Free Contango (Ill Wind) by James Hilton Page A

flaunted them like banners— Famine in China; Heavy Selling on Wall
Street; Nottingham Tram-Driver Inherits Fortune; Lover Shoots Sweetheart,
Then Himself; Rioting in Bombay; New Prima Donna Creates Furore; Plight of
Alabama Flood Victims; Dance-Hall Proprietress Wins Action Against Commercial
Traveller; New York Gangster’s Ł20,000 Coffin… the whole
world’s crashing symphony, to which, with one’s own heart-cry,
one added but the faintest demi-semiquaver.
    In such a mood she came in sight of the Hôtel Edelweiss, and just then, as
she approached, he came out of it. He was in heavy climbing boots and thick
tweeds, and puffed at a pipe. She began to run towards him involuntarily,
like a silly, excited child, though she hasn’t yet thought of any story
to tell, or any initial plan of conversation to adopt. It seemed enough, just
then, to face him breathlessly, with her bright, terrible smile.
    “Good morning,” she said.
    “Hullo, hullo…” he answered, halting with a clank of his
iron-tipped boots on the road.
    “Good morning…. I—I—I’ve just
arrived.”
    “So I see.”
    And then there came a curious silence, during which they both stared hard
at each other. He KNOWS, her heart whispered; he knows I know; and he
is angry for the moment, but that will pass. She went on:
“I’m—I’m staying here—in Mürren—for
several days. On business, you know. It’s—it’s odd that we
should meet again… isn’t it?”
    “Yes, very odd …. Well, if you’ll excuse me, I must get
along—I’m meeting some people at another hotel.”
    “May I—may I walk with you to it?”
    “I suppose you may.”
    He set off at a good swinging pace, without continuing the talk. It
occurred to her then that it might be her last chance, that she had bungled
the encounter so far, and could do little worse by plunging straight into the
depths. At least she would secure the advantage of surprise—unless, of
course, he HAD already guessed that she knew, in which case it might be a
relief to him to learn how safe his secret was in her hands. She went on, in
a low, desperate voice: “You must think it strange of me to approach
you like this, but I feel I can’t keep silence any longer. To you, I
mean. Others needn’t know, of course.”
    “WHAT?” he said.
    “I’ve known the—the truth for some time. And believe
me, I—I honour—and—and admire you—for
it—”
    “WHAT? What are you talking about?”
    “You… YOU… you see, I know who you really are. I’ve known
for quite a long time.”
    “You say you know who I really am?”
    “Yes… Mr. Gathergood… of Cuava… .” She felt herself
almost fainting as she uttered the words.
    He suddenly stopped and towered above her. “Good God, woman, this is
becoming preposterous! I don’t know what sort of microbe has bitten
you, but if you take my advice you’ll catch the tram over there and get
back to your proper business. Where are all your tourist
people—haven’t you got THEM to look after?”
    “I left them—to come here and tell you. I felt I had to let
you know what I knew. It was terrible for me, waiting. And I don’t care
how angry you are with me—so long as you DO know. You can’t deny
it—not to me.”
    “Deny what?”
    “That you ARE him—really. Gathergood—British Agent at
Cuava—”
    He struck his heel sharply on the ground. “Gathergood? GATHERGOOD?
Why should I be him, whoever he is?”
    “But you ARE. I know you want to keep it secret—I can
understand and sympathise—but to me, now that I know—oh, you
must tell me the truth!”
    “But, my good woman, that’s just what I AM doing! I’m
sorry to disappoint you if this Gathergood man was someone you wanted to
meet, but you must pull yourself together and be sensible. And if it’s
really any concern of yours, my name is Stuart Brown, I live in England, and
on my passport I’m put down as a company-director. Perhaps you’d