Trusted Like The Fox Read online

  “We spent the night together,” Ellis said spitefully. “You don’t think she’s a saint, do you?”

  “That doesn’t give you a claim on her, and besides I don’t believe you.”

  “Why should I lie to you?” Ellis said angrily. “I’m telling you what happened. She’s no saint, and I took her. That makes her mine. Don’t you trust me to speak the truth?”

  Crane smiled at him.

  “Treason is but trusted like the fox

  Who, ne’er so tame, so cherish’ d and locked up,

  Will have a wild trick of his ancestors,”

  he quoted, watching Ellis closely.

  “Treason?” Ellis repeated, suddenly going cold.

  “Shakespeare can rise to every occasion with a fitting phrase,” Crane said, walking to the door. “We’ll have another little chat before long. Now, I have things to do.”

  “Treason?” Ellis said again, refusing to believe that Crane knew. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t you?” Crane said quietly. “You’re Edwin Cushman, the traitor. I think you made a mistake when you said the police haven’t anything on you. They have enough to hang you, Cushman, and that seems a lot to me.” He smiled again and left the room.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Ellis now paid no heed to the bustling tick of the French clock on the mantelpiece. Time stood still for him. He lay in the bed, his head hot, his mind paralysed with alarm, his body seeming to be no part of him.

  Crane knew! That was all he could think about. Crane knew he was Cushman. Crane and he were the only two men alive who knew that, and what, he kept asking himself, was Crane going to do about it?

  “We’ll have another little chat before long,” he had said, that odd look in his strange green eyes. What had he in mind?

  Ellis squirmed further down in the bed. There was no way out. He was helpless, and although alone, unguarded, unable even to look out of an open window, he was a prisoner, chained to the bed by his broken leg. Crane could do what he liked with him, blackmail him, hand him over to the police — anything. But would a man of his education and wealth take advantage of such an opportunity? “It’s the only way if we’re to save her; and save you, too,” he had said. Did he intend to help them escape? If so — why? What was going on in the fellow’s mind? What was he planning?

  Ellis cursed feverishly as he tried to solve that puzzle, and the hands of the little French clock moved slowly forward.

  There was something about this big, fleshy fellow that Ellis couldn’t fathom. He was so quiet, calm, damn, and yet every now and then he showed fear . . . the kind of fear that Ellis understood, furtive, painfully concealed fear that only betrayed itself by the shaking of his hands, the darkening of his eyes.

  Why was he frightened? If Ellis could find that out he would have a weapon with which to protect himself. If Crane had done something wrong and Ellis could find out what it was then he might still hold the whip hand.

  Realising that this was a possible way out, Ellis shouted for Grace, then, snarling with disappointed fury, he remembered she could not hear him, so he waited for her, his body tense with suppressed excitement and exasperation.

  A few minutes past noon — Crane had been away over an hour and a half — the bedroom door opened and Grace came in. In spite of her white face and red-rimmed eyes she looked attractive, and Ellis wanted to drag her on the bed beside him, to hold her down, to feel her breath against his face and the movement of her body against his as she struggled to get away.

  “Do you want anything to eat?” Grace asked, standing at the foot of the bed, well away from him.

  “Eat?” he snarled furiously. “Of course I don’t. Don’t you think of anything but stuffing yourself? Come here, I want to talk to you.”

  Grace didn’t move. She folded her hands in front of her, an obstinate expression in her eyes. Ellis was dismayed to see this change in her. Up to now he had thought of her as a being without spirit, a drudge to obey his orders, someone he could trample on, snap his fingers at, to treat as he liked. But seeing her now, she seemed a new person, someone with confidence and authority.

  “What do you want?” she asked, looking straight at him.

  “You’re a rotten little thief,” he said viciously. “Just because you’ve togged yourself up like that you needn’t put on airs. When they get you into prison, they’ll soon knock the starch . . .”

  “If that’s all you have to say, I’ll go,” Grace interrupted.

