There Will Come A Stranger (9 page)

“Of course!” He led the way into the ground floor flat. “Have a look right away. But it was several days ago, so I
’
m afraid there
’
s not much hope that it will be there still.”

There was nothing in the basket. Rory went back to his own flat.

“No luck?” asked Barry sympathetically, surprised to see his normally unruffled cousin so distraught.

“No. I must telephone to the hotel where she was staying in Switzerland. That
’
s the only hope of getting her address in time. It
’
s nearly seven already.” Frantically he rummaged through the chaos on his desk, and at last came on what he wanted: Madame Jourdier
’
s letter telling him she could not have him at the Casque d
’
Or, but had booked a room for him elsewhere.

Muttering “Varlet-sur-Montagne 32,” Rory was making for the telephone when Barry said, “Time you began to change. I
’
ll see to it, if you like.” Rory relinquished the receiver. “It would save time if you could just get through for me.” He disappeared into the adjoining room, to reappear at frequent intervals in various stages of undress to ask impatiently, “No luck yet?”

Twenty minutes had gone by, and he was immaculate in tails and white tie, freshly shaved, with ruffled hair smoothed into place, before at last the call came through. Barry relinquished the receiver to him. After several minutes more of agonizing delay while Elise fetched Madame
Jourdier, and Madame searched for the address, with passionate relief Rory heard the distant voice telling him that “The hotel where Madame Howe and Mademoiselle Stevenson stay in London is the Aldermere, in Barkstone Street, W.i.”

“Got it?” asked Barry, as Rory replaced the receiver.

“Yes, thank heavens! She
’
s at the Aldermere. Phew! That was a bad moment! I
’
m going to be late, too, after all that. Thanks a lot, Barry, for all you
’
ve done.”

Barry, unwrapping the pork pie from its cellophane, cocked a ruminative eyebrow as he heard his cousin running downstairs. It wasn
’
t often Rory got in such a stew. Looked as though his light-hearted philanderings with a long procession of Pamelas and Susans, Saras and Sylvias and Prues, was coming to an end at last!

Rory got a taxi without difficulty. “The A
l
dermere!” he told the driver, and dropped back in the seat with a sigh of relief.

That had been a close shave, he told himself. And only now, when he had come so close to losing Valerie, had he fully realized how much she meant to him: that Valerie alone could give him all he needed in a woman—darling, funny little Valerie, so touchingly inexperienced in worldly matters, yet so profoundly wise in the important ones! Life would be transformed with Valerie for a companion, laughing at the same things that amused him, thrilled with every new experience he could give her, gentle and kind and utterly natural, good and gay, loving and laughing, all in the same enchanting blend!

Rory smiled to himself as he remembered little things he loved about her: the way her dark
-
lashed eyes, too large for her small heart-shaped face, would laugh at him although her lips were grave; her wide smile, and her funny little tilted nose, and the way her dimple deepened in her
cheek when he amused her; her walk, light as a drifting leaf; the feeling of her waist beneath his hand when they were dancing, slender and pliant; her hair, shimmering in the sun, as soft and fine as pale gold silk. Often he
’
d longed to touch that shining hair of hers, but the one time he
’
d had her in his arms it had been tucked away under her fur-lined hood.

He smiled again, remembering how her head had lain so trustfully against his shoulder as though it felt at home there; and his eyes darkened as in memory he felt her lips, so soft and innocent and shy beneath his seeking mouth, so sweet in their response!

His taxi drew up by the Aldermere. Twenty to eight. All things considered, it might have been a lot worse, though he hated having kept her waiting. Saying to the driver, “Wait a minute, will you? I shall want you to go on to the Savoy,” he went inside with long swift strides.

No sign of Valerie in the lounge. Somehow he
’
d thought she would be sitting there; there was no coquetry in her make-up, no notion that it would enhance her value in a man
’
s eyes if she kept him waiting.

He went to the hall porter. “Miss Stevenson is expecting me. Will you let her know I have arrived? The name is Wilson.”

The porter
’
s face went blank. “Stevenson?” he repeated, and went to the reception desk. “Gentleman asking for Miss Stevenson. Nobody of that name staying here, is there?”

The receptionist shook her blonde head. “Not just now, there isn
’
t.”

“She
’
s with her sister, Mrs. Howe. Perhaps you
’
ve got them both under the same name,” Rory suggested.

Light dawned on the receptionist
’
s perplexed face. “Oh, We did have two sisters, Mrs. Howe
and Miss Stevenson, about a month ago. But they
’
re not here now.”

“Not here?” Rory was aghast. If Valerie wasn
’
t here, where could she be? What could have happened
?
“
Are you quite sure?” he asked.

