Part 14 (2/2)

Old Humphrey crouched over the fire. His wizened, dirty old face twitched with fright; his thin, filthy hand gripped the handle of the frying-pan that hissed on the fire until his knuckles showed white under the grime.

Max leaned against the mantelpiece, lit a cigarette. The light of the match reflected in his eyes: they were like glittering pieces of gla.s.s: black and expressionless.

”You talk to him,” he said to Frank.

Frank sat down on an upturned box close to Old Humphrey, took off his hat to comb his hair. He smiled, and the smile struck a chill into Old Humphrey's palpitating heart.

”We're looking for a guy,” Frank said. ”A guy who's sick. What happened to him?”

”I don't know nothing about any sick guys,” Old Humphrey whined. ”I just want to be left alone.”

Max moved restlessly, but Frank still smiled.

”Come on, Dad,” he said softly. ”You know all about it. We mean business. Don't make it hard for yourself. What was he to you?”

Old Humphrey didn't say anything. He lifted his shoulders as if he expected a blow, brooded down at the mess in the frying-pan, his eyes sightless with fear.

Frank kicked his ankle gently.

”Come on, Dad,” he said. There was a genial note in his voice. ”What happened to the sick guy?”

”I ain't seen a sick guy,” Old Humphrey said. ”I mind my own business.”

Max suddenly s.n.a.t.c.hed the frying-pan out of the old man's hand and threw it across the room.

Frank giggled.

”What happened to the sick guy?” he asked again.

Old Humphrey stared at the frying-pan lying in the corner, at the food that dripped down the wooden wall on to the floor, and he clawed at his beard.

”The newspaper man took him away,” he said shrilly. ”That's all I know.”

”What newspaper man?” Max said.

”Magarth,” Old Humphrey mumbled. ”He's worried me before. Everyone worries me. Why can't they leave me alone?”

Frank stood up.

”No one will worry you anymore,” he said softly, stepped to the door.

Old Humphrey turned, sliding his broken boots over the dirty floor, clutching at his ragged overcoat.

”Close your eyes,” Max said. ”We don't want you to see us leave.”

”I won't look, mister,” Old Humphrey said.

”Close your eyes,” Max repeated softly.

The grimy, wrinkled eyelids dropped: like two shutters of an untenanted house.

Max slipped his gun from the shoulder holster, touched Old Humphrey's forehead lightly with the barrel, squeezed the trigger.

Half-way down the broad stairs, on the landing leading to the final flight of stairs, stood an old grandfather clock.

As Carol crept past it it gave off a loud whirring sound and began to chime.

For an instant she stood very still and watched herself run out of her body, down the stairs, whirl and run back into her body again. Then she realized it was only the old clock chiming and she leaned against the creaking banister-rail, sick with shock. She went on down the stairs towards the dark hall and the front door that led into the open.

She reached the hall, stood for a moment to listen.

Miss Lolly poured boiling water into a tea-pot. She put a cup and saucer, a bowl of sugar, a jug of milk on the tray.

Carol heard all this, knew exactly what Miss Lolly was doing. In a minute or so Miss Lolly would be coming out into the hall with the tray.

The hall door was ajar and the warmth of the sunbaked garden seeped through the opening, wound like an invisible ribbon around Carol's limbs.

She moved quickly and silently past the big oak hall-stand on which lay a dirty ten-dollar bill. There'll be money on the hall-stand, Miss Lolly had said. Carol picked up the note: it felt dry and brittle in her nervous fingers. She held it tightly, not quite believing it was real, and went on to the front door.

She opened the door, which creaked sharply, making the nerves in her body stiffen like pieces of wire. She looked back over her shoulder.

Miss Lolly was watching her from the kitchen door. She was crying. Tears ran down her gaunt face and sparkled like chips of ice in her beard. She held the tea-tray before her: the crockery rattled faintly because her hands were trembling.

They stared at each other, sympathy and terror bridging the gulf between them, then Carol ran out on to the verandah, closed the front door behind her, shutting off the sight of Miss Lolly's triumphant but agonized expression.

Close by the rasp of a saw biting into hard wood jarred the peaceful stillness. Carol paused to reconnoitre the ground. There was an overgrown path that led from the house down to a white-wood gate. Beyond the gate was the by-road, sandy and rutty, that led into the jungle of cypress and brier. It's a long walk to the main road, Miss Lolly had said.

The sound of the saw abruptly ceased: a silence full of hot suns.h.i.+ne fell over the old plantation house. Carol walked swiftly, and carefully across the verandah to the head of the four rotten wooden steps that led to the path. There she paused again to listen.

She did not hear Sherill come round the side of the house. His naked feet made no sound in the soft, hot sand. She first became aware of him when he arrived at the bottom of the stoop and was staring at her with angry, frightened eyes as if he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing.

Beyond his tall, upright figure lay the by-road and freedom.

”Get back to your room,” he said harshly.

Carol looked quickly to right and left. The rail of the verandah, rotten as it was, fenced her in. It was impossible to retreat: only the dark hall yawned behind her, but it offered no escape. Escape lay ahead, beyond this angry, frightened man who barred her path.

”Don't touch me,” she said fiercely. ”I'm going . . . you can't stop me . . .”

”You're not,” Sherill send. ”Go back to your room. I don't want to hurt you . . . but I shall if you don't go back.”

The thought of further pain made Carol cringe, but she didn't move, and when Sherill began a cautious approach she still did not move.

”Get back,” he said, reached out and caught her arm.

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