On the Ramparts
The eyes that rested momentarily on Hazeldean’s face were both brown and demure, but the demureness dissolved into a tiny, vague frown as the girl lowered her head again to the book she was reading, for Hazeldean had not been able to camouflage his emotion, the intensity of which surprised him. It was the little green brooch that had primarily directed his attention to Dora Fenner, and every other detail of the official description seemed complete; yet he felt that he would have recognised her, even if there had been no description at all, as the girl into whom the child in the picture had grown. His reaction to each had the same queer, disturbing quality.
“Well—what do I do now?” he thought.
The girl, of course, gave him no assistance. If she were aware that the young man who had suddenly stopped by the parapet had not resumed his interrupted walk, but remained still looking at her, she gave no sign, saving perhaps in a slightly exaggerated absorption in what she was reading. Hazeldean’s problem was not the unsavoury one of trying to pick a girl up, but of avoiding that unpleasant appearance in order to secure her confidence.
He decided on a bold opening. Approaching her till he was close enough for a low voice to carry—he felt her tightening as he drew nearer—he said:
“Good-evening, Miss Fenner.”
She almost dropped her book. The brown eyes were on his again, bright with both astonishment and alarm. He discovered within himself an intense desire to dispel the latter, and dreaded the moment ahead when he would have to introduce a far greater alarm than any she could now be feeling.
“I’m quite harmless,” he smiled.
“Who are you?” she asked. “I don’t know you. Do I?”
“No.”
“Then—how do you know me?”
“I’ve seen your picture.” Her bewilderment grew. “I’ll explain that presently, if you’ll let me,” he continued quickly. “But first I’m going to find out whether you will let me.” He knew she would have to let him, but he wanted to establish an easy relationship before he spoke of serious matters, and he was banking on his own personality and the responsive spirit he had glimpsed beneath the paint of the portrait. It seemed impossible that this spirit could ever have evaporated completely into demureness, solemnity and suspicion. “My name’s Tom Hazeldean. That won’t mean anything to you. I’m a—writer”—he thought “journalist” might alarm her—“and an amateur yachtsman. As a matter of fact, I’ve just come across in my boat especially to see you. Yes, look astounded, by all means—I would, in your place—but please don’t look alarmed. I’ll tell you something at once, to get it over. If there’s any trouble, you can count on me to help you all the way through it. Does that sound any good, to begin with?”
“Yes—of course,” she answered. “Thank you very much. Only I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“That’ll come in a few moments. What I want to know is, are we over the first fence?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t want me to walk round the ramparts while you think about it?”
She smiled faintly. “You needn’t do that. It would take you half an hour. Yes, I—I think we’re over the first fence. What’s the second one? And what did you mean by—trouble?”
He took a deep breath. He felt he had started well, for without her complete confidence his assistance would be negligible. One thing he had already learned, although another man—Inspector Kendall, for instance—might have waited for confirmation before making up his mind. Dora Fenner knew nothing of the tragedy at Haven House.
“Do you trust me enough, on this very short acquaintance, to answer a few questions?” he asked.
“Yes—I think so,” she replied.
“But you’re not sure.”
She considered her answer before she gave it.
“I’m as sure as one could be, in the circumstances.” Suddenly she shot a question of her own. “You said you are a writer. Is that all?”
“I added yachtsman. You must see my boat some time.”
“You know I didn’t mean that.”
“What did you mean?”
“Are you—I mean—yes, are you anything to do with the police?”
“What makes you ask that?”
“I don’t know. It just came into my mind.”
“Well, Miss Fenner, I’m not. I’m just exactly what I said—plus, I hope, a good friend.”
“All right. Ask the questions. Of course, it may depend on what they are.”
He realised that she was trying hard not to let her anxiety get the better of her, and although he was banking on her ignorance of the major tragedy, he was convinced that the anxiety had existed before this interview. He was convinced of this both from her attitude and from the time-table of her movements on the previous day, as reconstructed by Inspector Kendall.
“O.K. We’ll begin. Is your uncle here with you?”
“Oh! You know about him, too?” she replied.
“I know you’ve got an uncle—Mr. Fenner.”
“Do you mean, is he in Boulogne?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, he’s in Boulogne. But not here at this moment.”
“Where is he at this moment? Do forgive me if my questions sound a bit blunt—”
“That’s all right. I don’t know where he is. He went out after lunch.”
“But you expect him back soon?”
“Yes.”
“And I suppose he came over here with you?”
She did not answer at once. He watched a frown dawn. The cheeks that lacked make-up became a little flushed.
