Dorothy Eden (38 page)

She had begun by going into one of the large George Street stores and asking the buyer behind the cosmetics counter if she ever bought the products of the Rose Bay Cosmetic Company.

“I’ve never heard of them,” the woman answered. “Where are they? In Rose Bay?”

Or in liquidation, Abby thought.

“I don’t know. I’m trying to trace them myself. They make a particular lipstick that I like.”

“Oh? What is it called?”

“Galah.”

“Well, I never. After the parrots, I suppose. Clever. But it’s never been advertised, as far as I know. If it had done well I’d have heard of it. We just deal with the well-known names here, Arden, Rubenstein and so on. We’ve a nice new range of colors if you’d like to see them.”

“Sorry,” said Abby. “I really did want this one.”

“I don’t think you’ll find any of the big stores stock it. I’ll make some enquiries if you like. If you leave your telephone number I’ll ring you if I find out anything.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

“Not at all. You’ve got me interested now. Galah. That’s an intriguing name. Sure you don’t want anything else? Skin lotion, perfume?”

“All I’m shopping for today is a birthday present for an eight year old.”

“Oh well, then, you’d want a toy of some kind, wouldn’t you? Books and toys are on the fourth floor.”

“A toy,” Abby repeated slowly, and that was when she decided to go back to Kings Cross. For now she had the perfect reason to go up those stairs again, and to get behind that partition to see R. B. Mitchell’s stock of toys. If any…

The door still bore the inscription “R. B. Mitchell, Toys”, but it was shut, as somehow Abby had expected it to be. She also knew that there was no use in knocking. Nobody would be caught that way again, and open the door to something she shouldn’t see.

So the toy business had been a cover up. She was certain it had been. But why did Luke refuse to believe it? Did it all sound too fantastic?

Abby went down the stairs slowly. Strangely enough, she was no longer frightened. The interior of the building looked just the way Luke must have seen it, a steep flight of stairs leading to a small back room which suggested a very struggling business, if any business at all. It was nothing to get fussed about. Certainly it could suggest nothing sinister.

But it had been important enough for someone, with furious speed, to provide a camouflage.

Or had she imagined the whole thing? Or was she in another building altogether?

On an impulse she went into the dress shop downstairs. The stupid girl there had been no use at all yesterday, but today perhaps she would find the owner in.

There was no one about, and Abby had to ring the bell on the small glass counter. She wondered dispiritedly whether to buy one of the not particularly attractive dresses in return for what information she received. She had her back turned, and was studying a gaudy red and yellow cotton sun dress which made her think of the hot splashes of color in the suburban gardens when someone spoke behind her.

“Can I help you, madam?”

She turned and looked into the curiously over-brilliant eyes of the plump and cosy woman who yesterday had sat primly behind the desk in the room upstairs.

Their sensation of shock was mutual. Abby recovered first.

“So you’re Miss Court,” she said. “I thought you did your sewing at home. Or did your assistant mean you did it upstairs?”

“No, no, you’re making a mistake,” the woman said quickly. I’m not Miss Court. I’ve only just started here today. You’re the lady who came up yesterday, aren’t you? Asking for a cosmetic company.”

“Yes,” Abby said, waiting.

“I suppose I should have told you then, only I didn’t think it was your business. But the R. B. Mitchell company has closed. The old man died a few weeks ago. I only stayed on to wind up things. I thought if I didn’t say anything I might have made a sale. We hoped to clear out the rest of our stock. There was little enough money in the estate, and the old man left a widow.”

Abby stood looking at her, saying nothing.

“Miss Court was waiting for me to come down here as soon as I could. It’s just a coincidence it’s today. What were you wanting, madam? A dress? We’ve a nice range, and Miss Court will make anything to measure.”

“Will she? Could I see her now?”

“I’m afraid you couldn’t. She works at home. But I can take your order.”

Oddly enough, for someone so practised in evasions, the woman had a nice face. A little high-colored, and with that strung-up look, but nice and trustworthy.

“So you’re really not Miss Court yourself?”

“No, madam. I’ve just come here, I said. Miss Court’s been waiting for me to be free.”

“Why should I believe you?” Abby said.

