Grace lay on a quilted chaise-longue that stood in the middle of the room. She had on a black, semi-transparent negligé which was entirely unsuited to her youthful innocence, although it set off her figure crudely enough. Her bare feet were thrust into scarlet mules, and her hair was caught up by a narrow scarlet ribbon.
At first glance she looked as if she had stepped out of the pages of
Esquire
, but closer scrutiny revealed she was but a poor imitation of those seductive pages; in truth, she was pathetically aping a sophisticated siren with little or no success.
She had made up her face with an inexperienced hand; rouge formed two hard circles on her cheeks, her lips, under a heavy smear of lipstick, were grotesque, and her eyelashes were clogged with mascara that made little black marks on her eyelids.
Although she was vaguely aware that something had gone wrong with her efforts to be the sophisticated young woman, worthy of someone as wonderful and as thrilling as Richard Crane, she felt she could do no more, hoping that he would not be critical and would, at least, appreciate her effort to please him. She was nervous, too, and her heart fluttered against her ribs, her mouth was dry and her hands unpleasantly clammy.
He had asked her to be his wife. It was the most unexpected, the most marvellous (as well as the most frightening) thing that had ever happened to her. And after dinner, listening to him talk, seeing the wistful look in his eyes, she had suddenly decided to give herself to him. It was no rash gesture. She had flinched from the idea from the first, but she couldn’t think of any other way in which she could show her love and gratitude. She knew that a woman’s virtue was her most sacred possession (she hadn’t read piles of cheap magazines for nothing) ; that to give herself to her lover was the greatest sacrifice she could offer. Nothing was too good for Richard. She was his, then, if he wanted her.
So, after dinner, she had excused herself, had gone carefully through Julie’s wardrobe, had selected the black negligé as the most beautiful of all the dresses in the cupboard, had spent some time before the mirror fumbling with an extraordinary array of unfamiliar boxes of cosmetics, face lotions, tints, eyebrow pencils and the like, and then, a little uneasy, that she had merely made herself look a fright, had settled down on the chaise-longue to wait for him.
She had left her door half open and she saw Crane come out of Ellis’s room and for a moment panic seized her. She wanted to run from the bungalow, to hide from him, but she controlled her shyness, waited, holding her breath.
Without looking in her direction, Crane walked quickly to his room, entered, shut the door.
She stared at the closed door, a feeling of sick disappointment swamping her. Wasn’t he coming to her? she asked herself, and got off the chaise-longue to look into the passage.
Then she realised that he was probably changing and instantly she ran back to the chaise-longue and took up her seductive pose again. What an inexperienced little fool she was, she thought, furious with herself. Naturally, he wouldn’t want to make love to her in evening dress, and she felt a wave of hot blood rush to her face at the thought that before long she would be lying in his arms, feeling his lips on hers.
It was more than a quarter of an hour before Crane came from his room. During that time, Grace suffered a torment of uneasiness. Was she doing right? Was she merely following in her mother’s footsteps? Surely, since they loved each other, he was entitled to take her if she wished him to do so? She was still undecided, still fearful, when Crane moved leisurely across the passage and looked round her door.
She caught her breath sharply when she saw he was in dressing-gown and pyjamas. He stood in the doorway, looking at her, and she looked back at him as if mesmerised. But there was a kind, humorous smile in his eyes that did much to quieten her fluttering heart and still her quivering nerves.
“Hello,” he said. “I thought you’d be in bed fast asleep by now.”
“Oh, no,” she said, again feeling blood rising to her face. (Had he hoped to find her in bed? Had she done wrong, made it difficult for him, being up?) “I wasn’t sleepy . . .”
“May I come in then?” he asked, still standing in the doorway, “or would you rather I didn’t?”
“Oh, no, please,” she said, stretched out her hand towards him, changed her mind and hastily withdrew it. “Please don’t go away.”
He closed the door behind him, wandered further into the room. His nose wrinkled at the smell of the perfume.
“Do you like scent?” he asked, thinking the room stank to high heaven and wondering whether he should open a window.
“Oh, yes,” she said, shut her eyes for a moment. “It’s lovely in here, isn’t it?”
He restrained a grimace with an effort, said it was very nice, came to the foot of the chaise-longue.
