“And now for Forbury,” Hyson decided, putting his finger on the bell-button.
Forbury seemed in no haste to answer the summons. A full three minutes and more passed before he had made his appearance. Hyson looked him over critically, taking in one by one the familiar points: the shabby office coat frayed at one sleeve, the old-fashioned collar which should have been replaced yesterday, the lined face with its loose mouth. The fellow didn’t even know what to do with his hands when they were empty, he noted contemptuously. Efficiency! No wonder he opposed the introduction of labour-saving devices. Hadn’t the brains to understand them, apart from everything else. All he was fit for was to jog along between well-known rails, like the extinct tramway horse. A uxorious fellow, too. Always spoke about “the wife” as if he possessed a unique specimen. Hyson had a wife of his own, but she was not the only woman in whom he was interested. He despised Forbury as he would have despised a man who dined invariably on chops.
On his side, Forbury was examining his superior covertly. He distrusted Hyson, and he had his private grievance against him. When the old head clerk had died, a few years back, Forbury had looked on the succession as a certainty. He and “the wife” had made all sorts of happy little plans based on the coming rise in salary. They had spent evening after evening building castles in the air. “And we’ll be able to afford so-and-so,” they had pointed out to each other, as fresh possibilities occurred to their simple minds. And then the blow had fallen. Old Lockhurst had a cousin who knew a man who knew young Hyson. Influence had carried the day, and Forbury had been passed over, with a ten-pound rise to sugar the pill. All the pretty visions vanished. It was “the wife’s” disappointment that hurt Forbury most. He could still remember her face when he had gone home to blurt out the bad news.
And so this young brute — for thirty-seven seemed young to Forbury — this young brute had stepped over his head, right into the chief clerkship. A superior young sweep, he was, with his abrupt talk and his contemptuous airs, as if one wasn’t good enough to work alongside of him in the same office. And, another bitter pill, he didn’t need the money. He had a private income, Forbury had learned. Just an amateur, as one might say, taking the bread from the mouths of people who needed it. He lived in a nice big villa out in the best suburb, with a man coming once a week to look after the garden; while Forbury, who had a passion for flowers, had to make shift with a patch of ground ten yards by twenty, where nothing would grow.
The old chief clerk had been an approachable kind of man, drawn from the same social stratum as Forbury himself. But no one could get on good terms with this Hyson, with his freezing comments and his superior clothes. Time and again he’d passed Forbury in the street without so much as a look in his direction. Not good enough for him, outside the office, apparently. But he could be polite enough to the typists, Forbury had observed. He’d never noticed anything that one could take hold of between Hyson and Olive Lyndoch; but in the recesses of his respectable little soul he had a faint discomfort when he thought about those two. There was something, he felt, that “wasn’t quite nice” in their relations, though he shrank from putting a name to it on the evidence he had.
“Ah, Forbury,” Hyson said, as if he had at last realised that Forbury had appeared in the room. “Mr. Lockhurst won’t be back at work for some months. I’m carrying on in his place. You’ll keep to your own work. Miss Lyndoch and I between us will take over Mr. Lockhurst’s share. I’ll interview clients, when it’s necessary.”
Forbury, eager to see offence, read into this that clients would hardly care for his appearance and accent.
“If Mr. Lockhurst wishes it that way, of course . . .” he said hesitatingly.
“It’s settled,” Hyson stated in a tone of finality.
“I could take over the private ledger, if that would be any help,” Forbury suggested.
But here he blundered in tact. The private ledger, by office tradition, was in the charge of the chief clerk alone. No one else had even access to it. There was no reason in the matter; it was purely a matter of office etiquette: but Hyson had no intention of allowing one of the symbols of his seniority to slip from his hands, even temporarily.
“No,” he said, icily, “I won’t trouble you to do that. You’ll just go on as you’ve been doing. Is that clear? Very good.”
Forbury heard the dismissal tone in the last phrase, but he braced himself to ignore it.
