The Guilty Are Afraid

It was suddenly very quiet on the verandah and the sun felt over hot. Somewhere in the distance I could hear the sound of the sea breaking on the shore: a whisper of sound that seemed loud in the silence around me. There was also a sudden silence in the big lounge. I looked at Thrisby, who was standing motionless, staring at the gun, his eyes startled, his smile sliding from his face.

Bridgette slowly stood up. With the gun in her hand, she looked incongruous in the skimpy bikini swimsuit. Her face was the colour of marble under her tan and her skin had a mottled look. Her silver-tipped finger was curled around the trigger of the gun.

“Yes, Jacques,” she said softly, “I’m going to kill you. I’ve suffered enough from you: now it’s your turn to share a little of the hell you’ve given me.”

“Don’t be a mad fool,” Thrisby said, speaking each word slowly and breathlessly. “Put that gun down. It won’t get you anywhere. The police will arrest you. Everyone knows I’m your lover. The first person they will think of is you.”

“Do you think I care? Do you think I’ll want to go on living after I’ve killed you, Jacques? Oh, no. When I have shot you, I’m going to shoot myself. That’s how I feel about it. I’m not afraid to die as you are.”

He passed his tongue over his lips.

“Put the gun down, Bridgette, and let’s talk about this. Maybe I’ve been a little hasty. We could pick up the threads. I was only fooling when I said . . .”

“You miserable, rotten coward,” she said contemptuously. “I thought that’s how you would talk once I had you cornered. It’s too late now. I have as much mercy for you as you’ve had for me.”

Very slowly he began to back away, his eyes starting out of his head, his face beginning to sweat. Equally slowly, she moved forward, stalking him across the big lounge. Softly I stepped through the french doors into the lounge.

Thrisby, who was facing her, saw me at once. She had her back to me. He lifted his hands and half-turned away. I could see he was terrified that I might startle her into shooting him. I jumped forward, my hand slamming down on her wrist, forcing the gun to point to the floor.

The gun went off with a bang that rattled the windows and the slug made a neat hole in the fitted carpet. I twisted the gun out of her hand as she spun around, her green eyes opening wide. For a long moment she stared at me, her face old, drawn and frightened. Then she moved to one side, walked past me, snatched up her beach bag and ran out on to the terrace.

Thrisby sat down abruptly on the settee. He hid his face in his hands.

I laid the gun on one of the cocktail tables, took out my handkerchief and wiped off my face and wrists.

The sound of a car starting up made a loud noise in the silence of the lounge.

For a long moment I didn’t say anything. I just stood looking at Thrisby.

“I doubt if she was going to kill you,” I said mildly. “She was probably only going to put a bullet in your leg.”

He made a tremendous effort to get hold of himself and he stood up abruptly, his mouth working, his eyes still dark with fright.

“These damned neurotics,” he said. “How the hell did she get hold of that gun?”

“Very often it’s the only way a woman can level the score,” I said. “Men are getting themselves shot everyday all over the world by women who haven’t any other way of coping with certain situations. You should have thought of that before you planned to ditch her.”

He stared at me.

“Who are you and where did you spring from?” he demanded.

I dug out one of my business cards and offered it to him. He peered at it, not taking it. I was pretty sure he didn’t want me to see how badly his hands were shaking.

“Well, I’ll be damned!” he said, after he had read what was on the card. “The Star Agency . . . that’s the agency the fellow who . . .” He stopped abruptly, moved away from me, an alarmed, puzzled expression in his eyes.

“That’s right,” I said. “Sheppey was my partner.”

“Is she employing you to watch me?” he asked, not looking at me.

“No. I just happened along. I wanted to talk to you.”

He took out a handkerchief, mopped his face, then carried his glass over to the bar.

“Have a drink?”

“Thanks, I think I will.”

He gulped down the drink left in his glass, then made two very strong highballs, carried them over to a table, set them down and dropped into a lounging chair. He took a cigarette from an ebony box, set fire to it and dragged smoke down into his lungs.

“She had me rattled for a moment. Did you see the expression in her eyes? She meant to kill me,” he said, picked up his drink and took a long pull. “If you hadn’t walked in when you did . . .” He let it hang, while he grimaced.

“Oh, I don’t know. She probably only intended to scare you,” I said, knowing she meant to kill him. “You must lead quite an eventful life.”

He smiled crookedly.