Trusted Like The Fox Read online

  “I must help you,” she returned, shivering. “It was my fault. I can’t expect you to do that alone.”

  He made a slight, impatient movement which she did not notice.

  “Please stay here,” he said, an edge to his voice. “I can do it, and I don’t want you near.”

  He went away and left her with the lantern and she waited for a long time. She sat on the grass, her head in her hands, unable to believe that this awful thing had happened. He had killed a man! He had done that to save her. It had been her fault, and now he was in danger.

  These thoughts revolved in her mind until he returned. She happened to look up and saw him as he came down the path, out of the darkness. There was mud on his shoes and on the ends of his trousers. There was mud on his hands.

  She started to her feet, then paused. There was something strange about his eyes that frightened her. He came to her, took hold of her. She was startled by the roughness of his grip and by the heaviness of his breathing. He pulled open her coat, almost dragged it off her, then he jerked her against him, his mud-stained hand closing round her chin, lifting her face to his.

  She saw in his eyes what he meant to do, and she cried out, “Oh, no! Please, not here!” but he didn’t seem to hear for he crushed his mouth down on hers.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Crane stood by the open dining-room window, his hands in his pockets, a heavy, thoughtful frown on his face. The bungalow was strangely silent, and nothing in the garden stirred under the hot midday sun.

  Grace was having a bath. She had slept late, and he hadn’t seen her since the previous night. He had heard her go to the bathroom but a few minutes ago, and he wondered how she was feeling: whether she was going to be difficult.

  He had been in to see Ellis whose small, hard eyes had never left Crane’s face for a moment: revengeful, vicious eyes. He hadn’t spoken, although Crane had tried to make conversation, and losing patience, Crane had left him. He had then tried to contact Safki, but the telephone remained unanswered. This had irritated Crane as he wanted to get rid of Ellis without any further delay. He was suddenly bored with Grace and Ellis; he wanted to bring this affair to an abrupt close.

  His big hands clenched in his pockets. Tonight he would finish Grace and bury her beside Rogers and Julie, out there in the lonely wood. He felt his blood quicken at the thought, and the old familiar feeling he knew so well came back, fastening on to his mind, swamping all other feelings and thoughts.

  But first, he had to get rid of Ellis, and he turned from the window, intending to ring Safki again, but a movement outside arrested his attention. He again glanced out of the window, felt his heart miss a beat.

  From where he stood he could look down the long drive to the big wooden gates. Standing before the gates was an old-fashioned Rolls-Royce, and even as he saw it, Major-General Sir Hugh Franklin-Steward descended from it, had a word with the chauffeur, opened the gate and began to walk slowly up the drive.

  For a moment Crane lost his nerve. He experienced a strange weakness in his legs and the blood left his face. What did the old boy want? He hadn’t been near the bungalow for months: and at this hour? Had James been to him? Were they suspicious? Could something have gone wrong?

  Crane quickly pulled himself together. No, nothing could have gone wrong. He was too clever for that to have happened. He had fooled James and was behaving like a fool himself. There was nothing to get excited about. The old boy probably wanted something, or, as he hadn’t seen him for a few days, thought he’d call. His confidence returned. This could even be an exciting experience if he played his cards properly. The idea of entertaining the Chief Constable while sheltering a notorious renegade and a wanted convict was fun: would test his nerves, but he’d have to be sure they were safely out of the way first.

  Moving swiftly, he went to the bathroom, opened the door, entered.

  Grace was just fastening her dressing-gown. Her hair was limp from the steam of the hot water and her face looked young and innocent, free as it was from make-up. There were, however, dark smudges under her eyes and she looked tired as if she had slept badly.

  She recoiled slightly as Crane came in, blushed and looked away.

  He grabbed her arm, pulling her to him.

  “Listen carefully,” he said. “The Chief Constable of the district is coming up the drive. I don’t know what he’s after, but I’m positive he doesn’t know you and Ellis are here. Go to Ellis and sit with him. Lock yourself in.” He thrust a shot-gun that he had snatched from the rack on the hall wall into her hands. “Threaten him with that if he plays the fool. Now, hurry.”

  Grace nearly dropped the gun. She trembled, clung to him.