The receptionist said patiently, “Quite sure, I
’
m afraid!”

“Thanks very much,” said Rory. He stood a moment considering what to do next, and feeling rather stunned, while the hall porter looked on cynically and the receptionist envied the young lady who had made such a nice-looking young fellow so upset by not being where he had expected her.

For a frightful moment horrible ideas concerning a plane crash, or a railway accident in Switzerland, flashed through Rory
’
s mind. But if it had been anything of that kind he
’
d have seen it in the papers. After the first shock he realized what must have happened. He knew that Vivian and Valerie hadn
’
t cared much for the Aldermere; he
’
d heard Vivian telling Susan it was noisy, and the service wasn
’
t good. Obviously they had decided to stay elsewhere on the return journey, and as they would be there for only two nights hadn
’
t bothered to give Madame Jourdier the address
—
and she had taken it for granted they were staying here again, when he had finally overcome the obstacles of a bad line and a foreign language and made her understand his difficulty.

If only he had given even one glance at the address that Valerie had written down! This very moment she was waiting for him somewhere, wondering why he didn
’
t come. And she would go on waiting till the cows came home, for all that he could do about it
...
Eventually, of course, he
’
d get her home address out of the Casque d
’
Or. But meanwhile she would think he
’
d let her down
—
or worse, that he
’
d forgotten
...
“Oh, my goodness!” said Rory desperately, while behind his back the hall porter and the blonde receptionist exchanged knowing glances.

Slowly he went back to his waiting taxi, and told the driver to take him on to the Savoy. Valerie had known that he was going to take her there, so there was just a hope that when he didn
’
t turn up she might think that one of them had made a mistake in the arrangements, and would come on there on her own, or telephone to ask if he was waiting for her there.

Only the very faintest glimmer of a hope, but it was all he had.

CHAPTER
SEVEN

Some
time before Rory had begun his vain search for the lost address of Valerie
’
s hotel, Valerie herself had been preparing to go out with him.

Early in the afternoon it had begun to rain, so instead of window-gazing in Bond Street or Knightsbridge, on leaving the hairdresser she returned straight to the Cranford, ruefully wondering how to pass more than three hours that must somehow be whiled away before she could go down to wait for Rory in the lounge. Vivian was still out, and with her thoughts in a blissful turmoil of anticipation she could not concentrate on reading. So she passed some time in giving herself a manicure, taking far more care over it than she would normally have done: filing each nail to a smooth oval, oiling the cuticles, pushing them carefully back, soaking her finger-tips in warm soapy water, shaping the cuticles again, and finally applying the rose-pink varnish Vivian had given her to match her lipstick. But there was still a long time to fill in when she had finished, and she was thankful when the key turned in the lock and Vivian appeared.

A few more minutes crawled away in a discussion of their days
’
doings. Then Vivian asked what Valerie was going to wear that evening.

“I thought the grey. I
’
ve hung it out—it hasn
’
t creased a scrap.” But the real reason she was going to wear that shimmering, diaphanous affair of sparkling moonshine was that she had worn it when she danced with Rory for the first time, and again on that last magic evening.

“You must wear my little mink cape over it.
We should have bought you an evening wrap to-day—silly of me not to think of it before! Not wanting that kind of one in Switzerland put it right out of my mind.
”

“Won
’
t you be wanting it yourself?”

Vivian, who had meant to wear it with her green faille cocktail dress, said firmly, “No—I
’
m dining in day clothes. I shall wear my fur
-
lined coat over a short frock.”

Vivian
’
s American friend called for her soon after seven, for they had changed their plans; first he was taking her to a play, then after that they would have supper. So Valerie was alone when, after a bath scented with Roman Hyacinths, she inspected her reflected self complete with the mink cape as the final perfect touch of luxury.

Joyously she saw that she had never in her life looked better than at this moment when she longed to look her best for Rory—radiant face framed in its aureole of pale gold hair, eyes bright with stars lit by her happiness, arms and shoulders pearly cream, full skirts floating about her when she moved like wreaths of mist.

How terrible to be in love, she thought, if one had thick ankles, and a sallow, spotty skin, and greasy lank hair, so that no one bothered to discover one
’
s talents for cooking—and loving! One day, she resolved, I
’
ll pay back all that Vivian has done for me, by doing it for some other girl who
’
s poor, and has a drab life, and no fun or pretty clothes. One day
...
!

Oh, it was delicious, this hovering on the brink of love about to be declared, this enchanted time of waiting for one
’
s hazy dreams to crystallize into the glory of reality!

