by Norrey Ford
"The Arnold case, Ware. Got the papers? Don't go, Miss March. I want you, if Mr. Ware can spare you." He gave her a brisk nod but no further instructions, so she remained standing at his elbow until he was ready for her.
"That settles Arnold and Company," he said, at last. "I shall need Miss March until Miss Manson comes back."
Mr. Ware looked startled. "Miss Downes and Miss Moffat are senior."
He waved that aside. "I daresay, but I happen to want this girl. She's competent and uses her head. I daren't risk mistakes in my stuff."
Sally met Mr. Ware's eyes as he scrutinised her from under half-closed lids. She felt like a girl in a slave-market. Please let this one buy me! He must have seen the appeal in her eyes, for he closed one of his in a grotesque wink which said plainly We'll keep our own secrets!
"I'm sure she realises that, Mr. Paul. All right, Miss March; put those down and move into Miss Manson's room."
As Sally did so her hands shook with excitement and terror. Miss Downes and Miss Moffat watched sulkily. Miss Downes sniffed and said in an audible
whisper, "Seniority goes for nothing in this office. All you need is yellow hair."
"Bleached," Miss Moffat corrected, cattily.
Sally felt sorry for them, and forgave the slight to her perfectly natural hair, but the promotion was not of her seeking and she couldn't help it. Anyway, she was almost sure to make some idiotic mistake before long, and be sent ignominiously to the general office.
As soon as she was installed before Miss Manson's almost-new, noiseless typewriter, Mr. Paul's bell rang. As she opened his door her terror suddenly left her, and she felt a stab of pure excitement, of happy anticipation. She could have laughed aloud.
The exultation of it carried her to his desk and over the first spell of dictation.
So it happened, that when Paul looked up, Sally was walking towards him with a happy, confident smile. Stepping between high brown bookcases filled with dim brown books, she looked touchingly young, lovely; he had an impulse to send her away to play in the sun. What was such a golden child doing amongst the dust and leather and yellow parchment of a legal office? She has, he thought ruefully, the face of a Botticelli angel and, by golly, legs to match. Lucky I'm off women altogether or I might find her irresistible. But after that business of Brenda last night—women are definitely out.
He dictated quickly, without faltering or searching for words. Sally thanked her stars for her speed as her pencil sped down page after page.
"That's all. The Arnold case letters must go today, and I want the report on Bedwin. I'll be at the Magistrates' Court until, say, four. Bring them to me there. To-morrow we'll start on the Assize work. Anyone to see me?" ·
There was a depressed little woman. Sally showed her into the office and withdrew, but Paul called her back, to take notes.
The woman told her story. Paul listened stonily, watching the worn face. The story became intermingled with gulps and sobs.
"Take her out," Paul ordered. "Come back when she's stopped."
Sally led the sobbing creature out, her heart bursting with fury. Why! The hard-hearted, stony, callous—man!
When their visitor had at last calmed down, Paul said briskly, "Right. That's your story, Mrs. Bream. Got it, Miss March?"
"Yes, sir."
"Tear the page out and put it in the waste-paper basket. It isn't worth the paper it's written on. Now we'll have the real one."
Sally obeyed instantly. Mrs. Bream gulped as the pages dropped into the basket, and opened her mouth to howl.
"Out . . " Paul began. She stopped at once.
Afterwards Sally said, "However did you know?"
He laughed. "Easy. That's Handbag Maysie. She lifts handbags off counters, so never be a careless shopper when Maysie is around."
She stared, amazed. "And I thought she was innocent. Her story convinced me utterly."
He waged a long finger at her. "Ah, there you go! Because I tell you she has a reputation as a handbag lifter, you immediately think she must be guilty this time. But don't you think this charge may have been pinned on Maysie because she's a likely scapegoat and happened to be in the vicinity?"
Sally immediately felt small and naïve. The man would think her a complete idiot! But to her relief he merely chuckled. "Look for the facts, my dear Miss March. Facts, facts and more facts! These alone do not lie. Now, let us pick the facts out of Maysie's tarradiddle."