  “But I daren’t,” she stammered. “I — I’m scared. Oh, Richard, suppose they’ve found out?”

  “Get in there and be quiet,” Crane said curtly. “He’ll be here any second now. Leave it to me. I’ll handle him all right. There’s nothing to worry about, but keep Ellis quiet.”

  He bundled her out of the bathroom, down the passage to Ellis’s door.

  “Lock yourself in and don’t make a sound,” he said, opened the door and pushed Grace into the room, then closed the door behind her.

  As he turned the front door bell rang and he grinned, showing his big white teeth.

  “Now for it,” he thought. “The old fossil won’t get the better of me. This should be fun if only that madman Ellis doesn’t start something. But he won’t,” he reassured himself. “He’s too scared: values his rotten little life too highly. If he gives me away, he’ll hang and he knows it.”

  Crane went to the front door, opened it.

  “Why, hello, sir,” he said, smiling a welcome. “This is an unexpected pleasure. Come in; you’re just in time for a drink.”

  Sir Hugh regarded the frank, handsome face thoughtfully. “Good-looking boy,” he thought. “James must be out of his mind. This chap wouldn’t hurt a fly. Well, damn it, I suppose I’ll have to go through with it.”

  “How are you, Richard,” he said aloud, shaking hands. “Haven’t seen you for more than a week. What have you been doing with yourself?”

  All right, so far, Crane thought, as he led the way to the sitting-room. The old boy looks a bit thoughtful (not his strong suit), but he seems genial enough.

  “I’ve been trying to get my handicap down, sir,” he said with a laugh. “But I can’t get below three. I’ve been up at the course nearly every day this week. I hoped to surprise you.”

  “Three, eh?” Sir Hugh said, selected a comfortable chair, lowered his thin frame into it. “Damn good. I wish I was three. Last time I put in a card they gave me a filthy twelve. Still, I suppose twelve isn’t bad at my age.”

  “I’d have thought you were a good six, sir,” Crane said easily. He glanced round the room for the whisky, remembered he had left it with Ellis, cursed under his breath. He could have done with a spot now; oiled the old boy too. Well, there was sherry. He crossed to the cocktail cabinet. “Gin or sherry, sir? I’m afraid I’m out of whisky.”

  “No, I won’t have anything, thank you,” Sir Hugh said. “I don’t like drinking before lunch. But you have one. Don’t let me stop you.” He stroked his lean jaw, wondered how he was going to tackle this unpleasant business.

  “I’ve chucked it, too — anyway before lunch,” Crane said, thinking he’d better keep a clear head. “How are the roses, sir?” he went on quickly as he saw Sir Hugh hesitating. “There’s something on the old boy’s mind,” he thought. “Better keep the conversation going and make it as difficult for him as I can.”

  Sir Hugh’s face brightened at the mention of roses, then he realised that if he began to talk about his favourite pastime he’d never get down to business. So he resisted the temptation to extol the prowess of his Sultans of Zanzibar, said, “Never mind about the roses, Richard, there’s something I want to ask you.”

  Then he does know something, Crane thought. Careful now. It must be serious. Never knew the old bo
y not to rise to the rose bait. What’s coming?

  “Yes, sir?” he said, sitting down and lighting a cigarette. He noticed with annoyance that his hands were none too steady.

  “I understand, Richard, that you claim to have a married sister — a Mrs Julie Brewer,” Sir Hugh began, stroking his jaw and looking thoroughly uncomfortable.

  James! Of course, James had reported to Sir Hugh. Now, he’d have to go very carefully. It was one thing to tell James that he had a sister, another thing to admit it to Sir Hugh. He was, after all, his future father-in-law, and Sarah (that cold, repressed beauty) would want to meet any sister of Crane’s.

  He suddenly regretted telling James that Julie was his sister. It had been a hasty, thoughtless move: unwise, with no eye to the future. Well, it couldn’t be helped now, but how to get out of it?

  “You’ve been talking to James,” Crane said. “What’s this, sir? The third degree?”

  “No, my boy, but I’m worried. James has come to me with an extraordinary story which involves you,” Sir Hugh said, deciding that he’d best lay his cards on the table. He wasn’t going to try to trap the lad. He liked Crane; was glad he was going to marry his daughter; was very proud of his war record. He wanted a son; his cold, over-educated daughter rather frightened him. He would have willingly exchanged her for Crane if he had the chance. “James tells me you claim this woman Julie Brewer is your sister, but he has been to Somerset House and finds you have no sister.”

