Джозеф Конрад - Suspense

The doctor, who had quite an accurate notion of the state of affairs, hastened to say:

“After all, I don’t know that this is of any importance. I have heard that Mr. Latham was busy writing all yesterday. If he had come to Italy with some sort of purpose,” he continued, as if arguing with himself, “one could … ” Then sharply: “You couldn’t tell me anything, could you?” he asked Adèle.

“This is the first time I have seen him for ten years.” Madame de Montevesso raised her eyes full of trouble to the doctor’s face. “Since we were children together in Yorkshire. We talked of old times. Only of old times,” she repeated.

“Of course—very natural,” mumbled the doctor. He made the mental remark that one did not disappear like this after talking of old times. And aloud he said: “I suppose Mr. Latham made the acquaintance of Count de Montevesso?”

“Certainly.”

“I presume that they had an opportunity to have a conversation together?”

“I don’t think that Cosmo—that Mr. Latham made any confidences to Count de Montevesso.” While saying those words Adèle looked the doctor straight in the face.

He was asking himself whether she could read his thoughts, when she got up suddenly and walked away to the window, without haste and with a grace of movement which aroused the doctor’s admiration. He could not tell her what he had in his mind. He looked irresolutely at the figure in the window. It was growing enigmatic in its immobility. He began to feel some little awe, when he heard unexpectedly the words:

“You suspect a crime?”

The doctor could not guess the effort which went to the uttering of those few words. It was the stunning force of the shock which enabled Adèle de Montevesso to appear so calm. It was the general humanity of Dr. Martel’s disposition which dictated his answer.

“I suspect some imprudence,” he admitted in an easy tone. At that moment he drew the gloomiest view of Cosmo’s disappearance, from the sinister conviction that twenty–four hours was enough to arrange an assassination. “The difficulty is to imagine a cause for it. To find the motive….”

Madame de Montevesso continued to face the window as if lost in the contemplation of a vast landscape. “And you came to look for it here?” she said.

“I don’t think I need to apologise,” he said, with a movement of annoyance like a man who has received a home–thrust. “Of course I might have simply gone about my own affairs, which are of some importance to a good many people. My advice to Mr. Latham was to leave Genoa, since he did not seem to have any object in remaining and seemed to have a half–formed wish to visit Elba. I suggested Leghorn as the best port for crossing over.”

It was impossible to say whether the woman at the window was listening to him at all. She did not stir, she seemed to have forgotten his existence. But that immobility might have been also the effect of concentrated attention. He made up his mind to go on speaking.

“His mind, his imagination seemed very busy with Napoleon. It seemed to me the only reason for his travels.” He paused.

“I believe the only reason of Mr. Latham coming to Genoa was to see us.” Madame de Montevesso turned round and moved back towards the bergère . She was extremely pale. “I mean my father and myself,” she explained. “He came to see me the day before yesterday in the morning. I invited him to our usual evening reception. He stayed after everybody else was gone. I asked him to. But my father needed me, and I had to leave Mr. Latham with Monsieur de Montevesso.”

The doctor interrupted her gently. “I know, madame. I was in the palazzo with the marquis, in the very room, when he sent for your husband.”

“I forgot,” confessed Madame de Montevesso simply. “But Mr. Latham got back to his inn safely?”

“Yes. He was writing letters next day till late in the evening, and seems to have been spirited away in the middle of that occupation. But people like Mr. Latham are not spirited out of their bedrooms by main force. I advised the servant to wait till four o’clock, then I came straight here.”

“Till four o’clock,” repeated Madame de Montevesso under her breath.

The doctor, a man of special capacity in confronting enigmatical situations, showed himself as perplexed before this one as the most innocent of mortals.

“I don’t know. It seems to me that a man who puts on his hat and cloak before vanishing like this must turn up again. He ought to be given a chance to do so, at any rate. He left all his money behind too. I mean even to the small change.”

The glimpse of helpless concern in that man affected Adèle with a feeling of actual bodily anguish. She got brusquely out of the bergère and moved into the middle of the room. The doctor, letting go the back of the chair, turned to face her.

“I am appalled,” she murmured.

This came out as if extracted from her by torture. It moved the doctor more than anything he had heard for years. His voice sank into a soothing murmur.

“I do believe, madame, that if there had been a murder committed last night anywhere in this town I would have heard something about it this morning. My inn is just the place for such news. I will go back there now. I shall question his servant again. He may give us a gleam of light.”

Her intent, distressed gaze was unbearable, yet held him bound to the spot. It was difficult to abandon a woman in that state! He became aware of the sound of voices outside the door. Some sort of dispute. He hastened to make his bow, and Madame de Montevesso, moving after him, whispered eagerly: “Yes! A gleam of light! Do let me know. I won’t draw a free breath till I hear something.”

Her extended arms dropped by her side a moment before the door flew open, and Bernard was heard announcing with calm formality:

“Signorina Clelia.”

The doctor, turning away from Madame de Montevesso, saw “that little wretch” standing just within the room, evidently very much taken aback by the unexpected meeting. He guessed that she had snatched at some opportunity to escape from the old women. It had given her no time to pull on her stockings, a fact made evident by the shortness of the dark petticoat which, with a white jacket, comprised all her costume. She had managed to thrust her bare feet into a pair of old slippers, and her loose hair, tied with a blue ribbon at the back of her head, produced a most incongruous effect of neatness. Her invasion was alarming and inexplicable. The doctor, as he passed out, compressed his lips and stared fiercely with some idea of scaring her into good behaviour. She met this demonstration with a round stupid stare of astonishment. The next moment he found himself outside in the corridor alone with Bernard, who had shut the door quietly, and remained with his back to it. The exasperated doctor looked him up and down coolly.

“How long have you been in the habit of hanging about your lady’s door, my friend?” he asked with ominous familiarity.

The simple–minded factotum of the London days, the love–lorn naïve swain of the mulatto maid, was a figure of the past now. The doctor was confronted by a calm unmoved servant of much experience, somewhat inclining to stoutness, made respectable by the black well–fitting clothes. He did not flinch at the question, but he took his time. At last he said, with the utmost placidity:

“Many years now. Pretty near all my life.”

The tone was well calculated to surprise the doctor. Taking advantage of the latter’s silence, Bernard paused before he continued reasonably: “Was I to let her rush in unannounced on Madame la Comtesse while you were there? I tried to send her away, but she would think nothing of filling the air with her screams. I kept her back as long as it was prudent….” He raised his open hand, palm outwards, warning the doctor to remain silent, while with conscientious gravity he applied his big ear to the door. When he came away he did not apparently intend to take any further notice of the doctor, but stood there with an air of perfect rectitude.