Design for an Accident

By Denise Egerton

Design for an Accident, first published in 1958, is a novel of suspense and mystery, set in France, and concerning an English tutor. The tutor, out of jail after his involvement in a fatal car crash, accepts a post in France, but sees his streak of dangerously bad luck continue to follow him in his new home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Phocion Publishing
• Release date: Nov 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781789129250

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Publisher’s Note

Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

DESIGN FOR AN ACCIDENT

By

DENISE EGERTON

Design for an Accident was originally published in 1958 by Ives Washburn, Inc., New York. The characters in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any living person.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 4

DEDICATION 5

CHAPTER I 6

CHAPTER II 16

CHAPTER III 22

CHAPTER IV 29

CHAPTER V 38

CHAPTER VI 44

CHAPTER VII 50

CHAPTER VIII 58

CHAPTER IX 66

CHAPTER X 72

CHAPTER XI 78

CHAPTER XII 85

CHAPTER XIII 91

CHAPTER XIV 99

CHAPTER XV 106

CHAPTER XVI 114

CHAPTER XVII 123

CHAPTER XVIII 127

CHAPTER XIX 135

CHAPTER XX 142

CHAPTER XXI 150

CHAPTER XXII 157

CHAPTER XXIII 163

CHAPTER XXIV 168

CHAPTER XXV 174

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 178

DEDICATION

For my husband

ever encouraging

CHAPTER I

The last stroke of noon was sounding from some church clock behind the hotel as I followed the page down the wide corridor, and in the second or two that we waited outside the door upon which he knocked I recalled Starke’s advice, making a conscious effort to relax my taut nerves. Now look, Richard—you’ve nothing to worry about, do you understand? Don’t say anything more than you need. She’ll do all the talking.

Nothing to worry about. Nevertheless the palms of my hands felt uncomfortably moist as I heard the thin voice drift through.

"Entrez! An old voice, autocratic. Come in..."

The page opened the door and stood aside for me to pass. Blinds partly drawn against the bright sunlight made the large room dim, so that it was a moment before I could see clearly. A little old woman in black was seated at a writing table, half turned towards me as I stood there on the threshold.

Mr. Maddan? She gave me a long, hard look. Good morning, monsieur.

Madame Laroche. I bowed formally.

You are very punctual. That is a good mark.

Her shapeless hat of black straw might have been salvaged from some jumble sale, but magnificent rings flashed rainbow fires as she made a motion with her hand for me to advance. A small, rigidly upright figure, she sat watching me. She seemed incredibly far off; the green and beige carpet was a boundless ocean which I had to cross beneath the vigilance of the dark, hooded eyes which weren’t, I thought, missing anything.

"Asseyez-vous, monsieur. She indicated the chair I was to take. Asseyez-vous, s’il vous plait."

"Merci, madame."

"Eh bien... She folded her hands upon her lap. We will speak in English; it is good exercise for me. Mr. Starke has explained the post I offer as tutor to my grandson?"

I understand, madame, that you wish him to be coached for entry to an English public school?

"That is so. You will comprehend that he has been ill. My son and his wife are in Saigon, leaving Maurice in my charge. A precious trust, monsieur. Then this terrifying polio...mon Dieu! You may perhaps imagine what I have been through! But, merciful Mary, he has made a miraculous recovery, though of course he has fallen sadly behind in his studies. He lacks confidence, particularly with his English, which is poor. In this period he needs someone who will be all things to him—guide, philosopher and friend. Alexander Pope, is that not? She paused, her gaze boring into me with merciless penetration. A boy of fourteen years can be very exhausting, Mr. Maddan."

I managed to smile.

I’m not without experience of boys of that age, madame. And I’m not afraid of work.

That is good, and I do not doubt it. But—you will forgive me—you do not look at all strong.

I felt the blood beat to my face, but I answered her quietly. I am quite strong, madame.

And you are more lame than I expected.

That, I regret, I can do nothing about.

I could not consider an invalid, you understand.

I closed my lips. After a moment I got to my feet.

I’m extremely sorry if Mr. Starke has misled you, madame. About a year ago I met with a serious accident but I am now perfectly well and if I unfortunately walk with a limp it doesn’t impair my ability to carry out my duties. Unless of, course, you require a gym master. I’m greatly obliged to you for granting me this interview—

"Oh...la, la! She broke in on me with a reproachful click of the tongue. You are too hasty. Now sit down again, please. Sit down and let us talk calmly. And what is this ‘geem’? Ah oui, les gymnastiques!...Non monsieur, nous ne desirons pas les gymnastiques. Mais oui...a motor accident was it not?"

