The Bath Mysteries (7 page)

These different reflections, and the planning out in his mind of the best course to follow in the forthcoming conversation with Lawrence, occupied him so long that it was three o'clock before Bobby at last arrived before that door whereon was inscribed the name of the Berry, Quick Syndicate and the cordial invitation to “Please Enter.”

Accepting, accordingly, the invitation, and without waiting for any reply to his knock, Bobby pushed open the door and went in. He found himself in a small, box-like compartment, formed by temporary partitions, and cut off by them from the larger office, of which plainly it had been meant to form a part. As the partitions did not reach to the ceiling by at least a foot, the kind of entrance-lobby or cubby-hole they made received over them plenty of air for ventilation but not enough light to save the necessity of keeping an electric bulb burning. On his right as Bobby entered was a large roll-top desk, with a slide extension for a typewriter, whereat was seated a woman whom at first he took to be middle-aged or more, till it dawned upon him she was young – not more than twenty-five or so. She was busy, not with her typewriting, but with some needlework. He noticed that it was not knitting – girls in City offices not infrequently indulge in knitting when work is slack – but something that looked as if it required much greater skill and attention, and he thought idly that it must be trying to the sight to do such work by this not very good artificial light.

He saw now, too, that his first mistaken impression of her age had been given him by her sallow and worn complexion, which indeed was in a dreadful condition, blotched, pimply, unhealthy-looking in the extreme. He thought vaguely that perhaps she suffered from some skin disease that made the use of cosmetics impossible for her, and then he told himself, as he looked at her more closely, that but for the unfortunate condition of her skin and for the unbecoming way in which her hair was done – drawn back tightly from her forehead, to be knotted in a kind of tight bun behind – but, in fact, for an almost defiant neglect of every feminine art and grace, she could easily have passed for an unusually pretty girl. Bobby had some slight artistic gift – he had a really good sense of form, though his feeling for color was defective – and he was able to appreciate the fine shape of the head, well set upon a slender neck, the regularity and harmony of the features, a grace and balance apparent even in her seated position. It struck him that a visit or two to a beauty parlour would turn very quickly this extremely plain duckling into a swan scarcely to be recognized as the same creature. He also became aware that she had slipped her needlework, wrapped in the tissue paper that protected it, into a drawer, and was now regarding him with a gaze passionate and strange in its fierce intensity of question. But no question came, though he waited for it. She put her hand – he saw it was a slender, well-shaped hand – before her face once or twice with an odd kind of movement, as though to brush away something hanging there. Once or twice she blinked, as if again her eyes could not endure the strength of inquiry and demand she put into them, but she still did not speak. At last Bobby said:

“I wanted to see Mr. Lawrence. He is your manager, I think. Is he disengaged?”

Even yet she did not answer, and more and more Bobby was aware how tremendously the whole force and content of her being was concentrated in her gaze directed upon him. Yet its meaning baffled him. He did not know whether it was hostile or no; whether it held menace, or passionate appeal, or what. Her whole body, too, had tightened itself there beneath his eyes, like a spring invisibly coiled back upon itself. He understood with certitude there was something she experienced and yet controlled with an almost dreadful energy, though what that could be he had no more idea than has the traveller in a strange land of what is meant by the trumpet peal he hears sounding from afar.

His first idea was that this emotion, whatever might be its cause, was too powerful, too powerfully felt, not to find relief in word or action. Knife-thrust or pistol-shot would hardly have surprised him, so much an outlet seemed needed and natural, or a cry of help wrung from uttermost despair. He was all prepared as he leaned forward. He put one hand on the roll-top desk. He said:

“Yes... yes.”

In an instant she changed. The awful fire vanished from her eyes. They blinked mildly. Again she passed her hand before them with that odd action as of brushing away some web or veil that hung there. The tension and vitality went from her body; her whole personality seemed to shrink.

