“Miss Lyndoch, I expect. You must have seen her when you came to the office at other times. She’s been here for a year or two.”
Hyson knew perfectly well what Ruth Jessop was driving at. She wanted to pick up some scrap of information which she could retail in their circle. “Such a pretty girl, the typist in my broker’s office. One really wonders what the men are thinking about. It’s as well that Mr. Hyson is so devoted to his wife, for, really, that girl is almost too good-looking to be in an office. Her name’s Lyndoch, by the way. Now I wonder if she can be any relation to that stout old woman who keeps the confectionery shop in Windmill Street. The name’s the same.” And, of course, the whole seasoned by little animated nods and meaning glances and silly gestures of the hands to emphasise the chief points.
Miss Jessop closed her bag and Hyson let out an inaudible sigh of relief. She would have to go now, surely. But at that moment Kitty Nevern came in with the retyped letter for him to sign. Miss Jessop waited till the girl had gone, and then started off again like a rewound alarm clock.
“What a pretty girl! Really, you seem to have a perfect harem of beauties, Mr. Hyson, a perfect harem,” she declared with an arch nod to emphasise her opinion. “What is her name?”
“Miss Nevern.”
“Nevern? A curious name. I don’t think I ever heard it before. It doesn’t sound like one of our local names, does it? Where does she live, do you know, Mr. Hyson?”
“Don’t know, I’m sorry,” Hyson lied blandly. “Outside office hours I’ve nothing to do with our typists. But if she’s taken your fancy, I’ll introduce you to her as you go out.”
“Oh, no, no, Mr. Hyson. Don’t be silly, Mr. Hyson,” she protested with a giggle. “She’s rather a common little thing, isn’t she?”
“Not knowing her outside of office hours, I can’t really say,” Hyson answered with a slight frown. “Now, is there anything else I can do for you at the moment? We’re rather pressed with business, you see, owing to Mr. Lockhurst’s breakdown.”
He made a gesture towards the papers on his desk, and to his relief she found the hint too plain to disregard.
“Oh, no, there’s nothing more to-day,” she admitted. “I really must go, now. Please tell Mr. Lockhurst that I was asking for him, and say I hope that he’ll soon be well again, Mr. Hyson. It’s such a pity that he’s had this trouble, isn’t it? You won’t forget? Thanks so much.”
She picked up her bag and gave a peculiar wriggle which ostensibly was meant to settle her clothes, but which she imagined was attractive to men.
“I suppose you’ll be kept working late to-night, Mr. Hyson? And will these poor girls be kept here too? No? But what if you want something typed?”
“I’ll manage it myself, probably,” said Hyson, rather shortly.
He showed her out through the typists’ room. Olive Lyndoch was apparently finishing up some work at her desk. Effie Hinkley was putting the cover on her typewriter. At the coat-rack, Kitty Nevern was carrying on a conversation with Cadbury about film stars.
Hyson returned to the private office, leaving the door ajar behind him. He heard Effie say good-night and leave the office. Then Kitty and Cadbury departed, arguing volubly as they went.
Chapter Two
The Very Spice of Life
A FEW seconds after the rest of the staff had gone, Olive Lyndoch came into the private office, dressed for the street.
“I’m ready now,” she said with a certain curtness.
“Very well. You go out first,” Hyson suggested. “I’ll pick you up in Arthur Street.”
She agreed with a nod and left the room without adding another word. Hyson looked at the door through which she had vanished, with an unpleasant smile on his lips. He waited for five minutes, then switched off the lights, closed the outer door of the office and went downstairs. His car was garaged a few yards up the street and he got it out. He turned into Arthur Street and drove slowly, keeping a sharp look-out for Olive. Apparently she had walked more smartly than she usually did, for it was some distance beyond the customary spot that he came level with her. He pulled up the car and she slipped into the seat beside him.