How much had Starke told her? I said stiffly. Yes, madame.

And the leg does not inconvenience you?

I no longer care for rock climbing.

My tone was unfortunate, but for a moment I was so far from caring that I met her eyes squarely almost for the first time, and was surprised to see them lit with a glint of tart amusement.

Well...do not keep standing, please, she said mildly at last. That will not do it any good. Besides, you are too tall. I do not like when I talk to you to have the crick in the neck...That is better.

A little travelling clock on the table scampered noisily in a brief silence. Madame Laroche lightly touched some papers which were lying beside it. She said: I have here from Mr. Starke your qualifications. They appear all that is satisfactory. He is very well acquainted with you?

He is an old friend of my father. They were together at Trinity, Cambridge. He has known me all my life.

So. That is good. He knows also very well Dr. Martin who is Maurice’s physician, and a close friend of my son. These things are of even greater importance than brilliant degrees. You have lived in France, I believe, Mr. Maddan?

Only as a child, madame. I’ve returned since for holidays, and on service during the war. Actually I was born at St. Omer.

So! The Pas de Calais...How was that?

My father was-an architect on the Imperial War Graves Commission after the first world war. Then he died when I was about ten and my mother brought my sister and me back to England.

They are domiciled here now?

My mother died three years ago. My sister is married and lives in Nairobi.

Madame Laroche smoothed the black stuff of her skirt. You know the Côte d’Azur, perhaps?

We were landed there in nineteen forty-four.

You were no more than a boy, eh?

Nineteen.

And after the fighting was over you qualified to be a schoolmaster? But since the accident you do not return to the school?

I gazed at the green and beige carpet. It had a curious pattern peculiar, I thought, to hotel apartments or the foyers of super cinemas. I said briefly: No madame.

It seemed suddenly much too hot in the room.

Madame Laroche said: My villa is on the Corniche d’Or just beyond St. Antoine—not very far from Agay. It is named Les Hirondelles. You will like it there, it is very beautiful, many pine trees and beautiful flowers. Behind us we have the Ester els. When would you be at liberty to commence your duties, Mr. Maddan?

I looked up then and sat for a moment not answering, my lips so dry that I had to moisten them before I could speak.

I am at your convenience, madame.

She closed her eyes. Or were the heavy lids only dropped as a shield beneath which she was still studying me, weighing and testing me? She said: I have some business which will keep me in London a few days, and after that...let us see, now...

When finally I got up to go she rose also and held out her hand.

"Au ‘voir, Mr. Maddan. Standing, she was even smaller than I had thought, with a suggestion of a hump between the narrow black-clad shoulders, but her grip was almost as firm as a man’s. That faintly caustic humor glinted again in the watchful eyes. There are rocks on the shore at Les Hirondelles—but they will not need to be climbed."

I emerged from the hotel into dazzling sunshine, went down the steps with extra care, for fear it was all a dream and I was walking in my sleep. The Côte d’Azur...warmth, beauty, peace. A job to do—the job for which I was best fitted and trained.

I’d sat silent while she had been detailing my instructions. It had been hard to keep my mind on what she had been saying. The station was St. Antoine; there was a bus, she informed me, I could take which passed the doors of the villa.

How much had Starke told her? Nothing near the truth, surely. Now reaction was beginning to set in, and on the bottom step I paused and nearly turned back to make clear those things that plainly had never been said. The wish was there, but the will wasn’t strong enough to enforce action. I had too much to lose. After all, I argued with myself, the past is over and done with, surely one has not to be hounded by it for ever.

I’d promised Starke to let him know the result of the interview which he had arranged and I made my way to the nearest call-box and rang through to his office on Ludgate Hill. His voice boomed cheerfully in my ear.

Ah, Richard! Well, how did you get on?

All right. I got the job...

Fine. But I didn’t anticipate anything different. I told you you wouldn’t have any trouble. When do you start?

In about a week. Alan——

Don’t forget the work you’ve got on hand for me, will you? You should be able to settle down to it nicely in your spare time.

Listen, Alan... I was feeling curiously cold. I don’t think,...I mean, it’s obvious she doesn’t know that——

I’ll be envying you! Alan Starke’s great voice, always several tones louder than normal or in any degree necessary, crackled in the receiver. I’m off to Sweden tomorrow—mind you, I like the Swedes, but I’d as lief be roasting myself on the Mediterranean I You’ll forgive me if I cut you a bit short—got someone waiting, and up to my eyes with last minute jobs. Best of luck, my boy. You deserve a break.

