The Paw in The Bottle Page 10

  IV

  At three o’clock the same afternoon, Harry sat on the same park bench Theo had occupied in the morning and stared up at the windows of Wesley’s flat. He waited impatiently for Julie, but Julie didn’t come. At a quarter to four he was angry and slightly alarmed.

  “What’s happened to her?” he wondered uneasily. “She can’t have hooked it without waiting for me.”

  After waiting another five minutes he got up and walked rapidly to a telephone box not far away. He put through a call to Wesley’s flat, but there was no answer.

  He began to get seriously worried.

  “Where the hell has she got to?” he asked himself as he stood uneasily outside the telephone box and stared up at the blank windows.

  It was too risky to go to the flat. For some moments he was undecided what to do, and he was aware of a growing feeling of apprehension. If Ma French had done anything to her! He clenched his fists angrily. It was no good standing here, wondering. He’d have to find out. He waved to a passing taxi, gave an address in Chelsea and sat back, lighting a cigarette with an unsteady hand. If they had done anything to her! He’d make them pay somehow. She was his now. If anyone thought they could touch her, they’d have him to reckon with. Mrs. French and Dana were having tea in their small service flat when Harry came striding in.

  Dana went to him.

  “Why, hello, Harry. I wasn’t expecting you.”

  But Harry ignored her, pushing past her and confronting Ma with a look of rage on his face.

  “What’s happened to Julie?” he demanded roughly. “We were going to meet this afternoon. She hasn’t turned up. I’ve rung the flat and there’s no answer. Do you know anything about it?”

  Mrs. French met his furious stare calmly.

  “You’re behaving like a damned fool, as usual, Harry,” she said. “Why should you care what’s happened to her?”

  He pulled himself together with an effort. He mustn’t let her suspect he was in love with Julie. There’d be time for that when the job was done and he’d received his cut. If either of these women thought he was going off with Julie they’d stop him. He was sure of that.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” he snapped. “She’s working for us. I’m keeping my eye on her. Now she’s vanished.”

  “You said last night she wasn’t going to work for us,” Mrs. French reminded him. “I think you’re making too much fuss of her. It’s not fair on Dana, Harry.”

  Harry glowered at her.

  “Does she mean anything to you?” Dana demanded, con-fronting him.

  “No ! But I want to know what’s happened to her.”

  “Then that’s all right,” Mrs. French said and laughed. “I sent Theo to see her this morning. They had a little chat and she changed her mind about leaving. I expect she’s sulking.”

  “Theo? You sent that stinking rat . . .”

  “Why not? You said yourself she was being difficult.”

  “Theo!” Harry was pale, and restrained his rage with difficulty. “Did he touch her?”

  “Why all the interest? I thought you said the girl meant nothing to you?”

  Harry stood looking first at Mrs. French and then at Dana. Then he swung on his heel and walked out, slamming the door behind him.

  “He’ll soon get tired of her,” Mrs. French said, as Dana started up to follow him. “If he doesn’t, I’ll get her out of the way when the job’s done. Now, don’t be silly about this. There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Oh, shut up!” Dana exclaimed, and burst into tears.

  V

  On Monday evening, Blanche Wesley returned to her flat in a waspish mood. The week-end hadn’t been a success. Benton had been in a difficult, demanding mood and the hotel had been hell. Of course, Hugh hadn’t much money. He gambled recklessly and was up to his ears in debt, but if he thought anything but the best was good enough for her he had better get any further idea of taking her away again for a week-end out of his miserly, pale head. And she hated Brighton anyway. Why it always had to be Brighton she couldn’t think. There had been a continuous wind; it had been chilly and it rained. The hotel was unbelievable. They had refused to serve meals in the bedroom and had given her a bit of butter the size of a halfpenny with her toast. When she had complained the waiter had actually been impertinent, and that fool Hugh had told her there was a peace on. He seemed to think that was funny. She had wanted a fire in the bedroom, but the management had yammered about the fuel shortage. If it hadn’t been for Hugh, who had hustled her away, she would have told the management exactly what she had thought of the hotel. The final blow had been the discovery that the hotel hadn’t any brandy, and that was something she just couldn’t do without. So she was forced to pub-crawl in the pouring rain, and the muck they offered her wasn’t fit even to cook with, and they had the audacity to charge six shillings a glass for it.