"But why," Sally asked, when this had been done, "did you let her waste your time with that long fairy-tale?"
"She'd invented it, rehearsed it, and was going to tell it or perish. If I'd bottled it up, we'd have had choice bits of it spilling over into the true story.'
Sally sat back in her chair, and said quite simply, "I think you are diabolically clever." At which Paul threw back his head and roared with laughter. Then he stopped abruptly and said with that quiet but imperious way of his she was learning to know, "Work, child!"
She returned to her room with the firm impression that she had been shut up with a lion in his den. At the moment he was good-humoured. Amused, she felt with a touch of chagrin, by her naïveté. But the teeth and great jaws were there. At any moment she might have her head bitten off.
The Magistrates' Court was quite different from the County Court. There was rather less pomp, and solicitors did not wear gowns and bands. A rosy cheeked young policeman allowed her into the body of the Court, where she listened enthralled to cases until Paul was ready for her.
Once more Sally found herself admiring the cool competence of her employer. His voice demolished smoothly, firmly, all the points the prosecution raised. One by one he knocked them down. There were sharp passages-at-arms with another solicitor and a difficult witness, but it was obvious Paul dominated the Court even when deferring politely to the Chairman.
She sat straight up and felt proud of being his secretary, even if the job was purely temporary. He's head and shoulders above anyone here, she decided—then laughed at herself for her newly acquired loyalty.
As soon as he was ready, he beckoned her into a corridor, where he leaned against a barred window and skimmed through the work she had brought him. He took as little notice of her patiently waiting figure as if she'd been one of the pillars.
A slight commotion started at the far end of the passage, but Paul did not raise his eyes. Four policemen were escorting a prisoner, who expressed his disapproval in a loud, coarse voice. Paul, apparently
unaware of their approach, quickly reached out and took Sally's arm, pulling her in behind him.
As the prisoner came level, he stopped, bull-like, bringing his escort to a halt.
"As to you, Mr. Paul-blinking-Winn, when I come out I'll get you. Make no mistake, I'll knock your perishing block off."
Paul said coolly, "I'll be waiting, Thompson. You know where my office is."
"Come on," muttered an officer. "You'll miss your tea if you don't get inside by half-past four." At which amiable threat their captive rolled cheerfully along the passage adjuring everyone to hurry or he'd have to spend the night on nothing but perishin' cocoa.
"Sorry to pull you about like that," Paul said. "Thompson hates prison, and he's a violent type." "Don't they all hate it?"
"Bless you, my innocent, no. Home from home to some; better food and accommodation than they're used to outside. But Thompson has the gipsy in his blood. Can't bear to be shut up."
"He threatened you."
He shrugged. "Plenty of time to cool off. He's going to prison for nine months."
"But when he comes out?"
He gave her an odd, searching look. "I believe you're really worried, child."
"Aren't you?"
"Not a bit. These letters are all right. Get them into the post, please. I shan't want you again to-day. I must get back into Court now. The door at the end is your quickest way out."
As she left him, he called her back. "You've done quite well for your first day. But your eyes are as big as
saucers, grandmamma. What are you so scared of? Prisoners?"
"No," she said, boldly and honestly, "of you."
He looked astounded. "Now what in the name of goodness is there to be scared of? I'm as gentle as a lamb."
Sally's sense of humour was never far from the surface. At the aggrieved tone of this preposterous statement, it erupted. She laughed merrily, the silver sound ringing along the dreary stone corridor. Then she clapped a hand over her mouth. "Oh, dear. I'm so sorry."
He said drily, "I seem to be a man of parts. I can amuse as well as terrify."
"But you're two different people, you see. And one is never quite sure which is going to be uppermost. May I ask a question?"
"If it's intelligent."
"What happened to the Polish family?"
He gave her his quick, winning smile. "We won. He kept his house."
Her eyes danced. "I'm so glad. You had me worried."
"He had me worried. Be off, now! I've work to do."
