Read Online The Unsuspected by Charlotte Armstrong - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Charlotte Armstrong
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living-room side. It knocked back at you if the word was to come in. This was because the study had been completely soundproofed, so that Grandy s genius could work in quiet. Francis opened the door
when the signal came.
"I thought you had company, sir," he said.
The visitor must have left by way of the kitchen. Grandy was sitting at his big light wood desk. He touched his pince-nez with his long-fingered, knot-knuckled hand. "No, no. Come in."
Francis walked across and sat down in the visitors chair. He followed the precepts of good acting. He tried to think only of and within the frame of mind he was to seem to be in. He was a hurt, bewildered, rebuffed, humiliated and worried lover. At the same time, he mustn't miss anything he could glean from that face, that somewhat birdlike countenance, with its beak, its thin mouth, its black, brisk, bright and clever eyes.
"What is the matter?" asked Grandy, reacting promptly.
Francis looked up, surprised, looked down, "I don't know how to tell you,” he mumbled. "I'm afraid I'm—" He rubbed his hand over his face, hoping it wasn't too theatrical a gesture.
Grandy stirred. He fitted a cigarette into his longish holder and slipped the holder into the side of his thin mouth. "Don't be tantalizing," he said. "What happened?"
Francis looked at him stupidly for a moment "I don't know," he said at last, roughly. "Mathilda doesn't— She says—"
"D'ya mean she's. . . out of love?" Grandy inquired.
"She was never in!" he flung back. "No. Worse. She doesn't know me."
"What do you mean?" Grandy didn't show any shock, except that the gray hairs on his head seemed to rise quietly, and stand straighter, at attention.
"I don't know," insisted Francis, "I suppose its—I don't know what it is. She just plain doesn't, or can't, or won't remember me."
"How very extraordinary," said Grandy in a moment.
Francis was able to watch, somehow, without looking at him directly. He kept his own eyes down, and yet he knew that the expression on that face was alert and tentative. It was more plain curiosity and excitement than anything else yet
Francis said, Tm sorry. It just hits me, now. What am I going to do? I don't understand things like that"
"Do you mean you believe she is the victim of amnesia?" purred Grandy.
"Must be," said Francis. "Or whatever you call it. I don't know, sir. I don't know anything about anything. All I know is, I went to find her, and there she was and she didn't know me. She says she hasn't been hurt, or sick, or anything like that. I don't know what
to think. I'm not thinking."
The hell I'm not, thought Francis. He got up and walked over to stare out of the window. It was a good thing to do, he'd found when you were trying to think while being watched.
What did it matter any more how desperate this throw was? He was close. He knew nearly enough. There was such a little way to go. And if Althea hadn't taken to her bed with a grippe and if Oliver, with his ridiculous fuss, hadn't made it so plain that Francis
was not admissible to the sickroom; if he hadn't been thwarted delayed—why, he might have been finished by now, and able to come out into the open and let things burst. And if that little mutton-headed heiress hadn't jumped down his throat at the first word about her precious guardian, if he'd had the least hope that she wouldn't go blabbing immediately, if he'd been able to talk to her, tell her what he was doing, how much he knew, explain, ask her to help—
He saw now how foolish he'd been to think he could explain to her. To think that any perfect stranger could shake her deep-rooted faith in a man she obviously loved and adored. He might have known. Althea was the same. Bright-eyed Althea was blinded by
Grandy. He knew better than to try to approach her with such frank and open tactics.
He wondered why he'd been led to think that Mathilda might be more approachable.
when the signal came.
"I thought you had company, sir," he said.
The visitor must have left by way of the kitchen. Grandy was sitting at his big light wood desk. He touched his pince-nez with his long-fingered, knot-knuckled hand. "No, no. Come in."
Francis walked across and sat down in the visitors chair. He followed the precepts of good acting. He tried to think only of and within the frame of mind he was to seem to be in. He was a hurt, bewildered, rebuffed, humiliated and worried lover. At the same time, he mustn't miss anything he could glean from that face, that somewhat birdlike countenance, with its beak, its thin mouth, its black, brisk, bright and clever eyes.
"What is the matter?" asked Grandy, reacting promptly.
Francis looked up, surprised, looked down, "I don't know how to tell you,” he mumbled. "I'm afraid I'm—" He rubbed his hand over his face, hoping it wasn't too theatrical a gesture.
Grandy stirred. He fitted a cigarette into his longish holder and slipped the holder into the side of his thin mouth. "Don't be tantalizing," he said. "What happened?"
Francis looked at him stupidly for a moment "I don't know," he said at last, roughly. "Mathilda doesn't— She says—"
"D'ya mean she's. . . out of love?" Grandy inquired.
"She was never in!" he flung back. "No. Worse. She doesn't know me."
"What do you mean?" Grandy didn't show any shock, except that the gray hairs on his head seemed to rise quietly, and stand straighter, at attention.
"I don't know," insisted Francis, "I suppose its—I don't know what it is. She just plain doesn't, or can't, or won't remember me."
"How very extraordinary," said Grandy in a moment.
Francis was able to watch, somehow, without looking at him directly. He kept his own eyes down, and yet he knew that the expression on that face was alert and tentative. It was more plain curiosity and excitement than anything else yet
Francis said, Tm sorry. It just hits me, now. What am I going to do? I don't understand things like that"
"Do you mean you believe she is the victim of amnesia?" purred Grandy.
"Must be," said Francis. "Or whatever you call it. I don't know, sir. I don't know anything about anything. All I know is, I went to find her, and there she was and she didn't know me. She says she hasn't been hurt, or sick, or anything like that. I don't know what
to think. I'm not thinking."
The hell I'm not, thought Francis. He got up and walked over to stare out of the window. It was a good thing to do, he'd found when you were trying to think while being watched.
What did it matter any more how desperate this throw was? He was close. He knew nearly enough. There was such a little way to go. And if Althea hadn't taken to her bed with a grippe and if Oliver, with his ridiculous fuss, hadn't made it so plain that Francis
was not admissible to the sickroom; if he hadn't been thwarted delayed—why, he might have been finished by now, and able to come out into the open and let things burst. And if that little mutton-headed heiress hadn't jumped down his throat at the first word about her precious guardian, if he'd had the least hope that she wouldn't go blabbing immediately, if he'd been able to talk to her, tell her what he was doing, how much he knew, explain, ask her to help—
He saw now how foolish he'd been to think he could explain to her. To think that any perfect stranger could shake her deep-rooted faith in a man she obviously loved and adored. He might have known. Althea was the same. Bright-eyed Althea was blinded by
Grandy. He knew better than to try to approach her with such frank and open tactics.
He wondered why he'd been led to think that Mathilda might be more approachable.
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