Vintage Murder. Ngaio Marsh

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СКАЧАТЬ business. But – well, he has never been a romantic figure. He lives for the firm, you know. He and George Mason built it between them. I’ve played in I.P. productions for twelve years now. Eight pieces in all and in five of them I’ve played opposite Carolyn.’

      He had the actor’s habit of giving full dramatic value to everything he said. His beautiful voice, with its practised inflexions, suggested a romantic attachment.

      ‘She’s rather a wonderful person,’ he said.

      ‘He means that,’ thought his companion. ‘He is in love with her.’

      His mind went back to the long voyage in the ship with Carolyn Dacres very much the star turn, but not, he had to admit, aggressively the great actress. She and her pale, plump, rather common, rather uninteresting husband, had sat in deck chairs, he with a portable typewriter on his knees and she with a book. Very often Hambledon had sat on the other side of her, also with a book. They had none of them joined in the all-night poker parties with young Courtney Broadhead, Liversidge and Valerie Gaynes. Thinking of these three he turned to look up the dim carriage. There was young Broadhead, still awake, still staring at the blind window-pane with its blank reflections. As if conscious of the other’s gaze he jerked his head uneasily and with an abrupt movement rose to his feet and came down the carriage. As he passed them he said:

      ‘Fresh air. I’m going out to the platform.’

      ‘Young ass,’ said Hambledon when he had gone through the door. ‘He’s been losing his money. You can’t indulge in those sorts of frills, on his salary.’

      They both looked at the glass door. Broadhead’s back was against it.

      ‘I’m worried about that boy,’ Hambledon went on. ‘No business of mine, of course, but one doesn’t like to see that kind of thing.’

      ‘They were playing high, certainly.’

      ‘A fiver to come in, last night, I believe. I looked into the smoke-room before I went to bed. Liversidge had won a packet. Courtney looked very sick. Early in the voyage I tried to tip him the wink, but he’d got in with that bear leader and his cub.’

      ‘Weston and young Palmer, you mean?’

      ‘Yes. They’re on the train. The cub’s likely to stick to our heels all through the tour, I’m afraid.’

      ‘Stage-struck?’

      ‘What they used to call “shook on the pros.” He hangs round Carolyn, I suppose you’ve noticed. She tells me his father – he’s a Sir Something Palmer and noisomely rich – has packed him off to New Zealand with Weston in the hope of teaching him sense. Weston’s his cousin. The boy was sacked from his public school, I believe. Shipboard gossip.’

      ‘It is strange,’ said the tall man, ‘how a certain type of Englishman still regards the Dominions either as a waste-paper basket or a purge.’

      ‘You are not a colonial, surely?’

      ‘Oh, no. I speak without prejudice. Hullo, I believe we’re stopping.’

      A far-away whistle was followed by the sound of banging doors and a voice that chanted something indistinguishable. These sounds grew louder. Presently the far door of their own carriage opened and the guard came down the corridor.

      ‘Five minutes at Ohakune for refreshments,’ he chanted, and went out at the near door. Broadhead moved aside for him.

      ‘Refreshments!’ said Hambledon. ‘Good lord!’

      ‘Oh, I don’t know. A cup of coffee, perhaps. Anyway a gulp of fresh air.’

      ‘Perhaps you’re right. What did he say was the name of the station?’

      ‘I don’t know. It sounded like a rune or incantation.’

      ‘Oh – ah – coo – nee,’ said Susan Max, unexpectedly.

      ‘Hullo, Susie, you’ve come up to breathe, have you?’ asked Hambledon.

      ‘I haven’t been to sleep, dear,’ said Susan. Not really asleep, you know.’

      ‘I’d forgotten you were an Australian.’

      ‘I am not an Australian. I was born in New Zealand. Australia is a four-day journey from—’

      ‘I know, I know,’ said Hambledon with a wink at the tall man.

      ‘Well, it is provoking, dear,’ said Miss Max huffily. ‘We don’t like to be called Australian. Not that I’ve anything against the Aussies. It’s the ignorance.’

      A chain of yellow lights travelled past their windows. The train stopped and uttered a long steamy sigh. All along the carriage came the sound of human beings yawning and shuffling.

      ‘I wish my father had never met my mother,’ grumbled the comedian.

      ‘Come on,’ said Hambledon to the tall man.

      They went out through the door. Courtney Broadhead was standing on the narrow iron platform of their carriage. His overcoat collar was turned up and his hat jammed over his eyes. He looked lost and miserable. The other two men stepped down on to the station platform. The cold night air smelt clean after the fug of the train. There was a tang in it, salutary and exciting.

      ‘It smells like the inside of a flower shop,’ said Hambledon. ‘Moss, and cold wet earth, and something else. Are we very high up in the world, I wonder?’

      ‘I think we must be. To me it smells like mountain air.’

      ‘What about this coffee?’

      They got two steaming china baths from the refreshment counter and took them out on to the platform.

      ‘Hailey! Hailey!’

      The window of one of the sleepers had been opened and through it appeared a head.

      ‘Carolyn!’ Hambledon walked swiftly to the window. ‘Haven’t you settled down yet? It’s after half past two, do you know that?’

      The murky lights from the station shone on that face, finding out the hollows round the eyes and under the cheek bones. The tall man had never been able to make up his mind about Carolyn Dacres’s face. Was it beautiful? Was it faded? Was she as intelligent as her face seemed to promise? As he watched her he realised that she was agitated about something. She spoke quickly, and in an undertone. Hambledon stared at her in surprise and then said something. They both looked for a moment at the tall man. She seemed to hesitate.

      ‘Stand clear, please.’

      A bell jangled. He mounted the platform of his carriage where Courtney Broadhead still stood hunched up in his overcoat. The train gave one of those preparatory backward clanks. Hambledon, still carrying his cup, hurriedly mounted the far platform of the sleeper. They were drawn out of the station into the night. Courtney Broadhead, after a sidelong glance at the tall man, said something inaudible and returned to the carriage. The tall man remained outside. The stern of the sleeping-carriage in front swayed and wagged, and the little iron bridge that connected the two platforms jerked backwards and forwards. СКАЧАТЬ