The Black Cabinet

by Patricia Wentworth

  “No!” said Martin. He stood in front of her about half a yard away, and repeated the word more quietly. “Are you so angry with me that you won’t let me see you home?”

  “I want you to go,” said Chloe. She gripped the railing with her left hand for a moment; then she straightened herself and began to walk on without looking round.

  Before she had gone a yard Martin was speaking again, close to her, setting his pace to hers:

  “Chloe, how can I leave you alone in the streets at this hour? Be reasonable. Let me take you back to wherever you’re staying.”

  “No!”

  Martin’s voice changed a little; it became tenderly indulgent.

  “How are you going to get rid of me?”

  Chloe walked on without replying. At the next corner she stood still.

  “If you don’t go, I shall speak to the next policeman we meet.”

  “I shouldn’t,” said Martin. “You’d have to go to Bow Street, or somewhere like that, and give evidence that I was annoying you, after which your address would be public property, and you’d probably have Leonard Wroughton dropping in to tea. Better let me see you home.”

  Chloe didn’t answer for a full minute. Suppose he wouldn’t go away. Well, they would just have to go on walking until daylight came and found them, he in evening dress, and she bareheaded, with her old tweed coat over Mrs. Mostyn Llewellyn’s expensive dress. She wondered which of them would look the sillier. But go back to Hatchelbury Road with Martin at her heels she would not. She crossed the road and walked straight on, and as she did so, a car came down the left hand turning, going dead slow. As it came up behind them, Chloe realized that she had no idea at all where she was. If this were a passing taxi, she felt reckless enough to sacrifice a whole day’s salary in return for escape from this intolerable situation. As the thought passed through her mind, Martin’s arm came round her shoulder.

  “Ah, Chloe, be friends,” he said. And as he spoke, the car slid up to the kerb ahead of them under a lamp, and stood still. The driver jumped out.

  Chloe twisted herself free, and ran forward. In a breathless voice she said:

  “Can you take a fare?” And then suddenly she saw the driver’s face, and uttered a sharp little cry of, “Michael! Michael Foster!”

  Michael put out his arm rather as if he were going to take her in to dinner; it was a curious, instinctive movement. And, as instinctively, Chloe caught at his rough, damp sleeve with two little shaking hands. Up to this very moment she had been quite steady; but now she began to tremble so violently that her teeth chattered.

  Michael put his arm right round her, and said in the nice, ordinary voice which hadn’t an atom of glamour in it:

  “Can I drive you anywhere?”

  It was the nice ordinariness that pulled Chloe together—that and the hard strength of the arm that held her. She said, “Please” only just above her breath, and in a moment the door was open and he was putting her into the car. As the door slammed on her and she leaned back, she heard some rapid interchange of words between the two men. She was so nearly done, so taken off her balance by the sudden release from strain, that it was only an impression, not of words, but of some violent, wordless clash. Then Michael was at the window again.

  “Where do you want to go?” he said, his voice so cheerful and unruffled that Chloe lost that impression of having heard it blurred with fury a moment ago. “Where do you want to go?” said Michael.

  Chloe braced herself. She felt as if she was slipping down a long, steep hill. She mustn’t do that; she mustn’t slip. She made a great effort, and said slowly and stiffly:

  “Will you go—half a mile—down the Vauxhall Road—and then stop?”

  “Right-o,” said Michael. He climbed into the driver’s seat and started the car.

  Chloe began to slip again.

  When the brakes went on and the car stopped, she opened her eyes, with the curious feeling that she, too, had come to a standstill. Michael’s voice reached her rather vaguely:

  “Are you sure I can’t take you any farther?” She roused at that with a start, and looked out into the empty Vauxhall Road. It was so very, very queer to see it all empty and alone like this, with the lamps shining down on the blank pavements.

  She said, “No, I can walk from here quite easily,” and half expected that he would make some protest. Instead, he opened the door and held out his hand to help her.

