One Man's Heart Page 3

  “You know”—she looked at him gravely—”you’re much more shameless about it all than I am. And yet I thought I was hard enough.”

  “Did you? How dare you think anything so harsh of yourself?” And then, as though to offset the tender­ness of that: “So you’re marrying for money, too?”

  “Yes.” There was a faintly defiant note in her voice.

  “Any explanations?” he wanted to know. “Any ex­cuses, Lieb­ling?”

  “Yes,” she said slowly, “I think it’s an excuse. You see, I do know the kind of life you’re determined not to sample. I know everything there is to know about keeping up appearances on next to nothing, being gradually dropped by all the friends who do the only things one is interested in, watching the pleasant, casual things of family life becoming embittered and gradually crumbling under the strain of bills, bills, bills and no money to meet them. After seeing what I’ve seen, I wouldn’t marry a poor man if he looked like the Angel Gabriel and had the disposition of a saint.”

  “It would be a very, very boring combination in any case,” her companion assured her. “And almost impossible to live up to.”

  Hilma gave a cross little laugh.

  “You think it’s all rather amusing, anyway, don’t you?”

  “No, my dear.” He was quite serious. “I don’t think it’s amusing. I think it’s very sad. After all, you have actually experienced all this. I’ve done nothing but regard the shadow of it and retreat determinedly.”

  “Well, let me tell you, you were right to retreat. There’s more day-to-day misery about it than I could possibly describe to you.” And she gave that angry little laugh again, as though ashamed of herself for having expressed such intensity of feeling.

  “And so you’re going to marry the likeable man with the nice taste in diamonds? I hope he realises his good fortune, Lieb­ling. I hope he is a connoisseur of beautiful things, and knows that his future wife has the loveliest hair and probably the loveliest eyes in London.”

  Her laugh was less strained that time.

  “I hardly think he works things out that way. He thinks I’ll make a good wife and mother, and an ex­cellent hostess in his lovely house overlooking—Well, perhaps I won’t say where it is.”

  “I shouldn’t,” he agreed. “After all, we’re doing our best to remove all identity marks. And you—how do you like the rôle?”

  She shrugged and smiled at him.

  “I like the idea of being able to go to the opera when I like—to theatres and concerts and art shows. Always to wear beautiful clothes, and not to feel the end of the world has come if something happens to one’s only good dress. To eat well and drink well—not because I’m specially greedy, but because there’s something so satisfying in perfection. To travel first class, to go to the Continent when the weather is horrid here, to toy with the delicious alternative of going by air or by luxury liner to places that are just names to me now. Oh, but you know all the things as well as I do.”

  “Yes, Lieb­ling, I know.” His dark eyes watched her rather sombrely. Watched the pink streak that had appeared in her cheeks, the sparkle in those dark blue eyes, the way she moved her hands, slightly but with most telling effect to emphasise what she meant.

  “Why do you watch me like that?” she said as she had before. “You’re thinking that a mercenary woman is even more—regrettable than a mercenary man, aren’t you?”

  “No, my dear, I’m thinking it’s about time we fetched that letter of yours. All these Continental trips and beautiful clothes and good food rather depend on it, you know.”

  “Oh, yes—of course.” She stood up, pushing back her chair. “You’ve been—awfully good to me.”

  “No, don’t start making farewell speeches yet. It isn’t—quite over,” he said.

  “Of course not.” She gave a nervous little laugh. “We have to see if the light is still on first.” He saw that her anxiety was beginning to outweigh her plea­sure again, and that curiously gentle expression came back into his eyes.

  “Come.” He held out his hand to her. “We shall have to go back into the other room.”

  The hand she gave him was cold, and his fingers curled round it comfortingly. She went to put on the light as they entered the room, but he said:

  “No, no, we mustn’t show any light from our win­dow while we’re doing our investigating.”

  “Of course not.” She was a little breathless to think she could have neglected such an elementary precau­tion, and pushed the door to behind them with her disengaged hand, so that even the faint light from the hall should not show.

  “There’s no need to be frightened,” he told her quietly.

  “I’m not frightened.”

  “No?” He was smiling, she thought, from his tone. “Just a little, I think. But there’s no reason to be. I shall fetch that letter, you know.”

  “You won’t!”

  She turned quickly and put her hands against him in the dark, almost as though she thought he would go that moment and must be stopped.

  “Oh, yes, I think so.”

  “I won’t let you. I won’t let you!” Her hands pressed against him in her urgency, and at that his arms were suddenly round her. “It’s my business. I won’t have you take risks for me.”

  He laughed softly out of the darkness and said:

  “Does your heart often beat like this?”

  “My—heart? How do you know it’s beating?”

  “Because, darling, my hand is against it.”

  She felt the slight pressure of his fingers on her side, and something seemed to tighten in her throat.

  “It isn’t beating any harder than yours,” she said in quick protest.

  “Mine? I haven’t got a heart,” the half-laughing voice told her.

  “You have. I can feel it.” She moved her hand against him.

  “Don’t do that or I shall kiss you.”