  If only he could reach her, Ellis thought, livid with rage. How dare a slut like her interrupt him when he was speaking? Hadn’t he held forty million people — more, probably — spell-bound night after night while he talked to them on the air? And this little chit, because she had on a decent dress, dared to interrupt him. If he could get his hands on her he’d tear the dress at her back, he’d drag her round the room by her hair, he’d . . .

  “And don’t look at me like that,” Grace said firmly. “I don’t like it. You’re like a wild beast.”

  “Wait!” Ellis said to himself, “she’s useful now, but a time will come when I’ll even things up.”

  He closed his eyes for a moment, his thin spiteful face relaxing.

  “I’m ill,” he muttered. “You don’t consider me. My leg hurts and my head aches, and now you’re calling me a wild beast.”

  Grace remembered his steel-like fingers on her throat and was not impressed with this new whining attitude. She stayed where she was, ready to run from the room.

  He opened his eyes again, scowled at her.

  “Well, sit down if you won’t come near me. I don’t like seeing you standing like that as if you want to run away.”

  “What do you want?” she said without moving.

  He again had to control himself. His fingers itched to grab her, to wreak his rage on her.

  “This chap Crane,” he said. “I don’t trust him. There’s something fishy about him.”

  He saw the expression in her eyes change from obstinacy to hostility.

  “He’s kind,” she said. “That’s something you wouldn’t understand.”

  “I don’t trust him,” he repeated, trying to keep the edge of his temper out of his voice. “He’s playing a deep game. Why should he help us? Have you thought of that? He’s risking a prison sentence for what he’s doing for us. Why? Ask yourself. What’s going on in his mind?”

  Grace smiled. It was a secret, complacent smile that startled Ellis. “You judge others by yourself,” she said softly. “He’s kind. That’s why he’s helping us.”

  “Don’t talk like a fool,” Ellis grated. “He’s got a plan. There’s something behind it all. He’s frightened of something. Haven’t you seen the way his hands shake and that funny look in his eyes? I don’t like his eyes . . . they’re cat’s eyes . . . as if he could see in the dark. And who is he? How did he get his money? Why does he live alone?”

  “I don’t know,” Grace said firmly, aware that at the back of her mind, doubt was assailing her loyalty. She remembered the look of terror on Crane’s face when he had seen her in that dress. I thought it was Julie . . . Well, she wasn’t going to tell Ellis that. It wasn’t his business.

  “A man as rich as he would have servants,” Ellis went on, “but he lives alone. And that dress. He gave it to you, didn’t he?”

  “It’s his sister’s,” Grace said sharply. “She’s dead.”

  Ellis chewed his lower lip, thought. Now he was learning something.

  “Sister?” he repeated. “I wonder. Who was she?”

  “His sister, I tell you,” Grace snapped. “Why must you go on and on? It’s no business of yours.”

  “You stick up for him, don’t you?” he sneered. “But I don’t trust him. There’s something fishy . . .”

  “Oh, be quiet,” Grace broke in, and moved forward impatiently. She came within Ellis’s reach, and moving like a striking snake, he grabbed hold of her wrist.

  She pulled back,
her eyes wide with fear, but somehow, although he was so weak and his head seemed to burst with the effort of moving, he hung on to her, his lips off his teeth.

  “You’re in love with him, aren’t you, you poor fool,” he gasped, dragging her slowly towards him.

  “Let me go!” she cried, hitting at his hand, but he hung on, until his free hand caught the skirt of her frock.

  “I’ll tear it off you if you struggle,” he said. “I mean it.”

  She allowed him to pull her right up to him, her eyes dark with alarm, her face white.

  “Leave me alone,” she exclaimed. “Let go of me.”

  “Sit down,” he returned, his thin, claw-like hand twisted in the skirt of her frock. “It’ll rip right off you if I pull.”

  She sat on the edge of the bed close to him.

  “Just because he’s given you a dress you think he’s marvellous,” Ellis said. “Don’t be a fool. There’s something behind all this. I know. I’m sure of it. He wouldn’t do this unless he’s going to get something out of it. Why is he frightened? What’s he hiding? You’ve got to find out before he comes back. Search the place. Look into his desk. Read his letters. We’ve got to know what’s behind all this. Do it now. You’ll find something: letters . . . anything might tell us if you look hard enough.”