  She stood in the road, steadying her voice to say “Thank you,” and “Good-night”—one must say something, and one mustn’t, mustn’t make a fool of oneself. The words came just above a whisper, and it may be said that they tried Michael’s self-control a good deal. Chloe, of course, did not know this. She heard him say pleasantly, “Goodnight. And if there’s anything I can do for you at any time, you know where to find me; and you know how awfully pleased I should be.”

  She heard this, and, nodding because she couldn’t trust her voice any more, she turned away and began to walk slowly and falteringly in the direction of Hatchelbury Road.

  The idea that Michael might follow her never entered her head. She was only conscious of an intense desire to reach the little, cramped room, with its hard, unyielding bed. Every now and then a dreadful doubt as to whether she could reach it pierced the dullness of her mind. At the first crossing, doubt became certainty. She turned the heel of her shoe on the kerb and came down; and being down, she did not know how to get up again.

  It was Michael who picked her up. She had really only gone a dozen yards. He picked her up, held her firmly if a little stiffly, and said:

  “I say, do let me drive you the whole way.”

  “I’m all right,” said Chloe, in a little, halting voice.

  “You’re as right as rain; but what’s the sense of walking when I can drive you? If you don’t want anyone to know where you’re staying, I’ll forget about it the minute I’ve dropped you there—I’m an absolute nailer at forgetting things.”

  Chloe found herself in the car again without quite knowing how she had got there.

  “It’s 122 Hatchelbury Road,” she said, and shut her eyes.

  When they stopped again, she had revived a little. Michael at the window was just a shadow, but it was easier to talk. She leaned towards the shadow and spoke, pleased to find that her voice was under control again.

  “You will forget—really?”

  “If you want me to.”

  “Please.”

  “All right, I’ve forgotten.”

  She gave him both her hands as she got out. She liked the nice, steady grip he gave them. Suddenly she said:

  “Why didn’t you come to Danesborough?”

  “I did.”

  “When?”

  “On Wednesday week.”

  They stood facing each other on the narrow pavement hand in hand.

  “Oh!” said Chloe. “That was the day I ran away.”

  “Yes, I know. They told me you had gone away and hadn’t left any address. They seemed a good deal peeved.”

  Chloe gave a faint, faint gurgle of laughter. Michael—Michael was a dear. She became aware that they were still holding hands, and drew hers away.

  “I must go in. Good-bye.”

  She said good-bye, but she stood there for a moment longer, looking at him in a considering sort of way. She could not see his face. He was quite silent and stood like a rock. Chloe said good-bye again, and ran up the steps. But even as she fitted the key into the lock, she was wondering whether she wanted it to be good-bye; she wasn’t at all sure that she did. The world, which had been strange and horrid, was beginning to feel friendly again; there was something friendly about Michael Foster.

  She half opened the door, and then drew it towards her again. Michael had not said a single word. She turned, still holding the door.

  “Aren’t you going
to say good-bye?”

  “I don’t want to,” said Michael honestly.

  “Would good-night be any better?”

  “A little.”

  “Then good-night.”

  Michael came forward a step.

  “Have I—have I still got to forget where you live?” Chloe hesitated.

  “You said you were so good at forgetting.”

  “I’m frightfully good at remembering too. I say, don’t you think I might remember?—not every day you know, but, say, once or twice a week.” He heard her laugh, saw her push the door open and run in.

  The door was shutting. It took a long time to shut, because Chloe wasn’t sure what she was going to say. Michael waited for the click of the latch, but it did not come. Instead, there was Chloe on the top step.

  “You may remember once a week,” she said, and was gone.

  Chapter XXIX

  Chloe woke at eight next morning, looked at her watch, reflected joyfully that Mrs. Mostyn Llewellyn had told her not to turn up until the afternoon, and plunged into sleep again.

  It was whilst she was asleep that a telephone conversation took place which would have interested her very much. One of the parties to it was Mr. Leonard Wroughton, and he addressed the person at the other end of the line as Stran. The conversation was not carried on in English.