Often, when she took her seat, she snuggled up to him for a moment once the car had started; but to-night she sat well over to her own side, almost obviously avoiding any contact. As if quite unconscious of her coldness, he let his free hand stray over till it rested on her knee. She shook it off with an impatient movement and drew if possible a little farther away from him. He withdrew his hand and his brows tightened in a frown; but he said nothing until he had driven some distance farther. When he did speak, it was only to utter a non-committal monosyllable.
“Well?”
But Olive nursed her grievance and repaid him in his own coin.
“Well?” she answered, but on her lips the word expressed a good deal more than his had done.
Hyson had thought out his line of defence long before, but he preferred to disclose it gradually.
“What’s the trouble?” he asked, feigning complete ignorance.
Olive hesitated between two courses for a moment. Should she go on sulking for a little while yet, or should she have it out with him at once and be done with it? She decided on the second alternative.
“You know quite well what it is, Ossie. You needn’t pretend you don’t. Why did you speak to me like that before Kitty Nevern? I won’t be treated like that, understand? A bit steep, hauling me over the coals in front of a young chit that’s just come into the office. I won’t have it!”
Hyson’s lips tightened.
“You know quite well that you’re not supposed to have access to the private ledger.”
“Well, you could have spoken to me about that when we were alone. There was no need to rate me, the way you did, with that little fool standing by to hear it.”
Hyson turned his head towards her for a moment and gave an understanding smile.
“I see what you mean,” he admitted frankly. “But, look here, Olive, I had to do it. Forbury was with me just before that, and he wanted to take over the private ledger. I put him in his place over that, quick enough, and no kindness wasted in the telling. Now suppose he heard that you’d been going through that ledger. He’d be bound to hear of it, in our office. Well, you can guess what would happen. He doesn’t love either of us. He’d begin to put two and two together. ‘Miss Lyndoch, of course, has special privileges. H’m! H’m! That’s funny, isn’t it?’ We can’t afford any ideas of that sort. I might as well bring the car round and pick you up on the office door-step at night. So, naturally, I had to make sure of stifling the business at the very start. That bit of play-acting in front of the Nevern was the safest move. See that? It meant nothing. Camouflage.”
There was sufficient truth in his explanation for it to carry weight with Olive. She had not known about Forbury’s offer and it threw a slightly different light on the episode. And it was perfectly true that their relations in the office must be made to appear normal. A hint of the real state of affairs would make things awkward if it got about; for these things can’t be kept within four walls when people begin to talk.
“I see,” she admitted, but rather grudgingly. “If that was what you were after, perhaps it was the best you could do. Still, you might have been a shade politer. I saw that little beast Nevern grinning when she came out of your office afterwards. I suppose she took it as a good joke, seeing me told off before her.”
Hyson’s hand crept over to her knee again and this time she did not shrink from it.
“It was the best I could think of, on the spur of the moment,” he declared. “I hadn’t time to do better. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, Olive. I thought you’d see the point. Of course I forgot you didn’t know about Forbury’s move. Stupid of me. You’re all right now?”
“Oh, yes, all right,” Olive said, though there was still a faint reluctance to abandon her grievance. “Only, don’t do things like that again, Ossie. They’re not . . . We
ll, we’ll let it go at that.”
She moved an inch or two nearer to him, and he could feel her knee quiver under the pressure of his hand. He knew how to handle her, he reflected with satisfaction. After all, she was keener on him now than he was on her, and that always gave a man a pull over a girl.
Very soon they reached the street in which Olive Lyndoch lived, a short, dingy, grey cul-de-sac lined with tall flats which had seen better days. The girl stepped out on the pavement and waited while Hyson locked his car. When he rejoined her, they had fifty yards still to go, for Hyson always took the precaution of drawing up his motor at some distance from the entrance to her flat. The chance of anyone noting his empty car was hardly worth considering, since most of his friends lived on the other side of the town; but he preferred to be on the safe side.
