His voice, even in murderous rage, was a deep, melodious thunder, the singing western cadences like a furious wind in strings. Although no one was holding him now, he heaved and strained against his own grip on the arms of the chair, as though he were chained. ‘I’ll fix her, though! I’m going to make a statement that’ll see her off, the dirty, cheating bitch, the way she’s trying to see me. There’s nothing in her but lies, and lies, and lies. You can’t twist fast enough to have her. You can only kill her! I will kill her! I’ll…’
The pealing thunder snapped off into abrupt silence. He shut his mouth with a snap, biting off words too dangerous to utter. For he was charged only with the attempt as yet, not the achievement.
‘You shall have your chance to make a statement, all in good time,’ said George, to all appearances unstartled and unmoved. ‘Go on, Mrs Paviour. Say what you were going to say.’ She would not be interrupted again; Orrie had made his point and could bide his time.
‘I realise,’ said Lesley quietly, ‘that it’s my word against his. I realise that my recoil from him now makes him want to drag me down as low as he can. I can only tell the truth. I never knew anything about any thefts from the site, but I do admit the affair with him. I wish I needn’t. It wasn’t even a happiness while it lasted—not for long. My own fault! Yes, I was going to tell you… We did meet in his cottage sometimes. That was what I had to explain, how I came to be there in his bedroom.’ She took a moment to breathe; she was quite calm, even relaxed, perhaps in resignation now that the worst was over. ‘The last time was about a month ago. I don’t remember the exact date, but it was in the last few days of March. He had a letter with a foreign stamp on the table by the bed, and I was surprised, and picked it up to look at the stamp, out of curiosity. I didn’t know he knew anyone abroad. It was a Turkish stamp, and the postmark was the twentieth of March. When he saw me looking at it he took it out of my hand and dropped it into a drawer. But afterwards I kept thinking I knew the handwriting, and couldn’t place it. It was addressed in English style, the lay-out and the hand. I had the feeling that it was familiar in some special way, that some time or other I’d copy-typed from a hand like that. I had. I know now. I happened to turn out some notes I typed up for him while he was staying here. It was Doctor Morris’s handwriting.’
‘She lies!’ said Orrie, shortly and splendidly, without weakening emphasis. ‘There never was any such letter.’
‘A month ago?’ said George sharply. ‘Dated the twentieth of March? You’re sure it wasn’t old? From a previous year?’
‘Quite sure. The date was plain. It was March of this year.’
‘Then about six weeks ago Doctor Morris was unquestionably alive and well, and still in Turkey?’
‘He must have been. He addressed that envelope, I’m certain of that.’
‘Where in Turkey? Could you read the postmark? Was there anything to give you a clue to where he could be found now?’
She shook her head. ‘I can’t remember anything more. It was the date I noticed—’ She turned and looked full at Orrie. ‘But he can tell you. He must know where Doctor Morris is. He’s always known.’
The briefest of glances passed between George Felse and Gus Hambro; and Gus, who had been silent during all these last exchanges, said suddenly, briskly and forcibly:
‘I doubt if he does. But we do. We know exactly where Doctor Morris is. He’s down in the flues of the hypocaust, luggage, briefcase, typewriter and all, and he’s been there ever since he left your house to catch his plane, nineteen months ago.’
She had had no warning, none at all; for once her sixth sense had failed her. She came out of her chair with a thin, angry sound, quivering like a plucked bow-string, torn between panic acceptance and the lightning reassertion of her terrible intelligence; and in the instant while the two clashed, she shrieked at him: ‘You’re lying! You can’t have been near where we put hi…’
The aspirate hissed and died on her lip, and that was all, but it was fierce and clear, and just two words too many. She stood rigid, chilled into ice.
‘He wasn’t on the direct route, no,’ agreed Gus softly, ‘but my route was a good deal less than direct. There’s hardly a yard of flue passable in that hypocaust where I haven’t been. Including the near corner where —“we”— put him. I left your bronze helmet with him for safekeeping. As soon as you’re in custody we’re going to set about resurrecting them both.’
The deafening silence was shattered suddenly by a great, gusty, vengeful sound, and that was Orrie Benyon laughing. And in a moment, melting, surrendering, genuinely and terrifyingly amused by her own lapse, Lesley Paviour dropped back into her chair and laughed with him, exactly like a sporting loser in a trivial quizz-game.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
« ^
She laughed again, when she was alone with George in his office at C.I.D. headquarters in Comerbourne, with no shorthand writer at hand and no witnesses, and he asked her, with genuine and unindignant curiosity—since indignation was quite irrelevant in any dealings with Lesley—: ‘Do you always contrive to have not merely one fall guy on hand in case of need, but at least two? And doesn’t it sometimes make things risky when you decide to change horses in midstream?’
‘I never plan,’ she said with disarming candour, ‘not consciously. I just do what seems the clever thing at the moment.’
All too often, he reflected, it not only seemed clever, but was. She had matched every twist until the last, the one she hadn’t foreseen even as a possibility. For some built-in instinct certainly acted to provide her with escape hatches and can-carriers well in advance of need. Why, otherwise, had she gone out of her way to let Charlotte not only see but handle the package still waiting to be reclaimed from the bank? And to tell her guilelessly that it was Orrie’s, and not the first time he had put similar small items into safe-keeping? Thus underlining for future reference his involvement and her own naïve innocence. She had even scattered a few seeds, according to Charlotte, concerning Bill Lawrence’s solitary and furtive prowlings about the site, in case she should ever need yet another string to her bow. Lesley collected potentially useful people, and used and disposed of them like tissues, without a qualm.
‘I’m not sure,’ he said, ‘it was so clever to write off Orrie. I wonder at what stage you made up your mind to throw him to the lions? You did allow him the chance to drive you back from the hospital last night. Hadn’t you decided then? He’d been waiting on hot coals for a chance to talk to you alone. He wanted you to do your share, didn’t he? You were in the house, it was your turn to do the necessary killing. Even a delicate little woman could press a cushion over the face of a man fast asleep under drugs after an exhausting ordeal. But you never intended sticking your neck out for him. Why didn’t you tell him so? Obviously you didn’t, or he wouldn’t have left his own attempt so late. He waited all night, hoping you’d do the job for him. And I don’t doubt you slept soundly.’