  “Hell!” Crane thought, didn’t expect this.” He controlled his uneasiness with an effort, but his hands suddenly felt moist and cold:

  “He has been a busy little bee,” he said, smiling. “I’m afraid he’s landed me in an awkward hole through his damned prying.”

  “Oh?” the faded blue eyes looked hurt. “Perhaps you’d better explain, Richard. You’re not denying that you said she was your sister?”

  “Of course not, sir,” Crane said frankly. “And, of course, it was a lie. I haven’t a sister.”

  “Yes, James found that out. He tells me this Brewer woman is — er — a —” Sir Hugh floundered, cleared his throat, shook his head. “I suppose he knows what he’s talking about?”

  “I’m afraid he does, sir. She is one of those.”

  “And she was staying here?” Sir Hugh asked, failing to conceal his horror. “A woman like that? But surely not.”

  “Oh, no, sir,” Crane said. “Not here. No — I wouldn’t associate with that kind of a woman.”

  “ ‘Pon my soul, I’m glad to hear it,” Sir Hugh said, looking pathetically relieved. “I told that damn fool James you were a clean-living boy.” He suddenly realised that the situation as described by James had not been explained, and he blinked at Crane. “But she was here, damn it. You introduced her to James as your sister and showed him her identity card.”

  “I showed him Julie Brewer’s identity card, sir, but the girl wasn’t Julie.”

  Sir Hugh crossed and then uncrossed his long, thin legs. He passed his hand over his bald head, frowned.

  “Then who the devil was she?”

  “I can’t tell you that, sir,” Crane said a little curtly. “It’s a matter of someone else’s honour.”

  “But you’ll have to tell me,” Sir Hugh said, frost now in his voice. “James claims that the girl was Grace Clark, wanted by the police.”

  So he hadn’t fooled James after all, Crane thought, dismayed. Well, never mind. He was going to fool Sir Hugh and if he convinced Sir Hugh, James wouldn’t dare investigate further.

  “Who, sir?” he asked, feigning surprise.

  “Grace Clark,” Sir Hugh repeated. “You may have read about her in the papers.”

  “I think I have. You mean the deaf girl? But what in the world . . . I mean why should I . . . oh, really, sir, this is ridiculous.”

  “It’s serious, my boy,” Sir Hugh said sternly. “I need an explanation. I must know how you got hold of this Brewer woman’s identity card, and who this other woman is who’s staying here.”

  “But she’s not staying here,” Crane said hastily. “She left last night.”

  “Well, who was she?”

  Crane got up and began to pace the floor.

  “This puts me in a very difficult position,” he said. “You don’t think she’s this Grace Clark, do you, sir? You can’t believe that?”

  Sir Hugh was watching him, puzzled. The boy looked worried: there was something obviously on his mind. Could James be right?

  “You still haven’t answered my questions, Richard,” he said sharply. “You’ll have to answer them, you know, or else I’ll be forced to pass this business over to the Superintendent to deal with, and you know what that means.”

  “Good Lord!” Crane exclaimed. “This mustn’t go further than us two, sir. It’s frightfully delicate.” He pretended to hesitate, then sat down again. He had his story now. “All right, sir, I’ll tell you. I won’t ask you to treat this in confidence, but I hope when you’ve heard the true facts, you’ll do everything you can to hush it up.”

  “I’m making no promises,” Sir Hugh said, becoming more and more worried. “If it’s a police matter, the police will have to be informed.”

