The White Room Page 2

  The pieces of a picture fell into place, slowly, mental shapes uncertain, distorted. Earlier that afternoon, when Carla had arrived, he had been busy in the study. For over ten minutes she had been alone in the lounge. The decanter had stood there on the sideboard. It was she who, after breaking the news that her husband was on the verge of ruining him, had told him to have a drink. And had refused one herself. And then, when the drug had had its effect, when his sense of reason had become deadened, she, had told him—

  Even though she hadn’t put it into so many words, he knew what she had said.

  She had told him that the only way to stop Kendall was to kill him.

  2

  The ormolu clock ticked softly, the only sound in the luxury of the room, in the opulence of the house. A house that felt strangely devoid of life. Even though Axel knew that Carla was still there, that the maid would be setting the table for dinner, that Gregson would be laying out his dinner suit, the place felt empty.

  Opening one of the windows he stepped out onto the terrace. The sun was low now, the shadows longer, the air cool. He shivered a little.

  Carla, his own sister, one of the very few people he had ever been able wholly to trust. But then he had trusted Romaine.

  Carla … To try to make him a—no, not that word, for God’s sake, not that word—to try to make him a catspaw. She, the oldest Champlee still alive, the proudest, the virtual head of the family—

  It didn’t make sense.

  Then it did make sense.

  It had been done before. Daniel Champlee. Betrayed by his own mother to the executioner’s axe. Three hundred years later, the same again, another sacrifice of a Champlee to keep the Champlee heritage intact. And this time, he, Axel, the sacrifice.

  But the way she was going about it… That wasn’t Carla. To drug him first. Axel set his flattened palms against his damp forehead. If only the blurring would go, if only he could think clearly.

  This was something he couldn’t tackle on his own, not in this condition. He had to have help, someone to lean on, to make use of while this damned mental fog persisted. Someone to do the thinking, the scheming for him. Someone he could trust.

  Tire Board Room. Faces round the table. Petersen, Quincey, Norville … Axel took his hands from his forehead. Norville had sat on the Board during his father’s time. He had been a director for over twenty years. Norville it would have to be. There was no one else.

  He went back into the lounge and across to open the study door. Only a small room this, small compared with the rest of the rooms of the house. Windowless, oak-panelled, thick-carpeted. No clutter. Only three chairs, a desk and a mahogany filing cabinet. Seating himself at the desk he switched on the small shaded lamp to augment the lights that glowed discreetly from recesses in the panels. He picked up the telephone and dialled a number. The burring sound faltered and recovered. He tried again with the same result. He tried another number and again failed to make the connection.

  Axel replaced the receiver. That phone was the vital link between this room, where he did all his work, and the world of industry outside. A newspaper, in one of its articles, had once used the age-old analogy of a spider sitting at the heart of its web. Over the past twenty years he had used that phone ever}’ working day, sometimes as many as a hundred times a day. And now, today, this was the first time he had ever failed to make a connection. An odd coincidence.

  He reached down to open one of the desk drawers. A small black automatic lay on top of a neat pile of notepaper. He picked it up. It was his gun, but he hadn’t put it there. He couldn’t remember how long it was since he had last seen it. It had been Carla’s idea, years ago, that he ought to have a weapon in the house. Her weakness for things dramatic … It had never been used, barely even handled. He had put it away somewhere and forgotten all about it.

  And here it was, clean and shining. And on the paper where it had rested was a faint stain. There was a smear of oil on one of his fingertips. Someone had resurrected it, cleaned and oiled it and—he slid out the magazine—loaded it. He knew who that someone must be.

  Axel selected a sheet of paper from lower down the pile, replaced the gun and closed the drawer. Expensive, cream-laid paper, with the engraved heading: Barkley House. Grenfelle. Nothing more; no name, not even a telephone number. The simple heading was all that was needed by the recipients of letters written on that paper.

