8. Beauty in Distress

Roger flung the door open and jumped out, saw the ditch by the side of the road just in time, cleared it and grabbed the hedge to save himself from falling backwards. The noise had stopped; the silence seemed sinister. He scrambled along by the hedge, until he was past the car, then jumped to the road. Precious seconds had been wasted. The Hounslow man was only now getting out of the car; hurry, man! Roger ran toward the bend in the road which hid the blue Chrysler from him. The sudden exertion brought a blinding flash of pain across his head. It went as quickly as it had come, but left a dull ache. He rounded the corner.

The Chrysler blocked the road, a sleek blue shape with the front wheels in the ditch; and the driver leaning back, her eyes closed, her head drooping forward. The detective ran heavily behind him; and someone else was running, across the grounds of Morden Lodge. In the headlights, Roger caught a glimpse of a tall, thin, youthful-looking figure, who turned his red head; then the thick hedge got in the way, and he was hidden from sight.

There was smoke in the car. Fire?

Roger reached it and glanced inside; a cigarette lay on the woman’s knees, the tweed of her skirt was smouldering.

“Did you see that fellow?” the Hounslow man asked in a gasping voice.

“Yes, a redhead. See if you—”

Before he could finish, two cyclists drew up; they were dressed as workmen, but he knew they were Bray’s men.

He pulled open the door of the Chrysler.

“All of you, after that gunman,” Roger pointed. His guide exclaimed: “This way,” and began to run. The two cyclists followed him, glancing curiously at the Chrysler, the girl, and the smoke.

“Here!” Roger called. The nearest man nearly fell off his machine. “Take this.” Roger handed him his automatic. The man took it without a word, and pedalled off. The gunman might be caught, the superior speed of the cyclists might just do the trick. Roger told himself that but for the throbbing ache in his head, he would have snatched a machine and led the chase; but would he?

He took the driver’s cigarette away. It was half smoked and one end was stained with lipstick. He tossed it into the road. A small dark hole in the grey tweed still smouldered. He rubbed the blackened spot with his forefinger, and the woman didn’t move. There was a faint overcheck of green and blue on the grey material. Woman, or girl? She looked young, and the glimpse he had caught of her when she passed him on the road hadn’t lied; she was beautiful.

Was she hurt?

He saw the bullet hole in the roof of the car. The driving window was down, the other closed; so the bullet had come through the one opening. It had been fired by someone standing below the level of the road or it wouldn’t have hit the roof, and it certainly hadn’t touched her, there was no injury to her face or head, no sign of blood. She’d probably banged her head on the windscreen and been knocked out. He walked round the car; there was just room for him to squeeze past behind it. The front wheels had lodged at a spot where the ditch was deep and wide.

Only a man crouching in the ditch could have fired that shot. He saw that there was a big stone, at the side of the near-side wheel; that explained the crash. When she had lost control of the wheel, the Chrysler had turned into that stone. The fender was crumpled; there seemed no other damage, but they would have to get a breakdown van to move the car.

She sat with her chin on her breast, and he thought her eyes flickered. She had dark hair, dark eyebrows, dark lashes which swept her cheeks. She breathed gently; he watched the rise and fall of her breast and the movement of her lips. Her make-up was perfect; she looked perfection. Yes, she could have been thrown against the windscreen and knocked out, then swayed backward. But there was no sign of bruising on her forehead. The jolt might have ricked her neck, causing unconsciousness.

The gathering dusk softened the lines of her face, adding beauty to beauty.

He heard nothing, now, except the quiet rustlings of birds and creatures of the hedgerows and the fields. All sounds of pursuit had gone; he’d almost forgotten the chase. No one else appeared to have heard the shot; that was odd, because the house wasn’t so far away. Perhaps they were used to shooting; rabbits or pigeons; a shot was less remarkable in the country than in a town. This was the country, although it was so close to one of the most densely populated dormitory suburbs of London.

He lit a cigarette.