  “But I couldn’t,” she said, shocked. “I couldn’t do that. It’s his house . . . he’s been kind . . .”

  “Stop saying he’s been kind. No one’s kind these days unless they have an iron in the fire. You’ve got to do it, otherwise we’re sunk. Go on. Look in his bedroom. You’ll find something there.”

  “Not after what he’s done for us,” Grace said. “I wouldn’t do it. It’s prying . . .”

  Ellis tightened his grip on her skirt. “You’re a thief,” he said “Why should you care? Go through his drawers. You might find something worth stealing.”

  Scarlet, Grace lifted her hand and smacked his face. It was a sharp, hard blow, making Ellis’s eyes water. For a second he relaxed his grip and in that moment she had sprung away. She leaned against the wall, and they looked at each other, she angry and frightened; he vicious, startled.

  “You’ll be sorry for that,” he said, his hand on his cheek.

  “Hitting a sick man! I gave you food, didn’t I? I saved you from the police. And you hit me. I expected at least a little gratitude.”

  Grace wrung her hands. “I’m sorry,” she said tearfully. “I shouldn’t have done it but you say such cruel, beastly things. You deserved it, but I shouldn’t have hit you when you’re so ill. I’m truly sorry . . .”

  “Never mind,” Ellis said limply, sensing her mood was weakening. “Go to his room and look in his drawers. I’m not thinking of myself, I’m thinking of you. He may have a plan to hurt you.”

  “He hasn’t!” Grace said. “And I’m not going to do it.”

  “You believe in him, don’t you?” Ellis went on. “Well, prove he’s all right. If you find nothing suspicious in his room then I’ll believe, like you, he’s being kind, and is a fine man. I’ll even apologise for thinking badly of him. That’s fair, isn’t it? Just prove it to me.”

  “I know there’ll be nothing,” Grace said, weakening. “And besides I can’t go into his room. It’s not right . . .”

  “If you’re so sure there’s nothing, then what are you hesitating for?” Ellis asked, watching her closely. Tut you know as well as I do that something is wrong with the chap, only you’re soft about him. You’re like an ostrich sticking its head in the sand. If you’re so sure, go to his room and see.”

  “Then I will,” Grace exclaimed. “I’ll prove it to you. There’s nothing wrong . . . it’s only your beastly, suspicious mind,” and she ran from the room, slamming the door behind her.

  It took her several minutes to find Crane’s room. She found it at last at the far end of the long passage that ran the length of the bungalow. It was a big room, with a large bay window over-looking the garden. It was the kind of room she expected him to have: the divan bed was covered with a black and gold bed- spread, the furniture was light oak and the fitted carpet was wine colour.

  She stood in the doorway, looking round, feeling a sudden weakness in her limbs, and she thought perhaps someday she might sleep in here: share this luxury with him.

  Timidly, yet with eager excitement, she entered the room, leaving the door open, and crossed the thick pile carpet to the chest of drawers. She hesitated before pulling open one of the drawers. She had tried to convince Ellis and herself that it was wrong to pry into Crane’s things, and yet she wanted to. She wanted to handle his clothes, see everything that was his in the hope that a closer contact might be established between them.

  The top drawer contained handkerchiefs and shirts, neatly arranged in tidy layers, and she touched them gently, again feeling weakness in her limbs.

  She experienced great pleasure and satisfaction in looking at his belongings, and she went through each drawer, finding only an expensive and luxurious collection of clothes.

  She went from the chest of drawers to the fitted wardrobe. There she found suits, overcoats, hats, ties, shoes: all expensive, all nearly new. The dressing table had two drawers to it, and she went quickly to it, anxious to get back to Ellis and tell him how wrong he had been.

  She slid open one of the drawers, paused, looked down at a long, thin knife with a white bone handle which lay in the otherwise empty drawer. It was a cruel-looking knife, very sharp and deadly, and the narrow blade was stained red: a rusty red that she instinctively knew was blood.