  He picked up a pen and glanced automatically at the wooden perpetual calendar before writing the date: Friday, August 8th, 1969. He started simply: Norville—

  He hadn’t heard the door open, didn’t know Carla had come into the room. The scent of her perfume made him look up. She was standing at his elbow, looking down at what he had written.

  “Norville was with them at Cannes,” she said, her voice brittle. “It was his yacht. Had you forgotten?”

  He had. Such was the state of his mind that he had overlooked the obvious. Axel laid the pen down.

  “He may be—trustworthy.” She faltered over the word, something unusual for her. “You can’t be sure, Axel. You can’t afford to take the risk.”

  “No,” he agreed woodenly, conscious of no feelings at all.

  She moved away from him, towards the door, drifting uncertainly rather than walking purposefully. And that too was something new for Carla, whose every action was always predetermined, calm and deliberate. On the threshold she turned to look back at him.

  “You must trust no one,” she told him. “Not even me, your own sister. No one can help you. What you have to do, you must do on your own. You have to find some way of stopping Kendall. There is a way if you look for it.”

  Her face, her manner, her voice, even her choice of words all seemed changed. She was worried, Axel judged, and he knew why. Because he hadn’t reacted in the expected way to the suggestion she had so carefully planted in his drugged mind.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked, too loudly, too clearly.

  The feeling of emptiness returned. This time the attack wasn’t nearly so bad as the first two. It was still bad enough to bring dizziness, to make him close his eyes. It passed almost at once. When he opened his eyes again she had gone. Coming to his feet he followed her into the lounge. She must have gone right through: the long room was empty. The kitchen door stood open, but that would be because the maid would be busy with preparations for dinner, bustling back and to between there and the dining room. But there was no sign of her, no sounds of activity, no soft clatter of cutlery, no smell of cooking.

  The kitchen was empty and, so far as he could see, so was the room beyond. He continued to the door at the far end of the lounge.

  In the dining room the table was bare. No attempt had been made to lay it for dinner. He looked at his watch. It was almost eight o’clock, his usual time for eating. He went across the dining room, circling the massive table, to open the door of his bedroom. Gregson hadn’t put out his dinner suit. In the bathroom, the same story: no preparations of any kind for his bath.

  Back in the bedroom he shouted: “Gregson!” When there was no reply, no sound at all save the echo of his own voice, he strode back to the lounge and there shouted again, even though he knew by now that there would be no answer. He had looked in every room. Apart from himself, the house was empty. Carla, who had said she would be staying for dinner, had gone. Gone without a word, in silence. He hadn’t heard her go, hadn’t heard Gregson’s inevitable polite ‘Good night, madam’ in the hall, hadn’t heard the sound of the front door being opened and closed. Carla had gone, and so had Greg-son and the maid. Leaving him alone.

  Alone … And yet there was that feeling again of being watched by invisible eyes, the impression so vivid that, as he had done the other time, he swung sharply round to look behind him.

  For some reason, they had all gone away, leaving him here alone. No, more than just alone, for, with the telephone useless, he was isolated, virtually cut off from the world outside these four walls.

  Stea
dy. Don’t panic. Try to think. There has to be a reason for all this. What are they trying to do to me? Whatever it is, this setup now is part of it. The drugged whiskey, the useless telephone, the gun set ready to hand, the empty house …

  The walls were closing in, the silence becoming increasingly oppressive. The house seemed to be holding its breath, waiting—

  He had to get away from here. Get away before the next move in the game, whatever that game was, whatever the next move might be. He must break the chain of events that had been set in motion. The only way to break it was to leave the house. Find some quiet place where he wasn’t known, where he could hide while he waited for the effect of the drug to wear off.

  Where? Axel clamped his hands to his forehead, pressing them tightly against taut flesh, trying to push a way through the mists in his mind. He could think of no place where he could go. The world of his leaden thoughts was a circle. Only a small circle, with himself at the centre, with the house surrounding him, its outlines blurred and uncertain. And beyond that again, nothing but vague impressions.

