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His tone was gay, but there was an undisguised ferocity behind it that appalled her. With a supreme effort she jerked herself free and clung cowering against the wall. She was powerless. She couldn’t get away – she couldn’t do anything – and he was coming towards her.
‘Now, Alix –’
‘No – no.’
She screamed, her hands held out impotently to ward him off.
‘Gerald – stop – I’ve got something to tell you, something to confess –’
He did stop.
‘To confess?’ he said curiously.
‘Yes, to confess.’ She had used the words at random, but she went on desperately, seeking to hold his arrested attention.
A look of contempt swept over his face.
‘A former lover, I suppose,’ he sneered.
‘No,’ said Alix. ‘Something else. You’d call it, I expect – yes, you’d call it a crime.’
And at once she saw that she had struck the right note. Again his attention was arrested, held. Seeing that, her nerve came back to her. She felt mistress of the situation once more.
‘You had better sit down again,’ she said quietly.
She herself crossed the room to her old chair and sat down. She even stooped and picked up her needlework. But behind her calmness she was thinking and inventing feverishly: for the story she invented must hold his interest until help arrived.
‘I told you,’ she said slowly, ‘that I had been a shorthand-typist for fifteen years. That was not entirely true. There were two intervals. The first occurred when I was twenty-two. I came across a man, an elderly man with a little property. He fell in love with me and asked me to marry him. I accepted. We were married.’ She paused. ‘I induced him to insure his life in my favour.’
She saw a sudden keen interest spring up in her husband’s face, and went on with renewed assurance:
‘During the war I worked for a time in a hospital dispensary. There I had the handling of all kinds of rare drugs and poisons.’
She paused reflectively. He was keenly interested now, not a doubt of it. The murderer is bound to have an interest in murder. She had gambled on that, and succeeded. She stole a glance at the clock. It was five and twenty to nine.
‘There is one poison – it is a little white powder. A pinch of it means death. You know something about poisons perhaps?’
She put the question in some trepidation. If he did, she would have to be careful.
‘No,’ said Gerald: ‘I know very little about them.’
She drew a breath of relief.
‘You have heard of hyoscine, of course? This is a drug that acts much the same way, but is absolutely untraceable. Any doctor would give a certificate of heart failure. I stole a small quantity of this drug and kept it by me.’
She paused, marshalling her forces.
‘Go on,’ said Gerald.
‘No. I’m afraid. I can’t tell you. Another time.’
‘Now,’ he said impatiently. ‘I want to hear.’
‘We had been married a month. I was very good to my elderly husband, very kind and devoted. He spoke in praise of me to all the neighbours. Everyone knew what a devoted wife I was. I always made his coffee myself every evening. One evening, when we were alone together, I put a pinch of the deadly alkaloid in his cup –’
Alix paused, and carefully re-threaded her needle. She, who had never acted in her life, rivalled the greatest actress in the world at this moment. She was actually living the part of the cold-blooded poisoner.
‘It was very peaceful. I sat watching him. Once he gasped a little and asked for air. I opened the window. Then he said he could not move from his chair. Presently he died.’
She stopped, smiling. It was a quarter to nine. Surely they would come soon.
‘How much,’ said Gerald, ‘was the insurance money?’
‘About two thousand pounds. I speculated with it, and lost it. I went back to my office work. But I never meant to remain there long. Then I met another man. I had stuck to my maiden name at the office. He didn’t know I had been married before. He was a younger man, rather good-looking, and quite well-off. We were married quietly in Sussex. He didn’t want to insure his life, but of course he made a will in my favour. He liked me to make his coffee myself just as my first husband had done.’
Alix smiled reflectively, and added simply, ‘I make very good coffee.’
Then she went on:
‘I had several friends in the village where we were living. They were very sorry for me, with my husband dying suddenly of heart failure one evening after dinner. I didn’t quite like the doctor. I don’t think he suspected me, but he was certainly very surprised at my husband’s sudden death. I don’t quite know why I drifted back to the office again. Habit, I suppose. My second husband left about four thousand pounds. I didn’t speculate with it this time; I invested it. Then, you see –’
But she was interrupted. Gerald Martin, his face suffused with blood, half-choking, was pointing a shaking forefinger at her.
‘The coffee – my God! the coffee!’
She stared at him.
‘I understand now why it was bitter. You devil! You’ve been up to your tricks again.’
His hands gripped the arms of his chair. He was ready to spring upon her.
‘You’ve poisoned me.’
Alix had retreated from him to the fireplace. Now, terrified, she opened her lips to deny – and then paused. In another minute he would spring upon her. She summoned all her strength. Her eyes held his steadily, compellingly.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I poisoned you. Already the poison is working. At the minute you can’t move from your chair – you can’t move –’
If she could keep him there – even a few minutes . . .
Ah! what was that? Footsteps on the road. The creak of the gate. Then footsteps on the path outside. The outer door opening.
‘You can’t move,’ she said again.
Then she slipped past him and fled headlong from the room to fall fainting into Dick Windyford’s arms.
‘My God! Alix,’ he cried.
Then he turned to the man with him, a tall stalwart figure in police-man’s uniform.
‘Go and see what’s been happening in that room.?
?
He laid Alix carefully down on a couch and bent over her.
‘My little girl,’ he murmured. ‘My poor little girl. What have they been doing to you?’
Her eyelids fluttered and her lips just murmured his name.
Dick was aroused by the policeman’s touching him on the arm. ‘There’s nothing in that room, sir, but a man sitting in a chair. Looks as though he’d had some kind of bad fright, and –’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, sir, he’s – dead.’
They were startled by hearing Alix’s voice. She spoke as though in some kind of dream, her eyes still closed.
‘And presently,’ she said, almost as though she were quoting from something, ‘he died –’
Chapter 9
The Manhood of Edward Robinson
‘The Manhood of Edward Robinson’ was first published as ‘The Day of His Dreams’ in Grand Magazine, December 1924.
‘With a swing of his mighty arms, Bill lifted her right off her feet, crushing her to his breast. With a deep sigh she yielded her lips in such a kiss as he had never dreamed of –’
With a sigh, Mr Edward Robinson put down When Love is King and stared out of the window of the underground train. They were running through Stamford Brook. Edward Robinson was thinking about Bill. Bill was the real hundred percent he-man beloved of lady novelists. Edward envied him his muscles, his rugged good looks and his terrific passions. He picked up the book again and read the description of the proud Marchesa Bianca (she who had yielded her lips). So ravishing was her beauty, the intoxication of her was so great, that strong men went down before her like ninepins, faint and helpless with love.
‘Of course,’ said Edward to himself, ‘it’s all bosh, this sort of stuff. All bosh, it is. And yet, I wonder –’
His eyes looked wistful. Was there such a thing as a world of romance and adventure somewhere? Were there women whose beauty intoxicated? Was there such a thing as love that devoured one like a flame?
‘This is real life, this is,’ said Edward. ‘I’ve got to go on the same just like all the other chaps.’
