1950 - Mallory by James Hadley Chase

Author:James Hadley Chase
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

chapter eight

I

Why, Brian’s dead. He died nearly two years ago.’

Corridon made no attempt to conceal his surprise. His eyes shifted from the girl’s face to the complicated pattern of blue and white flowers on her dress. What she had just told him was the last thing he expected to hear, and at once wondered if she knew Mallory was being hunted, and if by saying he was dead she hoped to throw them off the scent.

He said quietly, ‘I didn’t know. I’m sorry. If I’d known I wouldn’t have bothered you…’ and looked reluctantly away from the blue and white flowers on her dress and met her eyes.

‘Oh, it’s all right,’ she said quickly as if anxious he should not be embarrassed. ‘Two years is a long time. At first I missed him terribly, but it’s no use living in the past, is it?’

‘I suppose not,’ he returned and swung his hat against his knee, not sure what was to happen next, ‘Well, that’s that. I guess I don’t have to look further. It’s disappointing.’ Then because he felt he hadn’t struck the right note, he added, ‘You can’t imagine a fellow like Mallory dead.’ He took a step back, bent down and groped for the strap of his rucksack. ‘Well, I won’t keep you...’

And all the time he was floundering he felt her big serious eyes on him, and wondered what she was thinking of and whether she knew he was one of Mallory’s enemies.

‘Oh, you mustn’t go away like this,’ she said quickly. ‘Please come in. Were you an Air Force friend?’

‘Well, I met him,’ Corridon said cautiously. ‘I thought a lot of him. My name’s Corridon - Martin Corridon. I don’t want to be in the way.’

She drew back, opening the front door wide.

‘Please come in.’

He stepped from the dazzle of the white wall into a large airy studio. The wooden framework of the giant skylight made a square-shaped pattern of shadow and sunlight on the green cork flooring. Facing him was an easel on which stood a half-finished canvas of a nude woman. He knew nothing about art or painting, but he was immediately struck by the strength of the picture and the strength of character that came from the woman; her steady dark eyes seemed to look straight into his as he paused before the canvas.

‘That’s good,’ he said involuntarily. ‘Is it yours?’

‘Yes.’ She stood by his side, her thick mop of hair reached just above his shoulder. Her hands went into the big pockets of her dress. She was so close to him that her arm touched his.

They both stood looking at the painting in silence, then she said, a wistful note in her voice, ‘Brian would have called it one of my French postcards. He used to be a big help to me. He had a natural flair for perspective.’

The nude woman’s eyes began to worry Corridon. They were too honest and penetrating, and he turned away to look around the big studio thinking how orderly and neat it was.

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