  Grenfelle. At least he knew the name of the place. He seemed to remember someone, perhaps Carla, describing it as a market town suburb. For him now—nothing but a kaleidoscope of streets, houses, buildings, shops, seen only fleetingly through a car window and over the uniformed shoulder of a chauffeur, moving swiftly by, too swiftly to leave any positive memory behind. Perhaps, once he got outside, memory would return.

  Axel went across to the heavily carved double doors that led to the hall. They were closed. They resisted his attempt to open them. They were locked or fastened in some way on the other side.

  He fought another moment of panic. There had to be another way out. A rear door? There were no rear entrances. Windows? He did a mental inventory. All the windows in the house overlooked the garden. The garden—

  Back at the line of french windows, he opened one of them and stepped out onto the terrace. The terrace that ran the length of the house and was flanked on either side by a high wall. The same ten-feet-high wall that completely enclosed the garden, that was too tall for him even to reach with extended fingers, made of golden-red brick that was too smooth to afford either foot- or handhold, covered in places with creeper that clung only loosely, that would come away with the first tentative tug.

  More than alone, more than isolated—a prisoner.

  Don’t panic. That may he what they’re hoping you will do, what they want you to do. Think. They’ve dulled your mind but not your instinct. Take heed when it tells you that you are being watched.

  Being watched … Axel listened to the voice of one part of his mind that seemed unaffected by the drug. There were ways—hidden cameras and microphones. It made sense that those responsible for this elaborate setup would have some means of ensuring that it did its work, that he was reacting in the way he was expected to. They would watch and be ready to counter any move he might make to escape. Any obvious move—

  Like dragging furniture out into the garden and piling it against the wall. Like using cushions to pad the barbed wire along the top. They would expect him to try that, the obvious, and be ready for it.

  Match cunning with cunning.

  He came back into the lounge, closing the window behind him. It was quarter past eight. In two hours’ time it would be dark. Eyes, even invisible mechanical eyes, can’t probe darkness. But he would be as blind as they.

  Axel went over to the huge double doors of the hall, touched them, shook his head for the benefit of the watchers, walked back to stand in front of the fireplace, looked at it for a few moments, not letting his gaze rest too long on any particular object. Satisfied, he went into his bedroom. A quick, casual glance through the open bathroom door showed him his electric razor and toothbrush on one of the shelves beneath the wall mirror.

  From a chest of drawers he took out of pair of silk pyjamas and laid them on the bed. The watchers would see nothing unusual about that. He slid aside the wardrobe doors, looked inside without touching any of the clothes that hung there, closed the doors, stepped back to look on top. Suitcases. If not here, where? Gregson would know, but Gregson wasn’t here, he was either one of them or else in their pay.

  Axel took off his jacket, deliberately holding it awkwardly so that his wallet fell from inside pocket to floor. He stooped to pick it up. The action told him two things: there was no suitcase under the bed; the wallet held a reasonable amount of money.

  Dropping his discarded jacket on the bed, he went, shirtsleeved, through the dining room and across the lounge to the study. Ostensibly to try the phone—they would expect him to do that, he could feel their eyes on him. Fie tried the phone. Still useless. His brief case, that would have to serve in place of a suitcase, was usually kept in the bottom desk drawer on the right. He checked to make sure, opening each drawer in turn as if he were searching for something. Let them try to puzzle out what. Switching off both desk lamp and panel lights he returned to the bedroom, there to lie, just as he was, on top of the bed. He closed his eyes. When the mind is fogged, thoughts heavy and sluggish, it is easy to drift-drift …

  I am going to kill—

  Axel opened his eyes and sat up. The words could only have come from inside his head, but they had been so clear, so vivid, that they might have come from someone standing alongside the bed.

  I am going to kill— A thought set to words. An idea planted in his mind by Carla. I am going to kill Kendall.

