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all this? What's he been up to?”[92]
“Even if there were an answer,” the Duchess of Croydon responded, “I'd scarcely be so foolish as to give it on the public telephone.”
There was a silence once more, then the reluctant admission, “Well, you usually know what you're doing.”
The Duchess caught her husband's eye. She gave a nod before inquiring of her brother, “Am I to understand, then, that you'll act as I ask?”
“I don't like it, sis[93]. I still don't like it.” But he added, “Very well, I'll do what I can.”
In a few more words they said goodbye.
The bedside telephone had been replaced only a moment when it rang again. Both Croydons started, the Duke moistening his lips nervously. He listened as his wife answered.
“Yes?”
A nasal voice inquired, “Duchess of Croydon?”
“This is she.”
“Ogilvie. Chief house officer.” There was the sound of heavy breathing down the line, and a pause as if the caller were allowing time for the information to sink in.
The Duchess waited. When nothing further was said she asked pointedly, “What is it you want?”
“A private talk. With your husband and you.” It was a blunt unemotional statement.
“If this is business I suggest you have made an error. We are accustomed to dealing with Mr. Trent.”
“Do that this time, and you'll wish you hadn't.”[94] The cold, insolent voice held an unmistakable confidence. It caused the Duchess to hesitate. As she did, she was aware her hands were shaking.
She managed to answer, “It is not convenient to see you now.” “When?” Again a pause and heavy breathing.
Whatever this man wanted, she realized, he knew how to take a psychological advantage[95].
She answered, “Possibly later.”
“I'll be there in an hour.” It was a declaration, not a question.
“It may not be…”
Cutting off her protest, there was a click as the caller hung up.
“Who was it? What did they want?” The Duke approached tensely. His gaunt face seemed paler than before.
Momentarily, the Duchess closed her eyes. She had a desperate desire to have someone else carry the burden of decision making for them both. She knew it was a vain hope, just as it had always been for as long as she could remember. Even Geoffrey always listened to her in the end, as he had just now. Her eyes opened.
“It was a detective. He insists on coming here in an hour.”
“Then he knows! My God – he knows!”
“Obviously he's aware of something. He didn't say what.”
Unexpectedly the Duke of Croydon straightened, his head moving upright and shoulders squaring. His hands became steadier, his mouth a firmer line. He said quietly, “It might go better, even now, if I went… if I admitted.”[96]
“No! Absolutely and positively no!” His wife's eyes flashed. “Understand one thing. Nothing you can possibly do could improve the situation.” There was a silence between them, then the Duchess said, “We shall do nothing. We will wait for this man to come, then discover what he knows and intends.”
Momentarily it seemed as if the Duke would argue. Then, changing his mind, he nodded dully and went out to the adjoining room. A few minutes later he returned carrying two glasses of Scotch. As he offered one to his wife she protested, “You know it's much too early…”
“Never mind that. You need it.” He pressed the glass into her hand.
She held the glass and drained it. The liquor burned, but a moment later flooded her with welcome warmth.
At her desk in the outer office[97], Christine Francis had been reading letters. Now she looked up to see Peter McDermott's cheerful face peering around the doorway.
“By the way”, he said, “I suppose you know Curtis O'Keefe's arrived.”
“You're the seventeenth to tell me. I think the phone started ringing the moment he stepped on the sidewalk.”
“It's not surprising. By now many are wondering why he's here. Or rather, when we shall be told officially why he's here.”
Christine said, “I've just arranged a private dinner for tonight in W.T.'s suite – for Mr. O'Keefe and friend. Have you seen her? I hear she's something special.”
He shook his head. “I'm more interested in my own dinner plan involving you, which is why I'm here.”
“If that's an invitation for tonight, I'm free and hungry.”
“Good!” He jumped up, towering over her. “I'll collect you at seven. Your apartment.”
Peter was leaving when, on a table near the doorway, he observed a folded copy of the Times-Picayune. Stopping, he saw it was the same edition – with black headlines proclaiming the hit-and-run fatalities which he had read earlier. He said, “I suppose you saw this.”
“Yes I did. It's horrible, isn't it? When I read it I had an awful sensation of watching the whole thing happen because of going by there last night.”
He looked at her strangely. “It's funny you should say that. I had a feeling too. It bothered me last night and again this morning.”
“What kind of feeling?”
“I'm not sure. The nearest thing is – it seems as if I know something, and yet I don't.” Peter shrugged, dismissing the idea. “I expect it's as you say – because we went by.” He replaced the newspaper where he had found it. As he strode out he turned and waved back to her, smiling.
At half-past two, leaving word with one of the secretaries in the outer office, Christine left to visit Albert Wells.
She took an elevator to the fourteenth floor then, turning down the long corridor, saw a stocky figure approaching. It was Sam Jakubiec, the credit manager. As he came nearer, she observed that he was holding a slip of paper and his expression was dour.
Seeing Christine, he stopped. “I've been to see your invalid friend, Mr. Wells.”
“If you looked like that, you couldn't have cheered him up much.”
“Tell you the truth,” Jakubiec said, “he didn't cheer me up either. I got this out of him, but lord knows how good it is.”
Christine accepted the paper the credit manager had been holding. It was a soiled sheet of stationery with a grease stain in one corner. On the sheet, Albert Wells had written and signed an order on a Montreal bank for two hundred dollars.
“In his quiet sort of way,” Jakubiec said, “he's an obstinate old cuss[98]. Wasn't going to give me anything at first. Said he'd pay his bill when it was due.”
“People are sensitive about money,” Christine said. “Especially being short of it.”
The credit man noted impatiently. “Hell! – most of us are short of money. I always am.”
Christine regarded the bank draft doubtfully. “Is this legal?”
“It's legal if there's money in the bank to meet it. You can write a check on sheet music[99] or a banana skin if you feel like it. But most people who have cash in their accounts at least carry printed checks. Your friend Wells said he couldn't find one.”
As
Что он натворил?
sister
В таком случае вы об этом горько пожалеете.
как давить на психику
Будет лучше даже сейчас, если я пойду. если я сознаюсь.
приёмная
упрямый старый хрыч
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