  Quite deliberately she moved her hand again, and the next moment his lips were on hers in a long kiss, and then, very lightly, against her throat.

  “Ah, Lieb­ling,” he gave a long sigh. “What a pity that, though we have only a few scruples, at least we cling to those.”

  “Why do you say that?” she said in a whisper.

  “Because if we had none at all, you would stay here with me to-night.”

  She lay there in his arms, aware of the strength and yet gentleness with which he held her—breathless, wordless at what he had said. And then the pregnant moment of silence was shattered by a peremptory “rat-a-tat-tat” at the front door of the flat.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “What’s that?” Her terrified whisper seemed to pierce the darkness with a sharp edge.

  “Be quiet!” His voice was low but urgent and he held her still against him.

  After a few moments the knock was repeated, and this time there was also the “tr-r-ring” of the electric bell.

  “I must go.” He spoke curtly. “Only someone who knew me would make such a row to get in at this time of night. Get behind that curtain. We can’t afford to excite the kind of curiosity there’d be if I refused to answer the door.”

  “But whoever it is will think you’re out.” She clung to him in terror.

  “No. The hall porter will have said I’m in, or would do so on enquiry.” He almost pushed her behind the curtain, switched on the light, and went into the tiny hall of the flat, just as a knock sounded for the third time.

  Hilma flattened herself into the angle of the win­dow, trying to remain perfectly still, and as she did so, she noticed subconsciously that a light was still shin­ing from the window of the flat above.

  She could hear nothing but a murmur of voices from the hall, but whoever the visitor was, her host was unable to get rid of him. A moment or two later she heard the voice which she now felt she knew so well say:

  “Well, come in here for a moment, will you? I’ll tell you anything I can, but I’m afraid I probably can’t help you.”

 
In here! He was bringing the visitor in here! He must be mad, Hilma thought. Then she remembered. The tell-tale table in the other room was laid for two.

  “Now, Sergeant, sit down, won’t you? Cigarette?”

  Sergeant! This was a call from the police! Hilma’s heart began to beat in slow, heavy thuds that threat­ened to choke her.

  She gathered from the sounds that the seat was accepted, but the cigarette was not. She dared not peep between the curtains and use her eyes, but her hearing seemed all the sharper in consequence.

  “Well, sir, it’s a nasty business. A gentleman in this block of flats has been killed, and in pretty suspicious circumstances. Gentleman in the upstairs flat, as a matter of fact. Just above this one.”

  For a moment Hilma thought she was going to faint and fall forward into the room.

  He was dead! Charles was dead all the time. That light which shone out into the night was blazing forth the fact. Someone else had crept up that fire-es­cape before her. Someone else. She shuddered and glanced through the window at the faint outlines of the iron steps outside.

  But that was just being fanciful and stupid. Perhaps whoever had done it had come in boldly by the door. Perhaps it wasn’t even murder.

  The same idea seemed under discussion now.

  “Murder, do you mean?” the cool, concerned voice of her host enquired. “Or suicide?”

  “Well, sir, it wasn’t suicide unless the gentleman was a contortionist. It’s difficult for a man to stab himself between the shoulders.”

  “Oh, very, I should say. Martin was the name, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir. The porter identified him. But I’d like to ask you a few questions. Just routine, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “May I ask if you knew the gentleman at all, sir?”

  “No, not at all. I knew him by sight, and I suppose I’d gathered a few things about him from casual ob­servation.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, that he often went out late at night, enter­tained a good deal, and was frequently away for the week-end.”

  “How did you gather all that, sir?”

  “Simply from the fact that you can hear footsteps pretty well from the flat overhead. When he has a party, I’m not in much doubt about it. Pretty rowdy type of party, anyway. And when there isn’t a sound all the week-end, I suppose, thankfully, that he’s away. But, of course, the porter can tell you all this. I’m afraid I don’t know anything exclusive about his habits.”

  “No, but—You say one hears things pretty well from one flat to another.”

  “Pretty well. Nothing in the way of odd footsteps, of course, but when there are a lot—”

  “Exactly, sir. Or if someone fell heavily—you’d hear that, I dare say.”

  There was a reflective pause.

  “Yes, I suppose you would certainly hear that. If there was no special noise going on in this flat, that is.”

  “Quite. You’ve been at home all this evening, sir?”

  “Since about—eight o’clock, I should say.”

  “Alone?”

  Again that slight pause.

  “Does that matter?”

  “I was only thinking, sir, that if you hadn’t been talking with anyone, you’d be more likely to hear anything.”

  “I see. Alone—yes.”

  “You’ll excuse me, sir, but when I passed the din­ing-room the door was open. I think the supper table was laid for two.”

  Hilma wondered if she gasped out loud. But before any reply could be made to the sergeant’s facer ano­ther voice broke in on the proceedings. The front door must have been left ajar, and now what seemed to be the occupant of another of the flats burst in.

  “I say, old man, this is a bad business, isn’t it? Oh, there you are, Constable—Sergeant, I mean. Making your inquisition here, too. Looks as though it must be murder, you know. Well, I’m not surprised. I was just telling the sergeant here that Martin went in for a pretty gay life, all things considered. Lots of lady friends, and not above making a bit of money out of them, if you ask—”

  “You’ll excuse me, sir,” the sergeant’s voice was very curt, “but I’m busy questioning this gentleman now. I must ask you not to interrupt.”