“Good God!” he thought, “she looks like a clown. What in the world has she done to her face?” Aloud, he said, “You look very lovely. I believe you put on that black thing for my benefit, didn’t you?”
Grace avoided his eyes, wished her face wasn’t so flushed.
“I — I well, no. I thought . . .” She floundered into silence.
He sat on the foot of the chaise-longue, smiled at her.
“What did you think?” he asked kindly.
She sat up, faced him. Her eyes anxiously searched his face as if to read what was going on in his mind.
“Do you really want to marry me?” she blurted out.
“Well, of course,” he said, taking her hand. “There’s nothing I want more than you. The moment I saw you . . .”
“Yes, I know. You said that before. But I can’t really believe it. I’ve been thinking. I — I’m a bit of a fool; I know I am. I’ve no experience, but I do know that men . . . I mean they don’t always want to marry a girl, although they want to — to — make love to her. If you really don’t want to marry me . . .” she broke off, looked away.
Crane patted her hand, then took hold of her chin, turned her face so she could see what he was saying.
“Go on, tell me,” he said “Please tell me. If I don’t really want to marry you . . . what then?”
“You’ve been so good and kind to me . . . I — I’d do anything for you in return.”
“What makes you think I don’t want to marry you?” Crane asked, shifting closer to her.
“I’ve talked to Ellis. He said I’d disgrace you, that I wouldn’t make you a good wife and you’d regret marrying me.”
The thick, fleshy fingers closed over her wrist. There was warmth and strength in the fingers, restoring her confidence in herself.
“You should be sorry for Ellis,” Crane said gently. “He’s in love with you himself. He told me so. You’re the kind of girl men love easily. I know what he is suffering, my dear. He just doesn’t know what he is saying.”
“In love with me?” Grace repeated, startled. “Oh, but I can’t believe that. He has been so horrible to me . . . not like you. No, I can’t believe that.”
“But he is,” Crane said, stroking her wrist. “The poor chap’s crazy with jealousy. He’ll say anything to stop us marrying. He’s actually accusing me now of all kinds of fantastic things.” He leaned forward, touched her cheek with his finger-tips. “He says I’m going to murder you.”
“But he couldn’t be so wicked!” Grace said, starting back. A cold shiver ran down her spine. For some unknown reason she suddenly saw Crane in the kitchen again, the look of abject terror on his face, and heard his voice saying: “I thought you were Julie.” She shivered again.
“But he doesn’t mean it,” Crane said, watching her closely: “The chap’s just wild with jealousy. He’d say anything to spoil our happiness. You’re not frightened, are you? My dear, you wouldn’t be frightened of me?”
She looked into his face, saw only kindness and tenderness there and she seized hold of his hand.
“No, I’m not frightened of you,” she said quickly. “I wouldn’t believe anything he said, and if you did want to murder me — well, you could.” She suddenly held out her arms, said with a catch in her voice, “I do love you so, Richard; you can do anything with me — only, please love me just a little.”
Unbelievable, he thought. She has a mind like a skivvy. Where in the world did she learn to talk such utter tripe? But he took her face between his hands and, leaning forward, kissed her on the mouth.
For a second or so her mind struggled against the temptation to yield to him. She remembered her mother; felt again the sting of the razor-strop that had beaten into her the knowledge that adultery was an unforgivable sin. She tried to stiffen her body in resistance, tried to shake her head, tried to draw back. She felt the thick fingers sliding down her spine, resting on her hips. The hard lips crushed hers, drawing the strength out of her. Then, vanquished, she let herself go, became limp in his arms.
He was holding her tightly now, one hand on her knee, the other pressed firmly against the small of her back. She was caught up to him, helpless, yielding to his strength, not knowing what he was going to do next, but instinctively feeling that this was only the beginning of a moment of supreme rapture. Then quite suddenly, it dawned on her that something had gone wrong, that his lips were no longer pressing against hers; that his hand now merely hovered on her knee, and the firm, warm, grip on her back had slackened. She had a feeling that he was allowing her to fall, was withdrawing from her.
She opened hurt, reproachful eyes and saw him looking down at her with an intent expression as if he didn’t see her; wasn’t even aware of her, and as she looked at him, he frowned, pursed his lips and raised a warning finger to silence her.
Her resentful sense of disappointment gave place to anxiety.