“I didn’t ask you to believe me, madam,” said the woman huffily. “I didn’t ask you to ask me questions. I might add, if you’re not looking for a dress, what exactly are you doing?”

The fog was coming down again. What
was
she doing here? This plump, respectable woman obviously had nothing to do with a non-existent cosmetic company or with a lipstick called Galah.

“Actually, I came again to look at your toys,” she said dazedly. “You remember you said I could get some wholesale if I wanted to.”

“I did say that.”

“But you should have added that yesterday was the last day. Why did you deceive me? I came in here to ask if anyone knew why the room upstairs was always shut.”

“Well, that’s why,” said the woman briefly. “It’s shut for good now. But there are still a few toys up there. You’re welcome to look, if you like. They’ll have to be sold somewhere.”

Was this also a deception? At least it was one thing Abby could prove.

“Then will you take me up and show them to me? Now?”

Instantly, before any more strange transformations could be made…

“Certainly. Wait till I call Linda. That girl’s always off making tea. She’d guzzle it all day. Linda!”

From somewhere in the back the girl with the pale, stupid face appeared.

“Yes, Miss—”

“I’m going to be out for a few minutes. Watch the shop. If Mrs. Frisby calls ask her to wait. I want to see that suit on her myself.” The woman turned to add, as she was following Abby out, “Miss Court asked me to.”

And that explanation seemed a little belated. For someone who had just begun work in a dress shop, after presumably years of selling toys, she seemed very confident. Quite as confident as the absent proprietress herself…

Nevertheless the toys were upstairs. Behind the partition, in the slightly musty-smelling room (it still had the lingering odor Abby had smelled the other day), there were boxes higgledy-piggledy, with their contents spilling out. As if they were being packed to move—or had hastily been dumped there.

“What is the age of the child you want something for? A boy or a girl?”

“A girl of eight. With rather original tastes. I don’t think a doll would do at all.”

Abby was finding it difficult to concentrate. She was certain this was the bare room into which she had stumbled accidentally. There was the same narrow window looking on to a well, also the door at the side, now firmly shut. But she couldn’t have said whether the walls had been painted this dingy yellow, or whether the floor had been covered with worn linoleum. At the time of seeing the room she had noticed little more than the packing-cases and the subtly menacing face of the man with the flesh-colored hair. And the opening door…

Remembering that, her skin prickled.

“Where does that door lead to?” she asked.

“Down a back stairway. Why?”

“I just wondered if you had more things in another room.”

“No, this is all that’s left. And not much of a choice. Would the little girl like cut-out books? Or this embroidery set?”

Thinking of Deirdre sitting sewing, Abby smiled.

“I’m afraid not. She’s an outdoor child. I’ll tell you what I’d like, the toy you had on the counter yesterday. The girl on a swing. It might amuse Deirdre.”

“Deir—”

The woman stopped, and Abby met her over-bright eyes.

“I was just going to say, what an attractive name.”

“You sounded as if it surprised you. Do you know Deirdre Henderson?”

“No, I don’t know her.”

The woman met her gaze quite levelly. She didn’t seem to be lying. Anyway, why should she? If she did know Deirdre, why couldn’t she admit it quite safely?

“So you’d like the swing, would you, madam? Wait till I find a box to put it in. It’ll be seven and six. Is that all right?”

“Fine, thanks.”

A box was found, and the little figure fitted into it. It was only after she had taken it that Abby realized now Luke and Lola would know she had been back here. But she didn’t intend to deny it, anyway. She would admit to Luke that she had broken her promise. And come to no harm…

“If that’s all your wanting, madam, I’ll have to fly. Linda isn’t very reliable in the shop. She’s too inexperienced. And don’t waste your time coming up again, because after the end of the week this place will be closed for good. You’ve found it just too late.”

So tomorrow it would be the empty dusty room again. If it
was
the same room… Abby felt a slight dizziness. Had she been incredibly wrong, or had an hallucination? The box in her hand containing the girl on the swing, the plump, cosy woman with her too watchful eyes, were the only concrete things. The other must have been hallucination…

It was half past four. Abby decided to take a taxi to Luke’s office in order to get a ride home with him. Before they picked up Lola, since that would be inevitable, she would tell him the latest developments in this perplexing part of the world. She wouldn’t make a thing of it. It was nothing to do with her if an old man called R. B. Mitchell had died, or if his middle-aged assistant now turned to dressmaking. If was all rather sad in a cosy kind of way.