When they reached Olive’s flat on the second floor, she made as if to open her bag, but Hyson took a key from his pocket and saved her the trouble of hunting for her own. He stood aside to let her enter the little hall. Then, with the door shut behind them, he put his arm round her waist and kissed her on the cheek. She suffered the caress rather passively, then, slipping out of his embrace, she walked into the sitting-room.
It was small, but comfortably furnished: a couple of deep arm-chairs by the hearth, a settee rather like the one in the office, a tiny dining-table with a cold meal set out ready and two chairs drawn up. The colour scheme of the room proved that Olive Lyndoch’s taste in decoration was as sound as her taste in dress.
“Just wait a moment, Ossie, while I take some things off,” she directed, as she passed into the adjoining room.
Hyson sat down in one of the arm-chairs, pulled out his cigarette case, then, thinking it hardly worth while to smoke since he knew Olive was quick in everything she did, replaced the case in his pocket. In a few minutes, she returned, and Hyson noted with a slight relief that she had changed into a silk thing which might have passed as either a boudoir gown or a dressing-gown. Knowing her moods, he inferred that this meant that she had got over her ill-temper. If she had intended to rake up her grievance, she would have sat down in her out-door dress. Since she was meeting him half-way, he looked up with a smile as she came in. She seemed to have forgotten their altercation on the way, for she made a gesture to show off her costume before she sat down at the table.
“You haven’t seen this before. What do you think of it?”
“Very pretty,” Hyson said, letting his eye run over the supple figure which the clinging silk revealed. “You always manage to get things just right, somehow. Goes with your eyes, doesn’t it?”
“It wasn’t cheap,” Olive confessed, “but when I saw it, I just had to take it.”
“This the first time you’re wearing it? Must put a threepenny bit into the pocket as a surprise for you. A handsel, they call that in Scotland.”
“Well, come along and sit down. It’s a ghastly hour for a meal, but you always have to leave so early in the evening.”
Hyson seated himself opposite her, and as he did so, a faint touch of boredom came upon him. Variety was the very spice of life to him in his relations with women. A fresh conquest meant a whole new series of episodes and sensations. And here he was, sitting down to look at a girl across the same table, once a week, week after week. He might as well be married to her and be done with it, he reflected sourly. Was it really worth it? Still, he didn’t propose to break with her just yet.
“By the way, Ossie,” Olive began after a few minutes silence, “what about these International Nickels you advised me to buy a while ago? They don’t seem to be doing much. Should I sell out and try something else?”
“I’d hold on for a rise,” he advised. “Sell out, if they go up at all, though.”
“And those oil shares, what about them?”
“Market’s very sluggish. Better stay put.”
“Is there nothing better?”
“Plenty of wild-cats, if you want a gamble. Advise you not, though. Lose your money, as like as not. And I’m not going to offer tips in that line.”
Internally he fumed, though he kept a smile on his face. Overtime at the office, really, this advising her about her miserable little specs. As if his own didn’t give him enough worry, without taking other people’s troubles on his back. And once or twice, when his advice had gone wrong, she hadn’t shown an understanding spirit. A girl in a stockbroker’s office ought to have sense enough to know that one can’t predict with certainty in the matter of market movements.
Olive was quick to see that she was boring him. She dropped that subject at once and turned to a fresh one.
“You’re in charge at the office so long as Lockhurst can’t get back to business, aren’t you, Ossie?”
Hyson nodded in reply.
“How long will he be away? Did they give you an idea?”
“Three months, at least. Four, probably, from what the nurse said. He’ll not be fit to do any business for three, anyhow.”
Olive hesitated for a moment before her next move.
“Do you think you could manage to put through that reorganisation while he’s away? Getting in the Moon-Hopkins machine, I mean, and making me bookkeeper. I’ve been looking into the system, and I could easily take it up if the chance came my way. It would mean a rise in screw for me, of course, and then you wouldn’t need to help me with the rent of this flat. I’d rather not take money from you, you know.”