“How is Mr. Lockhurst keeping?” he asked, to show that he could stay there if he chose.
“Not in immediate danger,” Hyson said curtly. “It’s coronary thrombosis.”
“What’s that?” inquired Forbury, striving to assert himself by prolonging the interview.
“Artery in the heart’s blocked. Ask a doctor if you want more,” Hyson replied, picking up a document from the desk and becoming engrossed in it so as to give Forbury no further chance of delaying his exit. Then as an idea crossed his mind he added, “No use your calling at the house. He isn’t allowed to talk business.”
“Meaning that he wouldn’t want to see me socially,” Forbury interpreted to himself, as he turned to the door. “Well, likely he wouldn’t. But sick-visiting’s different.”
Hyson put his finger on the TYPISTS button and pressed it thrice. It was getting near post-time and he had the day’s letters to check. Kitty Nevern did not keep him waiting as long as Forbury had done. In a few seconds she came in, light-footed, with a sheaf of documents in her hand, which she laid on the desk before Hyson. She was a girl who smiled easily, and as she put the papers down she favoured him with a smile which brought out her dimples.
“I’m taking over Mr. Lockhurst’s work while he’s ill,” Hyson explained with an answering smile and an appraising glance at the girl’s figure.
He picked up the letters in turn, glanced through them, and signed “Allan Lockhurst, per pro. Oswald Hyson” to each before putting it aside. As he did so, it occurred to him that it might be as well to get a power of attorney from Lockhurst, if it could be managed. Not necessary for routine business, of course. Have to fake up some excuse about being able to act in emergency. It might be a handy thing to have. Best look up the point, before broaching it to the old man.
He signed two or three more letters, then something in the next one caught his eye and he glanced up sharply at the typist.
“What’s this? When I dictated this letter about these American common shares, I couldn’t remember the exact number of shares we held. How did you manage to fill in the figures?”
Kitty looked a little flurried as she replied:
“I asked Miss Lyndoch, Mr. Hyson. She gave me the number of those that are to be sent up to London for marking.”
“Indeed?” commented Hyson with a frown.
His finger sought the TYPISTS button on the desk and pressed it once. This was the sort of thing he had no intention of passing over.
Olive Lyndoch was a tall handsome girl of twenty-five, with features tending to the aquiline type. Kitty Nevern was younger and prettier, but the elder girl’s face had more character in it and she had a feline gracefulness of movement which Kitty lacked.
“Yes, Mr. Hyson?”
“Miss Nevern tells me you gave her the number of our holding in these American common shares. Where did you get it?”
“In the private ledger. You left it lying on the desk there when you went out, and I thought it would save time if I gave Miss Nevern the figure instead of waiting till you came back.”
Hyson frowned at the explanation.
“You’re not supposed to have access to the private ledger. You know that. I’m the only person to deal with it,” he said sharply. “As a matter of fact, you’ve given Miss Nevern the wrong figure. These shares were bought in two lots, and you’ve given her the figure for one block only. Don’t do that kind of thing again, please. You’ll have to retype that letter, Miss Nevern.”
He gave a nod of dismissal to Olive Lyndoch. For a moment she seemed inclined to
argue the point further. Then, evidently recognising that she was definitely in the wrong, she made a non-committal gesture and left the room. Hyson caught her expression as she turned to go.
“She didn’t like that,” he reflected. “Be a lesson to her. She needn’t think she can do as she likes with me. I’ll make it square with her this evening. But she won’t get away with it.”
He turned back to Kitty; and, seeing her looking uncomfortable at her position, he reassured her with a smile which showed a gleam of white teeth.
“Might have been a bad slip, that,” he explained. “Come to me always in cases of that kind, Miss Nevern. No harm done this time, but you see what might happen. I’m not blaming you in the matter.”
He read and signed the remaining letters without comment. Then, as he handed them back to her, a thought seemed to strike him.
