Footsteps in the Dark Read online

  Realising that in all probability any attempt to question Duval as to his obscure meaning would drive him into his shell, Charles contented himself with sympathising.

  ‘Whoever is to blame for keeping you here,’ he said solemnly, ‘is a criminal of the deepest dye.’

  This pleased. ‘Yes he is wicked. You do not know, m’sieur! But I shall have my revenge on him, perhaps soon. I tell you, I will make him suffer! He shall pay. Yes, he shall pay and pay for the years which I have spent in exile.’ A little saliva dribbled from the corner of his mouth; he looked unpleasantly like a dog drooling at the sight of a bone.

  With a feeling of disgust, and more than half convinced that he was wasting his time on a madman, Charles turned to the pictures, and soon made his choice. M. Duval seemed disappointed when he fixed on the least Futuristic of his works, but after an attempt to induce Charles to buy ‘Sunset in Hades’ he consented to roll up the more innocuous ‘Reapers.’

  Outside the sky had for some time been growing steadily more overcast, and as Charles prepared to take his leave, a flash of lightning lit up the darkening room, to be followed in a very few moments by an ominous rumble of thunder. The rain did not seem to be far off, and since he had no overcoat Charles was reluctantly compelled to postpone his departure.

  The artist seemed to become more restless with the approach of the storm, and as the light went he took to glancing over his shoulder as though he expected to see someone. When a second and much louder clap of thunder came he jumped uncontrollably, and muttered something about fetching a lamp. He went through into the kitchen, and came back presently with a cheap oil-lamp which he set down on the table.

  ‘I do not like the darkness,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you think I am strange to say that, but when one lives always alone, m’sieur, one has fancies.’ He gave a little shiver, and his eyes stared into Charles’ for a moment. ‘But there are things which are not fancies.’ Again he looked round, then leaning towards Charles he said hardly above a whisper: ‘I know that there is one who watches. I have felt his eyes through my window, I bolt my door, but when I go out he follows. I have heard his footsteps, but when I look there is no one there. Sometimes I think I cannot bear it, for at night, m’sieur, it is so still, and I am alone. Sometimes I think maybe I shall go mad one day. But I am not mad. No, I am not mad yet.’

  ‘Who watches you?’ Charles said quietly. ‘Have you any idea?’

  Duval shook his head. ‘I do not know. Sometimes I think – but I do not say.’

  ‘I hope,’ said Charles, ‘that it is not our Monk?’

  The artist gave a start, and grew sickly pale all at once. ‘No, no!’ he said. ‘But do not speak so loud, m’sieur! You do not know who may be listening.’

  Since a heavy rain was now beating against the windows it seemed absurd to suppose that anyone could be lurking outside, but Charles saw that it was useless to reason with one whose nerves were so little under control. To humour the artist, he lowered his voice. ‘It is unwise, then, even to mention the Monk?’ he asked.

  Duval nodded vigorously. ‘For me, yes. There are those who listen to what I say though they seem to be deaf. M’sieur, I tell you it is too much! Sometimes when I am alone in this house I think it would be better to give it all up, not to attempt – I have not the courage, he is clever, ah, but clever!’

  ‘My friend,’ Charles said, ‘I think someone has some sort of a hold over you. Don’t be alarmed: I’m not asking what it is.’

  The thunder crashed above their heads, and involuntarily Duval winced. ‘Yes, he has what you call a hold, but what if I get a hold over him? What then, hein?’ His fingers curled and uncurled; he looked so haggard that once more Charles found himself pitying him against his will.

  ‘Forgive me if I say that I think you would do well to get away from this lonely life of yours. It has preyed too much on your mind.’

  The artist’s eyes stared wildly at him. ‘I cannot get away!’ he burst out. ‘I am tied, tied! I dare not speak, even! What I could tell! Ah, m’sieur, there are things I know that you would give all to learn. Yes, I am not a fool; I know what you are seeking, you and that other. You will not find it, but I – I might! You do not believe? You think I talk so because perhaps I am drunk? You are wrong. It is true that sometimes I have drunk too much. To-day, no! What is it you desire to see? You will not answer? But I know, m’sieur! You desire to see the face of the Monk.’

  Charles would have spoken, but he swept on, as though a spate of words had been loosed in him. ‘You will not. But I desire it also, and I tell you the day comes when I shall see it. And if I see it, only for one little minute! one little, little minute, what shall I do? Shall I tell you? Ah no, m’sieur! No, no, no, I tell no one, but I am free! And it will be for me then to revenge myself, for me to be master!’

  A flash of lightning made Charles blink. There was the scrape of a chair. Duval had sprung up, and was staring towards the window. ‘What was that,’ he gasped. ‘What was that, m’sieur? A face? A face pressed to the glass?’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Charles said calmly. ‘It was nothing but that sunflower blown against the window. Look!’

  The sweat stood on Duval’s forehead. ‘Truly? Yes, yes, I see. It was nothing. Yet for a moment I could have sworn I saw – something. It is this accursed storm. I do not like the lightning. It makes me what you call on edge. Sometimes I fear I have not the courage to go on with what I have made up my mind I must do to be free. For when I am here with the darkness I remember that other who died.’ He went to the cupboard and opened it, and pulled out a whisky bottle, half-full, and two thick glasses, ‘You will take a little drink with me? This storm – one’s nerves demand it.’

  ‘Not for me, thanks,’ Charles answered. ‘May I suggest that if you’ve reason to think someone is watching you your best course is to inform the police.’

  Duval cast a quick, furtive look at him. The whisky spilled into his glass. He tossed it off, neat, and seemed to regain what little composure he possessed. ‘No, I do not do that. You will not listen to me: I talk folly, hein? Me, I am Louis Duval, and I am not afraid.’

  The rain had practically ceased by now, and Charles got up. ‘Then since the storm seems to be passing over you won’t mind if I say good-bye, will you?’ He picked up the picture he had bought. ‘I shall – er – value this, I assure you. And if at any time you’d like to take me rather more into your confidence you know where I’m to be found, don’t you?’

  ‘I thank you. And for this’ – he held up Charles’ cheque – ‘I thank you also.’ With his self-command his arrogance too was creeping back. ‘The day comes when you will congratulate yourself that you were once able to buy a picture of Louis Duval’s for so small a price.’

  That view was not shared either by Charles, or by any of his relatives. When he exhibited the painting at the Priory an astonished silence greeted it.

  ‘Yes,’ he said blandly, ‘I thought you’d be hard put to it to find words to express your emotions.’

  Peter breathed audibly through his nose. ‘You were right,’ he said.

  ‘Nice piece of work, isn’t it? I particularly like the woman’s splay feet. Where shall we hang it?’

  ‘I suggest the coal-cellar,’ said Peter.

  Mrs Bosanquet was regarding the picture through her lorgnette. ‘What an exceedingly ill-favoured young person!’ she remarked. ‘Really, almost disgusting. And what is she waving in her hand, pray?’

  ‘Since I am informed that the title of this masterpiece is “Reapers” I should hazard a guess that it must be a sickle,’ Charles replied.

  Celia found her tongue. ‘Charles, how could you?’ she demanded. ‘Have you gone mad, or something?’

  ‘Not at all. I’m supporting modern art.’

  ‘You don’t know anything about art, ancient or modern. I can’t get over you going out and wasting your money on an awful thing like this! You don’t suppose that I could live with it on my walls, do you?’

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