“No, we didn’t cross together,” she said. “I don’t suppose it matters why we didn’t. It was just—well, rather a mix-up. He crossed yesterday on the 4.30 boat—I mean, the train leaves Victoria at that time—but I only came over this morning.”
“I see,” murmured Hazeldean. “Your uncle was in Boulogne all night, then?”
“Of course.”
“And you’re quite sure of that?”
“Why, yes. Madame Paula—she runs this pension where we’re staying—she’ll tell you so.”
Hazeldean raised his eyes, and looked beyond the seat at the small grey-stone building that climbed up from the encircled town to lean its chin on an inner edge of the wall. A little door, in a dark porch, was ajar. For the first time he noticed the name “Pension Paula” over it.
“If this is going to be a long conversation, hadn’t you better sit down?” suggested the girl.
“Thank you, that’s a good idea,” he nodded and sat beside her. For some indefinable reason, he did not like having that half-open door behind them.
“It’s a pension, then, is it?”
“Yes.”
“Are there many people staying there?”
“No, only my uncle and me.”
“You and your uncle and Madame Paula?”
“She runs it. Oh, I said that. She and her husband.”
“Oh, there’s a Monsieur Paula?”
“I don’t know why you’re asking—”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, I am. I forgot for a moment I was letting you.” She gave him a quick nervous smile, in a pathetically obvious attempt to wipe out her doubts. “What was the last one? Oh, yes. Monsieur Paula.” She smiled again, momentarily becoming the child in the picture—laughing away the ogre with a joke. “Actually, his name is Jones. He’s a doctor, but Madame Jones sounds funny, I suppose, so she calls herself Madame Paula.”
“And Dr. Jones completes the party?”
“Nearly. Do you want the rest?”
“Might as well—while we’re at it.”
“There’s a girl, a sort of maid—Marie. And there’s an old man who does odd jobs—Pierre. That makes six, and that’s all. I’m doing my best, aren’t I?”
“You’re doing wonderfully,” he replied. “Please go on as you’ve begun. Apart from your uncle, is everybody at home?”
“Not Dr. Jones,” she answered. “I’ve not seen him at all yet—and I don’t want to!” The next moment she looked astonished at herself and a little ashamed. “Please pretend I didn’t say that! I—I don’t know why I did.”
“You didn’t say it,” Hazeldean assured her. “What you said was, ‘Dr. Jones is terribly, terribly nice, and I can hardly wait for him to turn up.’ By the way, Miss Fenner, I’d better tell you something else about myself. I’ve an awful habit of making jokes in the middle of serious matters. They just come and go, and they don’t mean anything, excepting that I adore fun. Once I got caught in a terrible storm at sea. I thought it was all up with the Spray. That’s my boat. And all up with me, too. I was puffing and blowing and half-naked, and all at once I thought how funny I must look. It gave me a good moment. I grinned—and I pulled through.”
“I’ll remember that,” said Dora Fenner gravely. “I expect you meant me to.”
“I did,” he admitted, “though I don’t really think you need the reminder. That picture I saw of you—the one in the dining-room”—he was steering the conversation to its next phase—“I rather fell for it. I hope you don’t mind? You looked so full of fun yourself.”
“That was painted a long time ago.”
“Oh, not so very long. And I’ve a theory that we never really change. Only our circumstances.”
“What’s the next question?”
“May I know why you came to Boulogne?”
“We do sometimes.”
“Always to Madame Paula’s pension?”
“Yes.”
“Then there was no special reason why you came this time—and why you left Haven House yesterday morning in rather a hurry, even though you only arrived here to-day?” She stared at him. “Yes, I know quite a lot,” he went on, “but I wish you’d tell it to me. I’ve only got details, and what I want are reasons. For your sake, remember. You might even be able to give the reason for an old cricket ball on a silver vase—”
He stopped abruptly at her expression. Her book slipped to the ground.
“You even know—about that?” she gasped.
“Is it important?” he asked seriously.
“I—don’t know!” she answered. Her voice was unsteady. “Please wait a moment. This is all so confusing.”
“Of course it is. I’ll wait as long as you like,” he replied.
He got up from the seat and strolled across the grass to the parapet. He believed it might help her to sort out her feelings if he removed himself for a few seconds. Below the parapet was an almost sheer green slope that dropped to the ribbon of road encircling the wall. In the distance were the roofs of outer Boulogne and gleams of water, but as his eyes began to travel farther afield they suddenly returned to the road. A familiar figure had come into view round the curve.
He left the parapet abruptly and returned to the seat. “Can we finish our chat inside?” he asked. “I think it would be a good idea, if you could arrange it.”
The figure in the road below was the omnipresent vendor of coloured silks.