Warrant for X

by Philip MacDonald

  She was then shown her room and made acquainted with her duties. She superintended the arrival of her trunk and in a space of time remarkably short was busy about her new employment, neatly and becomingly clad in black serge and white linen. . . .

  She proved deft and quick and efficient and automatically courteous. She was even a good cook when occasion arose. She was, in fact, a far better servant in every way than the holiday-making Miss Parfitt. But, to a remarkable and sometimes almost abashing degree, she “knew her place.” Roundfaced Miss Parfitt made friends with her employers where she could and where she could not was unhappy and left them. Not so Miss Ada Brent, who never spoke unless she were spoken to and then from the wooden and soulless visage of the copybook servant. . . .

  3

  At seven o’clock upon the morning of the third day of her employment Miss Ada Brent switched off the bell of her alarm clock, got herself out of bed, bathed herself, dressed herself and set, with exemplary dispatch and efficiency, about her labours. By half-past eight the flat, except for the bedroom of her mistress, was ready to face the day. At nine o’clock punctually Miss Brent knocked upon her mistress’s door and was bidden to enter and did so, bearing with her a tray upon which were coffee and croissants and a morning paper. . . .

  Two hours later Miss Brent closed the front door behind her mistress. She was happy in the knowledge that her work was done; that her mistress would not be returning until after dinner; that she was not to wait up; that there was little chance of any of these arrangements going wrong; that all she had to do in the way of labour was to answer the telephone.

  Miss Brent walked demurely along the narrow little passage and into her gleaming kitchen and sat down with her hands folded in her lap. Her face was masklike as ever. Upon a shelf over the stove, where Miss Brent could see it without turning her head, was a clock. There was silence in the flat and Miss Brent remained motionless and the minute hand of the clock moved with steady imperceptibility. . . .

  It reached fifteen minutes past eleven—and a change came over Miss Brent. She always allowed a quarter of an hour, and now this one had flown. She rose and plucked the cap from her head and threw it onto the table and ran her hands through her charming mane of black hair and, whistling cleverly a melody of the moment, passed out of the kitchen and down the passage and into the drawing room. From a silver box upon the mantelshelf she took a cigarette. Lighting it, she wandered out of this room and into the dining room. Here, from a decanter and siphon upon the sideboard, she helped herself to a whiskey and soda. Glass in one hand, cigarette in the other, she sauntered back into the drawing room and sat herself down by the telephone and crossed admirably stockinged legs and lifted the receiver and worked the dial. She said after due pause:

  “Harry in? - . . Well, wake him up. . . . Tell him it’s Miss Brent. . . . Don’t bloody well argue with me; you don’t know who you’re talking to . . . She scowled at the telephone; then smiled; then alternately sipped and smoked and composed herself to wait.

  The telephone cackled.

  “That you, sweetie?” said Miss Brent. “Listen, the bitch is out. The whiskey’s good. I might be persuaded, if you promise not to behave like a gentleman, to ask you up for a visit this afternoon. . . .”

  The telephone cackled excitedly.

  “Listen!” said Miss Brent. “Cut that out! Until this afternoon ! Then tell it me!”

  The telephone cackled, less exuberantly.

  “No, I can’t,” said Miss Brent firmly. “No. You come at two-thirty—and not a minute sooner. . . . Yes, of course I’ve done my work. That’s nothing to do with it. . . . Now listen, baby! Either you come when I invite you or you don’t come at all! You don’t want to get me wild, do you? Two-thirty and not a minute before. . . . And don’t use the lift; walk straight in and come up the stairs. . . . Fourteen A. . . . S’long, ducky! And keep yourself good till this afternoon. . .

  Miss Brent slammed back the receiver. For a moment she sat staring in apparently pleasant contemplation at the telephone; then rose and threw the end of her cigarette into the fire and finished her drink.

  Whistling again, she took her glass out into the kitchen, rinsed it beneath the tap, dried it and took it back to its proper place in the dining room. And then she ceased whistling and there came over her whole demeanour a sudden change. Where she had been deliberately and pleasurably idling, she now was brisk and definite. She walked back into the drawing room with a gait as different from her hip-swaying stroll of a minute before as it was from the quick-stepped, demure walk of her servitude. Now she moved with a long and free and purposeful stride.