“Have you an appointment?” she asked. Her voice was low and pleasant and carried well; she had forgotten apparently to be careless with her voice, or more probably had never thought of it. “I am afraid Mr. Lawrence is engaged at the moment, but I am sure he will be very pleased to see you if you can wait. There is one other gentleman first, or, if you prefer to call again, I can make an appointment.”

“Mr. Lawrence seems busy,” Bobby remarked, still watching her closely, more bewildered than ever by this sudden and complete change in her, thinking, too, that these demands on Mr. Lawrence's time did not accord well with his previous information that the Berry, Quick Syndicate had so few callers and did so little business.

“Yes, very busy,” she agreed, fumbling with a book marked “Appointments” at her side. “So many of our clients insist on seeing Mr. Lawrence personally.”

Bobby came to a sudden decision. Plainly, in her present mood, it was hopeless to think of getting the girl to talk. But she might change again, as quickly and as strangely as she had changed before. He said:

“Oh, if you don't mind, I'll wait. I rather wanted to see Mr. Lawrence personally, too.”

“I don't think he will be long. May I have your name?” she asked, changing once again, this time to the brisk, efficient young woman of business.

He gave her his card – his private card, not his official one. She looked at it, put it down, and then spoke into an office phone at her side. She said:

“Mr. Lawrence will be delighted to see you, and won't keep you waiting long. He is so sorry he has to see another client first.”

She got up from her typewriter as she spoke and opened a door in the partition just behind her into the inner apartment from which that partition cut off the little outer office in which she sat. As is often the case in the newer office buildings in London, the rooms were arranged so that their size and number could be easily altered by the arrangement of substantial partitions, strongly made and often doubled, with an air space between to prevent any possibility of sounds penetrating, but that can be swiftly put up and taken down without any risk of damaging the outer walls. The floor space rented to a business firm can, therefore, easily be arranged, after the American fashion, as one office in which the whole staff sits, or in as many separate divisions as may be preferred.

The apartment into which Bobby was now shown was large, well lit, and very comfortably furnished with easy chairs in the latest style, fitted with their own lighting, bookcases containing various works of reference, two writing- tables near the windows, and one large table in the middle of the room covered with newspapers, daily, weekly, illustrated, and financial. There was a box of cigarettes on this table, too, with the friendly exhortation above:

“Please help yourself and please us.”

The day was fine and warm, sunshine streamed in at the open window, the whole air of the room, which indeed more resembled a drawing-room than a City office, was friendly, welcoming, confidence-creating. By the table stood a small, erect, brisk-looking man, elderly, very well dressed, dandified almost. His perfectly cut lounge suit whispered – too well bred, of course, to do more than whisper – Savile Row from every stitch; his gold mounted umbrella was a miracle of neat rolling; his hat and gloves were perfect; his spectacles were gold rimmed and seemed to regret there was no metal more precious to use; on one finger shone a ring whose value must have been in the three-figure order; in the cuffs of his silk shirt twinkled two diamond links; his shoes seemed as though never meant to tread the common earth. A little ostentatious, perhaps, the whole effect, and yet still within the bounds of taste and breeding. In age Bobby took him to be between forty and fifty, though very possibly some years younger. His eyes behind his glasses were bright and alert, and his every movement had a quality of swift unexpectedness that was at times even a little disconcerting, as though one could never be quite sure of his exact position. The only real sign he gave of advancing years was that his hair, dark and of unusually strong and vigorous growth, was beginning to show just a touch of grey at the temples; but, then, that is often the case with men at a comparatively early age. He was clean-shaven, a bluish tinge on the square, forward-thrusting chin suggesting that the growth of his beard, if permitted, would have been as strong and luxuriant as that of his hair. At the moment Bobby entered he was helping himself to a cigarette from the open box on the table, his hand flashing in and out with the quickness of gesture that seemed habitual to him. As he lighted the cigarette he gave Bobby a quick, all-embracing glance that seemed to take him in from top to toe, and then, as if satisfied that the newcomer was one whose existence could be recognized, he remarked:

“These City lads do themselves pretty well. I smoke this Regie* brand myself, but they come a bit high, and I don't know that I should leave them about in my study for everyone who blew in to help himself as he liked.”

