The Blind Side

Chapter XIII

In Lucy Craddock’s sitting-room Peter Renshaw stood on the black woolly rug before the empty fireplace and mapped out a plan of campaign. Lee, sitting on the arm of the largest chair, was looking, not at him, but out of the window at a patch of hot, hazy sky. There was a very much worn Brussels carpet on the floor, its original tints of mustard and strong pink now mercifully merged in a general shabbiness. The walls, like those in No. 9, were completely covered with pictures-water colours, etchings, photographic enlargements, and a family portrait or two in oils. There were at least six small tables as well as an upright piano, and a good many unnecessary small chairs. The top of the piano was quite covered with photographs in silver frames.

“It’ll be perfectly all right if we keep our heads,” said Peter in his most dogmatic voice.

Lee looked round at him. It was rather an odd look.

“Oh, Peter dear,” she said, and there was a pitying sound in the words. It was as if she was much older since the yesterdays when they used to quarrel. She felt old, and sad, and tolerant, and wise, and very sorry for Peter, because she couldn’t see any way out of this without somebody being hurt, and she was afraid, not for herself, but for him.

Peter went on.

“Everything will be absolutely all right, only-Lee, you’re not listening, and you’ve got to listen. They may send for one of us at any moment. They won’t be so long over Peterson and Rush, and then it’s pretty sure to be either you or me.”

“I wonder whether Rush saw Mavis go out,” said Lee quickly.

“That’s just it. I hope he didn’t. But whether he saw her or not, it’s going to be very nearly impossible to keep Mavis out of this. You see, there were those two glasses, both used, and the very first thing the police will do is to find out where Ross spent the evening and who was with him. Well, he’s always at the Ducks and Drakes. Everyone knows him there, and if she’s been going out with him half as much as Lucy’s been complaining about, it’s ten to one that most of them will know Mavis, and the minute this show is in the papers they’ll be tumbling over each other to tell the police that she was there with him last night. Unfortunately I was at the Ducks and Drakes myself, and if I’m asked I shall have to say that I saw Ross and Mavis there, because when dozens of other people must have seen them it will only add to the general fishiness if I pretend I didn’t. What I do hope is that they won’t have any proof that she came back here. I’ll hold my tongue about that if no one else saw her. What about you?”

Lee drew in her breath.

“I shan’t say anything either.”

Peter squared his shoulders.

“I don’t really give a damn about Mavis. She got herself into this, and we’re all going to want a lot of luck to get her out of it. But it’s you-” he came over to Lee and dropped his hands on her shoulders-“you, my dear-you. They’ll ask you all sorts of questions. They may press you pretty hard. Because you don’t belong here, and your coming in like that just on the very night that Ross was shot-well, it’s bound to make them sit up and take notice.”

Lee’s eyelids lifted slowly and she looked up at him. She was not nearly so pretty as Mavis-the features too irregular, and just now her whole aspect too pale, too drawn with fatigue. But she had eyes which would be beautiful even when she was old. Something in the shape, something in the way that they were set, something in the shadow which the lashes cast-very dark lashes, thick, and dark, and fine-something in the deep, changing grey of the iris. Peter’s heart always stirred in him when Lee looked up at him as she was looking now. But this time it stirred to a pulse of fear. His hand tightened on hers, and he said,

“You’ve got to hold your tongue about yourself, my dear. You came here, you were very tired, and you went to bed. You slept all night, and when you heard the commotion on the landing you came out to see what was going on. And that’s all. Do you hear? That’s all.”

“Peter-”

He shook her a little.

“It’s true, isn’t it? You did go to bed and sleep all night, and that’s all you know.”

She kept her eyes on his face.

“Peter-” Her voice went away to just a breath. “Peter-weren’t there any-footprints-inside that door?”

If he had thought there was the slightest chance of persuading her that the whole thing was a dream, and that there never had been any footprints, Peter might have grasped at this serviceable lie, but as he saw no chance of getting Lee to believe in it he let it go. He said,

“That’s all right-I smudged them out.”

“How? Oh, Peter!”

“Well, I was waiting for Peterson. I rather banked on his doing just what he did do, tearing off downstairs to get Rush and leaving the door open, so I was all ready with some damp paper. If there were footprints, I knew I shouldn’t have time to get rid of them altogether, but I thought I could bank on being able to mess them up so that they couldn’t possibly be identified. I’d plenty of time to do it, get back, get rid of the paper, wash my hands, and run out in my dressing-gown to join Peterson when he came back with Rush.”

“It was very clever of you.” Lee’s lashes fell for a moment and then rose again. “Peter, do you think I did it?” she said in an exhausted voice.

She startled him horribly. He said,

“What do you mean?” And then, on a quick note of anger, “Don’t be a damned little fool!”

Lee stepped back from him, her gaze mournful and steady.

“No, Peter-please-I can’t bear it. It’s all shut up inside me, and if I can’t talk about it-oh, don’t you see?”

He saw, and the anger went out of him. He said,

“What do you want to talk about?”

“I want to tell you. I’m so afraid. It’s no good just bottling it up, and I can’t tell anyone else. You see, it was rather horrid about those Merville people. I don’t know whether she ever meant to sail. I’ve begun to think perhaps she didn’t. Anyhow at the last minute they had a row, and she walked out and took the child. I don’t know if it was a real row. It may have been, because he was awfully worked up. And he didn’t want to let me go-yes, I know-you said so all along, and we quarrelled about it. And you were perfectly right, which is lovely for you but not quite so much fun for me. But that doesn’t matter now. What does matter is this. That Merville man was just slime-he really was. And when he took hold of me I saw scarlet, and, Peter, if I could have got my hands on a pistol I’d have shot him. I would, and I’d have liked doing it.” The colour came into her face just for a moment and then ebbed again.

Peter controlled his voice to a careless tone.

“A good riddance, but possibly a bit awkward. On the whole, just as well that there wasn’t a pistol.”

Lee nodded.

“I know. And I got away all right. I threw the big inkstand at him and the ink went into his eyes. I didn’t wait after that.” There was a faint satisfaction in her tone, but the strained note came back again. “I got here, and I was most awfully tired, but I didn’t feel like going to sleep. I rummaged round for a book, and I found a stupid murder story. It really was stupid, and I didn’t get very far with it, because I went to sleep, and the last bit I remember was about a man creeping down a long passage in the dark, and when he’d got about half way he found a pistol, and all at once a door opened at the other end and he saw the most dreadful face looking at him, and he fired at it with the pistol he had just picked up. As if anyone would!”

“What has all this got to do with Ross?”

“It might have started me off dreaming. I did dream, you know, and I did walk in my sleep, and I did go into Ross’s flat. If my footprints were there, it proves that I went in.” Her voice dropped wretchedly. “If I could only remember what the dream was about. But suppose-just suppose I got that murder story all mixed up in a dream with René Merville. I might-have taken-Ross’s pistol-and if he caught hold of me, I might have-thought he was René-and I might-have shot him-” The last word scarcely sounded. She put out a hand to steady herself against the back of the chair.

Peter pushed his hands deep into his pockets where he could clench them unseen, and remarked,

“My child, you’ll have to take to writing thrillers yourself. That’s a marvellous effort of the imagination. But I don’t think I should produce it for the Inspector. Nobody admires the police more than I do, but imagination just isn’t their strong suit. They have an earthy preference for facts, you know-things like-”

“Footprints,” said Lee.