“By the way, Miss Nevern, I’d better make a note of your address. One never knows when one may need it.”
Kitty Nevern gave him a curious glance as she replied:
“It’s care of Yately, 144 Roan Street.”
“You’re not living with your people, then? In rooms, eh?”
Kitty nodded in reply, thinking how much alike her employers seemed to be.
“Don’t you find it a bit dull in the evenings? What do you do with yourself?”
Kitty shrugged her shoulders, a movement she had copied from her favourite star.
“Oh, go to the pictures sometimes, or go for a walk if the weather isn’t too bad, or fill in the time somehow.”
She had sized up Hyson from the way he looked at her and she expected an immediate invitation from him. But here she was disappointed. Hyson had sized her up in his turn and decided that she would be more eager if he did not move at once.
“Must be a bit dull for you,” he replied briefly, as though he had lost interest in her. “Well, retype that letter, please, and let me have it to sign before post-time.”
He dismissed her with an impatient gesture and turned back to the documents on the desk; but he followed her with a sidelong glance as she moved towards the door. Might be amusing, he reflected. A complete change from Olive, at any rate. No brains, and a different brand of looks. Olive had been just what he wanted while the first flush of enthusiasm lasted; but Hyson was a man who needed variety, and he had only a limited number of tricks in his love-making. He was coming to the end of them with Olive Lyndoch, and he foresaw the probability of the tedium of monotony creeping into their relations before very long. Besides, she had taken to speculating in a small way and insisted on getting his advice about her deals. A visit to her flat nowadays was like working an hour’s overtime at the office. One couldn’t get free from share prices. No, it was quite time that he found a substitute for Olive, and perhaps Kitty would serve his turn till he could look round for something better.
His musings were interrupted by a knock at the door and the entrance of the office-boy. Cadbury was an undersized youth with a complexion partly concealed by freckles and pimples, for he was at the pimply age. His fingers were invariably ink-stained, for he used a cheap fountain pen which leaked; and his tie always had a inclination to the N.N.E. He avoided Hyson’s eye by looking at the desk and announced in a high voice:
“There’s a client outside, Mr. Hyson. She wants to see you. It’s Miss Jessop.”
Hyson lifted his eyes and examined Cadbury despitefully. Curious, that while the three typists always looked spick-and-span to the last hair, Forbury and the office-boy were a disgrace to the place by their untidiness. To a man so particular about his own appearance as Hyson, they were eyesores.
“Brush your hair,” he ordered tersely. “And show her in here.”
In a few seconds Cadbury ushered the client into the room. Miss Ruth Jessop was a plump little woman of about thirty-six, who had just missed prettiness by a very little. That slight deficiency, and one or two other characteristics, had so far prevented her from securing a husband, though she had tried hard. But her lack of success had not turned her into a misanthropist. She did her best to be pleasant to every man she met, with a certain effusiveness which would have better suited a girl in her teens than a woman in the thirties.
“Oh, good afternoon, Mr. Hyson,” she began, as Hyson drew forward a chair for her, “I’m so sorry to hear about poor Mr. Lockhurst, so very sorry. He seemed so healthy, didn’t he, Mr. Hyson? It was quite a shock when they told me outside that he couldn’t come to business, Mr. Hyson. It’s some trouble with his heart, isn’t it, Mr. Hyson?”
“Coronary thrombosis,” Hyson confirmed.
He despised Miss Jessop wholeheartedly; her “young” airs and her gushingness irritated him as a connoisseur. How was it that some females were so completely lacking in that indefinable quality “charm”?
“Coronary thrombosis,” repeated Miss Jessop slowly, evidently memorising the word for future use. “It sounds dreadful, doesn’t it, Mr. Hyson?” — she gave an irritating giggle — “I’m afraid it makes me no wiser, really. Is it dangerous, Mr. Hyson? I mean, there’s no chance of his dying from it, is there? Surely not, Mr. Hyson?”
Hyson shrugged his shoulders.