And before I had a chance to say anything else I was left holding the end of a dead line. I stared rather stupidly for a while at the instrument in my hand, then slowly replaced it on its rest. It wouldn’t get me much further to put in another call and start again. Even if Alan didn’t evade the issue there wasn’t a lot to be said. This was something I had to work out with my own conscience so finally, still in that queer noman’sland of indecision, swinging between elation and unease, I got a bus back to Dudley Terrace.

That afternoon, because some kind of celebration appeared to be indicated, it seemed a good idea to take Desmond to the Zoo.

I could hardly have made a more ill-timed decision. We hadn’t been inside the place twenty minutes, when within hand’s reach of me, I saw Gillian.

I suppose, actually, she had never really been out of my mind since it had all happened a year ago. I don’t mean that I had consciously thought of her every minute of the time, but the thought had been there beneath the surface like a deep-seated, quiescent pain. I’d considered, dispassionately, the probability of our meeting again some time, somewhere—the pattern of our lives had been too closely interwoven ever since childhood for it to be avoided. It was an occurrence I’d mentally staged in every imaginable setting save this—with Desmond tugging on my hand and the fantastic beast behind the railings curling its lip in supercilious appraisal over our heads.

She was looking the other way, so that all I could see was the line of her cheek and jaw and the curve of her hair against it. At least, she hadn’t seen me. With any luck...

Mr. Maddan, do camels carry things to eat in their humps?

In a way.

She was thinner, or perhaps it was only my fancy.

All kinds of things? Do they keep buns there?

I shouldn’t think so.

If a camel ate ‘n ice-cream would it be ice-cream when it got in its hump? Desmond was jumping up and down with the restless enthusiasm of seven years. Would it, Mr. Maddan?

Very unlikely. Come on—let’s go. Don’t you want to see the sea-lions?

Look! There’s a baby one! I want to watch the baby camel!

Not now. It’s time for the sea-lions.

But it was too late. It didn’t matter any longer. Perhaps she heard my voice, or Desmond saying my name, or it may have been just as it happened that she turned her head. She was close enough for me to see the translucent, golden bloom of her skin and the way the color ebbed and died beneath it.

Ricky!

Her movements were swifter than mine because I hadn’t dragged the resentful Desmond more than two yards before she was at my side. There was nothing for it now but to stand my ground and look pleasant.

How do you do, Gillian?

I couldn’t believe... A hand went to her throat in the gesture I remembered so well. I could hardly believe it was you! I wasn’t sure...

That I was out yet? I smiled determinedly. Oh, yes. Nearly two months. Remission for good conduct, and that.

Gillian had never flinched from unpleasantness, I found myself thinking. Ugly things, things that hurt. She hadn’t as a child of six. She didn’t now. She said: You—looked as though you were trying to run away.

I don’t run very fast these days. You’re looking very well, Gillian. Marriage evidently agrees with you. What are you doing here? Is Arnold with you?

I left him in Paris. Her glance slid downwards from my face. How is the leg, Ricky?

It gets me around, thank you. They wanted to take it off, you know, but I created rather disgracefully about that and in the end they let me have it my way. I think sometimes that they were right and I was wrong.

I didn’t think any better of myself for the way I said that, but that was how I was feeling now. The shock was passing off, leaving an odd sort of vacuum behind. Pulse, blood, emotions—they’d all suddenly gone stone cold. I just wanted to give back something of what I’d had—see if it would get through.

She still didn’t flinch, but there was a flicker in her eyes, like wind fretting the surface of water. She was wearing her hair in an Alice band that made her look about seventeen—rather longer than the present fashion, almost paler than the gold of her skin and brushing the shoulders of her white blouse. The blouse had full sleeves buttoned close at the wrists and making her waist look no more than a hand-span where it was gathered in to the very wide black skirt. I could look at all this and not feel a thing.

This is Jennifer, Evelyn Hurst’s little girl. She drew forward a small girl whom I’d vaguely noticed and now saw was attached to her skirt by a slightly grubby hand. But I expect you’ve met before.

Not since she was about two. This is Desmond, my landlady’s nephew. The ice-cream champion of Primrose Hill.

I’ll bet Jen can beat him hands down! Here, Jenny—take Desmond with you and you can buy two ices from the man over there and the one who finishes last—last, mind—can have another.

She began digging in a sort of mock bamboo bucket slung on her arm, but I stopped her. No, this is on me.

Half-a-crown was engulfed by Desmond’s eager paw and Gillian murmured: Oh, that’s unwise. A shilling would have done. Now they’ll be sick.

