Mr. Zero (5 page)

“And her husband?”

“He is Sir Francis Colesborough, because his father made a lot of money in—well, I think it was timber—and gave away parks, and playgrounds, and things, so they made him a baronet. He bought a most lovely old place called Cole Lester. I believe he bought it because of the name being like his own, and of course it belongs to Francis now.”

“I see,” said Cyril. “And do they live there a good deal?”

“I don't think so. Sylvia likes London. She was brought up in the country, you know, so she's had enough of it. Francis seems to go away a lot on business.”

“Ah, yes,—I suppose he would.” He went on talking about Sylvia and asking questions. The crooner's voice came through again:

“I'm feeling lazy.

My mind's all hazy

Because I'm crazy

With my ecstasy.”

VI

It was rather a disappointing evening, because Algy when he came back would do nothing but talk about Sylvia too. Even in the taxi going home he was still saying how lovely she was. And of course it was all quite true. Sylvia was lovely, and that was all there was about it. And Gay wasn't lovely at all, and no one would ever feel rewarded by winning a dance from her. She wasn't a bad little thing, and she had her points of course—good hair, and—yes, really good eyes—and a good colour too, though nowadays when everyone could put it on that didn't go for so much—and good teeth—oh, yes, really good teeth. Gay would stick up for Gay on all these points, but what was the good if Algy had no eyes for anyone but Sylvia?

She caught a glimpse of herself in the glass at the side of the taxi, and saw a plain little Gay with no colour at all and the sparkle gone from her eyes. They were very nearly home, and she was glad.

She turned, and saw Algy beside her like a shadow. The light that had showed her her own face was gone. They were in Hunt Street again and it was fast asleep, not a light in any one of the crowded houses, and the street-lamps few and dim and far between. Miss Hardwicke's house was No. 36.

The taxi drew up. Algy paid it off and came up the steps with Gay. He said,

“I'll walk home. I'm short of fresh air and exercise.”

Gay said nothing. She was looking in her bag for the latchkey. It was a black velvet bag with a cut steel handle, and it had belonged to Aunt Henrietta, who was an aunt of Aunt Agatha's, and the velvet had lasted all those years and never worn out. It wasn't even shabby. Other things didn't wear so well—being friends, and—and liking people—

Gay found her key and shut the bag again, but she didn't put the key in the lock. She just stood there, and Algy just stood there. The hooded porch was over them, and the street was dark. There was no sound at all—no sound. Neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke for a long time. Then Gay lifted the key and put it into the lock, and as she did that, Algy's hand came past her shoulder and closed down over her hand and over the key, and Gay's hand shook. Algy said, “Gay—” in an odd muffled voice, and Gay turned the key, pushed the door open, and ran in. She stood just inside with the hall light shining behind her, and said in a bright, clear voice, “Night, Algy. Thanks ever so much,” and sent the door to with a bang that brought Aunt Agatha out in a dressing-gown and a cap rather like a string shopping-bag to enquire what sort of hour of the night Gay thought it was, and what did she think she was going to be like next day.

Gay went on up to her room and shut the door with a sense of escape. She was rather out of breath, and her cheeks were as hot as if she had been scorching them over a fire, but her hand was cold, as cold as if it had been in ice-cold water. She was angrier with herself than she had ever been in all her life before. What did she think she was doing, turning hot and cold and going all dithery inside just because Algy Somers had grabbed her hand like that? Only he hadn't grabbed it. His hand had come down upon hers and stayed there. Gay spoke very fiercely to herself. “You just get into bed as quick as you can and take a book and read till your eyes pop out. And don't you dare to think about Algy again tonight—and there's not so much of tonight left either.”