  And now, as she swept into the spacious entrance lobby of Park Way, she was determined that here, at least, she wasn’t going to stand any nonsense. This was her permanent home; if she wanted a fire she would have one; if she wanted service, she would get it; if she wanted a pound of butter with her morning toast the porter would damn well produce it or she’d know the reason why. If there was the slightest indication that the service had deteriorated during her absence, she would have a row; and what a glorious, flaming, hell-raising row it would be.

  But the moment the head porter saw her he was out of his cubby-hole, snapping orders to the under-porter and respectfully welcoming her. The taxi was paid off, her luggage was brought in, her mail, neatly tied with string, was presented to her with a flourish. A lighted match appeared as if by magic when she put a cigarette in her pouting lips.

  This was better, she thought, much more like it, and she mellowed under the soothing, respectful attention bestowed upon her.

  “Well, Harris,” she said, drawing off her gloves. “It’s nice to be back again. I’ve had the most damnable week-end. What’s been happening at the flat. Any callers?”

  The head porter was used to this inquiry. He was well aware that nothing was too petty to escape Blanche’s attention. Since he received at least five pounds a week from her in tips it paid him to be servile, although his private opinion of her was startlingly obscene.

  “Mr. Wesley and Mr. Gerridge returned to the flat on Saturday night, madam,” he told her. “And a person called to see your maid on Sunday morning.”

  Blanche smiled amiably, flickered her long, spiky eye-lashes and revealed her beautiful little teeth.

  “Did Mr. Wesley stay the week-end at the flat?” she purred. “Oh, no, madam, just Saturday night.”

  “Did Mr. Gerridge stay with him?”

  “No, madam.”

  Blanche tapped ash off her cigarette.

  “Of course, my maid was there to help him if he wanted help? She didn’t leave the flat?”

  “No, madam, she was there.”

  Blanche nodded, delighted. Here, at least, were the ingredients for a first-class row.

  “Going to make something out of this, the little cow.” the head porter thought to himself. “Well, let her get on with it. It’ll give her something to do for a change.”

  “And who was this person who came to see my maid?” Blanche asked.

  “He told me he was her brother,” the head porter said, his fat face darkening, “but I must say I considered him an extremely undesirable young fellow. I didn’t like the looks of him at all.”

  Blanche’s smiled vanished.

  “Then why did you let him up?” she demanded, a rasp in her voice. “Didn’t I tell you to keep an eye on that girl? Didn’t I leave implicit instructions she was not to have a man in the flat? Surely you know by now that these chits of girls are no better than street walkers? Do you think I want my flat turned into a brothel in my absence?”

  The head porter saw too late where his runaway tongue had led him.

  “He called at nine o’clock yesterday morning, madam,�
�� he said uncomfortably. “He didn’t stay more than a few minutes. If he had been longer I would have had him down. I assure you there was no time for any nonsense of that sort.”

  Blanche gave him a steady stare.

  “You can be immoral at nine o’clock on a Sunday morning as easily as at nine o’clock on Saturday night,” she said bitingly. “From what I hear it seems that these guttersnipes can misconduct themselves in a few minutes without straining their nervous systems, and as for her having a brother I simply don’t believe it. You are a fool, Harris. You have always been a fool and you have every indication of remaining a fool until a grave in some forgotten churchyard claims you.”

  “Yes madam,” the hall porter said, and bowed humbly. Blanche snapped her fingers at the under-porter who was waiting with her luggage and walked to the lift.

  The under-porter gathered up the luggage, winked at the head porter who glared at him, and followed Blanche into the lift.

  Sweeping into her flat like a miniature tornado, Blanche managed to reach the bell in the lounge and ring it furiously before Julie was aware that she was in the flat.

  Blanche looked searchingly at Julie as she came hurrying in. Julie was pale and there were dark rings under her eyes. This was not to be wondered at since she had scarcely slept the previous night.

