“That’s the second time you’ve turned up just when I wanted you. How do you manage it?” Michael looked pleased.
“Well, the other night I’d been driving some people to the ball. When I was fetching them, I had to come into the hall with a message; and I saw you. So when I’d dropped them, I came back on the chance of your letting me drive you home.”
“Well?”
A tinge of embarrassment crept into his tone.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “It seemed such awful cheek. I saw you come out, and I didn’t like to speak to you. And I didn’t think you ought to be walking about by yourself at that sort of hour, so—so I just kept you in sight.”
The arrival of the tea here afforded him relief; but as soon as the girl who had brought it had gone, Chloe looked at him teasingly and said:
“So much for last night. What about this afternoon?”
“Well, I was afraid you might think I was butting in. Did you?”
Chloe’s smile was suddenly sweet.
“Did you think I did? But I’d like to know what made you come in just then.”
Michael stirred his tea with absorbed interest. “Well, you waggled your hand for me to follow you—at least I thought that was what you meant me to do. I walked up the stairs, and just saw the door of the flat shut upon you. So then I thought I’d find out who lived there, and I rang the bell of the opposite flat. A topping girl opened the door, and she told me the people across the way had gone abroad for a month and let the flat to some people called Smith, and she’d be glad when they came back, because they all thought the Smiths were a bit odd. I thanked her and came away. I thought I’d wait for you down in the hall. I’d just got down when I saw Martin Fossetter come up the steps.”
“Oh!” said Chloe. “Are you sure?”
“Well, it was darkish—no, I’m not sure—I thought it was. Whoever it was turned sharp round and went back down the steps again. I didn’t like it; and I thought I’d come up and see how you were getting along—have one of those sticky buns; they’re jolly good.” Chloe took a bun, and he added, “I say, don’t tell me anything you don’t want to. But the whole thing was pretty rocky, wasn’t it?”
“I can’t think why they let you in.”
Michael grinned like a schoolboy.
“They didn’t exactly let me in. They opened the door, and I put my foot in it and barged in because I heard you call out. No, they didn’t exactly let me in! What were they playing at?”
“I don’t mind telling you,” said Chloe. “But I hate talking about it. You see, I ran away from Danesborough, and I took a lot of papers which belonged to Mr. Dane. I’m sure, I’m sure he meant me to destroy them. But Mr. Wroughton thinks they’re worth a lot of money, and he wants to get them back.”
“Where are the papers?”
“I packed them into two suit-cases, and they’re in the cloak-room at Victoria. That woman wanted the receipt, and I’m quite, quite sure that she wanted it for Mr. Wroughton.”
“And Fossetter?”
Chloe’s cheeks burned.
“No—no—I don’t know. Don’t talk about him.”
“All right.”
She blinked once or twice rapidly; then she said: “I don’t know what to do about those papers. They ought to be burned, and I can’t burn them at Mrs. Rowse’s. If they were burnt, perhaps Mr. Wroughton would leave me alone. You see, it’s fearfully complicated. Mr. Dane left everything to me, so I suppose the papers are mine; but I shan’t be of age till February, and as soon as I am of age, I’m going to refuse to take anything under his will.”
Michael looked up quickly. Chloe nodded.
“I can’t take it—I can’t take anything from him—I couldn’t if I was starving. So I suppose, properly and legally, I ought not to destroy anything.”
“No, I don’t think you ought.”
He saw her colour brighten. She rapped the table vigorously.
“But I’m going to. Even if I was going to be put in prison for it, I’d do it.”
“I see,” said Michael. He went on looking at Chloe. Then he said, “If it’s stocks and shares, I really don’t think you’d better burn them.”
“It isn’t,” said Chloe; “it’s letters. And they must be burnt—they’ve got to be burnt.” She clasped her hands under her chin, set her elbows on the table, and leaned towards Michael. Her eyes were bright and defiant.
“Oh, letters,” said Michael in a tone of relief. “If that’s all, I’d burn them for you myself. Would you like me to?”
“Would you?—would you really?—not look at them at all, but just burn them?”
