The Black Cabinet (16 page)

Chloe gave a faint, faint gurgle of laughter. Michael—Michael was a dear. She became aware that they were still holding hands, and drew hers away.

“I must go in. Good-bye.”

She said good-bye, but she stood there for a moment longer, looking at him in a considering sort of way. She could not see his face. He was quite silent and stood like a rock. Chloe said good-bye again, and ran up the steps. But even as she fitted the key into the lock, she was wondering whether she wanted it to be good-bye; she wasn't at all sure that she did. The world, which had been strange and horrid, was beginning to feel friendly again; there was something friendly about Michael Foster.

She half opened the door, and then drew it towards her again. Michael had not said a single word. She turned, still holding the door.

“Aren't you going to say good-bye?”

“I don't want to,” said Michael honestly.

“Would good-night be any better?”

“A little.”

“Then good-night.”

Michael came forward a step.

“Have I—have I still got to forget where you live?” Chloe hesitated.

“You
said
you were so good at forgetting.”

“I'm frightfully good at remembering too. I say, don't you think I might remember?—not every day you know, but, say, once or twice a week.” He heard her laugh, saw her push the door open and run in.

The door was shutting. It took a long time to shut, because Chloe wasn't sure what she was going to say. Michael waited for the click of the latch, but it did not come. Instead, there was Chloe on the top step.

“You may remember once a week,” she said, and was gone.

Chapter XXIX

Chloe woke at eight next morning, looked at her watch, reflected joyfully that Mrs. Mostyn Llewellyn had told her not to turn up until the afternoon, and plunged into sleep again.

It was whilst she was asleep that a telephone conversation took place which would have interested her very much. One of the parties to it was Mr. Leonard Wroughton, and he addressed the person at the other end of the line as Stran. The conversation was not carried on in English.

“The suit-cases,” Stran announced, “are where she left them. They are quite safe and entirely un-get-at-able without the receipt. There must be a great many letters in them. So if the other plan fails”

“You've made such a damned muddle of it!” growled Wroughton, and was not improved in temper by hearing Stran laugh.

“What a surly beggar you are! Now, I've been up all night, and I'm as fit as a fiddle. What's more, I've got pretty good news.”

“What?”

“Her address for one thing. Just take it down:—122, Hatchelbury Road—off the Vauxhall Road. Also I've got a plan.”

“Your plans haven't been very successful so far.”

Stran laughed again.

“Say something pleasant for a change. We're bound to get something out of this unless our luck's right out. If we don't get anything else, we stand to get the receipt for the suit-cases. But it has much greater possibilities than that. Now, look here …”

Wroughton received a few definite suggestions, and an immediate summons to London, after which he told Emily to expect him when she saw him, and caught the express at Daneham. A little later Jessie, the hard-faced housemaid, came to Mrs. Wroughton with a tale of sudden death in her family: “And if I might go home at once, ma'am, because they'll be wanting me.”

Emily became moist-eyed and sympathetic:

“Oh, yes, to be sure—if you think they'll want you.”

Jessie gazed at her grimly.

“I'm wanted urgent,” she said.

An hour later she, too, was on her way to London.

Chloe found her afternoon's work as dull as such work is wont to be. Mrs. Mostyn Llewellyn was inclined to be cross; she announced herself as sick of the whole thing and wanting to get it all cleared up and off her hands.

“Those creatures at the N.Y.S.Z.K.U. office are unbusinesslike beyond what anyone could have imagined. Whenever they've had a chance to make a muddle they've made one. I've always wanted to come across somebody who could tell me why persons engaged in philanthropic work should be entirely devoid of business instincts—they are. Please take down this for the secretary …”

Chloe took it down, while Mrs. Mostyn Llewellyn walked up and down, moving a chair half an inch in one direction, pushing a table a little more into an angle, and fidgeting with nearly every ornament in the room in turn. It was very evidently the afternoon after the night before.

By half-past four Chloe's own temper was a little ruffled, and she began to long for five o'clock and to feel that it would never come. It was just half-past four when the telephone bell rang.

“Tell them to give you a message—say I can't speak to anyone. I can't think why anyone has a telephone—they're an absolute curse when you're busy.” Then, when Chloe was half-way to the dining-room, she recalled her sharply:

“Miss Green! One moment, Miss Green! If it's Diana Arabin, I'll speak to her—but not Marcia Hayman. Have you got that? And if it's anyone else, I won't, unless they insist—and for heaven's sake put them off if you can.”

Caught between the bell, which rang continuously, and Mrs. Mostyn Llewellyn's booming contralto, Chloe felt inclined to put both hands over her ears and say “Hush.” It was a relief to take up the receiver. A woman spoke:

“Is that Mrs. Mostyn Llewellyn?”

“I'm speaking for her,” said Chloe. “Can I take a message?”

“I want to speak to Mrs. Mostyn Llewellyn,” said the voice.

Chloe stood for a moment without answering, because she was wondering where she had heard the voice before; then she said:

“I was asked to take a message if possible.”

“No, I want to speak to Mrs. Mostyn Llewellyn—I must speak to her.”