Algy Somers walked home through a number of dark, quiet by-ways. If some parts of London never go to bed, there are others which sleep very soundly indeed. Algy's footsteps had only their own echo for company, and as he walked he was wondering what had happened to him. He hadn't known that he was going to take Gay's hand like that. Something had come up between them as they stood together in the dark porch, and before he knew what he was going to do his hand had closed on hers. The feel of that little hand, and the way it shook under his, was tingling in him still. What he ought to be feeling was relief, because if Gay hadn't pulled away like that and run into the house, there was really no saying what he might have said or done. He might have said anything, he might have committed himself quite hopelessly, and instead of being grateful for a most providential interruption he was raging because Gay had run away from him. And why? That was what he wanted to know. Why had her hand been all shaky under his, and why had she run away? Was she angry with him, or was she afraid, or …?

It was some time after this that he came to with a start and realized that he hadn't the very faintest idea where he was. He didn't know where he was, and he didn't even know how long it had taken him to get there. It took him quite a long time to get home.

Sylvia Colesborough heard the wall-clock in her sitting-room strike three as she came up the stair. It was the very latest thing in clocks, a bright stretch of glass with the numerals raised in mirror points, and the hands a delicate fretwork of stainless steel. Everything in the room was new and bright, and, to Sylvia's taste, very, very beautiful. She hated things that were old, or partly worn, or out of fashion. She had grown up amongst things like that and she hated them. Everything in her own sitting-room and in the bedroom next door to it was quite, quite new.

She went into the bedroom and began to undress, moving to and fro with her slow, invariable grace. Sylvia never hurried. She put everything away as she took it off. It had never occurred to her to let her maid sit up for her when she was going to be late. She liked to come alone into her lovely room and go softly to and fro without feeling that there was any need to hurry. The room made a perfect setting for her. The colours in it were all the colours of ice—pale green and blue, and all the shades between. The bed, a classically shaped couch, the dressing-table, and the stool that belonged to it were all made of heavy glass, semi-opaque and with a bluish tinge, but there was bright glass too—brightly faceted glass in the wreath about a mirror, in the clustered ceiling lights, and mirror glass everywhere so that as she moved Sylvia could see herself reflected from every side. Every looking-glass panel was a door. Behind one the bathroom, all pale green glass. Behind the others Sylvia's many lovely dresses, her hats, her shoes, her filmy, delicate underwear. Sylvia loved her mirrors—loved to see her own reflection come and go, loved the light, the pale colours, and the dazzling brilliance of it all. She loved it most when Francis was away.

It wasn't that she disliked Francis—she was much too amiable to do that. Had he not given her all these beautiful things? If it were not for Francis she would still be penniless Sylvia Thrale, living with a widowed mother in a small provincial town and being made love to by curates and bank clerks. She shuddered at the thought that she might have married one of them. It was Francis who had saved her from this, and since he was her husband and she had promised to be fond of him, in church and with six bridesmaids and a large congregation all listening to her, it followed as a matter of course that she
was
fond of Francis. But he was away a lot, and life was much, much pleasanter when he was away—much, much pleasanter.

Sylvia put on a white embroidered chiffon nightdress and sat down on the edge of her wide, low bed to take off her slippers. As the second slipper dropped, the telephone bell rang sharply. The instrument stood on a heavy glass pedestal beside the bed and was masked by the translucent figure of a dancer with outspread skirts.

She got into bed, and when the bell rang a second time she took up the receiver and put it to her ear. It was silly of her heart to beat so fast, because nobody in the world would ring her up at this hour except Francis—nobody in the whole world. But Francis might—Francis sometimes did when he was away like this.

A man's voice said, “Hullo!” It sounded a long way off. Francis was a long way off. He was somewhere abroad, she wasn't quite sure where. Francis very seldom told her where he went to on his business journeys.

The faraway voice said, “Hullo!” again.

Sylvia said, “Who's there?” And the voice said,

“Mr. Zero.”

Gay would have hung up in a rage, but Sylvia wasn't Gay Hardwicke. The receiver shook, and her hand shook, and her heart shook too. She said,

“I can't talk to you—I really can't. Please,
please
go away.”