“Yes, rather!—if you wanted me to.”
Chloe took her hands from under her chin and clapped them.
“Angel!” she said. “If only those beastly things were burnt, I believe I’d get out of this sort of nightmare into something nice and ordinary and every-day again. Will you really do it?”
Michael lost his head a little. He said, “Chloe,” and then blushed furiously. “I beg your pardon. I mean I’ll do anything you want me to.”
“You are an angel!” said Chloe. “Why did you beg my pardon? Of course you can call me Chloe. Do you think I’m going to call an angel rescuer Mr. Foster? I’m not. But how can I call you Michael if you don’t call me Chloe?”
Michael’s blush extended to the very tips of his ears.
“It’s an absolutely topping name,” he said.
“Yes, isn’t it?” said Chloe. “If I’d been called Gwendoline, or Gladys, or Emily, or Harriet, I should have gone through life just simply hating my godfathers and godmothers. On the other hand, I should probably have been much worthier. Will you really, truly burn those letters?”
Michael nodded without speaking. Chloe dived into a pocket, produced her purse, and extracted the rescued receipt.
“There are two suit-cases, and they’ve got Mr. Dane’s initials on them—C.M.D. And you’ll be frightfully careful, won’t you?—because, I’m trusting you most tremendously. How will you do it?”
“Take them out on to Finchley Common, sop ’em with petrol, and apply a match.”
“You’ll be sure they’re quite, quite burnt? They’re—they’re letters, you know,—letters that other people oughtn’t to see.”
“It’s rotten to keep letters,” said Michael, frowning. “They’re either simply frightfully dull, or else they’re like you say—the sort that other people oughtn’t to see. Well, I’ll undertake that there won’t be anything left of this particular lot. I say, if I’m arrested as a dangerous incendiary, and sent to penal servitude for umpteen years, you’ll come and see me in prison, won’t you?”
“I’ll bring you sticky buns,” said Chloe. She took one, bit it, and looked at him, sparkling. “They’re ripping buns. I’ll bring you a dozen in a paper bag every time I come. I could throw them through the bars when the warders weren’t looking, and you’d have to be frightfully clever and get a whole one into your mouth every time. I should simply love to see you!”
“All right,” said Michael, “that’s a bargain. And if I’m not arrested, won’t you—I mean, mayn’t I—I mean—”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, even if the bars and the buns are a wash-out, I’d like to roll up and report progress—if you’ll let me. You’ll want to know for certain that I’ve done the job. I was thinking perhaps I could call for you to-morrow.”
“I’m one of the world’s workers,” said Chloe. “I’m Mrs. Mostyn Llewellyn’s secretary, but I don’t know that I can go back to her. You see, I want to hide till I’m twenty-one; and that sham secretary woman knows where I’m working; and Mrs. Mostyn Llewellyn knows where I’m living. Oh!” said Chloe. “Oh, Michael!”—the sparkle in her eyes was suddenly drowned in tears—“Oh, Michael dear, I shall have to run away again. And I am so
tired of running away.”
“Must you?”
“Yes, yes, I must. And I’ve just settled down and got Mrs. Rowse to love me a little. And Albert, who is a frightfully red-hot Communist, was going to teach me how to sing ‘The Red Flag,’ and save my life nobly whenever the Red Revolution came along—and—and—it’s all very well for you to grin like that, but how would you like to have to turn out at a moment’s notice and go and look for a room, when you don’t know a single person in London and you’ve only got sixteen and sixpence in the world?”
Michael was considering.
“I don’t see why you shouldn’t keep on your job. There wouldn’t be any need to let your Mrs. Thingummy know that you’d changed your address, would there?”
“N’ no. Michael how clever of you!”
“You could carry on for a bit anyhow. And about a room—I’m—well, as a matter of fact, I’m moving out of my own room, and I wondered whether it would suit you.”
“You mean,” said Chloe with a very direct look—“you mean you’re going to give up your room because I’m in a hole. How frightfully nice of you!” A wave of warm, honest gratitude seemed to flow from her as she spoke.