Sally's parents lived in a biggish cottage a mile or so out of Tidwell. It had been lovingly modernised. Over a disused stable adjoining, her brother Simon had contrived a self-contained flatlet for himself, which he reached by an outside stair. This he had furnished with curly Victoriana, the ancient black horsehair replaced by acid-coloured textiles. Here, with a long-playing gramophone and a giant aspidistra, Simon and Sally bickered amicably or sprawled for hours munching apples and reading in companionable silence. Their mother privately thought them mad, as she had dismissed the Victorian furniture as impossible twenty-five years ago when she inherited it from her grandmother. But being a well-brought-up parent she kept her thoughts to herself, and listened patiently to all their crazes, from boogie-woogie to Bach.
George March, their father, was less patient.
He lowered the evening paper, and spoke through the cloud of blue tobacco smoke in which he was perpetually enshrouded like an idol. "Sally! If you
mention Paul Winn once more before supper, I shall go mad and bite a dog. I accept without dispute the fact that he combines the virtues of the Duke, the Archbishop, the Lord Chancellor and Demosthenes, but would you mind not mentioning him again to-night. Please!"
Mrs. March protested mildly. "The girl is interested in her career, Daddy. Don't crush her. How old did you say Mr. Paul is, darling?"
Sally regarded her mother with a dangerous glint in her eye. "Is he married? How much money has he? Is he a nice boy? Mummy, I'm ashamed of you!" She was kneeling on the floor cutting out a cotton dress, but she sat back on her heels and waved the scissors warningly. "I am not going to marry my boss. He has no intentions towards me, honourable or otherwise. I am only interested in my job. Is that clear to everybody?"
"Abundantly," said Simon, and threw a cushion at her with deadly aim. "Now shut up about him."
As soon as he could get Sally alone, he asked, "What's all this about your going around with Max?"
"I am not going around with him," she retorted spiritedly. "He took me out once or twice, but that doesn't constitute 'going around,' does it? There's no cause for a big-brother act from you."
"Good. Because I happen to know Max is practically engaged to some girl—I dunno who—living in one of those big houses in Roman Drive. He's marrying money, is little Maxie, so I don't want him amusing himself with my sister in his spare time."
Sally hoped the shock she felt did not show. Someone—was it Brenda—had said recently, "It's horrible to suspect, but it's even worse to be sure." How she agreed! Up till this moment there had been a faint hope that she was mistaken; a chance that any telephone call might be Max. But what Simon had just told her killed the feeblest hope stone dead.
"Good luck to him, then. Though why Max should be good enough for a rich girl who lives on Roman Drive and not good enough for me—in my brother's estimation—is beyond me."
"You're a dashed sight too good for him!"
She was touched by his concern for her. He didn't know the Max she knew, and one man could not always judge another impartially. All the same, it was sweet of him to worry.
"Thank you for the compliment. I must say you haven't a high opinion of your business partner."
"I'm not his partner. I'm his employee. Nominally I'm the manager, but Max has so many businesses that the Tidwell show is practically run from London by him or one of his other managers. I have a hand in the local sales, all right—commission and all that —but the bulk of the business simply passes through my hands. I don't actually do it."
"Perhaps he's training you for something better."
He looked sulky and very young. "Max always
says there's a big future for me. But sometimes I'd
like to get away from him and start on my own." "In car sales?"
"I doubt if I'm the type. Oh well, I've made my choice, and must stick to it. I was a fool, Sis, not to take the chances Father offered me. I can hardly expect him to start forking out for training at my age."
Sally studied her brother sympathetically. They had always been the closest friends. "What sort of training?"
"Don't laugh. I'd like to be an estate agent,
though I haven't a notion how you start being one."
As the days passed Sally settled into her job, and
was able to gauge Paul's mood fairly accurately.
There were times when she could ask questions, and
times when it was wise to keep her mouth shut and
hope for the best. Paul kept her hard at work. The
Assizes were approaching, which meant extra work
for him, lots of typing for Sally. She did not mind
the work. Her only worry was the possible return of Miss Manson.
But one afternoon that was settled. Just after lunch Miss Manson herself came in to see Mr. Ware. His shining bald head and her electric-blue felt hat were visible, nodding and wagging, through the glass panels which separated Mr. Ware from the general office. When they went into Mr. Hille's room, Miss Downes opened Sally's door.
