“Tell me, Uncle Dev. Where is she?”
Where indeed? No motion has she now, no force, she neither hears nor sees... Only her name in real life was Polly, that adored little niece who had died in Goring’s arms, and with her had died the only thing in the world he’d ever truly loved. He had been unable to keep Polly alive, but he could be sure that Penelope, the shadow child of his imagination whose adventures had so enthralled his little niece, would never die.
This reminded him of Sheila and a wave of hatred darkened his face.
“Uncle Dev? Where is Penelope?”
Goring knew it was his last chance to tell the truth, his last chance to scrap the grisly scenario in his mind. And what if he did? What if he were to tell “Jack” that all this time he had been idolizing a dead girl? What effect might such a revelation have on his already clouded mind?
The thunder, closer now, as if the furious armies in the sky were battling above the very roof, seemed to echo the words: “Where is she, Uncle Dev?”
“She’s not home this evening, Jack. She had to go out.”
“With him?”
“No. Not with him. She went to visit a sick friend.”
Sheila, damn her, had insulted his intelligence with the same brazen excuse. A sick friend! Did she think he was senile, that he would swallow as phony an excuse as that? But then, it gave her pleasure to insult his intelligence just as it gave her pleasure to see him sitting in that wheelchair, helpless and vulnerable and so totally at her mercy.
“That’s just like Penelope,” the young man murmured. “Where is she, Uncle Dev? Tell me how to get there.”
“If you found her, what would you do?”
“Why, tell her, of course.”
“That you love her?”
“Yes.”
“And want to marry her?”
“Yes!”
“What if she refused?”
“She wouldn’t. She loves me.”
“But what if she did?”
“I’d kill myself!” All his utterances were as melodramatic as a child’s, and as artlessly sincere.
“Ah, my boy, it’s no good. She has to marry Rashbrooke whether she wants to or not.”
The young man was actually trembling with excitement. “You’re wrong, Uncle Dev! I’ll help her escape. Like I always do.”
“You don’t understand, lad. You don’t know what Rashbrooke is.”
In Goring’s mind the scenario assumed its final shape.
“He’s nothing but a lousy fortune hunter, Uncle Dev.”
“He’s more than that. Much more.” Goring pointed to the manuscript on the desk. “It’s not finished. But read the title.”
A sudden shattering clap of thunder seemed to make the house tremble on its foundation as the young man picked up the manuscript and looked at it, his lips shaping and reshaping the words before speaking them aloud. “Penelope and the Final Escape... I don’t get it, Uncle Dev. Final escape? That doesn’t mean—”
“Marriage will bring Penelope’s adventures to a logical conclusion.”
Not his idea, never his idea; if he’d had anything to say about it Penelope’s adventures would never end, not so long as he had breath in his body. Only he didn’t have anything to say about it; he was powerless to cope with Sheila, the woman who had entered his house for the first time as a hired secretary when arthritis had afflicted him shortly after the fourth Penelope book and who, as his wife two years later, was writing the books herself. No one knew, of course, not even his publisher; she had become an expert at aping Goring’s style. As the royalties had rolled in greater and greater abundance she had grown indifferent to Goring and his suffering and had begun the affair with Lawton almost under his nose, until finally a day had come when she declared that she was sick of Penelope and she had embarked upon The Final Escape, intending to bring the series to a close.
Now Goring wheeled himself to the young man’s side and calmly took the manuscript from his hand. “You remember Anaxos in The Greek Uprising?”
“Sure. He was one of Chang’s men.”
“Well, so is Rashbrooke.”
The effect of this upon his visitor was enough to make Goring lower his eyes in shame even while his heart pounded with excitement.
“But, Uncle Dev, you can’t let her do it!”
Goring spread his hands. “I’m helpless, as you can see. There’s nothing I can do.”
Gradually a sly, deliberate smile swept the anxiety from the young man’s face. “I’m not helpless, Uncle Dev. I can help her get away from Rashbrooke just like I helped her escape from Anaxos.”
Now that he could no longer dismiss it, Goring tried to tell himself that the idea for this monstrous scenario wasn’t really his at all, but something evil and hideous spawned by the Devil of Pain that had made its home in his crippled body.
“You’d be risking your life, Jack. If you were caught they’d never believe you. You know what they’d say, don’t you? That Penelope and Rashbrooke are only figments of the imagination, characters in a book.”
The caller’s smile grew noticeably slier. “That’s what Mrs. Brooks said when I went back to visit her once at the orphanage and told her all about my adventures. She said I was all mixed up. She said they were only characters in a book. And you know what I said, Uncle Dev? I said, if they’re not real, then I’m not real either. She couldn’t argue with that. That stumped her, let me tell you. Because I was right there talking to her and she couldn’t say I wasn’t real.”
The hideousness of what he was doing brought a cold sweat to Goring’s hands. “Go away, boy. While there’s still time. Forget about Penelope.”
“Where is he, Uncle Dev? Tell me where to find Rashbrooke. I’ll take care of him just like I took care of Anaxos.”
Once more his hand darted toward the desk, this time grabbing up a silver letter knife. “I don’t have that Persian dagger I used on Anaxos, but this will do just fine.” He smiled at Goring. “How do I find him, Uncle Dev?”
Goring looked very old and very tired. “You’d never find him. Not unless I called him and told him to come here.”
Tiny flames burned behind the dream-scarred eyes. “Then call him, Uncle Dev. Right now.”
With a curious, passive sense of having delivered himself into the power of an emotion he could neither understand nor resist, Goring picked up the telephone, then paused. “Listen, Jack, while I’m calling him you go downstairs and unlock the front door. Don’t make any noise. We don’t want to wake Mrs. Harkins.”
As soon as the young man was out of the room Goring dialed the number with an aching, stiff-jointed finger. They would be together, of course, Sheila and Lawton. Suppose Sheila were to answer. But of course she didn’t.
“Lawton? It’s me, Goring. I’ve got to see you... Yes, yes, I know what time it is, but it’s important... There’s something I’ve got to tell you. About Sheila. Something she mustn’t know. You’ve got to come right now. Sheila’s visiting a friend and I’ve got to see you before she gets home... Yes... The door will be unlocked. Come straight up to my study.”
He hung up and pressed his fingers to his eyes. That would give the precious pair something to think about, and he’d come. He’d come running to find out what it was all about. Sheila would make sure of that.
When the young man returned his face was deeply flushed and the paper knife still gleamed in his clenched fist. “Did you reach him, Uncle Dev?”
“Yes. He’s on his way.” Goring wheeled himself to the door. “Switch off that light, Jack. Just leave the desk lamp burning.”