First he pushed and pulled until she lay straight in the bath, then he removed her clothing. In a narrow bathtub this was an extremely clumsy business, but he managed it at last and then turned on the taps. The water rushed into the tub, then dwindled, then died away, and the last of it gurgled down the drain.
«Good God!» he said. «She turned it off at the main.»
There was only one thing to do: the Doctor hastily wiped his hands on a towel, opened the bathroom door with a clean corner of the towel, threw it back onto the bath stool, and ran downstairs, barefoot, light as a cat. The cellar door was in a corner of the entrance hall, under the stairs. He knew just where the cut-off was. He had reason to: he had been pottering about down there for some time past — trying to scrape out a bin for wine, he had told Hermione. He pushed open the cellar door, went down the steep steps, and just before the closing door plunged the cellar into pitch darkness, he put his hands on the tap and turned it on. Then he felt his way back along the grimy wall till he came to the steps. He was about to ascend them when the bell rang.
The Doctor was scarcely aware of the ringing as a sound. It was like a spike of iron pushed slowly up through his stomach. It went on until it reached his brain. Then something broke. He threw himself down in the coal dust on the floor and said, «I'm through. I'm through!»
«They've got no right to come,» he said. Then he heard himself panting. «None of this,» he said to himself. «None of this.»
He began to revive. He got to his feet, and when the bell rang again the sound passed through him almost painlessly. «Let them go away,» he said. Then he heard the front door open. He said, «I don't care.» His shoulder came up, like that of a boxer, to shield his face. «I give up,» he said.
He heard people calling. «Herbert!» «Hermione!» It was the Wallingfords. «Damn them! They come butting in. People anxious to get off. All naked! And blood and coal dust! I'm done! I'm through! I can't do it.»
«Herbert!»
«Hermione!»
«Where the dickens can they be?»
«The car's there.»
«Maybe they've popped round to Mrs. Liddell's.»
«We must see them.»
«Or to the shops, maybe. Something at the last minute.»
«Not Hermione. I say, listen! Isn't that someone having a bath? Shall I shout? What about whanging on the door?»
«Sh-h-h! Don't. It might not be tactful.»
«No harm in a shout.»
«Look, dear. Let's come in on our way back. Hermione said they wouldn't be leaving before seven. They're dining on the way, in Salisbury.»
«Think so? All right. Only I want a last drink with old Herbert. He'd be hurt.»
«Let's hurry. We can be back by half-past six.»
The Doctor heard them walk out and the front door close quietly behind them. He thought, «Half-past six. I can do it.»
He crossed the hall, sprang the latch of the front door, went upstairs, and taking his instruments from the washbasin, finished what he had to do. He came down again, clad in his bath gown, carrying parcel after parcel of towelling or newspaper neatly secured with safety pins. These he packed carefully into the narrow, deep hole he had made in the corner of the cellar, shovelled in the soil, spread coal dust over all, satisfied himself that everything was in order, and went upstairs again. He then thoroughly cleansed the bath, and himself, and the bath again, dressed, and took his wife's clothing and his bath gown to the incinerator.
One or two more like touches and everything was in order. It was only quarter past six. The Wallingfords were always late; he had only to get into the car and drive off. It was a pity he couldn't wait till after dusk, but he could make a detour to avoid passing through the main street, and even if he was seen driving alone, people would only think Hermione had gone on ahead for some reason and they would forget about it.
Still, he was glad when he had finally got away, entirely unobserved, on the open road, driving into the gathering dusk. He had to drive very carefully; he found himself unable to judge distances, his reactions were abnormally delayed, but that was a detail. When it was quite dark he allowed himself to stop the car on the top of the downs, in order to think.
The stars were superb. He could see the lights of one or two little towns far away on the plain below him. He was exultant. Everything that was to follow was perfectly simple. Marion was waiting in Chicago. She already believed him to be a widower. The lecture people could be put off with a word. He had nothing to do but establish himself in some thriving out-of-the-way town in America and he was safe for ever. There were Hermione's clothes, of course, in the suitcases; they could be disposed of through the porthole. Thank heaven she wrote her letters on the typewriter — a little thing like handwriting might have prevented everything. «But there you are,» he said. «She was up-to-date, efficient all along the line. Managed everything. Managed herself to death, damn her!»
«There's no reason to get excited,» he thought. «I'll write a few letters for her, then fewer and fewer. Write myself — always expecting to get back, never quite able to. Keep the house one year, then another, then another; they'll get used to it. Might even come back alone in a year or two and clear it up properly. Nothing easier. But not for Christmas!» He started up the engine and was off.
In New York he felt free at last, really free. He was safe. He could look back with pleasure — at least after a meal, lighting his cigarette, he could look back with a sort of pleasure — to the minute he had passed in the cellar listening to the bell, the door, and the voices. He could look forward to Marion.
As he strolled through the lobby of his hotel, the clerk, smiling, held up letters for him. It was the first batch from England. Well, what did that matter? It would be fun dashing off the typewritten sheets in Hermione's downright style, signing them with her squiggle, telling everyone what a success his first lecture had been, how thrilled he was with America but how certainly she'd bring him back for Christmas. Doubts could creep in later.
He glanced over the letters. Most were for Hermione. From the Sinclairs, the Wallingfords, the vicar, and a business letter from Holt & Sons, Builders and Decorators.
He stood in the lounge, people brushing by him. He opened the letters with his thumb, reading here and there, smiling. They all seemed very confident he would be back for Christmas. They relied on Hermione. «That's where they make their big mistake,» said the Doctor, who had taken to American phrases. The builders' letter he kept to the last. Some bill, probably. It was:
Dear Madam,
We are in receipt of your kind acceptance of estimate as below and also of key.
We beg to repeat you may have every confidence in same being ready in ample time for Christmas present as stated. We are setting men to work this week. We are, Madam,
Yours faithfully,
PAUL HOLT & SONS
To excavating, building up, suitably lining one sunken wine bin in cellar as indicated, using best materials, making good, etc.
……..£18/0/0/
ANOTHER AMERICAN TRAGEDY
A young man entered the office of a prominent dentist, and seated himself in the chair. He scornfully waved aside the little probe and mirror with which the dentist smilingly approached him. «Rip 'em all out,» he said.