  “The suit-cases,” Stran announced, “are where she left them. They are quite safe and entirely un-get-at-able without the receipt. There must be a great many letters in them. So if the other plan fails”

  “You’ve made such a damned muddle of it!” growled Wroughton, and was not improved in temper by hearing Stran laugh.

  “What a surly beggar you are! Now, I’ve been up all night, and I’m as fit as a fiddle. What’s more, I’ve got pretty good news.”

  “What?”

  “Her address for one thing. Just take it down:—122, Hatchelbury Road—off the Vauxhall Road. Also I’ve got a plan.”

  “Your plans haven’t been very successful so far.”

  Stran laughed again.

  “Say something pleasant for a change. We’re bound to get something out of this unless our luck’s right out. If we don’t get anything else, we stand to get the receipt for the suit-cases. But it has much greater possibilities than that. Now, look here …”

  Wroughton received a few definite suggestions, and an immediate summons to London, after which he told Emily to expect him when she saw him, and caught the express at Daneham. A little later Jessie, the hard-faced housemaid, came to Mrs. Wroughton with a tale of sudden death in her family: “And if I might go home at once, ma’am, because they’ll be wanting me.”

  Emily became moist-eyed and sympathetic:

  “Oh, yes, to be sure—if you think they’ll want you.”

  Jessie gazed at her grimly.

  “I’m wanted urgent,” she said.

  An hour later she, too, was on her way to London.

  Chloe found her afternoon’s work as dull as such work is wont to be. Mrs. Mostyn Llewellyn was inclined to be cross; she announced herself as sick of the whole thing and wanting to get it all cleared up and off her hands.

  “Those creatures at the N.Y.S.Z.K.U. office are unbusinesslike beyond what anyone could have imagined. Whenever they’ve had a chance to make a muddle they’ve made one. I’ve always wanted to come across somebody who could tell me why persons engaged in philanthropic work should be entirely devoid of business instincts—they are. Please take down this for the secretary …”

  Chloe took it down, while Mrs. Mostyn Llewellyn walked up and down, moving a chair half an inch in one direction, pushing a table a little more into an angle, and fidgeting with nearly every ornament in the room in turn. It was very evidently the afternoon after the night before.

  By half-past four Chloe’s own temper was a little ruffled, and she began to long for five o’clock and to feel that it would never come. It was just half-past four when the telephone bell rang.

  “Tell them to give you a message—say I can’t speak to anyone. I can’t think why anyone has a telephone—they’re an absolute curse when you’re busy.” Then, when Chloe was half-way to the dining-room, she recalled her sharply:

  “Miss Green! One moment, Miss Green! If it’s Diana Arabin, I’ll speak to her—but not Marcia Hayman. Have you got that? And if it’s anyone else, I won’t, unless they insist—and for heaven’s sake put them off if you can.”

  Caught between the bell, which rang continuously, and Mrs. Mostyn Llewellyn’s booming contralto, Chloe felt inclined to put both hands over her ears and say “Hush.” It was a relief to take up the receiver. A woman spoke:

  “Is that Mrs. Mostyn Llewellyn?”

  “I’m speaking for her,” said Chloe. “Can I take a message?”

  “I want to speak to Mrs. Mostyn Llewellyn,” said the voice.

  Chloe stood for a moment without answering, because she was wondering where she had heard the voice before; then she said:

  “I was asked to take a message if possible.”

  “No, I want to speak to Mrs. Mostyn Llewellyn—I must speak to her.”

  Chloe could not place the voice, but she was sure that she had heard it before. It was one of those harshly metallic voices.

  “I’ll tell her. Who shall I say?”

  “I’m speaking from the N.Y.S.Z.K.U. office.” Mrs. Mostyn Llewellyn was not pleased. If it is possible to flounce in a dress that barely reaches the knee, she flounced to the telephone; and as she left both the study and the dining-room doors wide open, her side of the conversation reached Chloe with great plainness:

  “What did you say? Oh.” The tones of annoyance fairly filled the flat. “Yes, I’m particularly busy. Oh. What did you say? A diamond what? Spell it please. Good Lord, no one wears necklaces now-a-days—you might just as well tell me they’d picked up a bustle. What did you say then? A star? Oh. Well, she hasn’t said anything about it; but I’ll ask her if you’ll hold on.”

