decide who shall ask the questions. However, what is it you want to ask?”

  “Do you know Mr. Martin at all?”

  “Only by sight, and sufficiently to be aware that he occupies the flat immediately above this one.”

  “Above this one!” She thought confusedly of the lighted window and of the number of floors which she had counted so carefully. “Really, I don’t under­stand,” Hilma murmured half to herself.

  “What don’t you understand?”

  “I thought,” she quoted wearily, “the ‘hundreds’ number indicates the floor on which the flat is situa­ted.”

  He gave her a glance of curious amusement.

  “The truth is—you don’t know this block of flats at all, do you?”

  “Well—no, I don’t. Mr. Martin lived somewhere else when—when I knew him.”

  “So that you couldn’t be aware that the flats on the ground floor have a nought for the ‘hundred’ num­ber.”

  “Oh!”

  “Too bad,” he agreed with mocking sympathy.

  But she was hardly listening to him.

  “That explains about the number,” she said slowly. “But not about the light.”

  “The light?”

  “There’s a light blazing away from the window of Ch—of Mr. Martin’s window. And yet I know he was away for the week-end.”

  He refused to share her bewilderment.

  “But if it transpired that he was not”—again his air was grave, but there was an undercurrent of laughter in his voice—”that wouldn’t be your only miscalcula­tion, would it?”

  It was absurd, but once more, in spite of all the chagrin and anxiety, her sense of humour forced a reluctant smile.

  “Pretty badly bungled all along, wasn’t it?” she said.

  “I’m afraid so.” They looked at each other—that curious current of sympathetic amusement running between them. Then he said patiently, “Let’s go back to the beginning, shall we?”