Mr. Zero (10 page)

“An aunt,” said Algy gloomily. “Gay is staying with her. They're cousins of Lady Colesborough's.”

He got another keen look.

“Known this young lady long?”

“About three months, sir.”

“Well, you took her to the Ducks and Drakes. Were you alone, or in a party?”

“We went there alone, but we joined up with the Wessex-Gardners.”

“What!” It was more of an exclamation than a word. A disturbed look crossed Montagu Lushington's face. “I should like to know who you danced with.”

“Poppy Wessex-Gardner, Sylvia Colesborough, and Gay—mostly with Gay.”

“Could one of them have put the envelope in your pocket?”

“Not while we were dancing.”

“But you sat out?”

“We sat at a table and had drinks, and things to eat—I hadn't had any dinner.”

“Yes, it could have been done then. You agree?”

“I suppose so.”

“Who were the men of the party?”

“Wessex-Gardner and his brother. His brother's wife was there too. And a man called Danvers—I don't know anything about him—and Brewster.”

“I didn't know Brewster went to night-clubs.”

Algy laughed, not very cheerfully.

“He doesn't. Mrs. Wessex-Gardner dragged him, and he's fallen for Sylvia Colesborough—a hopeless, respectful passion—she didn't even know he was there half the time.”

“I can imagine that! What was this man Danvers like?”

“A bit of an outsider, I thought—the I'll-tell-the-world-I-did-it touch. He seemed to go down very well with Mrs. Wessex-Gardner.”

“Yes,” said Montagu Lushington—“an old friend. At least so I gathered.”

“What—he was at Wellings?”

Lushington shook his head.

“Not quite. He was expected, but he didn't turn up—at least not on the crucial Saturday. I believe he came over on the Sunday afternoon, but Maud and I had motored over to Hindon, so we did not see him. I wish now that we had, because it comes to this—anyone of these people could have put that envelope in your pocket.”

Algy thought for a moment.

“I suppose they could—” he said.

XIII

Algy had plenty to think about all day. Monty had been very decent. “Stick to you job, and stick to your ordinary way of life. Go about the show yourself. Behave as if the whole thing was too ridiculous to be answered. That's my advice to you both as a member of my family and as a member of my staff.” It was good advice too, and it fell in with Algy's mood, which was a fighting one. All the same it was easier said than done. Carstairs, always remote, now hardly appeared to be aware of him at all. Communications reached him by way of Brewster, and Brewster, nervously correct, made things worse by a hint of embarrassment and a tinge of apology. Not a nice day at all.

The worst part was the recurrent remembrance of Gay looking at him with serious eyes and asking him what he would do if someone tried to blackmail him. He had been trying hard not to remember it, but it kept gate-crashing in among his thoughts, and behind it there came, sidling, peeping, whispering, a whole crowd of perfectly idiotic suspicions, fancies, fears. If Gay was being blackmailed, what was the threat, the compulsion? You can't blackmail a girl with just nothing at all. You've got to have a hold over her. What sort of mess had Gay got herself into?

He revolted sharply. She wasn't that sort. He felt an anger which surprised and discomfited him. He felt also a burning desire to weigh in and knock the blackmailer's teeth through the back of his head.

He tried to remember what she had said. She had flared up. He had a vivid recollection of how she had looked with the bright angry colour in her cheeks. And she had said, “What do you think I've done?” and they had been very near a quarrel. And afterwards—afterwards she had said that what the blackmailer wanted wasn't money, but something dreadful. One of those gate-crashing thoughts got in a word here. With perfect succinctness it observed, “He might have wanted her to put that envelope in your pocket.”

She could have done it, and she was the only one who could have done it. He had known that all along. She could have done it in the taxi. She could have done it at the Ducks and Drakes. And she could have done it without any risk.… He had a good deal of difficulty in keeping his mind on his work.

When he went out to lunch an enterprising representative of the brighter press waylaid him.

“Mr. Somers?”

Algy said, “Not particularly,” and the young man looked pained.