Twenty-five past seven
...
She would go down. The lounge was populated chiefly by old ladies, with a sprinkling of deaf husbands doing crossword puzzles, and one or two daughters with lacklustre hair done in the fashion of ten or fifteen
years ago, and hungry eyes. All of them looked at Valerie, some openly, some surreptitiously, as she came upon them in her misty frock, the mink cape hanging soft and warm upon her arm. Her heart went out to them in passionate pity that they could not share the radiance that was hers this magic evening: a radiance some of them had never known, and that the others must have long since left behind if one could judge by their expressions, stolidly matter-of-fact—though for herself she knew that it would never fade. If only all the world could be as happy as she was herself!

She settled in a chair facing the door, so that she would see Rory as soon as he came in, which would be any minute now.

The minutes ticked away. The lounge began to empty as in ones and twos the residents of the Cranford drifted off towards the dining-room. A waiter came. Valerie avoided meeting his inquiring eye, so when he had emptied the ashtrays and replaced chairs that had been moved he went away again, bearing a tray of empty glasses.

Twenty to eight
...
A quarter to eight
...
It must be difficult, of course, to time one
’
s movements accurately in London, with all the traffic blocks and so forth. Ten to eight
...
Could Rory have been delayed at business? But if so, surely he would have telephoned. Perhaps he had!

She rose and hurried to the desk. “I wonder if
—
has any message come for me? Miss Stevenson.”

The receptionist raised her brows beneath her henna
’
d fringe. “None at all. If one had come it would of course have been delivered to your room at once.”

“Thank you!” said Valerie, and went back to her chair.

Five to eight. Eight o
’
clock.

What could have-happened? Could there have been some mistake about the time
?
It seemed unlikely—he had said so definitely that he would call for her at half past seven, adding that after they had got to the Savoy and had a cocktail it would be about eight by the time they were ready to have dinner. The date, then
?
But she was quite sure he had been clear about that. Rory was not the kind of person to make a muddle over anything. And besides, she
’
d written it beneath the address of the hotel.

Ten past eight. People were coming back now from the dining-room, looking at her curiously, wondering why she was still here. Her face felt stiff with misery, but she tilted up her chin and forced her lips to turn a little upwards at the corners, so that at least she wore a mask of cheerful unconcern for the deceiving of inquisitive onlookers. I shall stay here till half-past eight, she told herself, and if he hasn
’
t come by then I shan
’
t wait any longer—I shall go upstairs, away from all those staring eyes.

So she sat there with her eyes fixed on her watch, waiting through twenty more interminable minutes until the time came when her bargain with herself was ended, and she rose and got her key—hating, the moment when she had to meet the inquisitive stare of the receptionist—then went towards the lift, head still held high, as conscious of the eyes upon her back as though they were so many pins piercing her tender flesh.

Somehow she stumbled along the passage to the bedroom. Somehow her fumbling hands fitted the key into the lock, and turned it, and at last she was alone. Once the door was safely shut behind her she sank on to her bed, clasping her hands together in the tense grip of despair. If only there were some way of finding out what has gone wrong! she thought forlornly. If only I could get in touch with him, probably I
’
d discover some quite simple explanation, some mistake we
’
ve made between us, in the date, perhaps. It
’
s the uncertainty that makes it seem worse than it really is. Suspense is always worst of all to bear.

If only I had his address!

And then the telephone directories piled on the lower shelf of the table between the two beds caught her eyes, and with hands made clumsy by her frantic haste she began searching through the pages of the last one, wondering why on earth she hadn
’
t thought of this before, praying that Rory had been living in his present quarters long enough to be in the directory, and that the telephone was in his name, not that of the friend with whom he shared the flat. Supposing Rory was a nickname, and his real name something entirely different, so that she would not recognize it if she saw it?
...
Oh, dear heaven! She
’
d never dreamed there were so many Wilsons in the world
—
the whole of London must be populated with them, and she was in such a state she couldn
’
t even remember how the alphabet ran.

Wilson, Robert
...
Wilson, R. K
...
now she must be getting nearer it, if ever she was going to find it. Wilson, R. M
...
Wilson, R. N
...
Wilson,
Rory!
Oh, thank heaven!

She snatched up the receiver, dropped it, put the mouthpiece to her ear, righted matters, and asked the hotel operator for Rory
’
s number. After a delay that seemed intolerable, brief though it was, she heard the steady prr-prr! prr-prr! of the ringing tone, and prayed it would be answered soon—she couldn
’
t stand much more of this suspense. And then, oh, joy, when it had rung no more than half a dozen times it ceased, and a man
’
s voice, young and pleasant, answered her: not Rory
’
s voice; it must be the friend he lived with who was speaking.

