Chloe nodded to herself. It was the same voice; she was sure of it. Her brows drew together in a frown; she walked more slowly. It was ridiculous no doubt, but she began to feel a distinct disinclination to go on and meet the owner of the voice. Of course, she needn’t go on: she could simply go back to Hatchelbury Road. But that would mean chucking her job. Impossible to return to Mrs. Mostyn Llewellyn after running away from the voice which had connected her with the mysterious disappearance of a diamond star.
Chloe stood still because this last thought sent a tingling shock right through her. She felt as if she had opened a door into a dark room. She couldn’t see anything in the room, but she could hear things moving there. She wanted very much to slam the door and run away.
She walked on a pace or two slowly. She couldn’t afford to chuck a perfectly good job; jobs were not to be picked up at every street corner. She mustn’t be a fool.
She paused again, and found herself looking fixedly at the letters G. R. on the letter-box of a branch post office. Instantly she had what she described as a brain-wave. Michael—if she could get hold of Michael, the voice and its associations needn’t bother her. There was probably nothing in it anyway; but, with Michael in reserve, she felt she could almost have met Wroughton without a qualm.
She ran into the post office, and proceeded to wrestle with the telephone directory. Michael’s garage was there. She gave the number, and hoped fervently that Michael would be in the garage. She asked for Mr. Michael Foster, and spoke to three persons in succession, none of whom was Michael. They were all very polite, and said they would try and find him. In the end it was Michael himself who said:
“Hullo! I say, is that you? How topping!”
“Yes,” said Chloe, and wondered how she was going to explain.
Michael’s voice again:
“Anything I can do?”
“Please. If you’re not doing anything else, will you meet me al the N.Y.S.Z.K.U. offices in Victoria Street? I’ve got to go and see some one, and I don’t particularly want to go alone—I mean I thought if you’d just stand by.”
“Rather!”
“I’m going there now. I thought perhaps if you wouldn’t mind just waiting till I come out—I oughtn’t to be long.”
“Can’t I go with you?”
“No, I don’t think so. But I would just like to feel that you were there.”
She rang off rather quickly, and had a much more cheerful mood to keep her company for the rest of the way. She was probably a fool, but it would be nice to see Michael—and perhaps they could go and have tea together afterwards.
The N.Y.S.Z.K.U. had their offices on the third or fourth stories of a big block of flats, but in the open hall Chloe was met by a little, dumpy woman with a face like a well floured scone.
“Are you Miss Green? I think you must be, from the description.”
“Dene,” said Chloe automatically.
The little woman’s restless hazel eyes looked her up and down.
“She said Green—I’m sure she said Green,” she murmured half to herself.
“She always does,” said Chloe; “but it’s Dene all the same.”
“And you’re Mrs. Mostyn Llewellyn’s secretary?”
“Yes.”
“Then it’s all right. We were expecting you earlier, and the secretary’s had to go home. But she wants to see you most particularly, so I said I would stay and bring you round to her flat. It’s only a step, and she’s particularly anxious to see you.”
She began to move towards the door, but Chloe stood still.
“I don’t think I can go on anywhere else. I’m late now, and I really don’t know anything at all about the diamond star. If one was picked up at the ball, it certainly wasn’t given to me. I don’t know whether—Miss Cross was there till twelve.”
The little woman’s round, expressionless face looked up at Chloe; the hazel eyes shifted.
“Oh, but this was at the very end of the evening,” she said in a decorous, soft voice. “It was Mrs. Venables, one of our regular subscribers who picked up the star; and she said particularly that she handed it over to Mrs. Mostyn Llewellyn’s secretary, a young person with black hair and a high colour. She gave, in fact, a very accurate description of you.”
The girl who would not resent being described as a young person does not really exist. If she did exist, she would, according to Chloe, be a backboneless worm and deserve the further insult of being told that she had a high colour. Just what a worm with a high colour would look like, she made no attempt to explain—imagination jibs at it a little. Chloe was, in fact, sharply annoyed, and the maligned colour became brilliant.
“I don’t think—” she began; but the little woman interrupted her.
“I’m sure you must see how necessary it is to lose no time in clearing the matter up. The secretary is expecting us. Shall we come?”
Chloe followed her to the door in a very puzzled, angry state of mind. She now felt more than her former reluctance to go on; and yet she did not see how she could reasonably draw back. The whole thing might be hinged on some perfectly ordinary mistake, or—her thought stopped dead on the threshold of that dark room, refusing to penetrate its shadows.
As they came down the steps into the lighted street with its noisy traffic, Chloe looked quickly to left and right of the pavement, and almost at once she saw Michael Foster standing in front of a shop window a dozen yards away. He saw her too, and made a step forward. The little woman who had met Chloe was talking all the while.
Chloe shook her head very slightly. They walked on past Michael and turned to the left. Michael watched them gravely. As soon as they were past, he saw Chloe put her hand behind her back and beckon with it. From this and the head-shake he deduced that he was to follow her, but not to speak. He accordingly followed at a reasonable distance.
