She was barely conscious of the arrival of the two men on the veranda, the explanations, the questions, all shouted at once in every pitch.
“He went that way!” Mrs. Vista shrieked. “Hurry up and catch him!”
“There are two of them!” Maudie said shrilly.
Under this battery of noise Sergeant Mackay did not even blink. When things had quieted down he coughed and said in a dignified voice:
“Mackay, of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. This is Mr. Hearst, who drives the Lodge bus.”
There was a short silence. Then Gracie said brightly, “Gee, we’re glad to see you! I’m just crazy about policemen!”
17
“... an ill-timed remark,” wrote Mrs. Vista to her sister, in the knotty pine writing room of the Lodge. “It set the mood, as it were, for the subsequent events, and Sergeant Mackay became friendly, not to say intimate. (I do not quite trust a friendly Scot, do you?) Practically in front of everyone I was forced to explain all about Cecil and Anthony and why I came here in the first place. One thinks one has nothing to hide and then it turns out that one has! Too humiliating!
“While we were all answering this policeman’s questions, the young man called Hearst drove away in the truck and came back with our lost bus.
“And so here we are! We arrived about six o’clock and after the rigors to which I have been subjected I was delighted to find that the Chateau is quite a civilized place, and the apparent ruggedness remains, as ruggedness should, only apparent. Sergeant Mackay made no objections to our coming here, so I presume the mystery, for him at least, is adequately explained. At any rate we have no policemen around guarding us, as frequently happens in fiction. But perhaps even policemen have some sense and Mackay is only too glad to be rid of such traitors and agitators as Floraine and Jeanneret and that man Rudd.
“It was sheer ill-luck that we were so involved in the events. I am still just a little foggy on the explanation, but it seems that this man Jeanneret was a very dangerous agitator who was interned somewhere near Montreal in a reform school converted into an internment camp. At any rate Rudd helped him to escape in a laundry truck, and they managed to get as far as Briaree, which is where the Montreal train line ends and where the snow bus met us.
“The laundry truck broke down and there was a blizzard coming on, and Jeanneret conceived the idea of stealing the bus which, beside the snowplow, was the only vehicle which could get through the roads. Jeanneret could not go back in the direction of Montreal where they were on the watch for him, and besides, Sergeant Mackay believes that he was on his way to the important new mining area north of here. Something to do with the war, but that, of course, is a secret! How one goes about agitating in a mining area, I don’t know. One can only say that it takes all kinds to make a world!
“There is a delightful man here, who teaches skiing. He escaped from Austria just after the Anschluss. I wonder if perhaps a little skiing might bring down my weight...”
Mrs. Vista stared thoughtfully out of the window and saw two beginners at the top of a gentle slope. One of them started down and landed almost instantly, skis waving in the air. Mrs. Vista returned hastily to her letter.
“...or perhaps I shall simply go on a diet. This will be difficult, as they have a magnificent cuisine here, and this morning I had real Quebec maple syrup — simply crawling with calories, of course, but perhaps I shouldn’t worry about my weight at all. One is not expected to look like a girl at forty-five!
“The Austrian ski-meister is called Putzi, I don’t know why. But I shall find out...”
Mrs. Vista looked up at the sound of ski boots tramping across the floor. It was Paula Lashley and she looked very pale, Mrs. Vista thought. She laid down her pen.
“Hello, my dear,” she said heartily. “Are you going to write a letter?”
“No.”
Paula went over to the window and glanced out. “I’m waiting for the bus to leave.”
“Leave! Why we only came yesterday.”
“I’ve changed my mind,” Paula said curtly. “I haven’t got time for skiing this winter.”
“Is your young man going, too?”
“He’s not my young man. He’s staying here.”
Paula continued to stare out of the window, watching Mr. Hearst tinkering with the engine of the bus. She tapped her foot impatiently and she looked as if she didn’t want to talk. But Mrs. Vista never allowed such considerations to interfere with her own desires.
“Of course he’s your young man,” she stated firmly. “I have observed the nasty way he looks at you. It is a sure sign.”
“Really?”
“Really. Of course I am not an old woman, but I have lived. And one has only to look around one to interpret the signs of love. In just that way, Cecil used to look at me. Among lesser animals, too, my dear. Has one ever seen a gorilla give his mate a really friendly look? One has not!”
“I am not interested in gorillas,” Paula said coldly, “with or without red hair.”
She looked out again and saw that Mr. Hearst was still fooling with the engine of the bus. She began to fidget, pushing her hands in and out of the pockets of her jacket.
“I cannot understand anyone who is not interested in animals,” Mrs. Vista said severely. “It would not surprise me to learn that you are a vivisectionist.”
With this cutting reply, Mrs. Vista gathered up the sheets of her letter and sailed out into the lobby. She caught a glimpse of Chad Ross hurrying towards the writing room and regretted her own departure, for she dearly loved scenes. But still there was nothing to be done about it, it would be far too crass to go back now.
Ah, well — she would find Anthony and he would read one of his poems to her — poor Anthony, what a pity he didn’t look like Putzi...
“So you’re leaving,” Chad said from the doorway.
Paula turned with a start. She pressed her lips together to keep them from trembling.
“Yes,” she said.
Chad crossed the room, impatiently kicking aside a chair that was in his way.
“What,” he said, “if I don’t let you?”
“Let me!”
“You heard me.” He reached out and grabbed both her wrists and held them. “Now scream, baby.”
“You’re hurting me. Let me go.”
“Hell, that’s not loud enough. Come on, louder.”
He bent down and looked savagely into her face. “Scream, baby. Go on.”
“I... I... I can’t,” Paula said in a strangled whisper. “My voice...”
“You can’t, eh?” He let go of her wrists and stood back from her. He was smiling grimly. “You can’t, eh? Not a sound?”
Paula opened her mouth, but even the whisper was gone now.
“This,” Chad said, “is my lucky day. Get going.”
She looked at him, her eyes wide, and her mouth moving soundlessly.
“Ladies who can’t scream are my meat.” He took her arm and half-carried her across the room. “Now listen. We’re going through that lobby and you’re going to be a nice quiet girl.”
Paula shook her head violently.
“Yes, you are,” Chad said, leering at her. “Or I’ll tell them you’ve been hitting the bottle or having an epileptic fit. Come on.”
His hand tightened on her arm and they went across the lobby very quickly, Paula stumbling as she moved.
Behind the desk Monsieur Roche raised his beautiful eyebrows and said, “Ah, la jeunesse! Always in the hurry.”