20

 

 

Sitting in the near silence of the house at night, Murray had the eerie sensation that he had not come of his own accord to his decisions. There seemed to be gaps in the processes of his reasoning. He could not, for instance, recall just why he had accepted the necessity of waiting till next morning before trying to get out. That had sprung itself on him. Heather’s presence was part of an explanation, but it was too facile.

Gradually, he began to wonder whether in fact he lacked the courage to do as he had told Roger he would. With the passing of hours, the self-questioning grew more intense and more difficult to bear.

By one o’clock, when for over an hour there had been hardly a sound except Heather’s irregular breathing nearby, he could stand it no longer. He stubbed out the latest of an endless succession of cigarettes and went cautiously to the door, intending to relieve the strain by fetching the spool of tape from Heather’s room.

He opened the door fractionally and listened at the gap, wishing his blood would not rush so loudly in his ears. There was nothing to hear. He had counted doors opening and closing as the rest of the company came up to bed, had identified voices as they spoke casual good nights. He had caught Ida’s faint words of inquiry at Heather’s door, but she had not apparently found the answering silence remarkable; after a minute’s wait she had gone to her own room and shut the door.

So unless someone woke by chance, there was little risk of his being heard.

He closed the door again and went back to see if Heather had her room-key in the pocket of her jeans. She was too deeply asleep to be disturbed by his touch. A small cigarette case; a book of matches; a handkerchief, loose change; no key. He put the bedcover back over her and left her, locking his own door very quietly from the outside.

He had just withdrawn the key when he heard the voices.

For a second, he was so startled he nearly dropped the key. Then a wave of icy control came over him, and he turned his head, locating the source of the words. They came from the room next to his—room thirteen, into which he had had no glimpse since his arrival. The door was not completely shut; he saw a thin line of light around the edge of its frame.

He unlocked his own door again, thinking of a way of retreat if someone spotted him, and then crept towards the adjacent room. So far, he had only heard an indistinct murmur, but now he began to make out words.

Hearing them was one thing. Making sense of them was another, and would have to wait till later. His jaw muscles knotted with concentration ; he accepted the sounds passively.

The voices were those of Delgado and Valentine. He had not expected anyone else’s. The only curious point was that Delgado’s had a subservient inflection, and Valentine’s was coloured with uncharacteristic authority.

“The girl isn’t in her room,’ Valentine said. ‘The young one. What’s happened to her?’

‘I—I don’t know.’ Delgado was nervous. ‘Outside, perhaps?’

‘Don’t be a fool. I know when anyone goes in or out. No, she’s in the house.’

‘Have you checked Ida’s signal for a double trace?’

‘She isn’t there. Thanks to that interfering bastard Douglas. The urge was on her tapes four nights ago. And we haven’t had a single chance to play for her.’

‘We’ll have to do something about Douglas,’ Delgado said. ‘Uh—I don’t suppose she could be in his room, could she?’ He brightened as the idea struck him.

‘How am I supposed to know?’ Valentine snapped back. ‘He suspects too much. Putting the scanner into the television was a brilliant idea, you said. Nobody would suspect it, you said. Except him! I’m getting a beautiful scan of the wall of his room, and I’ve had nothing else all evening.’

‘He doesn’t know anything,’ Delgado mumbled. ‘He only has a hunch. We could deal with him by direct methods—’

‘Too late,’ Valentine interrupted. ‘He called someone in London this evening. I listened to the call. What he doesn’t know is hardly relevant. He’s decided to leave. Moreover, he mentioned Garrigue’s suicide, and the man he was talking to believed him and told him about Léa Martinez. You remember Léa?’ The voice which was usually so smooth and emotionless was now a whiplash of sarcasm.

‘But—nobody believed what she said! They put her in one of their primitive mental hospitals, and by now she probably really is out of her mind.’ Delgado essayed a laugh—as it were: this is a joke—but it was a failure.

‘Too late. He’s going. You and your indirect methods! Making him think he was insane! Making him drunk by adding alcohol to his fluid intake! Well, it’s too late now.’

‘But he’s still here, isn’t he? We can use a more direct technique. It’s not too late.’ Delgado was attempting defiance now.

‘Will you listen? He’s told his friend he’s definitely leaving, and asked him to come and make inquiries if he doesn’t arrive in London tomorrow.’

‘We can get around that!’ Delgado insisted feverishly. ‘We can make up a tape for him—fit him with convincing reasons for staying. So much the better if his friend comes here and meets him and hears why he decided to stay after all.’

‘So much the better, in my view, if he goes.’ Valentine spoke coldly. ‘He’s been a worse nuisance than Léa ever was.’

‘But you don’t understand!’ Delgado wailed. ‘What about the play? He’s a leading actor in it—if he goes, probably some of the others will get disgusted and leave, and we’ll be ruined!’

‘The play’s your worry, not mine. No!’—as though Valentine had sensed an objection rising to the other’s lips. ‘At the moment, I’m more concerned about that girl. She’s tractable material, and I’d rather not lose her.’

‘So’s Douglas!’ Delgado’s voice was getting higher pitched. ‘We got a primary tape from him his first night here and it said so—perfectly tractable material!’

‘But we haven’t been able to play to him more than once, have we?’ Valentine countered bitingly. ‘I said that’s your worry. I want to know where the girl is. We’ll do a physical check of the unscanned rooms; if she isn’t there, we’ll have to see if she’s in Douglas’s room. And if she is, heaven help you, Delgado. That wasn’t the experience contracted for, was it?’