Hyson paused before answering. When Olive had first attracted him, she had been living in a boarding-house. The office, after hours, had served for their meetings; but soon Hyson had felt that it was too risky as a permanent arrangement. She had scrupled about taking money from him; but he had insisted on paying her the difference between the cost of the boarding-house and the expenses of this cheap flat. And he had not been altogether averse to paying. It put her to some extent into his debt, and that was always a point in the game. He could afford it well enough, and he was not sure that he wanted to see her standing entirely on her own feet financially. She might get a bit too independent, in that case.
“A bit difficult to put that through, Olive. At least, as things are. It would mean sacking Forbury — I want to get rid of him anyway.”
“Push the table into a corner and bring the settee forward, please, Ossie, while I take these things into the kitchen,” she directed. “I want to have a talk with you.”
He did as she asked; and when she came back again she joined him on the settee, nestling up to him with a little sigh of content.
“There! That’s comfy,” she said, turning to kiss him as he put his arm around her. “Now, I’ve got a surprise for you, Ossie. I’ve seen your wife.”
Hyson’s arm relaxed suddenly and he looked at her with a glint of anger in his eyes.
“The devil you have! How did that happen? You haven’t been doing anything silly, have you?”
She drew away a little in her turn and looked at him seriously.
“I’m not a fool, Ossie. You don’t suppose I went to your house, rang the bell, and asked to see her, do you? Make your mind easy. I didn’t even go pretending to be a charity collector, as I might have done for the fun of the thing. No, no. It’s quite all right, so you needn’t panic. Last Sunday afternoon, I had nothing to do except go for a walk somewhere, and I’d nowhere in particular to go to fill in the time. It came into my mind that I’d like to see what she’s like. No harm in that, so far as I can see. I’ve heard something about her, enough to make me curious, you know. Why not take a bus over there, stroll down your avenue, and take my chance of getting a glimpse of her? It was a hundred to one against seeing her and I really did it because I’d nothing else to do.”
Hyson seemed a shade relieved by this account.
“Well, so you did see her?”
“Yes, she was sitting out on the lawn in a camp-chair. She’s got fair hair, hasn’t she? And she was wearing grey, wasn’t she? I was pretty sure it was she. I’m not jealous of her, Ossie, not a scrap, fo
r I know she’s nothing to you nowadays. It was mere curiosity that took me there. She’s very pretty.”
“Oh, I suppose so,” Hyson agreed. “I’ve gone off that style in looks, though, long ago.”
Olive gave him an uneasy glance. That careless confession of inconstancy carried its sting; for if he had grown indifferent to his wife, he might well grow weary of herself in turn and go off in search of fresher attractions. She tried to put that out of her mind; but at odd, uncomfortable moments it cropped up, insistent, terrifying.
In the early days of their association, he had been the one to seek opportunities to meet her alone. Now it was she who had to plan and cajole and persuade in order to get him to herself for even these few hours each week. And the less eager he grew, the more imperious became her need of him. Even this poor simulacrum of married life had become something which she could not afford to lose, and she cast about desperately for the means to make it permanent.
But here she had come up against the limitations of his temperament. As a complete human being, compact of flesh, brain, and emotion, she hardly counted with him. He simply was not interested in her inner nature. She had tried to attach him more firmly by the subtler fibres of thoughts and feelings, and she had failed completely. Externals were all he cared for. And, inevitably, sooner or later, externals grow so familiar that they cease to yield the old thrill. “I’ve gone off that style in looks, though, long ago.” There it was, in a nutshell. And her turn would come next, unless she could force their relations into some fresh groove. Anything rather than be left as a discarded mistress, a failure who hadn’t even managed to keep a hold on the man she had chosen.
“I’ve just been thinking, Ossie,” she said, after a pause. “Suppose she found out about us. If you’re not fond of her now, she can’t be getting much out of marriage. She would take proceedings if she had the evidence, wouldn’t she?”
And if she would, Olive reflected, it would be easy enough to put Linda Hyson on the scent. A single letter would do that.
Murder Will Speak Page 4
