The Dark Shore by Susan Howatch Read Free Book Online Page B

Sophia?”
    The telephone booth was a tight constricting cell clouded with a white mist of rage. “Yes,” said Jon rapidly. “Physically she’s very like her indeed. If you want to alter the dinner arrangements for tomorrow night, Max, phone me at the hotel tomorrow and if I’m not there, you can leave a message.”
    When he put the receiver back into the cradle he leant against the door for a moment and pressed his cheek against the glass pane. He felt drained of energy suddenly, emotionally exhausted.
    And still he was no nearer finding Marijohn ...
    But at least it seemed probable that Eve was responsible for the anonymous phone call. And at least he now knew where she lived and what her surname was.
    Wrenching the receiver from the hook again he started dialing to contact the operator in charge of Directory Inquiries.
    3
    Eve was furious. It was a long time since she had been let down by someone who had promised to give her an en tertaining evening, and an even longer time since she had made a date w ith a man who had simply f ailed to turn up as he had promised. To add lo her feeling of frustration and wiper, the phone cull lo Max Alexander, which should have been so amusing, had been a failure, and a f ter Alexander had slammed down the receiver in the middle of t heir conversation she had been left only with a great sense of anticlimax and depression.
    Hell to Max Alexander. Hell to all men everywhere. Hell to everyone and everything.
    The phone call came just as she was toying with her third drink and wondering whom she could ring up next in order to stave off the boredom of the long, empty evening ahead of her.
    She picked up the receiver quickly, almost spilling the liquid from her glass.
    “Hullo?”
    “Eve?”
    A man’s voice, hard and taut. She sat up a little, the glass forgotten. “Speaking,” she said with interest. “Who’s this?”
    There was a pause. And then after a moment the hard voice said abruptly, “Eve, this is Jon Towers.”
    The glass tipped, jerked off balance by the reflex of her wrist and hand. It toppled on to the carpet, the liquid splashing in a dark pool upon the floor and all she could do was sit on the edge of the chair and watch the stain as it widened and deepened before her eyes.
    “Why, hullo, Jon,” she heard herself say, her voice absurdly cool and even. “I saw you were back in London. How did you know where I was?”
    “I’ve just been talking to Max Alexander.”
    Thoughts were flickering back and forth across her mind in confused uncertain patterns. As she waited, baffled and intrigued, for him to make the next move she was again aware of the old memory of his personal magnetism and was conscious that his voice made the memory unexpectedly vivid.
    “Are you busy?” he said suddenly. “Can I see you?”
    “That would be nice,” she said as soon as she was capable of speech. “Thank you very much.”
    “Tonight?”
    “Yes ... Yes, I could manage tonight.”
    “Could you meet me at the Mayfair Hotel in quarter of an hour?”
    “Easily. It’s just round the corner from where I live.”
    “I’ll meet you in the lobby,” he said. “Don’t bother to ask for me at the reception desk.” And then the next moment he was gone and the dead line was merely a dull expressionless murmur in her ear.
    4
    After he had replaced the receiver, Jon left the station, walked up to Trafalgar Square and on towards Piccadilly. As he walked he started to worry about Sarah. Perhaps he could clear up this trouble with Eve during the ten days before Sarah arrived, but if not he would seriously have to consider inventing some reason for asking Sarah to delay her arrival. Whatever happened, Sarah must never discover the events which had taken place at Clougy ten years ago. He thought of Sarah for a moment, remembering her clear unsophisticated view of life and the naive trust which he loved so much. She would never, never be able to understand, and in failing to understand she