I felt nakedly defenseless as the children raced off. Why had I been such a fool? I could easily have made some excuse, got away. And what did Gillian want with me? We had nothing for each other any longer. Why couldn’t she have let me go with the decent pretense that we hadn’t seen one another?

I said, much too late: Desmond’s just getting over mumps.

Oh, heavens! The hand to her throat. Evelyn would—

I relented. It’s all right. He’s quite hygienic.

I hope to goodness you’re right. Primrose Hill—does that mean you’re living near here, Ricky?

Over on the other side.

You’re—not teaching now?

Well, no. The best schools fight shy of drunks.

I thought the color went a little from under the pale golden tan. She said:

I’d like a cup of tea, wouldn’t you? We can talk better sitting down.

We’ve nothing to talk about, Gillian. Never any more. But the words wouldn’t come. All right, I thought, play it her way—light and casual. The how-nice-to-run-into-you-angle. No rejected lover, with heart on sleeve. No big tragedy scene. Let’s talk over old times—twenty years of them after all. The time I ducked you in the bath. The day you let my white mice loose and one of them hid in mother’s workbox. What fun.

How about those two?

They’ll be all right—Jennifer won’t let me out of sight. They can amuse each other. She’s growing very like Evelyn, isn’t she?

Very.

Evelyn’s more beautiful than ever. I’m staying with them a few days. George is developing middle-age spread. Have you seen them lately?

I’ve not seen anyone lately.

Keep that tone out of it, I reminded myself. Be amiable, damn you. But she didn’t seem to have noticed anything this time. The tea-place was only a short distance and as we walked she went on talking about things that didn’t matter till I began to wonder why she wanted to drag the situation out and why I was foolish enough to let her. We sat down at a table littered with the debris from somebody else’s tea and Gillian said: What are you doing, then, Ricky? I mean...

I realized I was feeling rather pleased with this new-found detachment. I could even be faintly amused, interpreting her train of thought with the accuracy born of long acquaintance—he’s not down-and-out broke, not too seedy-looking, could find a half-a-crown for the kids to make themselves sick on ices. How much did his mother leave him? A hundred and fifty a year...doesn’t go far, but he’d have had a balance in the bank and he hasn’t had to pay for his keep...

Alan Starke has put some work in my way—French translations. He’s been more than kind.

I said nothing about Madame Laroche. That was something that just now I didn’t want to think about.

Of course, your French was always faultless—far ahead of the rest of us. Do you remember how people used to take you for a little French boy? And how you used to play up to it—pretend you couldn’t speak English? I found I had lost a lot of mine when we went over last year, although it’s come back a bit now.

She began stacking the dirty tea cups together, and I saw now that the seventeen-year-old look was an illusion; there was a tiredness, a strain, about her eyes that belonged to a woman of more than twice that age—and Gilly was only twenty-five. A huge diamond flashed like a heliograph in the sun as she moved her hand among the crocks; it guarded the platinum wedding-ring and a slim, emerald-studded eternity ring and conveyed a heavily married impression. But it didn’t seem, I thought, to have made her particularly happy.

Do you spend much time in France? I asked politely. On and off. She lifted a shoulder. We’re always moving about. Arnold’s got a deal on just now to do with holiday camps on the Riviera—something on the Butlin lines, you know. It’s being a bit sticky, I think, so he had to let me come on alone. I’ve had a relaxed throat and he wanted me to see an English doctor.

I’m sorry. Nothing serious, I hope?

Oh no.

Are you keeping on with your singing?

I never sing now.

That seems a great waste—why not?

There is never time. We’re usually just arriving somewhere or packing to leave for some other place. You can’t carry a piano about with you in an expanding suitcase.

I allowed myself an unpleasant dig. So there are drawbacks to being the wife of an international financier?

There are...drawbacks. Her eyes dropped, lifted again, and seemed for a moment almost more brilliant than the vulgarly enormous diamond. She said unsteadily: I always wondered how this would happen, Ricky—when, and where. What we would say to one another. How you’d look. Better than I expected. But you’ve changed...

Something began to go wrong. The cool detachment was slipping away, and I watched my hand open and close as it lay on the table top before me. I said shortly: It would be more funny if I hadn’t.

I never could understand...

What couldn’t you?

"None of it, Ricky. I’ve never known you drunk. It was so completely alien from all you’ve ever been. When I—"

You’ll allow there were extenuating circumstances. Did you fly over or did you come the old-fashioned way? You used to say nothing would induce you to go in a plane, but—

I’ve...thought so much about you. Prayed for you...

"That was nice of you. They expected me to die, I understand—were quite disconcerted when I didn’t. Perhaps