Chloe could not place the voice, but she was sure that she had heard it before. It was one of those harshly metallic voices.

“I'll tell her. Who shall I say?”

“I'm speaking from the N.Y.S.Z.K.U. office.” Mrs. Mostyn Llewellyn was not pleased. If it is possible to flounce in a dress that barely reaches the knee, she flounced to the telephone; and as she left both the study and the dining-room doors wide open, her side of the conversation reached Chloe with great plainness:

“What did you say? Oh.” The tones of annoyance fairly filled the flat. “Yes, I'm
particularly
busy. Oh. What did you say? A diamond what? Spell it please. Good Lord, no one wears necklaces now-a-days—you might just as well tell me they'd picked up a bustle. What
did
you say then? A star? Oh. Well, she hasn't said anything about it; but I'll ask her if you'll hold on.”

Chloe rose from her table as Mrs. Mostyn Llewellyn came quickly into the study and shut the door. She looked flushed and angry.

“Miss Green, what's this extraordinary story about some one picking up a diamond star last night and giving it to you? Did you report it to anyone?”

Chloe shook her head.

“It's a mistake—I don't know anything about it.”

“Well, there's a shrieking woman at the N.Y.S.Z.K.U. who says that some one picked one up and gave it to you, and now they've got two different women claiming it. And she says will I please send you round to the office with it at once?”

“But I haven't got it,” said Chloe. She would have laughed if Mrs. Llewellyn had not looked so much like a thunderstorm. “If anyone picked it up, they didn't give it to me.”

Mrs. Mostyn Llewellyn returned to the telephone. For such a large woman she was a quick mover. The receiver went to her ear with a jerk.

“Miss Green doesn't know anything at all about a star. It's
not
a star? But you said it
was.
First you said it was a necklace, and then you said it was a star—and now you say it's something else. Will you have the goodness to tell me
what
is supposed to have been picked up and handed to Miss Green!”—this last passage crescendo and with all the stops out. After a moment's pause she snapped over her shoulder at Chloe:

“Miss Green, they say now that it's some sort of ornament—still diamonds I believe, but not a necklace, and not
exactly
a star. Do you know anything at all about it?”

“No—there's some mistake.”

Chloe stood in the doorway and heard the rasp of the voice that had seemed familiar; the words she could not distinguish. Every now and then Mrs. Mostyn Llewellyn said, “Nonsense!” or “Preposterous!” or “You're shouting!” In the end she rang off and swung round.

“They want you to go there when you've finished work. I'd kill that woman if I had much to do with her! I can't think why somebody hasn't. They swear that this ornament was picked up and given to you. I said I would send you round to see them about it. You'd better go as soon as you've finished the letter to Mr. Appleby.”

“They've probably mixed me up with somebody else,” said Chloe cheerfully.

She finished Mr. Appleby's letter. Twice in the course of it she looked up and saw Mrs. Mostyn Llewellyn looking at her. There was something in the look which was new in Chloe's experience. It was not until afterwards that it occurred to her that the something was suspicion.

Chapter XXX

Chloe left the flat at five o'clock. It was a relief to get away. Earlier in the day it had been raining, but now no moisture fell, though the air seemed full of it.

Chloe was too preoccupied to notice the weather. Mrs. Mostyn Llewellyn's look played hide and seek in her mind with the voice which had seemed familiar, but which she could not place. If she turned her attention to one, the other came close and was within an ace of being grasped; it was very teasing. She began to try and think, instead, about this puzzling business of the diamond star; and then all at once the meaning of Mrs. Mostyn Llewellyn's look came to her. She gave a little angry laugh and stuck her chin in the air.

“Idiot!” she said with so much energy that an absent-minded passer-by started, stopped, and murmured, “I beg your pardon?”

Chloe dismissed Mrs. Mostyn Llewellyn and her ridiculous suspicions. There remained the voice. Very elusive that voice, and associated in a vague manner with something unpleasant—with Danesborough. Yes, that was the association—Danesborough. A spark of light dazzled, and faded. Why Danesborough? The voice didn't belong to anyone Chloe had known there; she was quite sure of that. Then why?—no, wait a minute, it was Danesborough—the study, yes, that was it. She had it now. In a flash she saw herself going to the telephone in the study at Danesborough. The bell had rung, and she had taken off the receiver before Leonard Wroughton could cross the room; and then a voice—
the
voice—had said, “Hullo! I want to speak to Mr. Wroughton.”

Chloe nodded to herself. It
was
the same voice; she was sure of it. Her brows drew together in a frown; she walked more slowly. It was ridiculous no doubt, but she began to feel a distinct disinclination to go on and meet the owner of the voice. Of course, she needn't go on: she could simply go back to Hatchelbury Road. But that would mean chucking her job. Impossible to return to Mrs. Mostyn Llewellyn after running away from the voice which had connected her with the mysterious disappearance of a diamond star.

Chloe stood still because this last thought sent a tingling shock right through her. She felt as if she had opened a door into a dark room. She couldn't see anything in the room, but she could hear things moving there. She wanted very much to slam the door and run away.