"Have to be leaving the seats of the mighty soon, dear. Miss Manson is back."
This was the moment, Sally knew, for which both women had waited. Even their commiserations when she had to work overtime had been spiced with jealousy.
Mr. Enoch said, "I for one shall be delighted to see Miss March back in the general office. Quite the little ray of sunshine, Miss March is."
Sally said evenly, "I'm so glad Miss Manson's father is better." She was saved from the necessity of saying more, because Mr. Hille's bell rang for her. As she went towards the senior partner's office she felt their eyes in her back, like daggers.
Miss Manson's father was a permanent invalid, and she was leaving. Sally was to take her place.
"With an adjustment of salary, of course," added Mr. Hille, beaming through round spectacles; he looked so Dickensian and had so many holes in his socks, that Sally could have kissed him.
"I must say!" murmured Miss Moffat when she heard the news.
"I shall speak to Mr. Winn," added Miss Downes. But as Paul was in a shockingly bad temper all the next day owing to the Taxing Masters' handling of a bill of costs, they tacitly decided to say no more, and the office settled down to routine.
One morning, when it was definitely spring, and Sally's father had at last remembered to take the lawn-mower for sharpening, a girl walked into Sally's little room, and made for Paul's door.
"Mr. Winn is engaged," Sally said sharply. "Can I help you?" And found herself face to face with Brenda Somebody.
Brenda was even lovelier than Sally remembered. In a slim black town suit, with a bunch of violets on her lapel and shiny straw hat tilted at a smart angle, she added elegance to good looks. No wonder Paul is in love with her, Sally thought. She is like him—the thoroughbred kind.
"He'll see me. Tell him Miss Worth is here." Her eyes widened suddenly, then narrowed, and Sally knew she had been recognised as the girl in the car.
She brought forward a cha
ir, and invited Brenda Worth to sit down.
"No, thank you. I'm going in."
Sally smiled and shook her head. "I'm sorry, Miss Worth. Mr. Paul really is busy."
Brenda Worth's eyes were hard as sapphire chips. "Are you trying to prevent my seeing Paul? I think you are unwise. Tell him at once I am here."
"No, Miss Worth." Sally's heart was pounding. She was obeying orders, but Paul expected her to use her wits. He certainly had not anticipated this particular visitor.
Brenda made a sudden side-stepping movement, but Sally, more used to the geography of the office, saw it and reached Paul's door first, Brenda having been handicapped by the waste-paper basket. She put her hand on the knob, prepared for an over-my dead-body defence, when the door was jerked open from the other side by Paul himself. Expecting to see his secretary at her desk, he was surprised to find her practically under his nose.
"What the dickens ?,,
"Miss Worth to see you, sir," Sally announced firmly.
Paul showed no elation whatsoever. "Damn it! Where? Get rid of her, there's a good girl, Sally." Then his eyes fell on Brenda, and he groaned. "Good heavens!"
"Not very polite, darling," said Brenda coolly.
He made a hair-tearing gesture. "Sorry, Brenda.
But I can't see you now—didn't Miss March tell
you? By the way, this is my secretary, Sally March." "We've met," Brenda told him acidly.
"You'll simply have to wait. Or come back some other time. I have a client and Henry Phelps with me."
"That dear little Phelps we met at the Law Society dinner?"
"Dear is the operative word. Do you know how much this consultation is costing my client—per minute? Bring your notebook, Miss March."
Sally avoided Brenda Worth's eyes as she collected notebook and pencils. She knew how chagrined the other girl would feel and did not wish to appear gloating. All the same, she was glad she'd taken her best tan suit for the office, and that her plain brown court shoes were as neat and smart as Brenda's. Brenda's outfit must have cost five times as much, but Sally knew how and where to shop.
Left alone, Brenda opened her bag and touched up her face. She was raging. She felt she had never hated anyone so much as that cool little secretary. She was the one in the car that night! No mistaking that hair. She wanted to clench her fists and scream.