  She stepped back with a little cry, and stood staring at the knife for a long time, scarcely daring to think what it was doing in the drawer; then with a violent shudder, she closed the drawer. As she did so, she caught sight of Crane in the mirror. He was standing in the doorway watching her. She didn’t move or make a sound, but stared at his reflection, her heart bumping against her ribs, her mouth dry. There was a queer, lop-sided smile on his face that frightened her.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The fat little Hindu came into the room so silently that Ellis was not aware that he had entered until he happened to look up and found him standing at his side.

  For a moment Ellis thought that the sad-looking little man was a hallucination, then realising that he wasn’t, he started violently, his face revealing his fear.

  “I am Dr Safki,” the little man said in a soft, sibilant voice. “I’m sorry if I startled you.”

  For a moment or so Ellis could only think of Crane. If this nigger was the doctor then Crane must be back and had probably caught Grace prying in his room. At that moment Crane came into the room. He seemed quite at ease although Ellis thought his face was a shade paler (or was it a trick of the sunlight?). He came to the foot of the bed, smiled at Ellis.

  “Dr Safki will fix you up,” he said. “You can have every confidence in him. He’s an extremely clever fellow.”

  Ellis looked at the Hindu. The big, moist, bloodshot eyes were sad, the small sensual mouth was sulky, and the fat, knobbly little chin weak: not a man to inspire confidence, Ellis thought, but he was feeling too ill to worry about such trifles. The fact that the fellow was black gave him an inward satisfaction. He felt superior, patronising. After all, these blackies hadn’t earned the right to civilisation, he argued. They were parrots, merely imitating the white man, without an original idea in their thick skulls.

  Dr Safki had taken Ellis’s wrist, his little fingers pressed the pounding pulse. There was a sharp acid smell coming from the doctor which repelled Ellis. Then the doctor released Ellis’s wrist, took his stethoscope from an inside pocket, hung it round his neck.

  “If you’ll just open your pyjama jacket,” the soft voice murmured.

  Ellis undid the buttons. Where was Grace? he thought. What had happened to her? Had Crane caught her in his room? Was that why he was looking so pale?

  The cold little funnel of the stethoscope rested on his thin chest, moved, stopped, moved aga
in.

  The greasy, bullet-shaped head, smelling of a sickly perfume, was within a few inches of Ellis’s nose. He noticed the doctor was suffering from dandruff. Physician heal thyself, he thought, and suddenly giggled.

  The unexpected sound made Crane start. Dr Safki sighed, said gently, “Please don’t do that; it disturbs my diagnosis.”

  Ellis, flushing angrily, controlled himself. What was the matter with him? He must be light-headed — worse than he thought. He glared at the black, greasy hair, wanting to push the head away, curse at them both; be rid of them.

  Dr Safki stood back, his moon-shaped face impassive. He folded his stethoscope, put it away. His starched cuffs rattled as he moved his hands.

  “Now I think I would like to look at your leg,” he said and pulled down the blankets, revealing Ellis’s stunted body in the fine black and gold pyjamas.

  Crane was standing by the window, his back half turned, staring out into the garden. Ellis eyed the tremendous width of shoulders — a dangerous customer, he thought, and remembered Scragger. Scragger had shoulders like Crane, but Ellis would back Scragger in a fight with Crane. Scragger knew all the tricks; he’d been reared in a tough school, not like this fop whose background was luxury and lavender water.

  The blankets were gently replaced.

  “The leg looks excellent,” Dr Safki murmured. “A beautiful piece of work. I won’t disturb the splints.”

  Ellis suddenly had an extraordinary feeling of emotion: the girl was clever. She had done a lot for him. It wasn’t her fault that she had fallen for this rich playboy. A girl of her education and background was easy meat to a man like Crane.

  “You have a remarkable resistance,” Dr Safki was saying. “By rights you should be desperately ill. Mind you, I’m not saying you’re out of the wood — you’re not, but you’re doing quite well considering everything.” He opened the black morocco bag he had brought with him, put a bottle of tablets on the bedside table. “Take one of these every two hours. You’ll be better by tomorrow. I’ll see you again.”