Chapter THIRTY-THREE

Catherine’s letter from the Hardwickes came as a complete surprise. Jim had finished his work at the British Museum sooner than he had expected, and the English weather remaining persistently raw and cold he and Clare had decided to set off at once for Rome and Florence, travelling for economy’s sake, via Newhaven-Dieppe. Crossing by the night boat they were due to reach Paris early Saturday morning, and as they would have only a short time between trains Catherine felt she must snatch this opportunity of seeing them. Hence her sudden decision to return to the city and sleep at the apartment in order to get an early start.

She was now almost fit again, nerves calmer and eyes bright with renewed energy. Yet up till two days ago she had felt languid and unequal to any effort, so much so that there was a physical excuse for her behaviour towards Geoffrey, much as she reproached herself for her apparent coldness. What had he thought of her? She knew he had been puzzled and disappointed, but she had been unable to pretend an emotion she did not feel. Now all that was changed. Perverse though it seemed, she longed to be alone with him, to touch him and respond to his advances, this time freely, with a full realization of all he meant to her.

Geoffrey! The vision of strength filled her mind all the way back in the train. To-morrow she would see him, atone for her tiresome conduct. It pleased her to know from Elspeth that he did not wear his heart on his sleeve, that neither the wealthy young woman in Passy nor the beautiful Irish girl who had tried to ensnare him during the past year had met with the slightest success. That he was beginning to be regarded as a hardened bachelor enhanced his value in her eyes and simultaneously flattered her own self-esteem.

To-morrow! It was not long to wait. She would meet the Hardwickes, and then, perhaps, lunch with him. Her heart swelled with excitement.

It was nearing midnight when she arrived at the Gare Fontainebleau-Avron, secured a taxi, and set off towards her own quarter. The night was mild and soft, with a gusty breeze that held a hint of moisture. A pale moon dodged among floating clouds lit by the glow of the city, the buildings to left and right cast masses of shadow, laced occasionally by a golden ribbon of light where a door stood open. She leaned back, drowsy and content.

What a relief to think things were all going smoothly! Did Jeanne faintly suspect that her power was almost at an end, that when she returned--if she did return--it would be to find herself displaced by capable nurses? Perhaps she did know what was in the air, and was taking this method of withdrawal, hoping to evade the police before her thefts were proven. In that case, Eduardo too would vanish. Only a few days now…

Triumphant reflections--yet it was with a slight feeling of dread that she approached the house. Possibly it would have been wiser to let Jeanne know she was coming to-night, but there had seemed no need, particularly as she planned to slip out early in the morning and get a cup of coffee on the way to the station.

With her key ready, she opened the side door, and directed the driver to set her bags in the hall. Then very quietly she crept up the stairs, listening at every step.

All serene, no reason to fear that anything had gone wrong in her absence. What a fool she had been to worry! She had made herself miserable for weeks past anticipating events not in the least likely to materialize. She must take herself in hand and stop making mountains out of molehills.

She had meant to go straight to bed, but now there was nothing to prevent her doing so she succumbed to the temptation to dally, and consumed considerable time in aimless trifles. She wrote a dozen post-cards of Fontainebleau to friends at home, added a long postscript to her letter to Barbara, and sat before the mirror dreaming of the past week and still pleasanter days to come. More than half an hour had gone by and still she had not bothered to finish unpacking. Boring task! She would leave it till next day.

Finally she opened the cupboard to put away her hat and coat, and as she did so her eye fell on the parcel containing the new hat Honorine had copied for her. Only once had she tried to wear it, on which occasion she had more or less given it up as a failure. Now she took it out of the bag and looked it over, frowning.

What was wrong with the thing? It was all but identical with the one she had just removed, pale green felt and the same model, chosen because it suited her particularly well. Yet the old one, getting shabby now, was still smart, while the copy somehow missed its aim. An experiment in economy which had ended in waste; but then she had ordered it purely as an excuse for trying to secure information about Adolph Blom, so she must not complain.