  She went directly to the small writing desk in the corner of the drawing room. She pulled out the chair before the desk and sat herself down and began to search, obviously with some definite object, in the pigeonholes of the desk. The contents of some pigeonholes she passed over after a cursory glance but those of others she took out and set upon the blotting pad and methodically examined. It was notable that when she had finished each examination and put the papers back everything was not only in its proper relation, but the whole bore exactly the same appearance as before she had disturbed it.

  She finished the pigeonholes and sat back and glowered at the desk. She said aloud:

  “God damn it!” And then, on a sudden note of excitement: “Oh, p’r’aps . .

  She opened the blotter. It was a parchment-bound thing of some sixty or seventy sheets and in the middle was what she sought—the letter over which her mistress had seemed to be so busy upon the night before but which, every indication had told Miss Brent, had not been completed.

  And here it was! Seven sheets of it! And stopped in midparagraph. . . .

  “Bloody fool!” said Miss Brent with ineffable scorn.

  She began to read. Her eyebrows raised themselves after the first five lines of reading and when the avid eyes had devoured every line of the closely written pages she sat back in her chair and blew out her cheeks and there came from her pursed red lips a long subdued whistle of astonishment.

  “And if that’s not hot!” said Miss Brent.

  4

  It was on Tuesday, the eleventh of October—two days, that is, after Miss Brent had read the half-finished letter which had so much astonished her—that Mrs Bellingham’s maid answered a ring from the front doorbell, held colloquy with the ringer and then sought her mistress in the drawing room.

  “If you please, madam?” said Miss Ada Brent.

  Mrs Bellingham set down her book. “Yes, Brent?”

  “A man’s called, madam. He says he wants to see you on very important business.”

  Mrs Bellingham frowned. “See me? On important business?” She thought for a moment; then shook her head. “Did he give his name?”

  “Yes madam. Jenks, madam.”

  “Jenks?” Mrs Bellingham smiled. “I don’t know anybody called Jenks, Brent.”

  “He said, madam, that I was to tell you that the business was very, very important.”

  Mrs Bellingham shrugged her shoulders. “Possibly wants to sell me something. Tell him to go away, Brent. . . . Half a minute! What does he look like?”

  Miss Ada Brent considered for a moment; then gave a ghost of a sniff; then said:

  “Ordinary, madam. . . . Excuse me, madam, but I don’t think he’ll go away. I tried to tell him you couldn’t see him unless he’d state his business. But he was very—well, insistent !”

  Mrs Bellingham made a gesture of irritation. “All right, Brent. All right, show him in.”

  “In here, madam?”

  “Yes, yes.” Mrs Bellingham stood and closed her book and put it down upon a table and waited, facing the door.

  The door opened. Miss Ada Brent came through it first and held it open and looked, with a sort of expressionless disapproval, at the figure which followed her. When it was well into the room she closed the door and could be heard walking back towards her kitchen.

  Mrs Bellingham faced her visitor. Sh
e saw a small man of indeterminate age whose clothes were as undistinguished as his appearance He looked, indeed, like any lower-grade clerk beside whom one sits in bus or tube; but Mrs Bellingham had observant eyes and saw, after a moment of scrutiny, that there emerged two peculiarities from this molecule of the ordinary: first, that the head, thinly covered with sparse sandy hair, was very large for the meagre body; second, that this head was carried with a peculiar sideways tilt which seemed to enable its owner to study faces without meeting the eyes in them with his own.

  He carried a faintly dusty-looking bowler hat in his left hand and underneath his left arm was held, clamped to his side, a thin buff envelope of the largest size.

  “Well,” said Mrs Bellingham, who stood with her back to the light which streamed from the four windows at the end of the pretty room.

  The visitor bowed with a little sideways ducking of his head. He said:

  “Mrs Bellingham, I believe?”

  Mrs Bellingham inclined her head.

