The Paw in The Bottle Page 6

  “Yes, madam.” Julie was getting tired of standing before this glamorous little doll.

  “And you won’t mind being left alone here for the night?” Julie showed her surprise.

  “Oh, no, madam. I don’t mind at all.”

  “How brave of you,” Blanche said languidly. “I hate being alone here. Mr. Wesley has been in Paris for the past fortnight and I’ve been terrified. You never know when someone’s going to break in. There are so many burglaries these days and you do hear the oddest noises at night. I sometimes think the place is haunted. But I suppose you don’t believe in ghosts?”

  No, madam,” Julie said firmly.

  “It must be nice to have no imagination,” Blanche said, patting her curls. “I’m so sensitive and nervous. There are times when I’m quite positive someone creeps up and down the passage. I suppose it’s because I’m highly strung.”

  “Or tight,” Julie thought, wanting to laugh. She said, “Shall I run your bath, madam?”

  “I suppose you’d better. And then there’s a bag to be packed. I shan’t be back until to-morrow evening. I expect Mr. Wesley about the same time. There’ll be plenty for you to do. All my things want tidying. I’ve had absolutely no one for days and everything gets in such a mess. I don’t know why. Do be a nice girl and open that cupboard. That’s right. You see each of my dresses has a number. It’s on the hanger.”

  The room was fitted with three enormous cupboards with sliding doors. The cupboard that Julie opened contained two long rows of dresses, coats, frocks and evening gowns.

  “Each dress has a hat, underwear, gloves and bag to go with it, and, of course, shoes,” Blanche explained in a tired little voice. “It’s my own system. Everything is numbered and it’s simply a matter of keeping the numbers together. Do you think you can manage?”

  “Oh, yes, madam.”

  “There’s a safe over there. You can’t see it. It’s hidden behind the wall. I look after that myself. I keep my furs and jewellery in it. Now I think you’d better run my bath. I simply must catch the five-twenty and time’s getting on.” She added this as if it were Julie’s fault.

  While Blanche was in the bathroom Julie did her best to tidy the bedroom, and as she worked she wondered what she was going to do with herself that evening. She hadn’t expected an evening to herself so soon. If she could only get hold of Harry they might go to a movie together. But how could she get in touch with him? The only hope was Mrs. French. Harry had said she would pass on a message. It was worth trying.

  Getting Blanche off was a maddening and exhausting operation. Twice her suitcase had to be unpacked because she changed her mind about what she intended to take with her : then, when all seemed ready and Julie was about to telephone for a taxi, Blanche became fretful and decided not to go.

  “I really don’t think I can be bothered,” she said, flopping into an arm-chair. Dressed and made up, she was startlingly beautiful : like a painted, irresistibly attractive doll. “It’s not as if I like the people. They are too frightful for words. And besides, I don’t feel well. I won’t go . . . that settles it. You’d better unpack before everything is creased.”

  At the best of times Julie loathed packing. She had packed, unpacked, repacked and unpacked again and again packed.

  Each operation had been supervised by Blanche who had criticized, scolded, and made useless suggestions. Now she was telling her to unpack for the third time. She nearly lost her temper, and longed to throw the suitcase at Blanche, but she managed to control herself and with unsteady hands she once more began to empty the suitcase. When it was nearly unpacked, Blanche suddenly gave an exclamation and beat her hands together.

  “What am I thinking about?” she cried in apparent anguish. “My poor Julie. Of course I must go. I was forgetting Buckie would be there. And I simply must see him. Do hurry and pack again. I’ll miss the train if you don’t hurry. I can’t say how sorry I am to give you all this extra work.”

  Julie was at boiling point and near tears. She began to slam the various articles back into the suitcase.

  “Oh, no, Julie, don’t close it yet,” Blanche went on as Julie was about to slam the lid shut. “It’s not very well packed, is it? There was something . . . of course. I don’t think I want that mauve thing. It’s somewhere at the bottom. You know the thing I mean. It makes me look like death.”

  Julie could have strangled her. She snatched the mauve evening gown from the suitcase, disarranging everything as she did so. She looked so distressed and angry that Blanche decided to change her tactics.