Humming a tune--it was the Albeniz tango, she recalled with tender reminiscence--she tried the hat on once more, setting it at a different angle and arranging her hair at the sides. A survey in the glass brought agreeable surprise. Why, it was not so bad, after all! Like this, the flat wing at the right hugging her cheek, it looked distinctly possible. The colour, anyhow, was admirable. Geoffrey liked her in green.

As the thought rose to her mind, a tide of red flooded her face, with the result that the hat became positively becoming. Ah, that was it! She had been pale before.

Taking her lipstick from her bag she touched her lips lightly, then stood back to note the improvement. As she did so her sleeve brushed the bag to the floor, and its contents spilled in every direction.

“Damn!” she muttered with annoyance, stooping to retrieve the fallen articles.

Were they all here? Latchkey, powder-compact, diary, cards for a private view of pictures, but no lipstick. She searched for several minutes, then gave it up. It must have rolled far away under some of the furniture. Never mind, she could find it easily in daylight.

As she straightened up she stood still and sniffed the air inquiringly. Some queer odour had crept into the room. What was it? It could not come from outside, for the window was tightly closed. She sniffed again with growing intentness. Smoke… something was burning. But where? Not, surely, in the apartment. It couldn’t be, unless the careless Berthe had left the gas-stove in the kitchen alight with a saucepan upon it.

She opened the door and peered into the passage. Here the smell was distinctly noticeable, acrid, insistent. She went along softly towards the back of the apartment, came to the kitchen door and looked in. No, there was nothing wrong in this quarter. Yet the odour increased, carrying with it a pungent flavour of burning varnish. There was even a faint streaked haze in the air, hovering in her direction from the passage on the court side. At the same moment her ear detected the ominous crackle of flames.

Good heavens, the place was on fire! She could not be mistaken.…

Something must be done, she must rouse Jeanne, give the alarm. She quickened her pace towards the dressing-room, then, as she reached it, drew up abruptly, her heart in her mouth. There, just in front of her, she beheld the source of the conflagration. Smoke, thick, dark grey, oozed in ribbons from beneath her cousin’s door, streamed through the keyhole and round the cracks at the side.

“Oh, my God!”

She choked suddenly as the fumes mounted in her nostrils.

Germaine’s room was on fire. Did the poor creature know? She took drugs to make her sleep. The crackling grew, small popping explosions came from the other side of the door. She seized the knob and turned it, only to meet with an unexpected resistance. She pushed with all her strength, beat upon the panels, then gave up. Cold sweat broke out all over her. God in heaven, the door was locked!

Like lightning she darted into the adjoining room, straight to the couch in the corner, where in the tempered gloom she was just able to make out the dark mass of the maid’s recumbent body, covered to the ears with a thick eiderdown. A smothered snore greeted her. She grasped the huddled shoulders violently, shouting:

“Jeanne, wake up! Madame’s room is on fire. She will be killed!”

Then she dashed to the inner door, tried it, pushed with might and main. To her horror this, too, was securely fastened, nor was there any sign of a key. What could it mean?

In desperation she turned back to the bed, amazed to see that for all her shakings the woman yonder was still wrapped in slumber. How was it possible? The small room was filled with smoke. With a ruthless hand she swept the covers to the floor, and as she did so a double clink of metal tinkled upon the floor. Yet throughout the sleeper had not stirred. There she lay in her stuffy night-gown, her head buried in the pillow. The idea shot into Catherine’s mind that the maid herself was drugged. Once more she attacked her vehemently, screaming in her ear. At last a grunt came, the form moved in the darkness, protestingly, and a voice thick with sleep muttered:

“_Qu’est-ce qu’il y a donc? Qui me dérange?_” Then as the girl continued her merciless pounding, the eyes opened with a dull vacancy. “_Mademoiselle----? Qu’est-ce que vous faites ici? Vous êtes revenue, alors…!_”

Without replying, Catherine made a dive for the light, switched it on. The glare shone on the hazy room, revealing the pile of neat garments lying across a chair, the heap of bed-clothes on the floor, the stripped couch with its supine occupant.

“Get up, Jeanne! Don’t you hear me? Madame’s room is in flames and the door is locked! Quick--where is the key?”

“Flames? Impossible! What is all this fuss about?”