The expression “only a step” is, as applied to distance, as misleading as the “bittock” of the Scot. Chloe had time to become dreadfully bored by her companion during their walk. The woman talked incessantly. She asked foolish questions, and then did not wait to have them answered; she made platitudinous remarks about the weather, and evinced a naive pride in the number of titled persons who subscribed to the N.Y.S.Z.K.U. And the longer she talked, the more certain Chloe was that this was not the voice which had set all those curious fears and suspicions vibrating in her consciousness. This voice induced flat, stale, unprofitable boredom, and nothing more. The “step” seemed to her to have stretched into about three-quarters of a mile, when the woman said:
“Now, here we are. The flat is on the third floor—such a nice position, airy you know, and yet not too high up.”
They passed through the hall and ascended to the airy third floor in a small automatic lift. The little woman rang a bell. As they waited for the door to open, Chloe heard a step on the long stone stair.
Chapter XXXI
In the dining-room of the flat two people were waiting for the bell to ring. One of them was Mr. Leonard Wroughton, and the other a handsome, black-browed woman of about forty.
Wroughton stood with his back to the fire. The woman had pushed her chair a little away from the table, and was looking at him with a hint of mockery in her fine eyes.
“You’re sure?” said Wroughton.
“My good Leonard, how jumpy you are. I am quite sure that I can play the secretary to the life—and even sure that I can remember that outlandish jumble of letters. I am, in fact, secretary of the N.Y.S.Z.K.U.”
“All right, all right.”—Wroughton was frowning—“Remember we’ve got to have the receipt whatever happens. Stran can come in when we’ve got it, and play the gallant rescuer for all it’s worth. It might be worth a good deal, but I’m not counting on it. We don’t do too badly if we get the letters.”
“Supposing she hasn’t got the receipt for the suit-cases on
her.”
Wroughton moved impatiently.
“She’ll have it in her purse—bound to—you said so yourself—you said she’d be bound to have it on her because she wouldn’t have anywhere to leave it. What are you getting at, Maudie?”
Maudie twirled a pencil between her first and second fingers; she also tipped her chair a little.
“Oh, run away and play,” she said, and then came down to earth with a jerk as the bell rang.
Chloe came into the dining-room from the rather dark hall, and was struck by its neat ordinariness—a red paper on the wall; a fumed oak dining-room suite; an enlarged photograph of the Bridge of Sighs over the mantelpiece; no flowers, no books; a tall woman in navy blue, writing at one end of the table.
Chloe’s companion shut the door, and the tall woman looked up, nodded slightly, and said:
“Ah, Miss Green! Good evening.” Her voice had a judicial sound, her “Miss Green” a distinct flavour of the prisoner at the bar.
One bit of Chloe felt angry, and another bit of her felt amused. But behind both the amusement and the anger there was just a little quiver of dread, enough to make her hope that the step which she had heard on the stair was Michael’s step. She said:
“I am Mrs. Mostyn Llewellyn’s secretary. My name is Dene, not Green. You wanted to see me?”
“I asked Miss Smith to bring you round to see me. I wanted to see you particularly. Perhaps you will sit down.”
Chloe sat down. The prisoner was accommodated with a chair. Miss Smith remained standing by the door.
“You must realize that this is a very serious matter—unless, of course, you have some explanation to give.” The secretary’s glance was direct, her tone so grave that the words impressed instead of offending.
Chloe ceased to be either angry or amused. She spoke impulsively:
“There’s some extraordinary mistake!”
The secretary tapped the table.
“Not on our side. Perhaps it would be better if I gave you the facts. Mrs. Venables, one of our oldest and most valued subscribers, says that she picked up a large diamond ornament in the shape of a star last night at the end of the last dance. It was lying against the wall just by the archway lined with mirrors, which separates the lounge from the ball-room. She says she picked it up, saw you sitting at your table only a yard or two away, and took it over to you. She says you had been pointed out to her as Mrs. Mostyn Llewellyn’s secretary earlier in the evening by Mrs. Mostyn Llewellyn herself. She described you to us with great accuracy, and declares that she left the ornament in your charge.”
“What nonsense!” said Chloe.
The secretary’s mouth hardened.
“That, Miss Dene, is not quite the tone to take. You don’t seem to realize your position, if I may say so. We have not communicated with the police yet—” She paused significantly.
Chloe pushed back her chair and sprang up.
“If Mrs. Venables says these things, she ought to be here!” she cried. “She ought to say them to me! She’s making a ridiculous mistake; but I can’t prove that it’s a mistake unless I see her. Where is she? Ring her up and ask her to come here at once!”
The secretary’s eyebrows rose a little.
“Mrs. Venables is out of town,” she said.
“And I think you should realize your position. This excitement doesn’t improve it; it looks, in fact, a good deal like bravado.”
“How dare you?” said Chloe in low, furious tones.
The secretary smiled.
“My dear Miss Dene, you’re being very foolish. If you are really anxious to prove your innocence, you will not, I suppose, object to the usual search.”
Chloe’s little, angry laugh rang out:
“If I were to steal a diamond star, do you suppose I’d be such a fool as to walk about with it in my pocket?”
“No,” said the secretary. “But I think it is quite likely that you would have the pawn-ticket in your purse.”
