III
Margaret lay huddled in the uncomfortable chair. For perhaps the hundredth time she choked back the scream which persisted in rising to her lips. Every suppression was more difficult than its predecessor.
Still, though she seemed to have been looking down it for an eternity, the black ring which was the muzzle of the automatic stared straight into her eyes.
The man had not moved. He was crouched upon the floor, no part of him steady save the hands which held the pistol. And he went on talking. Margaret felt that the rest of her life was a dream; that always, in reality, he had been talking and she listening.
And the talk—always the same story. “You’re clever, aren’t you? Very clever, eh? ‘Who killed Hoode?’ you said to yourselves—you and your friends. I don’t know you, but you’re Scotland Yard, that’s what you are. Well, if you want to know I did! See? But, my golden child, I’m not going to tell anyone! Oh, no! Oh, no!”
There was much more of words but none of sense. He went on talking, and always the burden of his whispering, his half-shouting, his mumbling, was the same. “I killed Hoode! But I’m not going to tell anyone, oh, no! Thought he could play about with me, did he? Get rid of the man who was helping him, eh? Fool!”
Once she had tried to rise, intending a wild dash for the front door she knew had not shut behind her. But the pistol had been thrust forward with such menace that ever since she had been as still as stone. Her right leg, twisted beneath her, was agony. Her head seemed bursting.
At last there came a pause in the babbling talk. The man began to struggle to his feet. Margaret shrank back still farther into her chair. Even as he heaved himself upright the gun never wavered from her.
Another scream rose in her throat, only to be fought back. He was up now, and coming towards her with wavering steps. Even in her terror she could see that his fever had increased. She prayed for his collapse as she had never prayed before.
He was close, close! Margaret shut her eyes, screwing up the lids.
She heard a rush of feet outside the door. Someone burst into the room. Slowly, unbelieving, she opened the blue eyes. Hastings stood in the doorway.
A black mist flickered before her. Through it, as if she were looking through smoked glass, she saw him walk swiftly, his right hand outstretched as if in greeting, up to the unsteady, malevolent figure in the dressing-gown.
The mist before her eyes grew thicker, darker. When it had cleared again, Hastings had the pistol in his hand. As she watched, the numbness of fear still upon her, the man Masterson crumpled to the floor.
With a great effort she rose from the chair. On her feet, she stumbled. She felt herself falling, gave a piteous little cry, and was caught up in Hastings’s arms.
Now that safety had come she broke down. Her body shook with sobs. Then came tears and more tears. She burrowed her face into Hastings’s shoulder, rubbing her cheek up and down against the smooth cloth of his coat.
Hastings, his heart beating too fast for comfort, looked down. All he could see was the little black hat. The shaking of her body in his arms, the very fact that in his arms she was, deprived him of speech. They remained locked together. From the floor behind them came a hoarse, delirious babbling. Neither man nor woman heard it.
The sobbing grew quieter. A great resolve swelled in Hastings’s bosom.
“I w-want a—a hanky,” said a small voice from his shoulder.
From his breast pocket he whipped a square foot of white silk. A little hand snatched at it. Its work completed, she smiled up at him, then endeavoured to withdraw from his arms. Hastings held on.
“Please,” said the small voice, “will you let me go?”
“No!” roared Hastings. “No! Never any more!”
Slowly, she raised her head to look at him again. Immediately, thoroughly, satisfyingly, he kissed her. For a moment, a fleeting fraction of time, it seemed to him that the soft lips had answered the pressure of his.
But then she broke free. “Mr. Hastings!” She stamped her foot. “How dare—”
A grin of delight was on his face. “ ’Sno use,” he murmured. “ ’Sno use any more. I’m not frightened of you now, you darling!” He snatched at her again.
From the floor there came again that hoarse mutter. Again they didn’t hear it.
“And you know you’ve been in love with me for years,” said Hastings.
“Oh! I have not!” She was all indignation. Suddenly it went. “Yes, I have, though—for months, anyway. Oh, Jack, Jack, why didn’t you do this before?”
“Frightened,” said Hastings. “Wind up.”
“But—but whatever of?”
“You—and your damned sufficient efficiency. Yesterday I swore to myself I’d pluck up the nerve to tell you as soon as I caught you, red-handed, making a mistake. And you see I have—”
Her eyes flashed. “What d’you mean? Mistake! I like that! When I’ve caught the murderer—”
They both swung round, remembrance flooding back. The owner of the flat lay beside the overturned table, a shapeless heap in the dark dressing-gown.
Margaret shivered. “Mistake, indeed!” she began.
“Well, you did. This is a man’s job. You ought to’ve waited till I came back. God! how you frightened me! Suppose this outer door here hadn’t been ajar.”
“But, Jack—”
Hastings forgot murders. “Why d’you call me that?” he asked.
“ ’Cause I couldn’t always be saying ‘Spencer.’ I’d feel like a heroine in a serial. And don’t interrupt. I was going to say: Never mind, we’ve got the man. Won’t Colonel Gethryn be pleased?”
Hastings came back to earth. “By God!” he said. “So that’s the murderer, is it? So it was that Gethryn was after. Well, he’s a very ill criminal. How d’you know he is one, by the way?”
“He confessed. He was sort of delirious. Kept saying he’d done it, but wasn’t going to tell anyone. Horrid it was!”
Hastings rubbed his chin. “I wonder,” he said. “I wonder. Come on, we’re going to have a nice diplomatic talk with that porter I saw downstairs. And don’t forget we mustn’t let him get a line on what we’re after.”