  “No!” Axel shouted aloud.

  “No—” he said softly, and lay down again to fall asleep almost immediately.

  It was dark when next he opened his eyes. He lay for a few moments, staring up at the grey haze of the high ceiling while the past fell into place. He held his breath while he listened, and could hear nothing. He swung his feet to the floor. He must move quickly now, quickly and silently. First, on with the jacket. Then razor and toothbrush from the bathroom, no having to grope for them, knowing exactly where to lay his hands. There was reassurance and comfort in the touch of the sane, familiar objects. Collect pyjamas from the bed. Then through the grey dimness of the house to the pitch blackness of the study. Take out the brief case, stuff in the things he carried. Back to the lounge—quickly—no whisper of sound. Over to the fireplace to pick up the poker with the thinnest end. Over to the double doors of the hall to force the poker blade between them and then lever them apart. Careful—there must be no sound of splintering wood.

  The thick wood held. Then gave, with a dry, brittle sound. The doors opened. Ahead, the long misty avenue of the hall. Light shining feebly through the coloured glass panels of the door at the far end. Locked? Axel tapped his pocket to make sure his keys were there. They were, but there was no need for them. The front door was neither locked nor bolted. Just a handle to turn and push, and he was outside, the door closing behind him with a gentle click. He was free, in the open, with the cool night air on his face, but he couldn’t afford to relax yet. When they had laid their plans to turn the house into a prison they would certainly have taken into account the contingency that he might manage to escape. His back to the door, Axel looked slowly and carefully about him.

  The narrow road was badly lighted, only two lamps, and those partially obscured by the branches of the trees that lined the opposite pavement. He could recall, long ago, complaining to the local council about the inadequate lighting in Barkley Mews. It was one of the few occasions on which the great name of Champlee had carried little weight. He was thankful now that he had lost the fight.

  This was a cul-de-sac. To the right, the dead end where the pale glow failed to reach, was a pool of blackness. In front he could see the houses on the other side of the street, large houses, golden-grey towering shapes that had become oddly flattened by the feeble light and tangle of branches in front into the semblance of scenery on a stage. And to the left, only a short distance away, the town, the blaze and muted sounds of the main road, cars speeding by.

  He moved out of the darkness of
the porch to feel his way, brief case under one arm, along a line of railings, keeping his back to them, not watching where he was going but where he had come from.

  A shadow moved out of the darkness and into the hazy light. A man, that was all Axel was able to tell, a man of medium height, hatless, coatless, his face a pale featureless oval. Axel turned and ran. A dozen strides and he was at the corner and turning to look back over his shoulder. He had been right to run. The man was hurrying after him with great loping strides, his long shadow dancing over the front of the house, flitting along the railings.

  A bus lumbered along the main road, slowly, as if it had only just started to move, picking up speed as it came, faltering, jerking, to each change of gear. Axel started to run again, now watching the bus, trying to match its speed. As it came abreast he leaped for the steps, clutching at the handrail. There was a moment of agony as, swept along, he dragged himself up with the feeling that his arm was being wrenched out of its socket. Then he was leaning, panting, against the green metal, looking back through the long rear window, catching a fleeting glimpse of the faceless man emerging from the mews to come to a halt, staring after the bus.

  Axel turned as the conductor, face dark with anger, lurched along the aisle, steadying himself on the backs of seats that were for the most part empty.

  He thrust his anger at Axel. “That was a bloody stupid thing to do—”

  “It was.” Axel took a deep breath. He was free; nothing else mattered for the moment. “A damned stupid thing. I’m very sorry.”

  The conductor was clearly taken aback by the self-deprecation and apology. But he still had to make his official position clear.

  “By rights I should stop the vehicle and turn you off. We’re not allowed to pick up between stages.” His features relaxed a little more; he almost permitted himself to smile. “And if this wasn’t the last bus, I reckon I’d do just that.”