  “Would you like that gown, Julie?” she asked casually. “I don’t want it and it seems a shame not to put it to some use, doesn’t it?”

  The bottom was knocked out of Julie’s fury. She sat back on her heels and stared up at Blanche.

  “I beg your pardon, madam?” she said, looked at the gown and touched it with caressing fingers.

  “It is nice, isn’t it?” Blanche said carelessly. “One of Hartnell’s. But the colour makes me look like hell. I can’t imagine why I bought it. Would you like it?”

  “Me?” Julie said, her eyes lighting up. “Oh, yes, I would. Thank you madam.”

  Blanche smiled. It was a cruel little smile and when Julie saw it her heart sank.

  “Well, I’ll think about it,” Blanche said. “Of course, I couldn’t give it to you. It cost a hundred and fifty guineas or something like that. But I might let you have it for twenty pounds.” Sick with disappointment Julie put the gown on the back of the chair, stooped to fasten the suitcase.

  “And I don’t suppose you have twenty pounds to spend on a gown, or have you?” Blanche went on airily.

  No, madam,” Julie said and turned away.

  “What a pity. Oh, well, never mind. It would be absurd really for a girl of your class to wear it. You’d only get yourself laughed at. Perhaps I’ll advertise in The Times. I could do that, couldn’t I?”

  Julie looked swiftly at her and caught a gleeful expression on Blanche’s face. It was gone in a moment, but Julie knew then that she was being deliberately baited.

  “All right,” she thought, “have your fun, you filthy little cat. But you won’t catch me like that again.”

  “It’s no use letting her get under your skin,” she told herself when Blanche had gone. “That’s what she is trying to do. Thank goodness I’m free of her for the next twenty-four hours. I don’t care what Harry does to her now. If I can help him put her rotten nose out of joint I’ll do it.”

  She decided it would take her at least two hours of hard work to put the flat straight. It was now a quarter to five. She could be ready to meet Harry by seven if she could find him.

  She didn’t want to ring Mrs. French’s agency, but there was no other alternative. After some hesitation she put the call through.

  Dana answered.

  “This is Julie Holland,” Julie said, stiffening when she recognized Dana’s husky voice. “I want to speak to Mr. Gleb. Can you give me his number?”

  “Hold on,” Dana said. The telephone was put down with a sharp click. Julie heard her say, “It’s the Holland girl. She wants to speak to you.”

  To Julie’s surprise, Harry’s voice floated over the line. “What’s up?” he asked sharply.

  “Oh, nothing. It’s all right. I wanted to see you to-night. Mrs. Wesley has gone away and I’ve got the evening off. Can we meet about seven?”

  “Sorry, kid.” He sounded irritable. “I’ve got a date.”

  “But, Harry, surely we can meet. I don’t know when I’ll be free again. I’m all alone here and I’ve got nothing to do.”

  “I’m catching a train to Manchester in twenty minutes,” he returned. “I’m sorry, but it’s something I can’t do anything about. I’ll see you when I get back. I haven’t a minute. So long,” and he hung up.

  “Damn!” Julie thought. “Oh, damn! Well, you’re stuck. You have no one to talk to, no one to go out with and the whole evening on your hands. What rotten lu
ck to have found him so easily and we can’t meet. He might have been nicer on the “phone. After all, we are lovers.” Then, anxious to make excuses for him, she thought it must have been difficult for him with the Dana woman listening in.

  Sometime later, lying in bed, she forgot her loneliness. Her room delighted her. It was as comfortably furnished as the other rooms in the flat and had a bathroom adjoining, a telephone, and a portable wireless by the bed.

  Julie had been to her flat in Fulham Palace Road and had packed her bags and brought them to her new home. In her new luxurious surroundings she no longer felt neglected nor did she wish for company. The room, the hot bath, the wireless and the comfortable bed more than made up for the disappointment of not seeing Harry.

