Comes the Dark Stranger Read Free Page B

and sat down. ‘I’m looking for Mr Henry Faulkner,’ he said.
    The old man leaned forward slightly. ‘I’m Henry Faulkner,’ he said. ‘What do you want to see me about? I don’t know you, do I?’
    His right cheek twitched convulsively, and his opaque, expressionless eyes seemed to stare blindly into the ashes of life. Shane moistened his lips. ‘My name is Shane,’ he said. ‘Martin Shane. I knew your son in Korea.’
    The old man’s hands tightened over the malacca cane he was holding in front of him, and a tremor seemed to move through his entire body. He leaned forward excitedly, and something glowed in his eyes. ‘You knew Simon?’ he said. ‘But that’s wonderful. Wonderful.’ He leaned back in his chair, and nodded his head several times. ‘He was a fine boy. A fine boy. A little wild perhaps, but he never did anyone any harm.’ He sighed heavily. ‘He was killed, you know. Killed in action.’
    Shane lit a cigarette, frowning. ‘Is that what they told you?’
    The old man nodded vigorously. ‘I’ve got his medals somewhere. I’ll get them for you. He was a hero, you know.’
    Before Shane could protest, the old man had thrown back the rug and struggled to his feet. He swayed there uncertainly for a moment or so, and then hobbled to the door, leaning heavily on his cane. ‘I’ll only be a moment,’ he said.
    The door closed behind him and Shane took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. The room was stifling and smelled as if nothing had been dusted for years. He got to his feet and walked slowly round, examining the furniture, and suddenly the old man’s voice cracked sharply from the doorway. ‘Simon? Is that you, Simon?’
    Cold fingers seemed to touch Shane on the face, and he shivered and walked forward slowly. ‘Simon’s dead, Mr Faulkner,’ he said gently.
    There was a moment of fragile stillness between them and then twin points of light glowed in the opaque eyes, and the old man’s right cheek twitched. ‘You’re lying,’ he said. ‘Simon isn’t dead. He can’t be.’
    Shane swallowed, his throat dry. ‘He’s been dead for seven years.’
    The old man’s head moved stiffly from side to side like a puppet’s, and he seemed to be choking. He backed away through the open door into the hall outside, and his voice was high-pitched and hysterical. ‘Keep away from me,’ he croaked. ‘Keep away from me.’ He half raised the cane as if to strike, and then a figure appeared behind him and a woman’s voice said calmly, ‘Father, what are you doing out of your chair?’
    The old man huddled against her like a small child seeking its mother, and she slipped an arm round his shoulder and turned to Shane with a frown. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’ she demanded, and there was anger in her voice.
    He moved forward out of the darkness of the room into the hall. ‘My name is Martin Shane,’ he said. ‘I was a friend of Simon’s.’
    She stiffened suddenly, and her arm seemed to tighten about her father’s shoulders. ‘My brother has been dead a long time, Mr Shane,’ she said.
    He nodded calmly. ‘I know. I was with him when he was killed.’
    A peculiar expression appeared in her eyes, and she was about to speak when the old man said brokenly, ‘Laura!’ and sagged against her.
    Shane moved forward quickly. ‘Can I help?’
    She shook her head. ‘No, I can manage. I’m used to this. Please wait for me in the drawing-room. I shan’t be long.’
    She walked slowly with the old man to a door on the other side of the hall and opened it. Shane caught a brief glimpse of a bed against the far wall before the door closed.
    He went back into the darkness of the drawing-room and sat in a chair by the window, smoking a cigarette and frowning over what had happened. It was like a jig-saw puzzle with the pieces fitted together the wrong way. The decaying house, the crazy old man and the woman - none of it made any sense.
    At that moment she came into the room. She