But it was not on the dramatic level of the fish-faced man and this threats. How improbable all that seemed now.

With Deirdre’s present hanging from one finger by its string. Abby quite light-heartedly went up the stairs to Luke’s office. Without admitting it even to herself, she was greatly relieved at being able to avoid that last hour of dusk in the house alone. It was an hour she was coming to dread.

Miss Atkinson sprang up from her typewriter.

“Why, Mrs. Fearon! You didn’t say you were coming.”

“Must I?” said Abby.

Miss Atkinson looked put out and disapproving.

“Well, if you want to take a risk on Mr. Fearon being out. And he is.” She must have noticed the change in Abby’s face, for she relented. “But he should be back any minute. He’s only gone over to the North Shore for an hour. You’d better wait.”

“Thank you, Miss Atkinson. How’s your mother?”

“Only so so. But what can you expect at her age. Seventy-seven next week.”

“Really!” said Abby sympathetically.

Having a frail, elderly mother had developed Miss Atkinson’s maternal and managing qualities. She had grown too bossy. Abby wondered how Luke, who was none too patient himself, put up with this. But apparently he liked it. And one had to admit the woman was the loyal kind. She had a heart of gold beneath a waspish exterior. Abby only resented that she always made her feel like a child.

“You going out to dinner again tonight?” Miss Atkinson asked.

So she knew about last night. What didn’t she know? She and Lola between them seemed to own more of Luke than Abby did.

Abby made herself answer pleasantly.

“We’re going to Deirdre’s birthday party. I’ve just been buying her a present.”

She had wandered into Luke’s office, and sat down at his desk, pleased to see that her own photograph was placed prominently, as if he liked to look at it.

There were letters and plans scattered about. She looked at them all lovingly. They were Luke’s, and therefore special. She didn’t really mind Miss Atkinson with her heart of gold managing Luke’s business life.

“That was nasty, that burglary,” called Miss Atkinson.

“Yes, it was.”

“Made you nervous?”

“N-no. Well, yes, it has a little. Luke offered to move if I hated it. But I couldn’t be a rabbit like that, could I? Running away. Besides we couldn’t afford it. A move’s too expensive.”

“Quite right,” said Miss Atkinson, and there seemed to be grudging approval in her voice. She began to clatter at her typewriter.

Abby restlessly fiddled with pens and pencils, then absently pulled open the drawer of Luke’s desk.

The first thing she saw was the lipstick.

At first she thought it was the one he had thrown down the rubbish shute, the one Deirdre had given her. Then she realized that it couldn’t be. It must be another, made by the same company. Yes, there stamped on the bottom was the name “Galah”. It seemed to scream at her, like the harsh noise the parrots made.

She held the small gold object in her hand as if it were a snake.

What did Luke know that he had never told her?

She was so absorbed that she didn’t hear him come in. Then she scarcely noticed the pleasure in his voice.

“Why, Abby!”

She got up and held out the lipstick.

“I wasn’t looking for it. I just happened to see it.”

“It’s Lola’s.” He hadn’t hesitated. But had his eyes given the slightest flicker? Now they looked straight at her with that look of innocence. “She left it in the car. Don’t look so shocked. What on earth are you thinking?”

“How did she come to leave it in the car?”

“Don’t ask me. She’s always titivating.”

“Why does she have so many lipsticks of this make?”

“So many! This just makes two, doesn’t it? After all, Deirdre pinched her other one.”

“And yet neither she nor you know anything about who makes this particular brand. Even the girl in Simpsons hadn’t heard of it.”

“Give it to me.” His voice was curt, cold, withdrawn. He meant to tell her nothing at all.

She handed him the lipstick without protest.

“And what other shops did you make enquiries in?”

“Only Simpsons.”

“Abby, for God’s sake, why attach such a mystery to an innocent lipstick. Lola doesn’t enquire where her firm gets the stuff. But it’s so footling a thing. Can’t you see?”