  “Get me some brandy,” Blanche ordered, “and hurry. You look thoroughly washed out.”

  Julie didn’t say anything. She had been dreading this moment. She fetched a decanter and glass and set them on the table, then picked up Blanche’s suitcase and backed to the door.

  “Don’t go away,” Blanche said sharply. “I want to talk to you. Come here, where I can see you.” She poured out the brandy, drank half a tumbler of the liquor neat, refilled her glass and lit a cigarette. “What have you been doing with yourself over the week-end?”

  “Oh, nothing really, madam,” Julie said, avoiding Blanche’s searching eyes, “I—I tidied up. There was a little sewing . . .” Blanche snapped her fingers impatiently.

  “Never mind that,” she said. “Did anyone call?”

  “Oh, no, madam.”

  Blanche stared at her.

  “You mean to tell me no one except yourself has been in the flat over the week-end?”

  Julie hesitated, then said, “Yes, madam, that’s right.”

  “How very odd,” Blanche said. “The hall porter tells me your brother called on you yesterday.”

  “My—my brother?” Julie stammered, realized a little late that Theo probably had difficulty in getting past the head porter and, as an excuse to get upstairs, had made out he was her brother. “Oh, yes, madam. I—I forget. My brother did come to see me. He didn’t stay long. I didn’t let him into the fiat. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Blanche sipped her brandy. She felt that if she wasn’t careful the row she was longing to stage might not materialize.

  “I think you are lying,” she said sharply. “I don’t believe you have a brother, and I don’t believe for one moment you didn’t ask this man into my flat.”

  “I assure you, madam,” Julie said, fear giving her courage, “he didn’t come into the flat. He—he’s got a job on a ship and only came to say good-bye.”

  Blanche glowered at her.

  “I see,” she said.

  “There’s no point in pursuing that,” she thought. “The little slut’s slippery, but I’ve not finished with her yet.”

  “So, apart from your brother, no one else has been here?” she went on, lifting her eyebrows.

  “Had the hall porter told her that Wesley had been back?” Julie wondered. “Had he been off duty?” Wesley had asked her to say nothing. She stood hesitating, not knowing what to say.

  “Well, speak up!” Blanche snapped.

  Julie decided to risk it.

  “No one else, madam.”

  Blanche smiled.

  “Not even, Mr. Wesley, Julie?” she asked gently.

  “She knows,” Julie thought. “Now, what am I to do?” But Blanche gave her no opportunity to make excuses. She flared up into a furious rage.

  “So that’s it, is it?” she stormed, starting out of her chair. “Of course, a blind man can’t be too particular. They say all cats are grey in the dark, but I’m surprised he picked on a skivvy !”

  Julie felt herself go hot and then cold. But she knew there was nothing she dare do. She had to stay in this flat now until Mrs. French told her she could leave.

  “You’re making a mistake . . .” she began.

  “Mistake?” Blanche’s voice rose to a scream. “How dare you lie to me !” She snatched up her glass of brandy and threw it at Julie. The glass whizzed past Julie’s head, smashed against the wall; some of the splinters narrowly missed her. “Get out of my sight, you dirty little slut !”

  Julie made a bolt for the door as Blanche looked around for something else to throw at her. She neatly collided with Wesley as he came in.

  “What’s going on here?” he demanded. “Blanche! What’s happening?”

  “I’ll tell you what’s happening!” Blanche stormed. “I was just telling your cheap little mistress what I thought of her!”

  Julie ran from the room. But she didn’t go far. As soon as she was out of sight, she paused to listen.

  “You’d better control yourself, Blanche,” Wesley said quietly. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “I suppose you’ll deny you stayed the night here with that chit?”

  “I stayed here on Saturday night,” Wesley returned. “Does that annoy you?”

  “Then why did she say you weren’t here if you two haven’t been up to something?”

  “Because I told her to. Knowing your grubby little mind I foolishly thought it would save a scene. But I was wrong. Now are you satisfied?”

  “You cheap cad!” Blanche said furiously, and there came the sound of a blow. There was a sudden crash of breaking glass and a thud as some piece of furniture fell over.