“You must ask a doctor about it. I’m not an expert.”
“Oh, well, I do hope he’ll soon be well again, and able to come back to the office again, Mr. Hyson. It’s such a nice office, isn’t it?” she said, glancing round as she spoke, with a certain inquisitiveness. “That looks a very comfortable big settee over there, Mr. Hyson. I don’t remember seeing a settee like that in other businessmen’s offices.”
Hyson kept an unmoved face, but inwardly he cursed his visitor. Easy enough to see what the damned gossip-monger was hinting at. She’d bring out the old joke about “pressing business at the office,” if she dared. And most likely she’d go round her friends now, saying how strange it was to have a settee in a private room like this. Dear little innocent, of course, merely struck by a passing thought. That was her way. But she was getting a bit too near the truth over that settee. Luckily he had his explanation ready, and it was correct, so far as it went, though it might not be the whole story.
“Mr. Lockhurst got it, six months ago,” he explained coolly. “He used to feel very tired, towards the end of the day’s work, and he lay down on it to rest. Probably his heart trouble was coming on, though he didn’t realise it. That would make him easily tired, I suppose.”
“Oh, yes, of course, Mr. Hyson,” Miss Jessop answered vaguely.
But apparently her mind was still following the same line, as her next remark betrayed.
“I saw your typists as I came in, Mr. Hyson. Such pretty girls they are.”
“Are they?” said Hyson. “We’re more concerned with their efficiency.” He glanced rather ostentatiously at his watch. “You’ve come about some business, haven’t you?”
“Oh, yes, of course,” Miss Jessop admitted. “It’s about those bearer bonds of mine that Mr. Lockhurst keeps for me, Mr. Hyson, in your safe. It’s the time when I come to cut off the coupons for the dividends, now, you see?”
“I’ll get them.”
Hyson rose and went to the safe to obtain the bonds. Just like that woman, giving unnecessary trouble. Why couldn’t she keep her bonds at her bank and let the bankers credit her account with the dividends when they fell due? Then it occurred to him that this would deprive Miss Jessop of a chance of talking to a man. She preferred to come here, making eyes and chattering about settees.
“These are your bonds, I think,” he said, returning to the desk. “Better check them. And here’s a pair of scissors,” he added, taking them from the drawer.
Ruth Jessop seemed a shade chilled by this businesslike way of doing things. She picked up the bonds; fumbled with them for a moment as though seeking a fresh subject of conversation; then, finding no encouragement from Hyson, she reluctantly picked up the scissors and began to clip off the coupons.
“And how is Mrs. Hyson?” she demanded when she had finished her clip
ping. “Quite well, I hope? I haven’t seen her for a few days.”
“Quite well, thanks,” Hyson replied. “You might check your coupons and make sure you have them all, please.”
“Oh, yes, of course I should do that, Mr. Hyson. So good of you to remind me. Let me see: one, two, three . . . Yes, I’ve got them all, Mr. Hyson. And how is your sister-in-law? She’s such a nice girl, isn’t she? It’s such a pity, I always feel, that she lives in that out-of-the-way suburb, Mr. Hyson. I see so little of her. It’s really too far, except once in a while. Of course, if one had a car it would be easier, but when one has to go about in buses, it’s really very tiring, Mr. Hyson.”
“I suppose so,” said Hyson unsympathetically.
Ruth Jessop gathered up her coupons reluctantly and began to stow them away in her bag.
“By the way, Mr. Hyson,” she went on, evidently anxious to prolong the interview, “what’s the name of that tall, dark-haired girl in the office outside? The one with the rather hooky nose, I mean. I’ve some faint recollection of having seen her somewhere or other. You know how one remembers people sometimes, even when one’s only had a glimpse of them once, Mr. Hyson. I must have come across her sometime, and it always worries me when I can’t remember things like that, you know. I often lie awake at nights puzzling and puzzling my head to remember.”
Murder Will Speak Page 3