  “My name is Jenks,” said her visitor. His voice was in keeping with his appearance: flat, monotonous and flavoured strongly with the pinched vowels and strident inflections of the City.

  Mrs Bellingham appeared to be studying him. “Yes, Mr . . . Jenks? And what do you want?”

  Mr Jenks coughed. He murmured: “With your permission,” and laid his hat, with a gesture which told of its worth to him, upon the arm of a chair. He took the envelope from beneath his arm and held it in both hands before him. He said:

  “I represent a firm of—er—photographers, Mrs Bellingham.” He took two small steps towards her, still holding the envelope in both hands. His head seemed to be carried more than ever to one side and it looked, suddenly, monstrously large. It seemed to Mrs Bellingham, who had difficulty in not recoiling, that suddenly he was reptilian.

  “I am not interested in photography,” said Mrs Bellingham sharply. “I’m afraid you’re wasting your time!”

  The large head of the visitor was shaken from side to side; an unpleasing gesture as it remained tilted the whole time. He said:

  “I think you will be interested in these photographs, Mrs Bellingham.”

  He undid the clipped flap of the envelope and withdrew from it, slowly, two large square pieces of what appeared to Mrs Bellingham, who could only see their backs, to be thin sheets of pasteboard.

  He was now standing very close to her, after an advance which had been somehow imperceptible; and Mrs Bellingham did now, indeed, step back. She said, more sharply still and on a higher note:

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. And I don’t like your manner. Please go.”

  Mr Jenks advanced again, this time with an open step. It became patent to Mrs Bellingham, all at once, that his face was not ordinary as it had at first seemed, but was vulpine—and with a peculiarly dead-white skin. He said:

  “I’m not guessing, Mrs Bellingham. I know that you’ll be interested in these photographs which my firm has taken.” He suddenly turned the pasteboard sheets so that the face of the top one was beneath Mrs Bellingham’s eye.

  She saw that the, foremost sheet was glossy and that it contained what w;efe apparently reproductions of two photographs, one higher than the other, of line upon line of a script which was familiar to her.

  “Recognize the writing, eh?” said Mr Jenks and held his hand higher.

  Mrs Bellingham did recognize the writing, and for the best of reasons. Her eyes widened and she drew in her breath with a sharp hiss. Her hand shot out but Mr Jenks, with the air and balance of one playing a familiar game, put the things behind his back.

  “No!” said Mr Jenks. “That’s naughty now!” . . .

  5

  Upon the following day, Wednesday, Mr Jenks was again in the drawing room of Mrs Bellingham and talking with its owner. He noted, with businesslike satisfaction, that Mrs Bellingham seemed of the pallor appropriate to the interview and that the hand which kept raising the cigarette holder to her mouth was trembling.

  Mr Jenks laid his hat, this time without request for permission, in the same place that he had set it yesterday and from beneath his left arm, with yesterday’s gesture, took a large envelope. He looked at Mrs Bellingham and did not bow. He said with a most unpleasing affectation of heartiness:

  “Good morning, good morning! And how are we this morning! Good girl, eh?”

  Mrs Bellingham did not speak. She was staring at him as if he were indeed a reptile. She continued to stare while Mr Jenks went through curious evolutions which had not been part of yesterday’s programme. He went past Mrs Bellingham to the windows behind her and lifted each of the four long curtains which hung in folds beside every window. He peered behind each and dropped it and at last was satisfied. He went back to the centre of the room and stood, his big head more on one side than ever, while his eyes darted glances this way and that about the room. He crossed to the big sofa which stood diagonally athwart a corner and peered behind and underneath it. Satisfied again, he rose and, humming, crossed to the door and opened it and looked out.

  He came back to take up his stand again before Mrs Bellingham. He said, still with the noxious simulation of heartiness:

  “Well, everything’s nice and aboveboard! Glad to see you’re a good girl. . . . Now then, let’s get down to business!” He took the envelope from beneath his arm and opened it and took out the two prints which it contained. He said: “Now then. I hope you remember what I told you yesterday. My principal’s very particular about these things and never likes to handle checks—so if you’ll just give me the money I’ll hand over these!” He waved the prints in his right hand with a horridly jocular little movement.