“Don’t talk,” he said, his lips close to hers. There’s someone outside. I heard a sound — as if someone was crawling on hands and knees to the door.”
Her eyes changed from frustrated surprise to horror. Her fingers gripped his wrists.
“Crawling?” she mouthed, without making a sound.
He nodded, listened, his hand now against her lips.
“I’m going to see,” he said softly. “Don’t be frightened. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
“No,” she said from behind his hand, her eyes wide with alarm. “You mustn’t! You may get hurt . . .”
Impatiently he pulled away, stood up and took two quick, silent steps to the door. He stood listening, his head against the panel. Grace, watching him, suddenly thought how dangerous and menacing he looked standing there so still and tense.
She slid off the chaise-longue, moved a few steps, stopped, watched.
Crane gently turned the door-handle, pulled the door open a few inches. He peered into the hall, stiffened.
With her hand to her mouth, Grace moved forward until she was at his side. Her heart thumped so violently she thought it would suffocate her. Crane’s hand sought and found her wrist; the thick, warm fingers comforted her. He opened the door a few more inches, pointed into the hall.
Ellis was out there on the floor. He had reached up and had pulled the telephone directory off the hall table and was now going through its pages with trembling, eager fingers. His face was the colour of old tallow. His hair was dark with sweat, the black and gold pyjama jacket stuck to his thin back, and Grace could see the ridges of his spine like a string of misshapen marbles.
Crane, still holding Grace’s wrist, watched him, saw him give a triumphant gesture as if he had found what he had been searching for in the directory, then he pushed the book away, reached for the telephone.
Moving like a great, silent cat, Crane crept up to him, took the telephone from him as Ellis was about to lift the receiver.
“You shouldn’t be out of bed, you know,” Crane said gently, and smiled.
Ellis lay still for a moment, his face bloodless: livid with frustrated rage and fear, then he gave a kind of scream, like an animal in agony, and grabbed hold of Crane’s ankles, his nails tearing at Crane’s flesh. Bending his head, Ellis then tried to fasten his teeth into Crane’s leg and would have succeeded had not Crane bent down and caught hold of his wrists and, without effort, pried Ellis’s fingers from his ankles. He twisted Ellis’s hands behind him, knelt down, peered into his face.
“My dear chap,” he said sternly, “what’s the matter with you? You’re behaving like a lunatic and you’re frightening Grace.”
“Damn you!” Ellis shouted wildly, unable to move: helpless in Craw’s crushing grip. “Let me go! I’ll kill you for this. You won’t touch her. I won’t let you touch her.”
Crane glanced over his shoulder at Grace, shrugged as he met her startled gaze.
“You see what I mean?” he said. “He’s either cracked or very ill indeed. What do you think I should do with him?”
As Grace came into the light, Ellis turned to her.
“He’s going to kill you,” he said feverishly. “You’ve got to listen to me. He’s boasting about what he’s going to do to you. Your only chance is to get out of here at once. He’ll kill you as he killed the other woman. He’s mad. Don’t you understand . . . he kills for the fun of it.”
Grace knelt beside him, a look of pity on her face.
“You’re ill,” she said gently. “You mustn’t excite yourself. He wouldn’t hurt me. Why, he loves me and I love him. Please don’t say such wicked things.”
“It’s the truth,” Ellis gasped, his contrpl going. “He plans to kill you, you trusting little fool. Leave him! Run! Get out! He’s a killer. Don’t you understand?”
Grace shrank away from his wild, despairing eyes.
“You’re wicked to say such things. He loves me . . .” Ellis turned on Crane.
“You rotten swine,” he sobbed hysterically, and his face seemed to fall to pieces. He began to cry weakly; tears ran down his wasted cheeks. “You’ve tricked her into believing in you, but you won’t do it. I’ll stop you somehow. You won’t hurt her. I swear you won’t.”
“Now, come on, old chap,” Crane said soothingly. “You get back to bed. No one’s going to hurt anyone. You’ve been having a nightmare. You’re ill and tired. I’ll look after you. You come to bed.”
Still holding his wrists firmly, Crane lifted Ellis in his arms.
“I’ll be as gentle as I can,” he said. “And you mustn’t worry about Grace. She’ll be all right. I’m going to make her very happy.”