“I certainly think our Ed wants watching,” Roger said, grimly. “Ed Pullinger, Fischer and you, the three main suspects. Lissa, don’t get any silly ideas into your head that you’ve got to protect anyone, or that you’re safe from suspicion. If there is anything you remember that might point a finger at Ed or Carl, point it
“You’re a poor detective,” Lissa said. “You should have kept all this to yourself.” She gripped his hand suddenly, and sprang up. “Let’s get to the house.” They walked slowly, side by side, and at the foot of the steps, she said: “Thank you, Roger. But I didn’t dope the milk.”
Her eyes were suddenly gay, and she ran up the steps ahead of him.
• • •
At dinner there was a brittle brightness. Belle and David Shawn both came down, Fischer was there, and Lissa and Roger. Now and again Belle would talk of Ricky as if she were now sure that it was only a matter of time before she had him back.
“It’s wonderful to know he’s not hurt,” she said a dozen times, always with the same forced brightness and with the flashing smile at Roger.
Shawn said little. The fire had dimmed in his eyes, and he looked as if he couldn’t keep awake right through the meal. Fischer, after a sleep, was much fresher. All felt the strain of a wait which might end suddenly and might drag on for days. Would Belle last out in this mood, if it did? Roger watched her more closely than any of the others, but gave Fischer more attention than he seemed to. In England, he would have had plenty to dig into — Ed Pullinger especially. Lissa told him she had reported the reasons for wondering about both Ed and Fischer, but hadn’t talked about it apart from that.
They were in the big lounge, after dinner, when Fischer said easily:
“I’m only the doctor around here, but I’d advise early bed for everyone, the doctor included. David, you ought to get some sleep right away.”
“Could do with it,” Shawn conceded.
“Honey, let’s have an early night,” Belle said, and squeezed his hand. “I’ve kept you awake so much lately, if you get sick I’ll just have to blame myself. You won’t mind, will you?” she asked the others vaguely, and stood up.
It was a little after nine o’clock.
At ten, Roger looked out of his bedroom window over a starlit countryside, with the murmurs of the night for company. He was restless and uneasy, and knew that he wouldn’t get to sleep if he went to bed. The peacefulness was unreal, even uncanny. Last night he had been on the way to Webster’s house, beginning the ordeal that ended at the lakeside, now it seemed as if danger were a million miles away; and yet it might be lurking at every corner, every window. He had another gun which Fischer had given to him. He slipped it into his pocket, already accustomed to carrying one, and not finding it strange. He went out of the room, and walked through the silent house to the front door. The servants had gone to bed early; they slept in another wing. He opened the door, which was locked but not chained or bolted, and stepped on to the verandah.
He walked down the steps, slowly. He couldn’t go far, if there were watchers the open door was an invitation; he must keep it in sight. It was cool; not cold, not even chilly, almost an English summer evening. The grass was firm underfoot. The hiss of the spraying water was silenced. He walked to and fro, seeing the shadowy darkness of the trees, much more clearly defined than on the previous night
He saw no one, and heard nothing.
He stayed out for half an hour, then returned to the house, redropped the catch of the front door, and went upstairs. A sliding door on the landing led into his bedroom, which was large, airy and modern; inside the room, another door led to a small bathroom. He had as hot a bath as possible, to ease the tightened muscles in his legs and back, then put on borrowed pyjamas and went to bed. He was pleasantly tired now; the disquiet had been steamed out of him. It had been at least as much due to uncertainty about Lissa as to the thought of lurking danger.
He went to sleep.
Sound pierced his sleep vaguely — sound which might have been part of a dream. It woke him. He lay between sleeping and waking, and then heard the sound again. He turned his head slowly, and looked at the window, which was outlined against a greying sky; dawn. No one was there. He turned his head again, cautiously, and looked towards the door.
It was opening.
He loosened the bedclothes, and shifted his legs; a twinge of pain shot through his calf. He eased himself to one side, so that he could spring out of bed quickly, and watched the door through his lashes. For a moment he thought that the half-light had deceived him, that the opening of the door had been in his imagination.
It creaked.
Roger waited. Lying still and tense beneath the bedclothes, he flexed his muscles in readiness for the bound which was to bring him face to face with this unknown visitor.
Gradually, the door opened; and in the greyness of the morning a woman appeared. He could see her hair, the silhouette of her robe against a light beyond.
It was Lissa.
She stood for a moment looking at him, and he breathed evenly; she was listening for that. Then she came forward, without closing the door. Her right hand was stretched out, and he tried to see whether she had anything in it, but could not. She drew nearer, and her robe rustled, but otherwise she made no sound. Now she was only a foot or two from the bed, and he could see that her hand was empty. The light was good enough to show the softness of her beauty; and the robe seemed like a silken Sheath. His heart was thumping with a fierce longing which he wouldn’t face. She leaned forward, as if to make sure that he was asleep, and then, quickly, she bent towards him. He moved convulsively. Her lips touched his, pressed hard against them, and he became still.
She drew back, breathing heavily, more agitated than he had ever known her. Then she said softly:
“Roger.”
He grunted, as if he had been asleep and the movement had been unconscious.
