all.
English opened the gate and walked up the path to the front door. On either side of the path were dormant rose trees. The neat flowerbeds were packed with daffodils and narcissi.
He pressed the bell push and listened to the loud peal of chimes that the bell push started into life, and he grimaced. Those kind of refinements irritated him.
There was a little delay. He stood in the porch, waiting, aware that Chuck was watching him curiously from the car. Then he heard someone coming, and the door opened a few inches on the chain.
“Who is that?” a woman’s voice asked sharply.
“Nick English,” he returned.
“Who?” He caught the startled note in her voice.
“Roy’s brother,” he said, feeling a surge of irritation run through him at having to associate himself with Roy.
The chain slid back and the door opened and an overhead light flashed up.
Corrine English hadn’t altered a scrap since he had last seen her. Looking at her, he found himself thinking she would probably look like this in thirty years’ time. She was small and very blond, and her body was pleasantly plump with provocative curves. She was wearing a rose-pink silk wrap over black lounging pyjamas. When she saw he was looking at her, her fingers went hastily to her corn-colored curls, patting them swiftly while she stared at him with a surprised, rather vacant expression in her big blue eyes that reminded him of the eyes of a startled baby.
“Hello, Corinne,” he said. “Can I come in?”
“Well, I don’t know,” she said. “Roy’s not back yet. I’m alone. Did you want to see him?”
He restrained his irritation with an effort.
“I think I had better come in,” he said as gently as he could. “You’ll catch cold standing here. I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
“Oh?” Her eyes opened a trifle wider. “Hadn’t you better see Roy? I don’t think I want to hear any bad news. Roy doesn’t like me to be worried.”
He thought how typical that was of her. She could live in this smart little bungalow, dress like a Hollywood starlet while Roy was apparently desperate for money, and could say without shame that he didn’t want her to be worried.
“You’ll catch cold,” he said, and moved forward, riding her back into the little lobby. He closed the door. “I’m afraid this bad news is for you, and only for you.”
He saw her face tighten with sudden fear, but before she could speak, he went on, “Is this your sitting room?” and he moved to a nearby door.
“It’s the lounge,” she said, her fear momentarily forgotten in the correction. She wouldn’t own a sitting room; it had to be a lounge.
He opened the door.
“Let’s go in here and sit down for a moment,” he said.
She went past him into a long, low-pitched room. The modern furniture was new and cheap-looking, but it made a brave show. He wondered what it would look like in two or three years’ time. It would probably have fallen to pieces by then, but people like Roy and Corrine wouldn’t be interested in anything permanent.
There was a dying fire in the grate, and he went over to it and stirred it with the poker, then he dropped a log onto it while she came and stood at his side.
In the hard light of the standard lamp, he noticed the rose-pink wrap was a little grubby at the collar and cuffs.
“I think we ought to wait until Roy comes in,” she said, lacing and unlacing her small, plump fingers. He could see she was desperately anxious to avoid any responsibility or to have to make any decision.
“It’s because of Roy that I’ve come,” he said quietly, and turned to look at her. “Sit down, please. I wish I could spare you this, but you’ve got to know sooner or later.”
“Oh!”
She sat down suddenly as if the strength had gone out of her legs, and her face went white under her careful makeup.
“Is—is he in trouble?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“No, he’s not in trouble. It’s worse than that.” He wanted to be brutal and tell her Roy was dead, but looking at the doll-like face, seeing the terror in the baby-blue eyes, the childish quivering of her lips, the sudden clenching of her fists, made it impossible for him to do more than hint at what had happened.
“Is he hurt?” She met his eyes and flinched back as if he had threatened to hit her. “He’s—not dead?”
“Yes, he’s dead,” English said. “I’m sorry, Corrine. I wish I hadn’t to tell you this. If there’s anything I can do…”
“Dead?” she repeated. “He can’t be dead!”
“Yes,” English said.
“But he can’t be dead!” she repeated, her voice going shrill. “You’re saying this to frighten me! You never did like me! Don’t pretend you did. How can he be dead?”
“He shot himself,” English said quietly.
She stared at him. He could see at once she believed that news. Her dolly little face seemed to fall to pieces. She dropped back against the settee, her hand across her eyes. The white column of her throat jerked spasmodically as she struggled with her tears.
He looked around the room, then crossed over to an elaborate cellarette that stood against the wall. He opened it and found an array of bottles and glasses; the bottles labelled with neat ivory tickets. He poured some brandy into a glass and went over to her.
“Drink this.”
He had to hold the glass to her lips, but she managed to get some of the brandy down before pushing his hand away.
“He shot himself?” she said, looking up at him.
He nodded.
“Have you anyone who will stay with you tonight?” he asked, not liking the dazed horror in her eyes. “You can’t be left here alone.”
“But I am alone now,” she said, and tears began to run down her face, smearing her makeup. “Oh, Roy! Roy! How could you do it? How could you leave me alone?”
It was the anguished cry of a child and it disturbed English. He put his hand gently on her shoulder, but she threw it off so violently that he stepped back, startled.
“Why did he shoot himself?” she demanded, looking up at him.
“Try to get it out of your mind for tonight,” he said soothingly. “Would you like me to send someone to you? My secretary…”
“I don’t want your secretary!” She got unsteadily to her feet. “And I don’t want you! You killed Roy! If you had been a proper brother to him, he would never have done this!”
He was so surprised by the suddenness of this attack, he remained motionless, staring at her.
“You and your money!” she went on, her voice strident. “That’s all you’ve ever thought about! You didn’t care what happened to Roy. You didn’t bother to find out how he was getting on! When he came to you for help, you threw him out! Now, you’ve forced him to kill himself. Well, I hope you’re satisfied! I hope you’re happy you’ve saved a few of your dirty dollars! Now, get out! Don’t ever come here again. I hate you!”
“You mustn’t talk like that,” English said quietly. “It’s quite untrue. If I had known Roy was in a jam, I would have helped him. I didn’t know.”
“You didn’t care, you mean!” she cried shrilly. “You haven’t spoken to him for six months. When he asked you for a loan you told him you weren’t giving him another dollar. Help him?