Agatha Christie - Destination Unknown

"But they're lepers!" she exclaimed. "Lepers!"

A shiver of horror shook her entire frame.

The gates of the leper colony closed behind the travellers with a metallic clang. The noise struck on Hilary's startled consciousness with a horrible note of finality. Abandon hope, it seemed to say, all ye who enter here… This, she thought, was the end… really the end. Any way of retreat there might have been was now cut off.

She was alone now amongst enemies, and in, at most, a very few minutes, she would be confronted with discovery and failure. Subconsciously, she supposed, she had known that all day, but some undefeatable optimism of the human spirit, some persistence in the belief that that entity oneself could not possibly cease to exist, had been masking that fact from her. She had said to Jessop in Casablanca "And when do I reach Tom Betterton?" and he had said then gravely that that was when the danger would become acute. He had added that he hoped that by then he might be in a position to give her protection, but that hope, Hilary could not but realise, had failed to materialise.

If "Miss Hetherington" had been the agent on whom Jessop was relying, "Miss Hetherington" had been outmanoeuvred and left to confess failure at Marrakesh. But in any case, what could Miss Hetherington have done?

The party of travellers had arrived at the place of no return. Hilary had gambled with death and lost. And she knew now that Jessop's diagnosis had been correct. She no longer wanted to die. She wanted to live. The zest of living had come back to her in full strength. She could think of Nigel, of the little mound that was Brenda's grave, with a sad wondering pity, but no longer with the cold lifeless despair that had urged her on to seek oblivion in death. She thought: "I'm alive again, sane, whole… and now I'm like a rat in a trap. If only there were some way out…"

It was not that she had given no thought to the problem. She had. But it seemed to her, reluctantly, that once confronted with Betterton, there could be no way out…

Betterton would say: "But that's not my wife -" And that would be that! Eyes turning towards her… realisation… a spy in their midst…

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 judgments 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 connaisance, mon cher doctor," 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 round 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 eye became accustomed to the twilight he would realise 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' 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's Miss Jennsen."

A thin spectacled girl had joined them.

"Miss Jennsen, meet Mrs. Betterton, Fraulein Needheim. Dr. Barron, Mr. Peters, Dr. Ericsson. Show them into the Registry, will you? Give them a drink. I'll be with you in a few minutes. Just take Mrs. Betterton along to her husband. I'll be with you again shortly."

He turned to Hilary again, saying:

"Follow me, Mrs. Betterton."

He strode forward, she followed. At a bend in the passage, she gave a last look over her shoulder. Andy Peters was still watching her. He had a faintly puzzled unhappy look – she thought for a moment he was going to come with her. He must have realised, she thought, that there's something wrong, realised it from me, but he doesn't know what it is.

And she thought, with a slight shiver: "It's the last time, perhaps, that I'll ever see him…"

And so, as she turned the corner after her guide, she raised a hand and waved a goodbye…

The big man was talking cheerfully.

"This way, Mrs. Betterton. I'm afraid you'll find our buildings rather confusing at first, so many corridors, and all rather alike."

Like a dream. Hilary thought, a dream of hygienic white corridors along which you pass forever, turning, going on, never finding your way out…

She said:

"I didn't realise it would be a – a hospital."

"No, no, of course. You couldn't realise anything, could you?"

There was a faint sadistic note of amusement in his voice.

"You've had, as they say, to 'fly blind.' My name's Van Heidem, by the way. Paul Van Heidem."