  Chloe rose from her table as Mrs. Mostyn Llewellyn came quickly into the study and shut the door. She looked flushed and angry.

  “Miss Green, what’s this extraordinary story about some one picking up a diamond star last night and giving it to you? Did you report it to anyone?”

  Chloe shook her head.

  “It’s a mistake—I don’t know anything about it.”

  “Well, there’s a shrieking woman at the N.Y.S.Z.K.U. who says that some one picked one up and gave it to you, and now they’ve got two different women claiming it. And she says will I please send you round to the office with it at once?”

  “But I haven’t got it,” said Chloe. She would have laughed if Mrs. Llewellyn had not looked so much like a thunderstorm. “If anyone picked it up, they didn’t give it to me.”

  Mrs. Mostyn Llewellyn returned to the telephone. For such a large woman she was a quick mover. The receiver went to her ear with a jerk.

  “Miss Green doesn’t know anything at all about a star. It’s not a star? But you said it was. First you said it was a necklace, and then you said it was a star—and now you say it’s something else. Will you have the goodness to tell me what is supposed to have been picked up and handed to Miss Green!”—this last passage crescendo and with all the stops out. After a moment’s pause she snapped over her shoulder at Chloe:

  “Miss Green, they say now that it’s some sort of ornament—still diamonds I believe, but not a necklace, and not exactly a star. Do you know anything at all about it?”

  “No—there’s some mistake.”

  Chloe stood in the doorway and heard the rasp of the voice that had seemed familiar; the words she could not distinguish. Every now and then Mrs. Mostyn Llewellyn said, “Nonsense!” or “Preposterous!” or “You’re shouting!” In the end she rang off and swung round.

  “They want you to go there when
you’ve finished work. I’d kill that woman if I had much to do with her! I can’t think why somebody hasn’t. They swear that this ornament was picked up and given to you. I said I would send you round to see them about it. You’d better go as soon as you’ve finished the letter to Mr. Appleby.”

  “They’ve probably mixed me up with somebody else,” said Chloe cheerfully.

  She finished Mr. Appleby’s letter. Twice in the course of it she looked up and saw Mrs. Mostyn Llewellyn looking at her. There was something in the look which was new in Chloe’s experience. It was not until afterwards that it occurred to her that the something was suspicion.

  Chapter XXX

  Chloe left the flat at five o’clock. It was a relief to get away. Earlier in the day it had been raining, but now no moisture fell, though the air seemed full of it.

  Chloe was too preoccupied to notice the weather. Mrs. Mostyn Llewellyn’s look played hide and seek in her mind with the voice which had seemed familiar, but which she could not place. If she turned her attention to one, the other came close and was within an ace of being grasped; it was very teasing. She began to try and think, instead, about this puzzling business of the diamond star; and then all at once the meaning of Mrs. Mostyn Llewellyn’s look came to her. She gave a little angry laugh and stuck her chin in the air.

  “Idiot!” she said with so much energy that an absent-minded passer-by started, stopped, and murmured, “I beg your pardon?”

  Chloe dismissed Mrs. Mostyn Llewellyn and her ridiculous suspicions. There remained the voice. Very elusive that voice, and associated in a vague manner with something unpleasant—with Danesborough. Yes, that was the association—Danesborough. A spark of light dazzled, and faded. Why Danesborough? The voice didn’t belong to anyone Chloe had known there; she was quite sure of that. Then why?—no, wait a minute, it was Danesborough—the study, yes, that was it. She had it now. In a flash she saw herself going to the telephone in the study at Danesborough. The bell had rung, and she had taken off the receiver before Leonard Wroughton could cross the room; and then a voice—the voice—had said, “Hullo! I want to speak to Mr. Wroughton.”