The girl’s eyes flickered again, and this time she raised her head and blinked. She didn’t look at him, but peered straight ahead. Her eyes were dazed, her expression was blank - until suddenly she started, and fear blazed up in her eyes; or what he took for fear, in that half-light. She darted a glance away from him, then toward him - and she raised her hands, as if to fend off another attack.

Roger said: “It’s all right.”

She didn’t speak, but sat upright and smoothed down her skirts; odd, how women always did that, it was almost a reflex action. Then her hands strayed to her hair, and the ridiculous hat, with its gay, colourful feathers. Why was she wearing a dressy hat with a tweed suit?

“I—I was shot at,” she said.

“Yes, some men are chasing the beggar, and he certainly won’t come back. Relax.”

She didn’t relax, but looked round her as if surprised that she was in the ditch. She saw the buckled fender, and grimaced, then fumbled for her handbag. He offered her his case, and thumbed his lighter. Her hands were pale, slim, with long fingers, the nails painted pink.

“Thank you.”

“Would you like a drink?” asked Roger, and put his hand to his hip pocket, for his whisky flask.

“No. No, I’m all right. I was so scared.” She gave a little, forced laugh; but it was as attractive as everything else about her. “I could kick myself for crashing the car! He jumped up from the ditch, I didn’t realise anyone was there until he fired at me.”

“I shouldn’t worry too much about the car.”

“You would if it were yours and you’d only had it for ten days!” She laughed more naturally, but ruefully. “I suppose I ought to be thankful it’s no worse.”

“Some people would really think being fired at was more important than crumpling a wing,” Roger said dryly. “Do you know who it was?”

“Heavens, no!”

“So a perfect stranger popped out of the ditch and loosed a round at you. After some target practice, I presume.”

She frowned. “I don’t understand you.”

“It’s easy to understand,” Roger said. “I think you recognised him. Who hates you well enough to want to murder you, Miss Paterson?”

She drew deeply at the cigarette, held the smoke for a few seconds, then let it trickle slowly between her lips. Her eyes were half-closed; and because the light was getting worse, he found it difficult to judge her expression. Then she stretched out her hand and touched the handle of the door.

“I think I’d better get out.”

“You’ll find it easier on the other side, this is too near the ditch.” He watched her slide across the seats and open the other door. When he reached that side of the car, she was standing upright, with a hand resting on the door, and looking along the winding road. The silence was broken by a distant hum of traffic, but there were no nearer sounds. By then, the Hounslow men had either succeeded or failed and one of them should soon be back with the news.

“Who was it?” asked Roger.

“I don’t know. Who are you?”

“My name is West. I was passing by when I heard the shooting, and thought I’d better come and see what it was all about. Why don’t you tell the truth? You know who it was.”

“I don’t like being called a liar,” said Miss Paterson. But he could see her face more clearly now that she was out of the car; she was smiling, as if he amused and interested her.

Roger shrugged. “All right, keep up the pretence if you think it’s a good idea. Have you jilted any passionate young men lately?”

She laughed. “No more than usual.”

“Or made anyone particularly jealous? Or do you drive around the countryside with a fortune in your handbag, making it worth a man’s while to lie in wait and shoot you?”

“It’s quite an ordinary handbag with everyday contents. Would you like to look?” She held it out to him, and he opened the bag deliberately, without watching her, rummaged through the bag and its contents. Compact, lipstick, keys, purse - everything was normal enough. He gave it back.

“Hadn’t we better get to the house, and telephone? My men are looking after your displaced lover.”

“Who are?” She ignored his guess.

“My men.”

“Who are you?”

“I am an Inspector of the Criminal Investigation Department of New Scotland Yard. My special assignment is patrolling the countryside, looking for beautiful young women who might be shot at, rescuing them, and sending my myrmidons to catch their assailants. You see how good Scotland Yard is.”

“I’m beginning to appreciate Scotland Yard,” said Miss Paterson. “I think we will go to the house.”

