The Allingham Minibus: A Collection of Stories with a Tribute by Agatha Christie by Margery Allingham

Author:Margery Allingham [Allingham, Margery]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Agora Books
Published: 2019-10-10T00:00:00+00:00

The Secret

The key fidgeted in the lock, grated, and was silent. Then the door swung quietly open, admitting a wave of cold air from the staircase of the block.

The man who was hatless and curiously short of breath stepped inside and, thrusting out his hand, groped for the familiar switch.

The next moment he was standing in his wet raincoat, gazing about him, at first in surprise and afterwards in the cold dismay of a realised fear.

After a few minutes of silent contemplation he pulled himself together and, glancing down at the key in his hand, tiptoed across the garish carpet to a small occasional table in the corner.

Having set the key in a prominent position on the polished surface, he granted the room a second glance, turned away shuddering and made for the door again.

He was a young man, but the strain of the last few months had told upon him and the bitter experience of the past few minutes had not helped.

His brown eyes were darker than they had been, and his face was drawn.

His fingers were on the light switch again when he turned and saw her. She had risen from the depths of the big chesterfield pulled across the hearth, and even in that moment of crisis he wondered that she should be there alone in the dark with no fire on a chill night, the rain teeming down in cold fury outside.

The girl was very small, almost a child, with sleek brown hair which hung loosely round her shapely head. She was fragile, and still looked as though the least breath would blow her away.

That curious, almost ethereal fragility had increased, he noticed.

She too had not found it so easy then.

She did not speak, but stood looking at him, her eyes bright and shy, her lips questioning.

Now that the moment had come words deserted him. He had rehearsed this meeting so often that at the crucial moment, like a stale actor on the stage, he had forgotten his part.

‘I thought you’d left here,’ he said helplessly. ‘I was going away.’

Still she did not speak, and suddenly he lost control. His careful explanations and well-thought-out arguments were swept away by his urgent need. He stumbled towards her.

‘I’ve come back,’ he said. ‘Oh Jenny, I’ve come back.’

She drew away from him, not resentfully but gently, almost, it seemed, reluctantly.

He saw her movement and stiffened.

‘I know… I’m sorry,’ he said dully, and sat down on the arm of the couch, his shoulders drooping.

Now that he was still, she moved closer, perching herself on the farther arm of the couch, her feet on the seat, her arms clasping her knees.

They sat for a long time in silence and the room was very cold.

At last he looked up and met her eyes.

‘I’m not a bad fellow, Jenny,’ he said, ‘Only ordinary.’

She stirred, moved towards him and drew back again.

‘You’ve only just come back to London?’ she said, and her voice was quiet and thin and very gentle, as it had always been.

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