Death in Silhouette. John Russell Fearn

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СКАЧАТЬ right!” he interrupted, his voice hard. “I just can’t help asking: I’m sort of funny that way. You see, Pat, I love you so much I don’t want to have the feeling later on that I gave you my—er—all, so to speak, only to find that you would really rather have teamed up with Billy Cranston or Cliff Evans.”

      “That’s so absurd it isn’t worth commenting upon,” Pat retorted. Then she shook her head slowly. “You’re a queer chap, Keith; you seem to have more moods than a film star. Any girl not knowing you as well as I do would have been ready to slap your face for the things you’ve said—but somehow I’m not feeling that way. I’m…used to you, I suppose.”

      Keith smiled. The gloomy mood that had been pervading him suddenly vanished. He took the ring from the case and slipped it on her finger.

      “That seals the bargain,” he said. “Next thing we have to do is to see how our respective parents react. Not that it matters, anyway, since we’re over twenty-one, but I suppose one must try and get co-operation if at all possible.”

      Pat admired the ring as they strolled along in the general direction of her home.

      “There won’t be any difficulty as far as my folks are concerned,” she said. “And you’ve only your dad to worry about, haven’t you?”

      “Uh-huh—and it’s more than enough.”

      Pat did not comment. Her thoughts had clouded for a moment. She had suddenly realized the kind of man she would have for a father-in-law. Ambrose Robinson lived in an aura of austerity that would have made any Government official jealous. It was entirely self-imposed. He was the plain-living, strait-laced type, obnoxiously proud of the fact that he never smoked, drank, or swore, and that he knew his Bible from cover to cover. Nothing wrong with this, of, course, except the fact that his seeming piety was flavoured with an intense bitterness towards the world in general and his son in particular.

      “We shan’t live with Dad, anyway,” Keith said, and Pat knew he had been interpreting her thoughts. “He’s a psalm-smiting old humbug, and that’s plain speaking…!”

      “Where shall we live?” Pat asked anxiously. “That’s a vital point these days, you know. There certainly isn’t room at our place. We’ve only one spare guest-room and I can’t see Mum giving it up to us. Besides, it never works out right to live with one’s parents.”

      “I’d thought of rooms in Gladstone Avenue,” Keith said, naming a fairly select quarter of the district. “I’ll be able to afford it. It won’t be the kind of dream-home we’d like, I’m afraid, but it’ll do for the time being. At least we’ll be to ourselves.”

      “Which means everything,” Pat agreed, and added in a matter-of-fact tone, “When shall we get married?”

      “I’m due for a rise in three months. How about then?”

      Pat, whose thoughts were running on how quickly she could escape from her cage in the restaurant, nodded promptly.

      “That’ll do fine! Can’t be too soon for me.”

      They had come to the end of the road where her home stood. It was No. 18 Cypress Avenue—and No. 18 was one in a row of thirty identical houses, all with rough-cast frontages, bay windows up and down, and a brick garage at the side. All had front gardens somewhat larger than an economy label, and two grey stone gateposts. In every direction the iron gates had been replaced by wooden ones, hastily made.

      “We’ll tell my folks now, I suppose?” Pat asked. “They’ll all be in.”

      “Of course we’ll tell ’em.” There seemed to be no doubt in Keith’s mind.

      At first Mrs. Taylor took the arrival of her daughter and Keith as a matter of course. Keith had been walking home with Pat for two months now and had been a frequent caller at weekends, so there was nothing phenomenal about his being here this evening. But, being an analyst when it came to expressions, Mrs. Taylor took about one minute to decide that something out of the ordinary had happened.

      The large back living room was warm, the June sunlight partly blocked by half-drawn curtains. There was a homely untidiness about the place. Detective and crime magazines peeped out from surprising places; correspondence was wedged between the mantel clock and an empty decorated jar, which in better times had contained stem-ginger. On the chesterfield under the window Pat’s father, a big, powerful man with a quasi-bald head and large stomach, was lounging as he read the evening paper. At the laid table Pat’s brother Gregory was circumspectly dressed, playing about with a salad.

      Into this setting came the air of the unexpected, and its emphasis became heavier as the moments passed.

      “Is anything the matter, dear?” Mrs. Taylor asked finally.

      Her uncertainty was obvious. She was a large, blonde woman with the enviable gift of seeming always happy. Blue-eyed, double-chinned, her girth was emphasized by the huge spotless apron she was wearing.

      “Matter?” Pat repeated, putting down her handbag. “Why, no, of course not. We just walked home together, as usual.”

      “Oh.…” Mrs. Taylor gave a frown, smiled, and then frowned again. “You look sort of—pent up. As though something’s going to explode.”

      “We’re engaged!” Pat said suddenly, and thrust out her left hand as though it were a sword. “Look!”

      The silence of the room was broken now by a variety of sounds. Mr. Taylor’s paper rustled as he lowered it to his paunch. He sat up and peered over his reading-glasses with sharp brown eyes. A clink came from Gregory’s plate as he put down his knife and fork. Mrs. Taylor breathed audibly.

      “Well!” she exclaimed blankly. “Well! Engaged! Think of that—!” She swung to her husband. “You hear that, Harry?”

      “By Jove, I do!” He surged up from the chesterfield and came lumbering across the room to grip Keith by one hand and Pat by the other. “Not that it’s unexpected,” he said, smiling. “Been developing for a long time, hasn’t it? I’ve noticed, you know. The very best of luck to both of you. Mmm, nice ring, too! That put you back a bit, my boy.”

      “For Pat it’s worth it,” Keith responded, somewhat conventionally.

      Mrs. Taylor added her congratulations, and Keith began to look as though he found the business somewhat overwhelming. Being on the small side, the size of his future parents-in-law seemed rather gargantuan to him. Then at last it was over. The vision of expansive shirt and even more expansive bosom cleared from before him and gave place to Gregory Taylor’s face. An unprepossessing face—cold and lantern-jawed.

      “Congratulations!” Gregory Taylor said, and it sounded as though he had carefully considered even this one word. He was a solicitor’s clerk, as exact as an adding machine and just about as interesting. Though only twenty-nine, he looked fifty. Despite a shade temperature close on eighty-eight, he was neatly dressed in a complete suit with spotless collar and tie, and looked arctically cool. His eyes were a peculiar shade of light grey. His hair was so polished and flattened with vaseline it looked black, though actually was dark brown.

      “You don’t sound very enthusiastic, Greg,” Pat commented dryly. “Or don’t you realize how important this is?”

      “You mean to you, of course?” her СКАЧАТЬ