“Now, Mr. Somers, I'd like to have your story.”

Algy gazed at him and solemnity.

“I don't use them.”

A faint shade passed over the young man's face.

“Now, Mr. Somers—what's the use? Everyone knows about the missing papers. You would naturally like to have the story presented from the right angle. Our circulation—”

“I prefer a hot water bottle,” said Algy. He walked at a brisk pace, the young man beside him, notebook in hand, incessantly vocal. “For the exclusive rights … And it would be so very much to your advantage … I think you can hardly realize—”

Algy smiled upon him.

“Perhaps it's night starvation. Have you tried Horlick?”

“But, Mr. Somers—”

“Walk the Barratt way,” said Algy with bonhomie.

The encounter cheered him a good deal. He lunched, and rang Miss Gay Hardwicke up. The conversation did not take quite the line he had intended. He had meant to be polite and a little detached. Unfortunately it was not Gay who came to the telephone. The voice which said “Who is there?” was the kind of voice that takes the chair at public meetings. He could picture it addressing a conference of head mistresses. It recalled painful interviews with an aunt who had been a strong believer in corporal punishment for the young.

He said, “Can I speak to Miss Gay Hardwicke?” and was rather proud of himself for having the courage.

The voice called “Gay!” on a ringing note, and Gay arrived rather breathless from the stairs.

Algy was too much relieved to be aloof.

Gay said, “Oh, it's you?” And then, “That was Aunt Agatha. What is it?”

The sound of her voice did something to the gatecrashers. They cast sickly looks at one another, and got into corners. Algy said,

“Come out tonight, Gay—will you? I want to talk to you.”

Gay said, “Well—” in a tone which she hoped would sound doubtful, and was rewarded.

“Please, Gay, I must see you—I must talk to you.”

“I can't dine. Aunt Agatha's got some of her committee coming. She'll be peeved if I'm not in to dinner, but I don't think they'll want me afterwards.”

“Same as last time?”

“Yes, that will do.”

“All right, I'll be round at half past nine.”

By half past nine Gay was more than ready to drag herself away from an earnest committee which had been talking about executions for an hour and a half.

“You've no idea how
grim
. I'm converted absolutely, but I simply couldn't have listened to them for another minute. I feel as if I'd gone pale green all over.”

“The bits I can see are all right,” said Algy, as the light of a street-lamp slid over them.

She came closer and slipped a hand through his arm.

“Where are we going? I want to have my mind distracted.”

“Would you mind awfully if it was the Ducks and Drakes again?”

“No. Why?”

“I'll tell you later on.”

But at first they danced. And then the star turn held the floor, an apparently boneless girl dressed in her own brown skin and some strings of beads which caught the light and flashed it back in ruby, emerald, and sapphire. She had a black fuzz of hair, eyes like pools of ink, and the largest, reddest mouth and the whitest teeth in the world. To the sound of strange percussion instruments and the rhythmic beat of a drum the brown girl twisted, writhed, and swayed. Her black eyes rolled, her white teeth gleamed. There was a fascinating play of muscle under the shining skin. She really didn't seem to have any bones at all.

When it was over Algy said, “Do you mind if we talk now?” and Gay said, “No,” and then wondered if she had been a fool, and a fool to come out with him. She threw a quick look at him and found him serious, panicked a little, and said quickly,

“There's that Mr. Danvers who was with the Wessex-Gardners the other night.”

Algy was already aware of Mr. Danvers. He had, in fact, come here in the hope of seeing Mr. Danvers, who appeared to be an
habitué
. He said casually,

“Oh, yes, he's often here, I believe. Do you know him?”

“Not really. I met him here the other night.”

“Did you dance with him?”

She made a little face.

“Once.”

“And what did you think of him?”

“Oh, I hated him,” said Gay cheerfully.

“Do you mind telling me why?”

“I'd love to tell you why. I've been wanting to let off steam ever since.”

“Why, what did he do?”