  Mrs Bellingham was holding, tightly clenched in her left hand, a silk bag. Now she undid this and slowly produced from it a thick packet of treasury notes bound with an elastic band. She kept her eyes fixed, with a wide stare of fear and horror, upon the tilted face of Mr Jenks. She made a motion as if to give him the packet; then snatched her hand back. She said, in a voice which was very different from the voice which she had used upon his first appearance:

  “You’re sure it’s all right if I give you this two hundred now and you give me those prints——” She broke off, her throat working.

  Her visitor said: “That’s perfectly right. Then in thirty days from now I’ll ’ave the pleasure of calling upon you again with the next lot of prints. Then you’ll pay me for those . . . and so on, through all five prints, until we reach the sixth payment—which, you mustn’t forget, is double, Mrs B.—and then you get the negatives!”

  Mrs Bellingham opened her mouth as if to speak but no words came from it. Her tongue came out and moistened her lips and she tried again. She said at last:

  “But—but—suppose I can’t pay every time.”

  Mr Jenks raised a monitory finger. He said:

  “Now, now! We went into all that yestiddy. Business, Mrs B., is business! You pay for these photographs on the date we arrange. If you don’t . . .” Mr Jenks paused. For a moment his head straightened from its usual tilt and he looked squarely into Mrs Bellingham’s blue eyes. He said: “If you don’t . . . then, business being business, my principal will be reluctantly forced to send copies of these photographs to—well, you know who. . .

  Mrs Bellingham gasped. She said in a high-pitched voice:

  “All right! All right! Now take this and give me those. Take it, I tell you, and give those to me!”

  With his left hand Mr Jenks took the packet of notes but with his right he held the photographs behind him. He said:

  “Now don’t be alarmed, you’re going to have these, Mrs B., but, business being business, I must count this little lot first.”

  He turned and went to the writing table at the far side of the room and set down the photographs and put the packet of notes on top of them and flicked it over with a rapid, practised forefinger.

  Mrs Bellingham stood where she was, staring across at him.

  Mr Jenks finished counting
and got to his feet. He picked up the packet of notes and put them in a pocket and buttoned his shapeless coat firmly about him. He picked up the photographs and walked back across the room to Mrs Bellingham and held them out to her and she took them in a slow and doubtful hand. He stepped back. He said:

  “There you are! All square and aboveboard! You pay, we deliver the goods!”

  Mrs Bellingham stared down at the sheets of pasteboard in her hand. Without looking up she said in a voice so low as to be almost a whisper:

  “Go! Please go!”

  “Cerfazzzly!” said Mr Jenks. “Certamly!” He stood for a moment regarding her, with his left cheek almost touching his shoulder; then turned on his heel and went across the room and picked up his hat and marched towards the door. Just before he reached it he turned again. He raised his voice and said:

  “Don’t forget, Airs B., I’ll be round to see you again on the twelfth of next month.”

  Mrs Bellingham did not answer.

  Mr Jenks turned, with his hand outstretched to open the door.

  But it was opened for him. Mr Jenks took three quick little gliding steps backwards and stood, staring, as if his feet were clamped to the floor. . . .

  Mrs Bellingham sat upon the arm of a chair and lit a cigarette.

  Three men came through the open door towards him. One was a large and ponderous person in clothes which were very plain. One was a smaller, brisk young man with an air of authority and an excellent, if sober, taste in dress. One was a less emphatic edition of the first and carried with some ostentation a pencil and a reporter’s notebook.

  A sound came from the mouth of Mr Jenks but it was not a word.

  The second and authoritative young man walked smartly up to Mr Jenks and tapped him on the shoulder. He said:

  “I have a warrant here for your arrest upon a charge of blackmail.”

  CHAPTER XVI

  ALTHOUGH ONLY early afternoon, all the curtains of the library of 19A Stukeley Gardens were drawn and over the bookcase at the far end from the french windows there once more hung the sheet which served as cinematograph screen. In the shadows a small bald-headed man was packing tripod and projector into their neat containers.