Valerie asked, “Is Mr.
—
” but her voice came
as a queer little husky croak. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Is that Mr. Wilson
’
s flat
—
Mr. Rory Wilson
’
s?”

The voice said, “Yes. But I
’
m afraid he isn
’
t here. Can I give him a message?”

Not there! She swallowed. “Is he—away from home?”

“Oh, no! Only gone out for dinner.”

A wild hope thrilled her through. Could he be on his way here, even now?

The distant voice was saying something, but she interrupted. “Could you tell me what time he went out?”

“Just before half past seven,” Barry told her. He was thinking he didn
’
t know this voice. Must be some new girl of Rory
’
s. It was a charming voice, he thought, pleasantly pitched, a little diffident, not like the usual confident damsels who were always ringing Rory up. He said again, “Can I give him any message?”

There was an instant
’
s pause before the owner of the pretty voice answered, “No,
...
No, thank you very much.”

“Who shall I say telephoned?” asked Barry. But his only answer was a faint click, and then the line was dead.

Barry stood frowning at the telephone. He wished he
’
d got her name before she rang off, for he had a feeling something had gone wrong, that this might be the girl Rory was taking out to dinner. Couldn
’
t be, though. No doubt by now the two of them were facing one another over a little table in a quiet
corner
, bright-eyed and confidential. All the same, he wished he
’
d got that girl
’
s name! Well, there was nothing to be done about it now. Still frowning, he replaced the receiver and settled down again to work.

Valerie, huddled on her bed, dropped her face in her cupped hands. So Rory had forgotten all about her. He
’
d gone out to meet somebody else
—
some other girl, Hilary no doubt—just at the time he should have been setting out to take her to the Savoy.

To the agony of her disappointment was added now the bitterness of disillusion. How could she have been such a sentimental little fool? How
could
she have been so naive, so old-fashioned, as to think that because Rory had kissed her in the moonlight it had meant he loved her? Probably every time he took a girl home from a dance he did the same. Probably he had murmured those same words that had so enchanted her, a score of times before. Probably it was quite the normal thing to do, these days, and she
’
d have known it long ago if she had had the usual experience of life of other girls her age. Probably he had thought she was accustomed to that kind of thing
—
or even that she had expected it!

And all the time she had been living in a fool
’
s paradise of dreams, to Rory she had meant so little that he hadn
’
t even remembered that this evening he
’
d been goin£ to take her out. Like as not, this very moment he was with Hilary, who was so glamorous and sophisticated, dining with her, dancing with her, perhaps
...
They danced so well together, admirably matched for height and looks
...

After a long time she gave a shuddering sigh. Vivian would be back soon. And she couldn
’
t bear to talk of this until she had her feelings well under control. She must go to bed and seem to be asleep when Vivian returned. Time enough to tell her in the morning what had happened.

With slow, weary movements she undressed. She packed away the filmy frock she had put on so short a time ago with such contrasting feelings, folding it with automatic care, although she knew she couldn
’
t bear to put it on ever again—not that she was likely to have any opportunity of wearing it in Darlingford!

She had had nothing to eat since lunch, but as she crept into bed food was the last thing she wanted. If only I could cry! she thought. But her distress was far too deep for the relief of tears.

About the same time that she laid her aching head upon the pillow Rory, who had all this time been waiting in the Savoy, abandoned his last faint hope that she might come there, and with an empty stomach and a heavy heart set out for Ebury Street.

As soon as he got back to the flat he
’
d write and tell her what had happened, and send the letter care of the Casque d
’
Or, from whence it would presumably be forwarded to her at the address from which Vivian had booked the rooms—pray heaven it was their home, not some hotel where the letter might be left stuck in some pigeon hole! But meanwhile, what in heaven
’
s name must she be thinking of him?

Barry looked up, surprised, as he came in. “Hullo! You
’
re early?”

Rory told him tersely what had happened.

“Oh, Lord!” said Barry ruefully. “Some girl rang up and asked for you. She wouldn
’
t leave her
name. I wonder if
—
?”

Rory turned upon him. “Did she leave no message?”

“No. I asked her twice. She wouldn
’
t.”

“What did she sound like? What sort of voice, I mean?”

“Charming, I thought! Soft, and yet clear at the same time. Rather diffident.”

“Oh, Lord! That does sound like Valerie! You told her I was out, of course?”

“Said you
’
d gone out for dinner. She asked what time. I told her. Saw no reason not to.”

“My godfathers! So now she
’
s thinking I
’
ve forgotten all about the date with her and gone off somewhere else!”