Hysterical with despair, Catherine gazed at her helplessly. The situation was like some fantastic dream. Had the keen-witted Jeanne taken leave of her senses? Then all at once she caught a gleam in the brown eyes, and in a flash saw through the whole ruse. This stupidity was assumed--the woman was pretending! No other explanation was possible with the smoke pouring in through every crevice, the fire next door swelling to a roar.…

Suddenly she recalled the metallic clink of a moment ago. She looked down and spied a little distance apart, two keys lying where the cover had swept them from the bedside table. She swooped upon them, even as a hand from the bed shot downward like a bird of prey, striking her own in its descent.

No time to think. She was at the door now, fitting first one key then the other into the lock. The next instant there was a cataclysmic movement behind her, her arms were grasped and she felt herself powerfully dragged away.

“What are you doing? Are you mad?” a harsh voice grated in her ear.

Jeanne, every vestige of sleep or shamming gone, had clutched her in a grip of steel. Catherine fought like a tigress, her brain too distraught to grasp the significance of what was happening. All she knew was that a few feet away the helpless invalid was trapped in a furnace, while this idiot of a woman tried to prevent her going to the rescue.

Terror lent her super-normal strength. She wrenched herself free, turned the knob and threw open the door. A column of smoke billowed through the gap, and even as she recoiled before the suffocating fumes her starting eyes beheld like a vision in a nightmare a picture she was never to forget.

In the room beyond, lit by a red glare, she saw the bed wreathed in pennants of fire, galloping, racing to the ceiling. The carpet, scorched to a cinder, spouted with jets of orange, while through the blackened draperies gleamed upon the wall the silver crucifix, the candles beneath it melted to dripping streams of wax. On the floor between the bed and the chair, outstretched and motionless, lay Mme. Bender, her night-dress just beginning to ignite. One glance at the still face revealed to Catherine the awful truth. Germaine was already dead.…

She screamed and took a step forward. Then an incredible thing happened. The door was driven back upon the seething holocaust, and she herself was pushed aside by an impact so violent as to knock the breath from her body. Through the choking atmosphere a voice was saying:

“Too late.… You are insane to go in there, mademoiselle. Do you wish to be burned alive?”

Then and only then did the truth rush upon her. The locked doors, the cool deliberation of Jeanne’s speech!

Like a maniac she cast herself upon her assailant, who, with set face and shoulders squared, had braced herself against the closed door. Her heart-beats stifled her, she shrieked in a voice that was not her own the horrible suspicion now hardened into belief.

“Murderess--murderess! It is you who set fire to that room, you who planned this! You have killed her, locked her in so she couldn’t escape! Open the door, beast that you are!”

Out of the saturnine face the dark eyes bored into hers with an expression of venomous hatred. Slowly a dark smile twisted the corners of the mouth.

“_En bien--et aprés?_” she caught the words, uttered in a curious undertone.

“Murderess! Murderess!”

Her voice made no sound. Her breath was exhausted, yet she continued to rain blows upon the rigid figure which hardly seemed to feel them. Jeanne’s eyes, narrowed with bitter triumph, were fixed now, not upon herself but at a point just over her shoulder. Even in the anguish of the moment the girl noticed an attitude of expectancy, as though the woman were watching for something to occur.

It all took place within a few seconds. She suddenly became aware of a pounding noise, like that of a heavy knocker hammering upon a door. At the same instant she saw the woman’s face alter, the eyes suddenly dilate with a look of terror. Then, behind her a board creaked, and instinctively she turned her head.

There, only a pace removed, stood the Portuguese, swarthy features livid, lips drawn back to disclose yellowed teeth. His right arm was uplifted, there was a glinting object in his hand, probably a heavy candlestick. For a second he poised above her, and she knew from his transfixed gaze that he, too, was listening to that persistent clamour.

That was all she saw. The same instant a crashing blow fell upon her skull and she crumpled to the floor.

Even then she made one final supreme effort to raise herself, groped in a world suddenly grown black. Across her mental vision shot points of dazzling silver, like meteors threading a midnight sky. A roaring as of the sea filled her ears, then that, too, subsided, and consciousness ebbed away.