  At eleven-thirty she turned off the wireless and settled down in bed. As she reached out to turn off the bedside lamp she heard a sound that made her pause. Somewhere in the flat a door closed softly. She frowned, aware of a sudden uneasiness, and she waited, listening. And while she waited in the silent little room she remembered what Blanche had said : I hate being alone here. I’m sure it’s haunted. There really are the oddest sounds at night.

  “She was trying to frighten me,” Julie thought, and she reached once more for the light switch, but paused again as the curtains billowed out. “It’s only the wind getting up,” she reassured herself, but she continued to listen.

  The flat was sound-proofed. She could hear nothing now except the steady ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece and her own rapid heartbeat.

  With an impatient shrug she turned off the light. But im-mediately the room was in darkness it became an object of frightening speculation. Was there someone in the flat? Had someone crept into the room? Was it the wind that moved the curtains or was it . . .?

  “This is ridiculous,” she thought. “There’s nothing in the flat that could possibly frighten me so long as I don’t allow myself to be frightened.”

  And then she distinctly heard footsteps and she turned cold. There was no mistaking the sound : soft, stealthy footsteps that crept towards her door.

  She reached for the bedside lamp and succeeded only in knocking it to the floor. It fell with a thud on the carpet and, leaning out of bed, her hair over her eyes, her heart pounding, she scrabbled feverishly for it. Then she became aware that in the darkness her door handle was turning and it flashed through her mind that she hadn’t locked the door.

  There was a light in the passage and as the door inched open the light crept into the room. She drew back in the bed, crouched down, terrified. A ribbon of light fell across the floor creating menacing shadows. The door ceased to move and she could hear someone in the passage breathing softly.

  She waited : too frightened to make a sound, suspended in terror.

  Something white and indistinct but moving came round the edge of the door. The scream that had been boiling inside her like a hot, seething ball made a croaking sound through the room. The light went on. Blanche Wesley stood in the doorway. In the shaded light she looked like a mischievous, gleeful little gnome.

  Julie screamed again.

  “Did I disturb you?” Blanche asked innocently. “I meant to be so quiet and just have a peep at you to see if you were comfortable.” The forget-me-not blue eyes never left Julie’s panic-stricken face. “I changed my mind and caught the last train home. I’m afraid I frightened you.” The gleeful smile widened. “But you did say you weren’t nervous, didn’t you, or were you boasting?” She turned off the light and said out of the darkness, “Good night, Julie.”

  The door closed.

  II

  Julie came to the conclusion that in some odd, perverted way, Blanche was not quite right in the head. She decided the only thing to do was not to get rattled. Oh, yes, she had been badly rattled last night . . . but then who wouldn’t have been? And she was still feeling the effects of her fright the following morning. But she had only been rattled because Blanche had taken her by surprise. Next time (and there was sure to be a next time) Julie was determined to be on her guard. The woman was cracked. She drank too much and she liked to bully and frighten. “Very well, then,” Julie said to herself. “I know what to watch for and I’ll be ready for her.” But in spite of trying to adopt a sensible attitude she had a foreboding that she was going to have a bad time with Blanche, and that Blanche had all kinds of beastly little tricks up her sleeve which would succeed no matter how careful Julie was to guard against them. And in this she was right. Not anticipating that Blanche would amuse herself by remote control (as you might say) she fell an easy victim of a practical joke Blanche had prepared for her.

  While preparing her breakfast, Julie went to a large store cupboard for some tea and came face to face with the body of a man, lying face downwards on the floor, half-concealed by the shadowy darkness.

  For a brief moment she watched herself run out of her body, whirl and run back into it again, and the sunlit kitchen went dark as her senses recoiled from the shock. She found herself half sitting, half lying on the floor, her nerves fluttering, her muscles rigid with fright. It took her several minutes before she could screw up enough courage to look at the body again. A closer examination revealed it to be nothing more frightening than a suit of clothes realistically stuffed with cushions, and she realized that Blanche had scored off her again.

  Not quite knowing what she was doing, she removed the cushions, folded the suit and carried it into Howard Wesley’s dressing-room. Passing the mirror in the hall she was startled to see how white and drawn she looked and that her eyes were like holes in a sheet.