Murray dared wait no longer. Valentine’s last statement suggested that they might emerge into the corridor any moment. He darted back to his own door, slipped inside without more than a whisper of sound, and turned the key equally silently. Then he wiped his face, astonished at the quantity of sweat greasing his skin.

What in hell were those two talking about? Unscanned rooms! Tractable material! The urge was on her tape four nights ago!

Sheer nonsense. And yet his skin crawled to remember it.

Right now, though, he had no time to wonder. He had to act quickly. He strode over to the bed and tugged at Heather’s arm.

‘Heather!’ he whispered close to her ear. ‘Wake up! For pity’s sake wake up!’

She stirred a little and moaned. Oh, what could be done to wake her? He went to the washbasin and soaked a handkerchief in cold water, then put it to her face and spoke more urgently still.

‘Wake up! Delgado’s looking for you—you’ve got to hide!’

‘What?’ Fighting out of a mist of alcohol and natural sleep, she managed to open her eyes. ‘Leave me alone, will you? I wanna sleep.’

‘You’ve got to hide! Delgado’s after you!’

‘What?’ She was coming fully awake now, and he straightened with relief. Swinging her feet to the floor, she looked blankly first at him, then at the strange room. ‘Oh my God,’ she said after a pause. ‘I remember now. You bastard, Murray. You—’

She broke off, as though suddenly aware that she was fully dressed. One hand plucked absently at the front of her shirt as she looked down at herself.

‘Listen!’ Murray whispered. ‘I didn’t spike your drinks—do you understand? I was meant to drink them, not you. I didn’t put the stuff in there. Delgado did.’ Or more likely Valentine, in view of what he’d just heard, but that could wait. ‘He’s out looking for you. He wants you for something. You’ve got to hide.’

It was getting through at last. Wide-eyed, she stared at him. ‘But—why? What’s he doing, trying to make you drunk? And why should he go looking for me in the middle of the night?’ She raised her left wrist and peered uncertainly at the watch on it. ‘It’s past one, isn’t it?’

‘You’ll just have to take my word for the moment,’ Murray pleaded. ‘I don’t know what he’s doing, but it’s thoroughly nasty, and—I’m getting the hell out in the morning, and if you take my advice you’ll come too. Otherwise you’ll find yourself in Ida’s bed, and you won’t be able to help it.’

‘Ida? Goodness, I’m not going to turn les! I didn’t come to ask you whether I should or not—I wanted to know how to keep her out of my hair!’ She was definitely getting her self-possession back now.

‘I said you won’t be able to help it. I don’t know what Delgado can do, but it’s connected with the tape recorders in the beds. I just—oh, never mind! They’ll be here any moment.’

He swung around, looking for a hiding place. The only possibility seemed to be the built-in wardrobe. He opened the door and quickly pushed his hanging clothes to one side, then beckoned Heather.

‘It’ll have to be in here. There’s nowhere else.’

She got off the bed and hesitantly came two paces towards him. Then she swallowed enormously.

‘Murray, I—I can’t,’ she said in a faint voice. ‘I’m a claustrophobe. I can’t stand hiding in cupboards in the dark. I’ve never been able to, even when I was a kid.’

‘But—’

‘I can’t,’ she repeated desperately. ‘I scream. I just can’t help it. I scream.’

‘Oh, no,’ Murray said. He let his hands fall to his sides.

‘Murray, what’s so terrible?’ she demanded. ‘You can lock the door, can’t you? I mean, they aren’t secret police!’

‘I don’t think locks will keep them out,’ Murray said feverishly. ‘Well, we’ll just have to face it out, I guess. And a damned peculiar conversation it’ll be, too. Unless—’

He broke off. The last thing he had overheard Valentine say: that wasn’t the experience contracted for. He didn’t pretend to understand it, but it was obviously meant as a threat to Delgado.

‘Unless what?’ Heather said after a pause.

‘Unless we give them a false idea.’ Murray snapped off the one light which he had had burning. ‘Don’t argue, for God’s sake. Get your clothes off—at least your jeans and panties. Put them on that chair, in plain sight from the door.’ He made for the bed as he spoke, stripping off the cover and replacing the bottom sheet and pillows to hide the damage he had done to the mattress.

‘Murray,’ Heather said in a faint voice.

‘I won’t rape you!’ Murray whispered savagely. ‘I overheard Delgado saying something which suggested he wants you in bed with Ida and no one else. I know it’s crazy—so’s the whole damned business. It’ll at least give him something to worry about. Oh, please!’

The vehemence of the last word seemed to tip the balance. With furious rapidity she unbuttoned her shirt, unzipped her jeans, kicked off her shoes. She hesitated there, then realized the room was almost totally dark, and put her underwear on the chair with the rest. The bed creaked very faintly as she scrambled in.

Murray threw his sweater and trousers on the end of the bed, shoes on the floor nearby, socks, tie and shirt on the chair with Heather’s clothes. He went around the bed and got in on the far side. His foot brushed hers, and she flinched and snatched it away.

‘Lie down,’ he whispered. ‘If they come to the door, pretend for all you’re worth that you’re asleep. Listen! I think I hear them coming now.’

Very faint in the silent house, there was a noise of stairs creaking. Murray rolled over into his usual sleeping position, hoping against hope that he remembered how to act deep slumber convincingly.

The footsteps came closer. They entered the corridor of the new wing. Suddenly, Heather moved towards him, putting her leg over his and nuzzling her face into his neck; he felt her skin smooth and warm against him. The very picture of satisfied lovers, they waited for the door to be opened.