Mr. Zero laughed. He had an odd, cold laugh which frightened Sylvia extremely. He said,

“Neither of us is going away until we've got our little bit of business fixed up. I'm a martyr to business, and if you don't want to be a martyr too, and a slaughtered martyr at that, you'll stay just where you are and listen to me until I say you can hang up.”

Sylvia was puzzled to the point of forgetting to be frightened. In a tone of pure bewilderment she said,

“I don't know what you mean.”

Mr. Zero laughed again.

“Dear me—I was forgetting that I must use words of one syllable! Very, very stupid of me. Please accept my apologies. And now to business. If you ring off before I've finished with you, I shall write and tell your husband about the paper you took last week. Is that quite clear?”

“
No
!” said Sylvia with a gasp. “Oh, no—you wouldn't! I mean, you won't!”

“Not if you do as you're told. And the first thing is, you are not to hang up until I say you can.”

Sylvia felt a slight relief. If that was all, she could do that. She pulled up a pale blue sheet and a pale green blanket and settled herself against the pillows that matched them. If she had got to talk to this horrible man she might as well be comfortable.

Mr. Zero was speaking, still in that faraway voice.

“I will put everything very simply. As far as possible there shall only be words of one syllable. If I go into two or three syllables, put a wet towel round your head and do your best to understand me.”

“But it would spoil my wave,” said Sylvia in a tone of sincere protest.

“Well, well, I don't insist upon the towel. Now listen to me! Is your husband away?”

“Oh, yes.”

“When does he come back?”

“Tomorrow—at least I think so.”

“He takes his keys with him of course?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Where does he keep them when he is at home? No, I can tell you that—he has them on a chain in his trouser pocket and changes them over when he changes his clothes. A very careful person. What I don't know, and what I want you to tell me is what he does with them at night. Does he leave them on his dressing-table?”

Sylvia had almost stopped being frightened. This was quite easy to answer.

“Only when he goes to his bath,” she said.

“And the bathroom opens out of his dressing-room?”

Sylvia drew in her breath in surprise.

“How do you know that?”

Mr. Zero laughed. She did so wish that he wouldn't laugh.

“Never mind—it does, doesn't it? Is he one of the people who enjoy a good long, lingering bath? Could you do anything about the keys then?”

“Oh, no—his man is there.”

“Always?”

“Oh, yes, always.”

“Are you telling the truth?” said Mr. Zero.

Sylvia was very much affronted. She drew herself up against her pillow and said,

“I always tell the truth.”

She heard that horrid laugh again.

“
Always?
”

“Except when I
can't
.”

“I see. And you're sure this isn't one of those times?”

He had puzzled her again.

“I don't know what you mean.”

“No—my fault—sorry. Back to the infant class again. Your husband's man stays in the dressing-room all the time?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Well, what happens at night? What does he do with the keys then?”

“He puts them under his pillow.”

Mr. Zero said briskly,

“A very prudent habit. And is he a sound sleeper?”

“Oh, yes, very.”

“Then it is all quite easy. You wait till he is asleep, you take the keys from under the pillow, and you come downstairs and open the left-hand dining-room window—the one on your own left as you come into the room. You will give me the keys out of the window.”

“Oh no—I couldn't!”

“You will give me the keys, and you will wait till I give them back to you. I shall only be a few minutes. Then I will give them to you again, and you will put them back under your husband's pillow. It is all as simple as eating bread and milk. I shall be waiting by the dining-room window from one to two tomorrow night, and you will bring me the keys then.”

“I don't think I can,” said Sylvia in a weak and yielding voice.

VII

Mr. Montagu Lushington looked up at the sound of the opening door. He was sitting at a writing-table in the study of his own house. He was rather a handsome man with a noticeable crop of grey hair, and hazel eyes which could be shrewd, dreamy, or restless. They were restless now. He drummed with his fingers on the arm of his chair and said,

“Come in and shut the door, Algy.”

Algy Somers wondered what he had done. There had been signs of dirty weather all the week, but this had the appearance of a gale warning to all coasts.