(1941) Up at the Villa by W. Somerset Maugham

floor, as still as the dead man by her side. The knock was repeated. She
forced herself to speak.
    `Yes, what is it?’
    `Are you all right, Signora?" It was Nina's voice.
    `I thought I heard a bang.’
    Mary, clenching her hands, dug her nails into her palms
in order to force herself to speak naturally.
    `You must have been dreaming. I heard nothing. Go to bed.’
    `Very well, Signora.’
    There was a moment's pause, and then she heard the bare
feet pattering away again. As though she could follow the sound with her eyes,
Mary, turning her head, followed it down the passage. She had spoken
instinctively to give herself time to gather her wits together. She sighed
deeply. But something had to be done. She leant over to look once more at the
Austrian. She shuddered. Getting on to her feet again, she put her hands under
the dead man's arms and tried to drag him out of the window. She hardly knew
what she was doing; it was some blind impulse that led her to want somehow to
get him out of the room. But the body was heavy. She gave a gasp of anguish;
she felt as weak as a rat. Now she couldn't think what to do. Suddenly it
occurred to her that it had been madness to send Nina away. How could she
explain that, with that man lying dead in the room, she had said there was
nothing the matter? Why had she said that she had heard no sound when he had
shot himself within those four walls? A confused rush of all the terrible
difficulties of her position swirled in her head like a whirlpool. And the shame. The dishonour. And
what answer could she give when they asked her why he had killed himself? The
only thing she could do was to tell the truth; and the truth was vile. It was
awful to be alone there without anyone to help her and tell her what to do. In
her distraction she felt she must see someone. Help, help, she must have help. Rowley. He was the only person she could think of. She was
sure he would come if she asked him. He liked her, he said he loved her, and,
bad lot as he was, he was a good sort; at all events he'd give her advice. But
it was so late. How could she expect to get hold of him like that, in the
middle of the night? But she couldn't wait till daybreak, nothing would be any good unless it were done at once.
    There was a phone by her bed. She knew the number because
Edgar had stayed at the same hotel and she had often called him. She dialed it.
At first there was no reply and then an Italian voice answered. Presumably it
was a night porter whom she had roused out of a stolen nap. She asked to be put
through to Rowley's room. She could hear the bell ringing, but there was no
answer. For a moment she was terrified, thinking that he was out; he might have
gone somewhere after he left her, to gamble or, being what he was, he might
have found some woman and gone home with her. She gave a sigh of relief when
she heard a cross, sleepy voice.
    `Yes. What is it?”
    ‘Rowley. It's me. Mary. I'm in
frightful trouble.’
    She suddenly felt that he was wide awake. He gave a
little chuckle.
    `Late to get into trouble, isn't it? What's it all about?’
    `I can't tell you. It's serious. I want you to come here.’
    `When?”
    ‘Now. At once. As soon as you can. For God's sake.’
    He heard the quaver in her voice.
    `Of course I'll come. Don't worry.’
    What a comfort those two words were. She put down the
receiver. She tried to think how long he'd be. It was more than three miles,
much of it uphill, from the hotel to her villa. At that hour he wouldn't be
likely to get a taxi; if he had to walk it would take him nearly an hour. In an
hour it would be dawn. She could not wait in the room. It was horrible. She
changed quickly from the wrap she was wearing into a dress. She turned out the
light, unlocked the door, very cautiously in order not to make a sound, and
slipped into the passage; she opened the front door and walked down the
monumental stairway that led to the drive, then along the