The Calendar by Edgar Wallace

Author:Edgar Wallace [Wallace, Edgar]
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery & Crime
Publisher: Pan Books
Published: 1961-06-14T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter 12.

To be completely ruined is so crashing and so stunning that the very shock of the blow might destroy all sensation. To be consciously and nearly ruined is not so pleasant a sensation.

Garry went over his bets for the tenth time, totted up the amount on a sheet of paper, again mentally reviewed his financial position and gave a reluctant agreement to his own stability.

It was going to be a very dull life without racing—and without Molly. He could not do all the things he would like to do now; he was no longer his own master. For a man is only just as independent as his banker allows him to be. It is true, there was nobody to say 'Go thither' or 'Come hither', but there were certain cold-blooded figures in a book which said as plainly as words: "You won't be able to do this, you can't do that."

It was an ugly, uncomfortable feeling. Garry had sufficient intelligence to know that tens of thousands of his fellow creatures, no, hundreds of thousands, had his sensations in a more acute form and his discomfort without any of the saving factors in his own situation.

He did not hear the first tap at the door, but the second time it was repeated, more loudly and impatiently, he looked round. Through the blur of the ground glass he saw a figure, and went to the door and unlocked it. It was Wenda. She gave one frightened glance behind her and came in.

"Shut the door, please!" she said breathlessly.

He stared at her in wonder; she was so unlike her usual self. She had lost something of her poise, something of her old command over herself and over all who came into contact with her. Her face was whiter than he remembered; she was a little haggard; the mouth was down-drawn.

"My dear, what has happened?" he said, concerned.

And then, for a second, he had a panic sense that she was going to tell him something he did not want to know and did not wish to hear. He was relieved when she snapped:

"Nothing—nothing at all."

"You're looking ill," he said.

Truly she had the face of a woman in pain.

"I don't want to discuss myself at all," she said petulantly. "Isn't it possible to discuss something else for a second, Garry?"

The 'Garry' was forced; the friendliness in it was so completely artificial that it had no meaning. He could almost hear her mind dictating the term.

"You've not had a row?" he said.

She dropped her head to the side, a quick, nervous, angry gesture which he remembered having seen before and having thought rather cute. It was neither cute nor pretty now.

"Willie's gone to town—you know that."

She walked swiftly to the end of the sofa, and again it was with an obvious effort that she turned to face him.

"What did you want, Garry?"

"What do I want?" He had almost forgotten that he had asked her to come over to him.

"Of course! Don't be so tiresome, darling. You know asked to see me…well, here I am!"

"It'll do some other time," he said.

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