“He didn't do anything. He looked over the top of my head and told me how he had made a steel combine toe the line.”

Algy burst out laughing.

“My poor child! I'm afraid I can't break his head for that.”

“No—it's a pity, isn't it? And when he had finished about the steel combine he began about a gas corporation—he's got a tame one that eats out of his hand. And he rolls in wealth, but he's very careful about girls—not to give them any encouragement, you know.”

“Can you look me in the eye and swear he told you that?”

“No, darling. That was Poppy Wessex-Gardner. Being kind, you know, so that I shouldn't have any false hopes raised through being danced with and having heart-to-heart confidences about gas. And I said, ‘Oh,
no
, Mrs. Wessex-Gardner,' and, ‘Oh,
yes
, Mrs. Wessex-Gardner,' and looked meek, and my old black dress helped a lot, so she thawed a little and let me off with a caution instead of sending for the court executioner and saying ‘Off with her head!'”

“My child, you rave.”

“I know I do. It's Aunt Agatha's capital punishment people.” Her voice changed suddenly. “Why do you want to know about Mr. Danvers, and what do you want to know about Mr. Danvers?”

Algy leaned nearer and said in a low, direct voice,

“I want to know whether he's your blackmailer, Gay.”

They were at a table in an alcove. There was no one near enough to hear, but anyone might have seen Gay's change of colour and her startled look. She said all in a hurry,

“Why should he be?” And then, “I haven't got a blackmailer! Don't call him mine!” After which she took breath and said in a serious voice, “Algy, what on earth do you mean?”

Algy did not answer at once. He took time to look at Gay, time to be sure that he trusted her, time to tell himself that he had been a fool. He said at last,

“When we were here the other night something was slipped into one of my pockets, and I'm wondering who did it. You asked me what I would do if someone tried to blackmail me, and then you were angry because I thought you meant that someone was blackmailing you. I wish you'd tell me the rest.”

“There isn't any more, and if there was, I couldn't tell you. What did you find in your pocket—a love letter?”

“Something that had been stolen.”

“Algy—not really! How thrilling!”

Algy said, “No.” And then after a pause, “Damnable.”

Her face changed.

“Algy,
please
. What is it? Do tell me.”

He shook his head.

“I can't. You'll probably hear about it—there's a considerable amount of chat going on. But I'd rather you didn't say anything about the envelope being put into my pocket.”

Her eyes opened so widely that the lights shone down into them as the sun shines into dark peaty water, lightening its colour, filling it with floating golden specks. He thought with a faint shock of surprise, “Her eyes aren't dark at all, they're amber. It's the shade of the lashes that makes them look black.”

She caught her breath and opened her lips to speak, but didn't speak. She was remembering something, and trying not to remember it.

Algy said quickly, “What is it, Gay?” and she said nothing. And then,

“Why should anyone put an envelope in your pocket?”

Algy leaned an elbow on the table.

“I think someone had the kind thought that my rooms might be searched, and that it might be found there. Fortunately I found it myself.”

Gay leaned over the table too.

“Algy—how horrid! Who could possibly—”

“That's what I'm going to find out.”

She spoke quickly.

“You're not—in any trouble? It's not—it's not serious?”

“It might be.”

“How?” The word was rather breathless.

He looked away from her because it was dangerous to be so near, to see her eyes so soft and anxious—for him. He said in a studiously quiet voice,

“Someone's trying to get me into trouble. If they bring it off, I should be finished as far as my present job is concerned, and as far as politics are concerned. There'd be a black mark against me. But they're not going to bring it off. I'm going to get to the bottom of it and clear myself.”

“You can't tell me about it?”

He did look at her then. This was a Gay he had not seen before—serious, troubled. He said,

“I don't think so. You'll hear the talk—you're bound to.”

Her lip quivered. She put up her hand to it like a child and shook her head.

“I wouldn't listen—you know that. Won't you tell me?”

“I don't think I must, Gay.”

She looked away with a quick turn of the head as if he had hurt her. He found his hand on her arm.