Comes the Dark Stranger - Jack Higgins [11]
‘I’d like to see Mr Graham if he’s at home,’ Shane said.
A look of complete astonishment passed across her face. ‘But Mr Graham never receives visitors, sir. Not since his trouble. I thought everyone knew that.’
Shane concealed his surprise and smiled pleasantly. ‘I think he’ll see me if you tell him I’m here. We’re very old friends. I’ve been away for several years, and we haven’t seen each other for quite a while.’
She looked uncertain and wiped her hands on the apron. ‘I’ll tell Mr Graham you’re here, sir, if you insist, but I don’t think it’ll do any good.’
Shane gave her his name, and she crossed the hall and mounted the broad stairway. He turned to the oak-panelled wall and examined some of the paintings hanging there. They were all excellent, mostly originals, and when his eyes fell on the exquisite Chinese vase on the table by the door he pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. Whatever else had troubled Charles Graham during the past seven years one thing was obvious. It wasn’t shortage of money.
There was a slight cough behind him, and he turned to find the old woman standing there, an expression of amazement on her face. ‘Mr Graham would like you to come up to the conservatory, sir. It’s on the second floor. I’ll show you the way.’
He followed her up the thickly carpeted stairs. They passed along a broad corridor and mounted another flight of stairs to the second storey. Facing them was an oak door strengthened with bands of wrought iron, and she opened it and motioned him inside.
Rain drummed steadily against the glass roof, and a brooding quiet hung over everything. It was like stepping into a Turkish bath, and clammy heat enveloped Shane with a heavy hand so that sweat sprang to his brow and he peeled off his coat and draped it over a chair by the door.
The place was like a jungle, a mass of green leaves and trailing vines, topped by a profusion of exotic flowers, and a strange, heady perfume touched everything with invisible fingers, making him feel vaguely uneasy. Over everything there hung the hot, moist smell of the jungle, redolent with decay and rottenness, and he frowned and moved forward along a narrow path.
There was a vague, eerie rustling amongst the leaves on his right as if someone moved there quietly. When he reached the far end of the conservatory he found a table and two basketwork chairs facing the door which gave access to the terrace. There was no sign of Graham.
He hesitated, frowning, and then, as he was about to move forward to look out on to the terrace, he was suddenly aware that he was being watched. He turned and said sharply, ‘Is that you, Graham?’
There was a moment of silence and then a low sigh, as if a small wind had moved through the leaves. A voice said in a broken, hoarse whisper, ‘I’m sorry, Shane. I had to be sure. I couldn’t believe it was really you. I thought you were dead.’
At the sound of that voice Shane started violently. There was something horrible and uncanny about it. Something that struck a small chord of fear in his heart. He forced a smile, and said in a calm voice. ‘It’s me all right, Graham.’
There was a slight movement as the leaves in front of him were pushed away, and Graham stepped into view. Shane’s eyes widened in horror and the flesh seemed to crawl across his body. The man who faced him had snow-white hair and a face like something out of a nightmare. The eyes gazed steadily at him out of a mass of twisted flesh and scar tissue, and the mouth was like an open wound.
Slowly, horribly, that broken face twisted into a tortured smile, and Graham held out a hand. ‘Sorry to shock you like this. Perhaps now you’ll understand why I don’t encourage visitors.’
Shane took the outstretched hand and swallowed hard. ‘I’m sorry, Graham,’ he said slowly. ‘I didn’t know about this. How did it happen?’
Graham shrugged, and motioned him