sake hold your tongue,” Lord
Baradale snapped. De Mare, for once nonplussed, made a despairing face at Chris, who — unable to think of any better strategy — slipped out of her seat and switched on the radio. The caressing voice of a crooner started “It looks like rain in Cherry Blossom Lane.”
Cara lit a Balkan Sobranie cigarette with a shaky hand, keeping her eyes on Catchpole’s face. “You would say a thing like that,” she said in a tense, uneven voice. “It takes a rotten little mind like yours to think of a thing like that. What about you, anyway? Do you imagine that I’ve ever for a moment thought that you wanted to marry me for any reason except to get a slice of Lucy’s money?”
Catchpole bowed at her slightly across the table.
Vachell could see by a white pinched look around his nostrils that he was controlling himself with an effort.
“In that case you are now doubly desirable, my 105
sweet, since this morning’s sad event.”
Cam pushed her unruly dark hair back from her forehead with one hand and gazed at her fiance with hatred and contempt. “Thank you.” She
spoke slowly, and with a visible effort. “You think that Luke stole Lucy’s jewels and I shot her for her money. Your feelings do you credit.” She
stood up, swayed slightly, and steadied herself against the table. “I can’t stand this any more.”
she said, almost in a whisper. She turned abruptly and walked unsteadily out of the tent.
There was a moment’s silence after her departure.
Lord Baradale broke it, speaking calmly and
quietly, but with a deadly sting in his tone.
“If I were a younger man, Gordon,” he
remarked, “I should punch your face into a bloody jelly, and even that would give me inadequate satisfaction.”
Catchpole’s face was as white as ice, and there were beads of sweat on his forehead. “I’m sorry,”
he said in a quavering voice. “I’ll apologize to Cara. I’m so utterly worn out that I simply don’t know what I’m saying. If only I had nerves of steel, like Danny! You don’t know what it’s like to feel things as I do! How can any of us here be normal? His voice rose several keys and a look of something close to panic came into his eyes.
“There’s a murderer in the camp, isn’t there — in it, or outside it; somewhere out there in the dark or here in this tent — someone who’s ruthless enough to kill to get what he wants! Someone all 106
of us know—”
“Don’t be a bloody fool, Gordon,” Lord
Baradale broke in. “You’re tight.” In the
background the radio started to play “All God’s chillun got rhythm” loudly. Sweat made Catchpole’s skin glisten, and his eyes glanced wildly
from face to face like those of a rat caught in a trap. His sudden naked terror sent an uncomfortable shiver down the backs of the others seated
round the table.
“How do we know he’s got all that he wants?”
Catchpole went on, his voice almost out of control.
“How do we know he won’t do it again — tonight, perhaps, out there in the darkness? How do we know, I say?”
107
FR1;CHAPTER
ELEVEN
“Sparks certainly start to fly around when these old English families let their hair down,” Vachell remarked. “Lord Baradale sure would like to beat the daylights out of Sir Gordon.” He sat with de Mare and Chris in the messtent over a second brew of coffee. Lord Baradale and Catchpole had departed, and the others were feeling at once spent and restless after the strain of the day. The air was stuffy, and the distant rumble of thunder came to their ears.
“Gordon deserves it,” de Mare said. “This
whole damned safari is getting me down. They’re all alike, though. If I didn’t need the money so badly, I’d chuck up white hunting tomorrow.”
“We’re all in the same boat,” Chris said. “We’re all a lot of parasites, after all, and parasites can’t expect their hosts not to be tiresome at times.
Think what ticks must go through.”
”
Baradale snapped. De Mare, for once nonplussed, made a despairing face at Chris, who — unable to think of any better strategy — slipped out of her seat and switched on the radio. The caressing voice of a crooner started “It looks like rain in Cherry Blossom Lane.”
Cara lit a Balkan Sobranie cigarette with a shaky hand, keeping her eyes on Catchpole’s face. “You would say a thing like that,” she said in a tense, uneven voice. “It takes a rotten little mind like yours to think of a thing like that. What about you, anyway? Do you imagine that I’ve ever for a moment thought that you wanted to marry me for any reason except to get a slice of Lucy’s money?”
Catchpole bowed at her slightly across the table.
Vachell could see by a white pinched look around his nostrils that he was controlling himself with an effort.
“In that case you are now doubly desirable, my 105
sweet, since this morning’s sad event.”
Cam pushed her unruly dark hair back from her forehead with one hand and gazed at her fiance with hatred and contempt. “Thank you.” She
spoke slowly, and with a visible effort. “You think that Luke stole Lucy’s jewels and I shot her for her money. Your feelings do you credit.” She
stood up, swayed slightly, and steadied herself against the table. “I can’t stand this any more.”
she said, almost in a whisper. She turned abruptly and walked unsteadily out of the tent.
There was a moment’s silence after her departure.
Lord Baradale broke it, speaking calmly and
quietly, but with a deadly sting in his tone.
“If I were a younger man, Gordon,” he
remarked, “I should punch your face into a bloody jelly, and even that would give me inadequate satisfaction.”
Catchpole’s face was as white as ice, and there were beads of sweat on his forehead. “I’m sorry,”
he said in a quavering voice. “I’ll apologize to Cara. I’m so utterly worn out that I simply don’t know what I’m saying. If only I had nerves of steel, like Danny! You don’t know what it’s like to feel things as I do! How can any of us here be normal? His voice rose several keys and a look of something close to panic came into his eyes.
“There’s a murderer in the camp, isn’t there — in it, or outside it; somewhere out there in the dark or here in this tent — someone who’s ruthless enough to kill to get what he wants! Someone all 106
of us know—”
“Don’t be a bloody fool, Gordon,” Lord
Baradale broke in. “You’re tight.” In the
background the radio started to play “All God’s chillun got rhythm” loudly. Sweat made Catchpole’s skin glisten, and his eyes glanced wildly
from face to face like those of a rat caught in a trap. His sudden naked terror sent an uncomfortable shiver down the backs of the others seated
round the table.
“How do we know he’s got all that he wants?”
Catchpole went on, his voice almost out of control.
“How do we know he won’t do it again — tonight, perhaps, out there in the darkness? How do we know, I say?”
107
FR1;CHAPTER
ELEVEN
“Sparks certainly start to fly around when these old English families let their hair down,” Vachell remarked. “Lord Baradale sure would like to beat the daylights out of Sir Gordon.” He sat with de Mare and Chris in the messtent over a second brew of coffee. Lord Baradale and Catchpole had departed, and the others were feeling at once spent and restless after the strain of the day. The air was stuffy, and the distant rumble of thunder came to their ears.
“Gordon deserves it,” de Mare said. “This
whole damned safari is getting me down. They’re all alike, though. If I didn’t need the money so badly, I’d chuck up white hunting tomorrow.”
“We’re all in the same boat,” Chris said. “We’re all a lot of parasites, after all, and parasites can’t expect their hosts not to be tiresome at times.
Think what ticks must go through.”
”
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