“I can find something in five minutes; it’s quite easy for a man. I only thought—you don’t think it awful cheek, do you?—I mean my landlady, Mrs. Moffat, used to be one of our housemaids, and she’s a really topping sort; you could absolutely bank on her.”
“She’ll hate me at first sight for turning you out.”
“Nobody could,” said Michael quite simply.
Chapter XXXIII
Chloe went back to Hatchelbury Road and flung her arms round Mrs. Rowse’s neck.
“I’ve got to run away again. I do wish I hadn’t. I’m sure no one will ever be as nice to me as you’ve been.”
Mrs. Rowse looked grim.
“I don’t hold with running away. Once, may be, if a gel was really put to it—a step-mother that drinks, or such like—; but to make a habit of it is what I should call unsettling and likely to lead to worse. You go back to your friends, Miss.”
“The people who are looking for me are not my friends,” said Chloe. “They’re horrible, nefarious evil-doers, ever so much worse than a step-mother that drinks. And if any of them come round here and want to know where I’ve gone, you won’t tell them, will you?”
“The biggest blab in the world can’t tell what she don’t know. But now that we’re talking, let me tell you one thing.” The voice became very severe, but the bulging eyes rested on Chloe with reluctant indulgence. “I won’t say that I’m not sorry you’re going, but I won’t say that I am sorry either. You’re a gel that turns young men’s heads. And when I see Albert’s head getting all ready to turn—well, I won’t say I’m sorry you’re going.” Chloe flushed.
“Oh, Mrs. Rowse!”
“I don’t say that you’ve any intentions that way.”
“I don’t ever want to turn anyone’s head,” said Chloe. “I like people. I can’t help it; I do like them; I’m made that way. And when I like them I want to be friends with them. I just hate it if—when they get silly.”
“Gels can’t be friends with young men,” said Mrs. Rowse with extreme dogmatism. “There’s too much human nature in the way.”
Michael came for Chloe in his car at nine o’clock. She took the seat beside him, and he told her rapidly and cheerfully that he had put in some A.I. staff work, and that everything was satisfactorily arranged. Yes, he’d found a room for himself. No, Mrs. Moffat was not furious, but quite properly delighted to have Chloe instead of himself.
“I’ve told her she’s to bite the nose off anyone who comes there and asks for you. She’s a frightfully efficient chaperone. My young sister stayed there with me once, and she said she’d never been so looked after in her life. Then there’s Monody—you’ll like Monody.”
“Who’s Monody?”
“Oh, a ripping chap—a bit mad, you know, but one of the best. He does those frightfully good caricatures in ‘The Eight-hour Day.’ He’s a raging Socialist of course.”
“I shall learn to sing ‘The Red Flag’ after all!” said Chloe.
Mrs. Moffat received them with a manner which blended mourning for the departing Michael with suspicion of Chloe as a substitute. She thawed a little on perceiving that Chloe did not make up and had not the golden hair which owes its origin to dye; but the thaw was not sufficient to make the mental atmosphere at all comfortably warm.
“I knew she’d hate me,” said Chloe in a little voice as she and Michael followed Mrs. Moffat up the stair. As she said it, Michael felt her bare hand just brush against his; he caught it in a warm, reassuring grasp, and felt it tremble a little. They walked up as far as the landing like that, and Chloe was comforted.
On the landing, Mr. Monody, very long and thin and like a caricature of himself—such an odd, sharp, turned-up nose; and such little, blinking eyes under a thatch of colourless hair.
Michael hailed him with a shout, whereupon he at once dropped the portfolio he was carrying and stood by, rumpling his hair, whilst Mrs. Moffat, Chloe, and Michael retrieved his scattered drawings. Michael, on his hands and knees, effected an introduction.
“This is Monody. He’s always doing this sort of thing. Monody, this is Miss Dane. You know—I told you.” Then in a stage whisper to Chloe, “I say, I forgot to ask you if you wanted to be Miss Dane here—Dene or Green will do just as well if you’d rather.”
