Destination Unknown - Agatha Christie [43]
Because what other solution could there be? Supposing she were to get in first? Supposing she were to cry out, before Tom Betterton could get in a word–‘Who are you? You’re not my husband!’ If she could simulate indignation, shock, horror, sufficiently well–might it, just credibly, raise a doubt? A doubt whether Betterton was Betterton–or some other scientist sent to impersonate him. A spy, in other words. But if they believed that, then it might be rather hard on Betterton! But, she thought, her mind turning in tired circles, if Betterton was a traitor, a man willing to sell his country’s secrets, could anything be ‘hard on him’? How difficult it was, she thought, to make any appraisement of loyalties–or indeed any judgements of people or things…At any rate it might be worth trying–to create a doubt.
With a giddy feeling, she returned to her immediate surroundings. Her thoughts had been running underground with the frenzied violence of a rat caught in a trap. But during that time her surface stream of consciousness had been playing its appointed part.
The little party from the outside world had been welcomed by a big handsome man–a linguist, it would seem, since he had said a word or two to each person in his or her own language.
‘Enchanté de faire votre connaissance, mon cher docteur,’ he was murmuring to Dr Barron, and then turning to her:
‘Ah, Mrs Betterton, we’re very pleased to welcome you here. A long confusing journey, I’m afraid. Your husband’s very well and, naturally, awaiting you with impatience.’
He gave her a discreet smile; it was a smile, she noticed, that did not touch his cold pale eyes.
‘You must,’ he added, ‘be longing to see him.’
The giddiness increased–she felt the group around her approaching and receding like the waves of the sea. Beside her, Andy Peters put out an arm and steadied her.
‘I guess you haven’t heard,’ he said to their welcoming host. ‘Mrs Betterton had a bad crash at Casablanca–concussion. This journey’s done her no good. Nor the excitement of looking forward to meeting her husband. I’d say she ought to lie down right now in a darkened room.’
Hilary felt the kindness of his voice, of the supporting arm. She swayed a little more. It would be easy, incredibly easy, to crumple at the knees, to drop flaccidly down…to feign unconsciousness–or at any rate near unconsciousness. To be laid on a bed in a darkened room–to put off the moment of discovery just a little longer…But Betterton would come to her there–any husband would. He would come there and lean over the bed in the dim gloom and at the first murmur of her voice, the first dim outline of her face as his eyes became accustomed to the twilight, he would realize that she was not Olive Betterton.
Courage came back to Hilary. She straightened up. Colour came into her cheeks. She flung up her head.
If this were to be the end, let it be a gallant end! She would go to Betterton and, when he repudiated her, she would try out the last lie, come out with it confidently, fearlessly:
‘No, of course I’m not your wife. Your wife–I’m terribly sorry, it’s awful–she’s dead. I was in hospital with her when she died. I promised her I’d get to you somehow and give you her last messages. I wanted to. You see, I’m in sympathy with what you did–with what all of you are doing. I agree with you politically. I want to help…’
Thin, thin, all very thin…And such awkward trifles to explain–the faked passport–the forged Letter of Credit. Yes, but people did get by sometimes with the most audacious lies–if one lied with sufficient confidence–if you had the personality to put a thing over. One could at any rate go down fighting.
She drew herself up, gently freeing herself from Peters’s support.
‘Oh, no. I must see Tom,’ she said. ‘I must go to him–now–at once–please.’
The big man was hearty about it. Sympathetic. (Though the cold eyes were still pale and watchful.)
‘Of course, of course, Mrs Betterton. I quite understand how you are feeling. Ah, here