  She returned to the kitchen, made herself a cup of tea and sat down. “If there’s going to be much more of this,” she thought, seeing how unsteady her hands were, “I’ll have to leave. Of course, it was stupid of me to have been so frightened, but who on earth would have thought she’d’ve taken all that trouble—and the beastly thing did look horribly life-like.”

  Later, she was putting linen away in a drawer when her hand touched something dry and leathery. Looking down she was petrified to see a gruesome-looking snake coiled up in the bottom of the drawer. Julie had a horror of snakes, and she screamed wildly, dropped the linen and made a mad rush for the door. But when she had recovered from the first paralysing shock, it occurred to her that this might be yet another of Blanche’s little pleasantries and she returned to the room to peer fearfully into the drawer. Although stuffed, with eyes made of glass, the thing was, nevertheless, a snake, and with a shudder, Julie threw the linen in on top of it and slammed the drawer shut. She was now completely unnerved and when the front door bell rang sharply she nearly jumped out of her skin.

  She had no recollection of leaving the room nor of opening the front door. She suddenly became aware of a tall, well-dressed man towering above her and who regarded her with pale interest.

  “I suppose Mrs. Wesley isn’t up yet?” he said in a complaining voice and walked into the lounge hall, handed her his hat and stick. He peeled off his gloves and dropped them into his hat which she held vacantly before her, endeavouring as best she could to collect her scattered wits.

  She said no, Mrs. Wesley was not up, and wondered who he could be and what he wanted.

  “I am Mr. Hugh Benton, Mr. Wesley’s partner,” he told her. He was thin-faced, clean shaven and pale. Everything about him was pale : his hair was fair and lank, his lips were bloodless arid his eyes the colour of amber. He wore an Old Etonian tie and his voice was soft like a man speaking in church. “I suppose you are the new maid,” he went on, and looked her over the way a horse dealer examines a new purchase. “Would you tell Mrs. Wesley I am here?”

  “She doesn’t like to be disturbed so early,” Julie said, uncomfortably remembering the reception she had received at three o’clock the previous afternoon.

  “How interesting,” he said, and smiled, or rather he showed his small, white teeth. You couldn’t call this automatic grimace a smile. “I’ve known Mrs. Wesley a little longer than you and I
am well aware of her habits. Tell her I am here, please.”

  “But I—I don’t think—” Julie began, knowing how furious Blanche might be to be disturbed at eleven-thirty in the morning.

  “You’re not paid to think,” Benton said, grimacing at her. “You’re paid to do as you’re told.”

  Julie swung on her heel, her face burning, and went quickly down the passage to Blanche’s room. She was furious with herself for giving this creature such an opportunity to snub her. She rapped sharply on the door, entered the room.

  Blanche was lying in bed, a cigarette hung from her lips and a tumbler of brandy stood on the bedside table within reach.

  She looked up; her pale, puffy little face hardened.

  “I didn’t tell you to barge in here just when you like, did I?” she said, and her eyes began to glitter angrily. “I’ll ring for you when I want you. Now get out !”

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, madam,” Julie said quietly, “but Mr. Benton has called and insists on seeing you. I told him you were resting.”

  The angry expression vanished and Blanche struggled up in bed.

  “Hugh? At this time? I mustn’t keep him waiting. Quick, Julie, tidy the room. Give me my make-up box. Oh, come on, stir yourself, don’t stand there looking like a stuffed fish.”

  This was a new Blanche : a fluttering, girlish, excited Blanche who was even more hateful, Julie thought, than the cruel, gleeful, sadistic Blanche.

  While Blanche worked on her face with expert swiftness, Julie darted around the room clearing up the inevitable con-fusion.

  “Spray some perfume about the place,” Blanche commanded as she put colour on her pale cheeks. “I’m sure the room stinks.” She put down the rouge puff, swallowed the brandy and put the glass in the cupboard at her side. “And open a window. Do hurry, Julie. You drag yourself about as if your back’s broken.”

  Flushed and breathless Julie did as she was told, cleared away the further mess Blanche had made completing her toilet and bundled the soiled towels into the bathroom.