She walked on a pace or two slowly. She couldn't afford to chuck a perfectly good job; jobs were not to be picked up at every street corner. She mustn't be a fool.

She paused again, and found herself looking fixedly at the letters G. R. on the letter-box of a branch post office. Instantly she had what she described as a brain-wave. Michael—if she could get hold of Michael, the voice and its associations needn't bother her. There was probably nothing in it anyway; but, with Michael in reserve, she felt she could almost have met Wroughton without a qualm.

She ran into the post office, and proceeded to wrestle with the telephone directory. Michael's garage was there. She gave the number, and hoped fervently that Michael would be in the garage. She asked for Mr. Michael Foster, and spoke to three persons in succession, none of whom was Michael. They were all very polite, and said they would try and find him. In the end it was Michael himself who said:

“Hullo! I say, is that you? How topping!”

“Yes,” said Chloe, and wondered how she was going to explain.

Michael's voice again:

“Anything I can do?”

“Please. If you're not doing anything else, will you meet me al the N.Y.S.Z.K.U. offices in Victoria Street? I've got to go and see some one, and I don't particularly want to go alone—I mean I thought if you'd just stand by.”

“Rather!”

“I'm going there now. I thought perhaps if you wouldn't mind just waiting till I come out—I oughtn't to be long.”

“Can't I go with you?”

“No, I don't think so. But I would just like to feel that you were there.”

She rang off rather quickly, and had a much more cheerful mood to keep her company for the rest of the way. She was probably a fool, but it would be nice to see Michael—and perhaps they could go and have tea together afterwards.

The N.Y.S.Z.K.U. had their offices on the third or fourth stories of a big block of flats, but in the open hall Chloe was met by a little, dumpy woman with a face like a well floured scone.

“Are you Miss Green? I think you must be, from the description.”

“Dene,” said Chloe automatically.

The little woman's restless hazel eyes looked her up and down.

“She said Green—I'm sure she said Green,” she murmured half to herself.

“She always does,” said Chloe; “but it's Dene all the same.”

“And you're Mrs. Mostyn Llewellyn's secretary?”

“Yes.”

“Then it's all right. We were expecting you earlier, and the secretary's had to go home. But she wants to see you most particularly, so I said I would stay and bring you round to her flat. It's only a step, and she's
particularly
anxious to see you.”

She began to move towards the door, but Chloe stood still.

“I don't think I can go on anywhere else. I'm late now, and I really don't know anything at all about the diamond star. If one was picked up at the ball, it certainly wasn't given to me. I don't know whether—Miss Cross was there till twelve.”

The little woman's round, expressionless face looked up at Chloe; the hazel eyes shifted.

“Oh, but this was at the very end of the evening,” she said in a decorous, soft voice. “It was Mrs. Venables, one of our regular subscribers who picked up the star; and she said particularly that she handed it over to Mrs. Mostyn Llewellyn's secretary, a young person with black hair and a high colour. She gave, in fact, a very accurate description of you.”

The girl who would not resent being described as a young person does not really exist. If she did exist, she would, according to Chloe, be a backboneless worm and deserve the further insult of being told that she had a high colour. Just what a worm with a high colour would look like, she made no attempt to explain—imagination jibs at it a little. Chloe was, in fact, sharply annoyed, and the maligned colour became brilliant.

“I don't think—” she began; but the little woman interrupted her.

“I'm sure you must see how necessary it is to lose no time in clearing the matter up. The secretary is expecting us. Shall we come?”

Chloe followed her to the door in a very puzzled, angry state of mind. She now felt more than her former reluctance to go on; and yet she did not see how she could reasonably draw back. The whole thing might be hinged on some perfectly ordinary mistake, or—her thought stopped dead on the threshold of that dark room, refusing to penetrate its shadows.

As they came down the steps into the lighted street with its noisy traffic, Chloe looked quickly to left and right of the pavement, and almost at once she saw Michael Foster standing in front of a shop window a dozen yards away. He saw her too, and made a step forward. The little woman who had met Chloe was talking all the while.

Chloe shook her head very slightly. They walked on past Michael and turned to the left. Michael watched them gravely. As soon as they were past, he saw Chloe put her hand behind her back and beckon with it. From this and the head-shake he deduced that he was to follow her, but not to speak. He accordingly followed at a reasonable distance.

The expression “only a step” is, as applied to distance, as misleading as the “bittock” of the Scot. Chloe had time to become dreadfully bored by her companion during their walk. The woman talked incessantly. She asked foolish questions, and then did not wait to have them answered; she made platitudinous remarks about the weather, and evinced a naive pride in the number of titled persons who subscribed to the N.Y.S.Z.K.U. And the longer she talked, the more certain Chloe was that this was not the voice which had set all those curious fears and suspicions vibrating in her consciousness. This voice induced flat, stale, unprofitable boredom, and nothing more. The “step” seemed to her to have stretched into about three-quarters of a mile, when the woman said:

“Now, here we are. The flat is on the third floor—such a nice position, airy you know, and yet not too high up.”

They passed through the hall and ascended to the airy third floor in a small automatic lift. The little woman rang a bell. As they waited for the door to open, Chloe heard a step on the long stone stair.