Dance without Music by Peter Cheyney

Author:Peter Cheyney
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

“Doctor Quincely rang through at 11 o’clock. He would be grateful if Mr. O’Hara would get in touch with him as early as possible tomorrow Thursday morning.”

That wasn’t so good. I didn’t like it. I’d been hoping against hope that Quinceley would not see the report of the Ricaud suicide in the evening paper. He had seen it.

I drank my cup of tea; lighted a cigarette; began to walk up and down the bedroom thinking about Quinceley, wondering what sort of man he was. Although, I knew Quinceley was a typical general practitioner, and those people are usually pretty good and damned straight. They have to be. I thought regretfully that I was going to have trouble with Quinceley.

I switched my mind back to Esmeralda. I could visualise the scene that had happened the night before at ‘Crossways.’ It was all plain as daylight. Ricaud had been down there in the drawing-room walking up and down in his flowered dressing-gown, thinking with a certain amount of sadistic pleasure about his final scene with Esmeralda, because he’d intended it to be his final scene, when she arrived at ten o’clock.

He knew she’d come. He knew she had to come; that she’d want to come; that she’d want to know what was going to happen. He knew when she’d read his note and heard that he was going off to the Bahamas to some other woman, she’d know that was true and she’d feel sorry and glad. Sorry because she would wonder where she was going to get further supplies of drugs from-—although, Ricaud would think, she would try to believe that in certain circumstances he’d tell her. And she would be glad because a situation had arisen which was forcing her to part from Ricaud, and God knows she hated him enough. No one knew that better than he did.

So he knew she’d come down. And ten o’clock came and she didn’t come. Then he began to get angry—that nasty vicious temper, that sadistic cruelty of the mind which lurked under his charming exterior, that impatience to get his own way, began to work. He went over to the telephone and called through to the Montacute Place flat. I could imagine him sitting at the table drumming on it with his free hand, waiting for Esmeralda.

But there was no reply. After a bit he got tired of that. His temper by this time was worse. He hung up and called through again-—this time to the hall porter. He asked if Esmeralda had had his note; was told that she hadn’t been to the flat. Then he left his message that he was going to write to her; that she’d get the letter tomorrow; that he hoped she’d like it. The fact that he’d said she would get the letter tomorrow proved that he was going to leave it at the flat himself; that he was coming to London, because it was too late to catch the post.

By this time Ricaud had begun to think about his second appointment—the one for twelve o’clock.

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