  “Oh, of course. I only meant—”

  But the sergeant had already turned away, an idea of some importance apparently having struck him.

  “This window must lead straight on to the fire-escape, I think. If you don’t mind—”

  “No, just a moment” There was something very sharp in that. “Look here, there’s something a little—delicate which I must explain to you.” Perhaps the slight pause was supposed to give the third person a chance to withdraw. If that was so the manoeuvre failed. There were no sounds of retreating footsteps.

  “Yes, sir?” The sergeant’s tone was encouraging but remarkably grave.

  “I’m afraid I was not entirely truthful when I said I’d been alone here. As a matter of fact, I had a friend here to supper—a lady friend, you understand.”

  “Exactly, sir. I suppose that was her cloak lying over the chair in the other room?”

  “Really”—there was a short laugh—”I congratulate you. You are remarkably observant.”

  “Part of our job, sir.” The man’s tone was stolid.

  “Of course. Then I suppose it’s part of your job, too, to know that one doesn’t always want to advertise the presence of a supper guest—particularly at this hour.”

  “Bit awkward for a married man, sir.”

  “Or even an engaged one.”

  “Yes, I understand. But you’ll understand, sir, that my business is to interrogate any strangers in this block of flats as well as the residents. I suppose the lady is behind those curtains. I’m afraid she’d better come out and let me talk to her.”

  There was nothing else to do, of course. Hilma put aside the curtain and came out into the room, a little pale with chagrin and nervousness, but remarkably calm.

  It would have been hard to find anything more humiliating than to have to face the police sergeant, her host of the supper party and the astounded-looking third man in these circumstances. Surely, surely this need not have been forced on her?

  But her common sense told her it had been the only thing to do. Two seconds later the police sergeant would have discovered her, crouching behind curtains by a window which gave on to a fire-escape leading straight on to the murdered man’s flat. Her position was not a pleasant one now. It would have been ten times more suspicious without the suggestion that they were only trying to conceal a disreputable little sup­per-party.

  “Good evening, madam. I’m sorry to have to dis­turb you.” The sergeant was also remarkably calm about it. One would have thought he was used to finding half the witnesses in his cases hiding them­selves in odd corners. But he was a man of consider­able discretion, too, it seemed, for he turned to the other visitor and said, “We’re rather anxious to keep everyone in their own flats at the moment, sir. Per­haps you wouldn’t mind returning to yours?”

  The man turned away at once and went out of the flat but, oddly enough, the glance he gave at the ow­ner of the flat was not one of scandalised amusement, but of astonished indignation. Hilma felt it was remar­kably officious of him in the circumstances.

  “Now, may I have your name and address, please?” The sergeant set briskly to work.

  “May I write them down?” She knew that must sound strange, but one fact had imprinted itself on her consciousness throughout the whole of her adventure. She must not—must not allow the repercussions of this to follow her home.

  Without a word, the sergeant handed her a sheet from his notebook, and showed no surprise whatever as she wrote down the required information.

  “About what time did you arrive here?”

  “About half-past ten—a quarter to eleven.”

  “Did you see the door porter as you came in?”

  There was another pregnant silence, then her
com­panion of the evening said casually, regretfully:

  “I’m afraid we’d better be quite frank with the sergeant, my dear.”

  “Very well.” It was almost a whisper. She won­dered what he expected that frankness to cover. But apparently he was prepared to make the explanations himself.

  “You see”—his air of regretful embarrassment was perfect—”as I told you, this little—escapade would be rather difficult to justify to my fiancée, and we had to take what one might call unusual precautions. The most awkward part of all was that her cousin happens to occupy the flat opposite mine. In fact, unfortuna­tely, he is the gentleman who forced himself upon us just now.”

  The sergeant’s almost soundless whistle was not the only comment on this statement. Hilma gave a slight gasp of sheer dismay. Only the man who was speaking seemed to be unmoved.

  “In consequence, I took the rather unconventional course of asking my friend to use the fire-escape rather than the public hall and lift.”

  The sergeant’s face became a shade more stolid.

  “You don’t know this lady very well, do you, sir?”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “The very obvious fact that you don’t even know her name. She chose to write it down for me, with you as the only other person in the room.”

  “Oh, very well.” He gave that short, annoyed laugh again. “But one doesn’t always ask a girl her name before enjoying supper with her.”

  “Possibly not, sir.” One gathered that it was, however, an invariable rule of the sergeant himself to do so. “But—you’ll understand I have to ask this ques­tion—you are, I take it, absolutely certain that this lady approached your flat from below and not from above?”

  “Beyond any question.”

  Hilma herself was astounded at the quiet certainty of that. How could he know, anyway? Wasn’t he him­self harbouring a few doubts by now? The position was queer enough, in all conscience.

  Perhaps the sergeant thought such confidence pecu­liar too, because he said carefully:

  “Why are you so positive on that point?”