  Horrified, Julie peered into the room.

  Wesley was standing motionless, his hand to his face. Blanche, livid with fury, faced him. The occasional table lay on its side surrounded by fragments of glass from a smashed vase.

  “Now I hope you are satisfied,” Wesley said in a strained voice.

  “I’m not, you useless fool!” Blanche said, and struck him on the other side of his face with her open hand.

  Julie caught her breath sharply, but neither of them heard her.

  Wesley stepped back.

  “That’s enough, Blanche. You’re drunk. Go and lie down and sleep it off. You disgust me.”

  “Oh! I hate you!” Blanche screamed at him. She looked wildly round the room, darted to the fireplace and snatched up the poker. There was a murderous expression in her eyes that chilled Julie. As Blanche rushed towards Wesley, brandishing the poker, Julie cried out, “Mind! She’s got a poker!”

  But Wesley made no move to avoid Blanche, and Julie darted forward, seized Blanche’s wrist as she reached Wesley.

  “Don’t you dare touch him! How could you, when he’s blind?” she cried.

  Blanche wrenched her wrist free, gaped at Julie; her rage dying on her. Then, suddenly, she began to laugh. She turned away, dropping into an arm-chair and shook with gleeful mirth.

  “Oh, Howard, it’s too comic,” she gasped. “The little fool actually thought I was going to hit you.”

  Julie was dumbfounded. She felt herself turn white and then red. She was completely bewildered by Blanche’s malicious laughter.

  “Oh, run away, Julie,” Blanche said, giggling. “You don’t have to protect him. I wouldn’t hurt him for anything.”

  Julie gulped, backed away, and as she was leaving the room the front door bell rang.

  VI

  Hugh Benton handed his hat and gloves to Julie, eyed her thoughtfully.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Wesley are at home, I believe,” he said, raising his pale eyebrows. “I’ll find my way in.” He entered the lounge, st
ood in the doorway, surveying the poker, the smashed vase and the pool of water on the carpet. His amber-coloured eyes looked quickly at Blanche.

  “Why, hello, Hugh,” she said gaily. “How nice of you to come. I’ve been losing my temper again.”

  “Ah, I’m sorry to hear that.” Benton moved into the room cautiously. “Hello, Howard; glad to see you back. I’m sorry I wasn’t in the office to welcome you. I took a long week-end at Brighton.”

  “They told me at the office,” Wesley said stiffly. “I hope you enjoyed yourself.”

  “Pretty fair, thank you, pretty fair. Weather wasn’t what it might have been.”

  “I do hope you stayed at a good hotel, Hugh, dear,” Blanche said sweetly. “Those cheap little places are so horrid, I always think. No fires, no meals in bed, no butter : dreadful.”

  Benton winced.

  “Yes, I know what you mean,” he said, wandered further into the room. “Still it’s difficult now : difficult times.”

  “For goodness’ sake,” Blanche said impatiently. “Where’s Julie? Julie! Clear up this mess at once.”

  Julie came in hurriedly, began to pick up the pieces of glass. As she worked, she was aware that Benton stared at her with inquisitive, probing eyes.

  “Have a drink, Hugh,” Wesley said abruptly. “I’m not going out to-night. I have work to do.”

  “Oh, that’s a pity. I was wondering if you two would care to dine at my club,” Benton said. “I’ll have a whisky I think. Can I persuade you to change your mind?”

  “Brandy for me, darling,” Blanche said as Wesley made his way to the sideboard. “I’d love to dine at your club, Hugh, my pet. It’s such a lovely, dull, stuffy old place. Do let’s, Howard.”

  “I have work to do,” Wesley returned quietly.

  “Well, I’ll go without you then,” Blanche said. “I don’t see why I should be cooped up here all day.”

  “Please yourself,” Wesley said, brought two glasses to the middle of the room.

  Blanche took the drinks from him, and gave the whisky to Benton, who caressed her fingers as she put the glass into his band.

  “Oh, well, perhaps we’ll make it some other day,” Benton said uneasily.