Chloe dived into her pocket, pulled out the shabby purse which had been Rose’s Christmas present two years ago, and flung it on the table. It slid a few inches and spun round. The secretary’s hand covered it just a shade too quickly; and for a moment her face changed. Chloe saw another woman, eager, avid; the judicial atmosphere was gone—instead, strain, uncertainty, the quick grasp of a hand that had broken from control.
Chloe took a half step back, and remembered that the receipt for the suit-cases was in the inner pocket of the purse. She stared across the table, and saw the secretary’s fingers shake a little as they opened it. A ten shilling note in one pocket; six shillings in silver; half a dozen coppers, one of them bad—
“Perhaps they’ll say I’m a coiner next”—; and in the last compartment, a folded luggage receipt.
“Well?” said Chloe.
The secretary took the receipt, and looked seriously at her.
“This, I think, requires looking into.”
“That,” said Chloe in a biting voice, “is a left-luggage receipt, not a pawn-ticket.”
“Exactly. Luggage left in a cloak-room would make an admirable hiding-place. I think we must ask to see the contents of these two packages.” The voice had a hint of triumph and, for the first time, a trace of accent.
The scene in the study at Danesborough came back vividly. This, yes, this, was the voice which had said “Hullo! I want to speak to Mr. Wroughton.” Chloe became suddenly very clear and cool. The star and Mrs. Venables were non-existent. This woman who knew Wroughton was trying to bluff her; she wanted the receipt. The whole of this comedy meant nothing less than that. She said:
“Will you please give me back my purse and that receipt.” And as she spoke, a bell rang in the hall.
The secretary began to pick up the money and put it back; she picked it up slowly, one coin at a time. The hall door had opened before she spoke.
“You shall have the receipt when we have satisfied ourselves that the missing star isn’t hidden in one of those cases.”
She pushed the purse across to Chloe, and as she did so the dining-room door opened and a man came in. Miss Smith uttered an exclamation and slipped aside. The secretary rose to her feet. Chloe whirled round, and saw Michael Foster closing the door behind him. She had him by the arm in a moment.
“Michael, make her give me my receipt!” Michael looked about him. He saw Miss Smith with one hand at her mouth, the other holding on to the back of a chair—a clear case of abject funk. He saw the secretary, composed, enquiring. And he saw Chloe, her face very near him, her eyes wet and brilliant, her lips parted, her breath coming quickly. “Is anything the matter?” he said.
“Miss Dene” began the secretary.
Chloe shook Michael’s arm.
“Make her give it back to me! Make her give it to me at once!”
“I say, what on earth”
The secretary’s voice broke in on Michael’s rather bewildered opening:
“If you are a friend of Miss Dene’s—”
Chloe wheeled round, still holding Michael tight. “He is! And you’ve no right to keep that receipt—you know you haven’t! Please give it back to me!”
The secretary spoke to Michael, ignoring Chloe as one ignores an angry child.
“Miss Dene is in a very serious position, and I cannot get her to treat it seriously.”
“Make her give it up! And take me away quick!”—she clutched him tighter—“I don’t like this place at all.”
Michael looked from one to the other and came forward a step. As soon as he did this, little Miss Smith slipped behind him and ran out of the room. In the hall they could hear whispers and footsteps. “I don’t understand,” said Michael; he addressed the woman in the chair. “If you have anything of Miss Dene’s and she wants it back, I’m sure”—he smiled pleasantly—“well, I mean of course you’l
l give it back, won’t you?”
“Miss Dene is accused of stealing a diamond star.” The secretary’s hand was clenched on the paper it held.
Michael said, “What rot!” and heard Chloe whisper, “Get the paper and come away. They’re thieves.” He nodded, and took a stride forward, holding out his hand.
“Miss Dene’s receipt, please. You’ve no right to take it, and you’ve no right to keep it—you know that as well as I do.” The woman faced him, sulky, undecided.
“Who are you, anyhow?” she said.
“Come,” said Michael, “you’re on the wrong side of the law. If you’ve anything to say about Miss Dene, let’s all go round to the nearest police station, and you can say it there. You can’t keep that receipt, my dear lady.” He smiled at her affably, and saw her blench.
“Oh, you’re an accomplice, are you?”
“That’s one of the things you can talk to the police about,” said Michael. He still held out his hand. “The receipt, please.”
She put her hands behind her, scowling. Michael’s pleasant tone changed suddenly.
“Look here, do you want me to smash a window and whistle for the police? I will if you don’t hand that thing over. And once the police come in, it isn’t Miss Dene that’s going to get hurt, I think.” The woman stamped her foot with sudden violence and flung the paper on the floor.
Chapter XXXII
The hall was almost dark and quite empty as Chloe and Michael came through it. Chloe did not let go of Michael’s arm until they were sinking down, down in the little lift. She let go just before it stopped, laughed shakily, and said:
“I’ve pinched you black and blue.”
“Come and have some tea,” said Michael. “I know a place where we can be quiet and talk.” When they were waiting for their tea Chloe laughed again; this time the laughter had a more natural sound.
The Black Cabinet Page 18