Bobby glanced at the cigarettes and saw that they were in fact the somewhat expensive brand mentioned. The fact interested him, for, taken together with the comfortable, even luxurious, manner in which the room was furnished, it suggested that the Berry, Quick Syndicate was in no way short of capital. And yet according to the caretaker they did hardly any business and their references had not been of a nature to make the managers of the building very anxious to accept them as tenants. Indeed, had not tenants grown so scarce and rare a species, they would apparently have been politely refused accommodation. Facts to be remembered, Bobby thought, and, looking up, saw with surprise that his companion was now at one of the windows, enjoying the cigarette to which he had just helped himself and staring idly down at the busy street below.

He had moved so softly and so swiftly, with so strange a lightness of action, that Bobby had been quite unaware of it, and had thought him still standing by the table. Elderly he might be, certainly was, for age cannot wholly be disguised, but equally certainly he was still nimble as the nimblest of youths, and with no trace of that awkwardness that even nimble youths still show before they have acquired full control of their own limbs. Bobby wondered if he had been an athlete – a lightweight boxer perhaps – or it might be a dancing expert, and so had acquired that swift certainty of balance and of movement he seemed to possess. 

All at once he began to laugh, a soft, rather musical laughter that gave the impression of being as entirely under control as were his bodily movements. He took off his glasses as if without them he could see better at a distance. He said:

"Jove, nearly got her.” To explain his amusement, he added to Bobby: “Dear old lady scuttling across the road, and a car missed her by inches. Anyhow, the motor age is teaching the aged to leap.”

“Yes,” agreed Bobby, who knew too much about the statistics of the dead and injured on the roads, that Scotland Yard compiled each week, to regard any aspect of the subject as in any way amusing. “I think I'll have one of these,” he added, helping himself to a cigarette.

“Why not?” said the other, and, when Bobby looked up again, he had left the window and was lolling in one of the armchairs. Once more he had shifted his position with such lightness and soft rapidity of action that Bobby had been aware of no movement, heard no sound. “After all, I suppose it's mugs like us who pay for them. But I beg your pardon. Very likely you aren't one of the great army of optimists who expect to make a fortune in the City.”

“Well, I've just called to make a few inquiries,” Bobby answered cautiously.

“So have I,” the other observed. “Well, it's an amusement for an idle man, and generally I break even, though I'm a few hundreds down this last year or two. Must try to catch up soon.” With that swift ease of movement that seemed characteristic of him, he flashed a visiting card from his pocket to the table in front of Bobby. “Introducing me,” he said, with another of those soft, musical, yet controlled laughs of his.

The name on the card was Beale – Dr. Ambrose Beale – the address, The Thatched Cottage, The Hog's Back, Kent.

“Don't confuse our Hog's Back with the one near Guildford,” Dr. Beale added. “Most people do. Ours is nothing like so well known, though we all think it much superior – our view is so much wider and there is the river in the distance.”

“That's rather jolly,” agreed Bobby, and added, chiefly for the sake of saying something: “I see you are a doctor.”

Dr. Beale gave again that soft laugh of his.

“Doctor of philosophy, not of medicine,” he explained, “though people who hear me called doctor often want me to prescribe them a few pills. But I never could see why doctors of medicine should have a monopoly. Music, laws, letters, philosophy, we are all doctors, too.”

“Yes, of course,” agreed Bobby, with the reverence due from laymen to one who had scaled the dizzy heights of doctordom. “I'm afraid it took me all my time to scrape through for a modest B.A.”

“Ah, you're 'varsity,” Dr. Beale said quickly, with a slight touch of surprise that was not, Bobby thought, too flattering. As if conscious of this, he added quickly: “I only meant you look more the athletic type. Examinations are a tricky business, though. A bit of luck and you might have got a double first. Now for a doctorate you only have to submit a thesis. Much fairer, in my opinion. Mine was on Spinoza's theory of monads – the monistic philosophy, you know.”