Chittering looked more boyish than ever in tails. He introduced his sister Jane, a buxom girl whom Mannering instantly associated with hockey sticks and basket ball, and Chloe, tall, whippet thin and unsmiling.
She looked at Mannering out of sleepy eyes.
Chittering beamed.
He ordered champagne with the air of one saluting an occasion. Alone with Mannering for a moment he drew his attention to the fact that a table for two had been reserved. “The one over there, in the corner.”
Mannering said: “Paul and Celia?”
“Of course. There is also someone else present,” said Chittering. “See the distinguished johnny with the sky-blue wife? Near the door.”
Mannering had noticed the couple.
“Just watch,” said Chittering, “and I’ll unburden myself later.”
Mannering shrugged, aware of a slow, expectant stir among the crowd. Now, Paul Smith and Celia Fleming entered – and heads turned appreciatively towards them.
Celia wore dark red and she looked superb; yet it was the man who caught the attention. He came in as if he were owed homage, surveying those in the room as a Roman Emperor might have surveyed his gladiators. His gaze, passing over Mannering, rested for a moment on Chittering, and his smile widened sardonically. Not a pretty woman was passed over by that all seeing eye; several turned their heads away abruptly.
Mannering, toying with a glass, watched Smith without appearing, to do so.
He saw that sweeping gaze suddenly arrested, the smile vanished. The man’s expression became hard, his eyes glittered; he looked as if he had seen someone whom he hated. Then he took Celia’s arm, and led her to the table in the corner. Lulu fussed after them.
The change had come when Smith had looked at the couple described by Chittering as “the distinguished johnny with the sky-blue wife.”
Mannering shifted his chair, so that he could see them better. The man, probably in the early forties, was handsome in a formal way. He had an air of wellbeing, and there was nothing in his expression to suggest that he was aware of Smith’s attention. The woman looked motherly and harassed; it was easy to tell that it was she who had been disturbed by that raking glance.
“Who?” asked Mannering.
“Major, courtesy title only, Fleming. And Mrs. Fleming. They have one daughter.”
Mannering said: “Well, well!”
“I couldn’t resist springing it on you,” Chittering said. “I knew that Smith often came here, and kept an eye on the advance bookings. Lulu’s always helpful. Then I discovered that some Flemings had also booked for tonight, so I did a bit of detective work, and discovered that they have a daughter Celia. She left home nearly a year ago. They live in Guildford – he’s semi-retired, does a bit of fruit farming and keeps livestock of one kind or another. Oh – Oxford, the old type. You can tell that at a glance.”
Mannering said: “Here’s Chloe.”
They danced. Mannering discovered that though she remained as silent and dreamy-eyed as ever, Chloe danced extremely well. Rather surprisingly, he enjoyed it.
Smith and Celia Fleming rose at once, melting into the dance just that little bit better than any other couple on the floor. The Flemings watched from their table, until the tempo increased and several couples dropped out. Mannering and Chloe, Smith and Celia and three other couples were alone on the floor.
Then Fleming got up.
His wife put out a hand, as if to stop him. Fleming smiled at her, and walked towards the dance floor.
Turning, Smith saw him, and missed a step.
Fleming smiled; but it wasn’t a normal smile, and Mannering seeing his hands clenched, half expected what was coming. If Smith guessed, he did nothing about it. Suddenly, without fuss or bother Fleming hit him.
“Oh!” gasped Chloe, and fell against Mannering,
Smith bent double, hands at his stomach, Fleming hit him again. At that tense moment, the band stopped, hypnotised by what was happening on the floor. Smith staggered and then fell. Fleming turned away, as if at an unpleasant job completed. It was then that Celia leapt at him. There was fury in her eyes, as she beat at his face with clawed fingers. Fleming backed away, trying to fend her off. It was like trying to keep away from a tiger.
Smith began to pick himself up.
Mannering reached Celia, and gripped her round the waist. Every muscle in her body was quivering; he could see her teeth clenched beneath her drawn lips. Fleming, with blood on his cheeks and one eye closed, moved back to his wife who was standing like a statue, by her table.
Celia stood in Mannering’s grasp, glaring at the man whom he believed to be her father. The hatred smouldered and flared up again in her eyes. Indifferent to Mannering, she made no attempt to get away.
Smith put a hand on Mannering’s arm.
“Enough,” he said.
Mannering let the girl go. Smith took her back to the table. She sat down, looking straight ahead of her. Mannering watched her with concealed interest. She was rigid, head in a statuesque and unnatural calm. Without speaking, Smith refilled her glass. He put something into her hand, and she took it automatically. A moment later, she put her hand to her mouth, and then sipped champagne. After that, she closed her eyes and sat quite still.
The Flemings were already out of the room.
Mannering returned to his table as the band struck up. Chloe was looking excited, Jane stunned. Chittering’s expression held the cherubic false innocence of a fourteen year old.
“Chloe,” said Mannering, “you’ll never forgive me, but I have to go. I’d forgotten that I had an appointment. If I can get back, I will. If not, another night – you’re the most accomplished dancer I know.” He took her hand and bowed low over it, smiled towards the silent Jane, and hurried to the door.
On the first floor, by the cloakroom, Lulu was murmuring to Major Fleming that she was sure he quite understood that she would rather he never came to the club again. Fleming was dabbing at his eye with a bloodstained handkerchief, and a girl was helping his wife into her coat. Mannering hurried downstairs ahead of them, and was waiting on the pavement when they arrived.
The commissionaire said: “Cab, sir?”
“Oh, please” cried Mrs. Fleming.
“I wonder if I can help, my car’s handy,” said Mannering.
“Well, I . . .” began Mrs. Fleming.
Fleming said: “Thank you, Mr. Mannering.”
“You know each other?” Mrs. Fleming sounded surprised and relieved. Neither of the men spoke again, and soon they were in the Sunbeam Talbot.
“Where to?” Mannering asked.
“The Milne Court Hotel,” said Fleming, mentioning a small and exclusive hotel in Knightsbridge.
Mannering drove fast, and they reached the hotel just before one o’clock.
“Come and have a drink, Mannering,” said Fleming.
“Bob, you really ought to have your face . . .”
“Thanks,” said Mannering. “I’m useful at first aid Mrs. Fleming.”
They passed the night staff, ignoring their discreet surprise at Fleming’s cut face. Reaching their room, Fleming unlocked the door, and stood aside. Mrs. Fleming led the way in, Mannering followed. He saw her shrink back, could imagine the scream which sprang to her lips. He leapt to her support as Fleming exclaimed: “What’s the matter? What”
Then his voice trailed off.
A girl lay on the bed, with her arms out flung, one leg hanging over the side. A stocking was tied tightly round her neck. Her lips were parted, her eyes half open and glazed.