Mr. Zero

XIX

Algy had never had the slightest intention of allowing Gay to go blinding off alone into dark, unknown grounds with the fairly obvious intention of meeting an anonymous blackmailer. She had, naturally, not announced this as her reason for coming down here in the middle of the night, but it seemed perfectly clear to him that it was what she meant to do, and the minute she mentioned Colebrook, and he guessed that their destination was Cole Lester, he guessed too that it was probably Sylvia Colesborough who was being blackmailed and not Gay Hardwicke. He felt a queer rage against Gay for getting herself mixed up with what was probably a pieee of crass folly and no business of hers.

As he followed Gay at a safe distance up the drive, his rage turned back upon himself, because of all things in the world he could least afford to mix himself up with any new scandal. He was a fool to have come, and a complete fool to have pledged himself not to ask any questions. He ought to have insisted on asking them. He ought at the very start to have said “Nothing doing” and hung up his receiver. He ought… In his heart of hearts he knew perfectly well that he would have taken Gay to Timbuctoo rather than let her run stupid risks without him.

He came to the end of the drive, and realized that he had lost her. What had he to do now? Follow the plan he had made and hope for the best. He wished her away-anywhere but here-in London -out of this business. It weighed darkly on his mind, darkly on them both. He went on…

As the sound of the shot rang out and died away, he began to run. A bird went up, startled, with a rush of wings. His torch was in his hand. When he came to the yew walk he switched it on and saw the dark mouth gaping. And then from the far end he caught the flash of another torch. He plunged into the tunnel and ran along it. He was more afraid than he had ever been in his life before. There was a nightmare sense of weight upon his feet and upon his heart.

He came to the seat, and the full beam of his torch shone across it and showed him Gay standing there with a pistol in one hand and a fold of her skirt in the other.

What he felt was not to be put into words-a blinding anger, a cold fear. What was she doing with the pistol-Gay-what had she done? He said her name, and she threw the pistol on the seat and came running to him helter-skelter like a child. She was in his arms and he was holding her before there was time for either of them to think or draw breath. He felt her strain against him, shuddering. All that had resisted her broke in him and dissolved. He said quick and low,

“What is it? Gay-darling-what is it?”

And Gay said, “He’s dead! Oh, I think he’s dead!”

“Who?”

“Francis.”

“Where?”

“Outside-on the grass.”

His arms tightened about her.

“Did you come to meet him? Was he blackmailing you?”

She put her hand against his chest and pushed him away.

“I can’t breathe. Oh, no-it couldn’t have been Francis-it couldn’t!”

“Then why did you shoot him?”

“I didn’t, I didn’t, I didn’t! Oh, Algy, I didn’t!”

He released her.

“Where is he? Show me!”

They leaned together against the hedge and over the green sill of the window that was cut in it. In the light of Algy’s torch Francis Colesborough lay dreadfully still.

“How does one get out there?” Algy’s tone was almost matter-of-fact.

Gay looked away. Francis was dead. She was quite sure that Francis was dead. She pointed to the left and said in a small, faint voice,

“There’s a way out along there.”

There was, in fact, a way out at either end of the cross-piece. She didn’t know why she had pointed to the left, but when he had run that way she thought perhaps it was because Sylvia had been standing on the right. He hadn’t seen Sylvia-yet.

She picked up her own torch from the arm of the seat and flashed it round. Sylvia had been standing just there on the right of the window, but she wasn’t there now. There wasn’t anyone there.

Algy’s voice called to her through the window, “Gay-come here,” and when she came he leaned in across the sill and said,

“He’s dead. Who shot him?”

She said nothing. Her mind was full of the dreadful picture of Sylvia with the pistol in her hand.

Algy caught her by the arm.

“Gay-if you did it, tell me. I’ll get you away. Only for God’s sake tell me!”

“I didn’t! Algy, I didn’t!”

“What were you doing with the pistol?”

“I picked it up. I was wiping it.”

“Why? For God’s sake, why?”

She burst into tears.

“I can’t tell you. What are we going to do? Algy, what are we going to do?”

Question and answer had followed so fast that there had been no time to think, but now there was a most desperate need for thought. He said,

“I can get you away. We’d better chance it. Wipe that pistol again. Take hold of it with your dress. Don’t leave any fingerprints. Then ran along and meet me at the end of the hedge. If we can get to the car we can get clear.”

Gay said, “You go. I can’t.” But what she really meant was, “If I go, that will put it on Sylvia. I can’t leave Sylvia.”

“Gay, if you did it-”

She stamped her foot.

“I didn’t! I tell you I didn’t!”

“Then we’d better go up to the house and get help.”