The gate was a hundred yards farther down the road, and as they drew near it, a man came cycling slowly along, toward them; one of Bray’s officers. He stopped, and swung his leg over his machine, touched his cap to Miss Paterson, and said: “Lost him, I’m afraid, sir.”

“Well, he had a good start. Have you done anything about it?”

“We telephoned the station. The others are on the main road, waiting for a patrol car. We got a good look at the beggar,” the man added - and Roger saw the girl’s lips tighten. “He ran across the main road, in front of a car, and was easy to see in the headlights. Young chap with ginger hair, as you said.”

“Good. Did you warn the station that he’s armed?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s fine,” said Roger. “I’m going up to the house with Miss Paterson. If I’m wanted, send a message there. You might stand guard over the car, and make sure no one comes blinding along and runs into it. I’ll send for a breakdown gang. Oh - and send my car up to the house, will you?”

“Very good, sir.”

A great bank of clouds was blowing up from the west, and it was much darker - too dark for Roger to see anything, except that the banks on either side of the drive were overgrown and unattractive, and that the drive itself was uneven, pitted with holes, and with many loose stones lying on the top. Once, the girl kicked against a stone, and nearly fell. Roger grabbed her arm.

“Thank you.” She held on to his arm after that.

“Red-haired men are known to be passionate,” said Roger. “How many redheads have you jilted?”

“Isn’t that joke getting stale?”

“Is it a joke?”

She said: “Once and for all, I’ve never seen the man before. The first time I’d ever set eyes on him was when he jumped up from the ditch, and fired. I did just notice his ginger hair, but I didn’t think about it until your man mentioned it. You may be a policeman, but you don’t have to assume that I’m lying to you.”

She had a warm voice; “warm” was the word that occurred to him. It was husky; not clear and lilting, like the woman who called herself Miss Lobo. She still held his arm.

He didn’t answer.

“Why do you seem so sure that I know him?”

“Young women are so gallant. You’d prefer to maintain a noble silence than betray the hot-blooded young man.”

“So you’re not convinced?”

“I am not.”

She took her hand from his arm, and they walked in silence toward the house. One light glowed from a side window; none at the front. The hideous towers were shrouded by the darkness, now; it looked just a house, not a monstrosity. The lighted window was on the first floor, and the stream of yellow light shone over the roof of the stables and on the branches of several oak trees, which grew close to the stables, some of their boughs stretching out over the roof, protectively. The quiet, with that distant background of traffic noises, seemed to envelop them. Here, the drive was more even, and the top covering was of asphalt. They made little noise as they approached the front door.

“There are two steps,” said Miss Paterson coldly.

“Thanks.”

Her hand brushed his as they went up the steps; hers was cool; pleasant to touch. She opened her handbag and took out the keys. He shone a torch on to the door. It needed painting; a big pale blister in the brown paint showed ghostly beneath the light. But the brass surround of the lock was brightly polished. She opened the door, and the light shone into a dark space; there was no light anywhere, apart from that from the torch.

“I’ll put on a light,” she said, and slipped past him. He directed the beam on to her head and shoulders, and the ridiculous hat of coloured feathers. Then he moved the torch and shone it on the wall toward which she moved. She pressed down a switch, and light blazed from a glass chandelier above their heads.

Roger had stepped out of the neglected grounds into a home of luxury; one glance was enough to tell him that. The hall was large and high-ceilinged. Great oil paintings in gilt frames hung on the walls; there were three pieces of antique furniture, with a dull finish. A wide staircase, lined with paintings, was carpeted in rich, dark red.

She said: “That’s funny,” and looked, as well as sounded, puzzled, then turned into a room on the right and pressed down another switch. He waited for her to go in, ahead of him - and as he entered, he saw that this was a lovely, gracious room; with skin rugs on a dark, polished parquet floor. A head with great white teeth snarled up at him from the rug that lay in front of the huge open fireplace.

It was a wolf’s head.