Chloe gurgled with laughter. She heard Mr. Monody remark with perfect gravity, “Too many names spoil an alias. I should stick to Dane if I were you.” And, before she could recover, he was gone, running down the stair at top speed, whistling the Hymn to the Sun from the Coq d’Or.
Mrs. Mostyn Llewellyn received Chloe next day with a marked absence of enthusiasm.
“I think,” Chloe told Michael in the evening, “in fact, I’m sure, that she’s suddenly realized that she doesn’t know anything about me, and that she never even asked me for a reference. I know that she went and rang up the real secretary of the N.Y.S. thing. She was perfectly priceless about it. She looked at me in the most suspicious way, and said the whole thing was very strange, and how did I account for it.”
“What did you say?”
“I put it to her quite firmly that I couldn’t possibly be responsible for what people said to her on the telephone. I said I’d told her all along that there was some idiotic mistake. And that was that. She was peeved. Michael, I’m afraid my job is fading before my eyes. You’ll have to find me another.”
“All right,” said Michael, “I will. I burnt those letters this morning.”
“You did?”
“Yes, it took about a gallon of petrol; but it’s done.”
“Ouf!” said Chloe. She drew a long breath and slipped her hand for a moment into Michael’s arm. “You don’t know, you really don’t know, what a frightful relief it is. How did you get time off?”
“Ah!” said Michael, “that’s what I was going to tell you about. I don’t drive cabs any more: I only collect dividends. From to-day I’m a full-blown partner. And we’re going to dine and do a show to celebrate the event.”
It was next day that Chloe lost her job. Mrs. Mostyn Llewellyn paid her, thanked her coldly for her assistance, and intimated that she had now made other arrangements. Chloe was both angry and dejected when she came out into a deluge of rain and found Michael waiting for her. He did his best to console, but found her in a thorny mood.
“I hate looking for jobs. I hate people who snork and say, ‘What experience have you had?’ And I simply loathe people who ask me for references.”
Michael blundered badly.
“I suppose it’s natural they should want them,” he began.
Chloe stamped her foot in a puddle; the muddy water flew up and drenched her ankles.
�
�What’s the use of their asking me for references when I can’t give them any? What’s the good of references anyhow? If I was an unscrupulous adventuress, I should have lots of perfectly lovely ones, beautifully forged so that no one could ever find out. So that’s how much good references are. I tried to explain that to one woman, and she turned pale magenta and opened her mouth like a fish. Hateful people!”
“I thought you liked people.”
Chloe’s April smile flashed out suddenly.
“I do—when I’m not in a raging temper.”
Mrs. Moffat really thawed that evening when Chloe came home “sopped”—the expression was Mrs. Moffat’s own. And when she discovered that she had nothing to change into, sympathy and conversation became the order of the day.
“You’re fair sopped. Now whatever could Mr. Michael have been thinking of to let you get that wet?”
“It was raining,” said Chloe, “and I stamped in a puddle. It felt frightfully nice at the time because I was just blazing with fury; but afterwards I was sorry, because there’s something discouraging about having one’s ankles wet. Oh, Mrs. Moffat, how frightfully kind! Will you really lend me a dressing-gown and dry my things for me? I haven’t got any clothes because I ran away. I expect Michael told you.”
Mrs. Moffat ran out of the room and returned at top speed with a crimson flannel dressing-gown and a pair of solid black felt slippers. Chloe snuggled into the warm flannel, while Mrs. Moffat went down on her knees and held the slippers one at a time for the little cold feet.
“You won’t hate having me here any more, will you?” said Chloe—“not after being so frightfully nice to me. I told Michael you’d hate me for turning him out. He said you wouldn’t; but I knew you would. But you won’t go on doing it now, will you?”
Mrs. Moffat, still kneeling, looked up and saw Chloe’s mouth tremble, and the tears come into her eyes. She laid her hands on Chloe’s knees.
“He loves you true.”
If Chloe was taken aback, she didn’t show it. She pushed aside a wet curl, looked wide-eyed into Eliza Moffat’s plain, sharp face, and asked as a child might have done:
The Black Cabinet Page 19