  “Oh, I understand that, but it isn’t a police matter. First, I’d better explain about Julie Brewer,” Crane said. “When I was at Biggin Hill, sir, with my squadron, I met a lad named Ronnie Chadwick (‘I’m sorry about this, Ronnie, old boy, but you’ll understand. I’m in a hole, and it won’t hurt you,” Crane thought). He and I did a number of sorties together and we got pretty pally. The day we were detailed to cover the Dieppe raid, he asked me, if anything should happen to him, if I’d send his things to his mother. Well, of course, I said I would and we kidded each other, not believing anything would happen, but it did. Poor Ronnie bought it. Well, sir, going through his stuff I found he had given a couple of rings to a girl called Julie Brewer. I didn’t think anything of it, until his mother wrote to the C.O. asking for the rings. The C.O. passed the buck to me and suggested I’d better have a word with Mrs Brewer and find out why Ronnie had given her the rings. The next time I was in town I called at the address and found the woman was a tart. Of course she wouldn’t part with the rings, and I couldn’t very well write to Ronnie’s mother and explain. So I decided I’d buy them off her.”

  Sir Hugh nodded. The frost had gone out of his eyes, and he was looking almost happy again.

  “Very good of you, my boy,” he said.

  “The idea was all right, sir,” Crane said modestly, “but it didn’t work out. She wouldn’t part with the rings until I’d paid the money. Then when I had given her the money, she said she hadn’t had time to get the rings from the bank and she’d send them to me. It was an absolute twist, but she was so experienced that she fooled me completely. I did snaffle her identity card as some form of security, but I haven’t had the rings and I don’t suppose I ever shall.”

  “I see,” Sir Hugh said, light dawning. “Damn it all, my boy, you behaved well. You know the woman’s disappeared?”

  “Has she?” Crane said in mock surprise. “There goes my five hundred pounds. What a fool I was to have trusted her. I suppose the police . . . no, we’d better not let the police have a go at her. Ronnie’s mother might hear about it.”

  “Very difficult,” Sir Hugh said, and blew his nose violently. “Well, you did your best and you tried to help an old comrade. It was a very fine gesture, Richard.”

  “Well, I haven’t finished yet, sir,” Crane said, trying to look embarrassed. “I hope you’ll be equally pleased with me when you hear the whole story.”

  “Yes, yes,” Sir Hugh said, his face clouding. Well, get on, my boy. Who was this woman who was staying here? I might add, Richard, that it is a severe blow to me to learn that a woman was with you unchaperoned. I thought you were fond of Sarah.”

  “Of course I am, sir,” Crane said quickly. “More than fond. I hope to marry her as you know. This woman — there was nothing between us, sir. W
ord of honour. I know it looks bad, but — well, perhaps I’d better begin at the beginning.”

  “I’m very relieved to hear it, Richard.” The faded blue eyes quizzed him. “You’ve got too much guts to lie yourself out of a tight hole, haven’t you?”

  “I hope so, sir,” Crane said, suppressing an urge to burst out laughing. The old fossil was really unbelievable. He was as bad as Grace. “Well, sir, this is the hard part of the story,” he went on, “and I hesitated to — well, frankly, I wouldn’t tell anyone except you, sir. It concerns Lady Cynthia Crowbridge.”

  Sir Hugh stiffened, sat up.

  “General Crowbridge’s daughter?” he asked, a rasp in his voice.

  “Yes, sir. You know she’s getting a divorce?”

  “Well, what of it?”

  “She’s fallen in love with a friend of mine, sir, and they couldn’t wait. If it got out it’d kill the old boy, sir. You know what a stickler he is for the right thing, and it’d dish Cynthia’s divorce. I suppose, in a way, it was my fault, but I was sorry for them. I suggested they could meet at my place. They did and spent several nights here. The King’s Proctor would make hay out of it if he knew.”

  “I suppose he would,” Sir Hugh said, rubbing his head again. “This is really frightful, Richard. I wish in a way you hadn’t told me.”

  “I know, sir,” Crane said, suppressing a grin, “but you see now what a wretched position I was in. You know how keen Cynthia is about golf — or, at least, I suppose you don’t. I was forgetting you don’t know her. She plays a terrific game and the little fathead followed me out on the course, determined to have a couple of hits. Well, she ran into Rogers and promptly lost her head. She thought Rogers would recognise her (her picture appears in the Taller every week) and she was supposed to be in London, staying with her aunt, the innocent, broken-hearted wife. So she bolted. Rogers went after her, thinking she was the sneak-thief who’d broken into the clubhouse. I had to do a spot of quick thinking and made out she was deaf and hadn’t heard him call. I had hoped, sir, to pull wool over his eyes, but I might have known better. The police here are uncommonly smart.”