Authors: Unknown
“Another girl-friend,” said Katie, wishing that they had seen almost anyone but Eleanor Barlow’s boyfriend. “A brunette this time.”
The woman had her back to them, still admiring the luxurious blue of the mink, and a slim hand reached out, to caress the soft fur as if she found it irresistible.
“This one gets mink,” Fran murmured. “She must be a better friend than la Barlow, she only got jewellery.”
“We shouldn’t be spying on them, Fran.” Katie felt uncomfortably conspicuous in the silent company of plaster models, that somehow reminded her of silent versions of Eleanor Barlow.
“We’re not spying on them,” Fran stated, reaching out a hand. “We’re admiring this sable stole. I might even buy it.”
"You’ve no intention of buying it,” Katie retorted, but quietly for fear of attracting attention.
As she spoke she saw Kuran Bey put one hand into a coat pocket as she had seen him do once before in the restaurant, and she bit her lip in anxiety as she saw him slide a package from the pocket, covered by the spread of his hand. She could sense Fran, stiff with excitement beside her, as the woman turned slightly so that the open top of her bag received the packet, but she made no acknowledgement of it, or even turned her head, just as if she had no notion of it.
“She gets jewellery as well,” Fran gasped excitedly in Katie’s ear. “She must be a special one, this one.” She sighed. “Presents and him too,” she said moonily. “He must be very generous, it’s just not fair!”
“They’re leaving,” Katie whispered, and pulled Fran hastily round to the other side of the model as the couple moved off and passed only a few feet away from them.
“Let’s follow them,” Fran whispered back, and would have moved, but Katie held her arm firmly.
“No, Fran!” She retained her hold on her friend’s arm as they watched the couple, and as before when he was with Eleanor Barlow, they parted and left separately, the man taking the escalator down to the floor below, his companion taking the upward one. As she approached the moving steps the woman removed her dark glasses the better to see her way and not miss her footing.
“Oh!” Katie heard Fran’s gasp of surprise mingle with her own intake of breath as they saw the tilted amber eyes beneath the fringe of inky black hair.
“It
is
la Barlow,” Fran breathed softly. “Now what on earth is she doing here when she’s supposed to be in London, and wearing a black wig, too?”
KATIE watched the thin, elegant figure disappear on the escalator and wished fervently that Fran had not been there to see her too, for her friend’s curiosity would never let her rest until she had found the reason for Eleanor Barlow’s unusual behaviour.
“Of all the sly, sneaky—ooh! Words fail me!” Fran glared up at the empty stairs. “She’s supposed to be practically engaged to John and here she is, dressing up in a dark wig to meet Kuran Bey. She doesn’t deserve him, either,” she added, and smiled maliciously. “I’m glad she didn't get that mink, anyway.”
“She may yet!” said Katie.
“Not if I can help it,” Fran scowled. “I’ve a good mind to let that gorgeous Arabian know just what a double-dealing cheat she is. I’ll bet he doesn’t know about John.”
“He almost certainly does,” Katie reminded her. “He’s seen them together at the Kismet.”
“Oh, men are such idiots,” Fran said exasperatedly. “You’d think one of them would have the sense to see through her, wouldn’t you?”
Katie sought for an answer that would discourage Fran from probing further and uncovering anything that could be dangerous, for the more she saw of Eleanor Barlow the more convinced she became that she would be utterly ruthless with anyone who got in her way. Just as John had said she would be.
“This Kuran Bey may be a—a business acquaintance, that’s all,” she ventured. “Models meet all sorts of people, you know, Jamie said that the other day.”
“He
might”
Fran said flatly, and with obvious disbelief, “but I can’t imagine him being
just
that.”
“Oh, Fran, you don’t know! Don’t bother with it any more, remember what John warned you about the last time you tried to discredit Eleanor. He doesn’t like you interfering in his life.” She frowned anxiously at Fran’s obstinate face. “You don’t want to bring him down on you again, do you? You know how angry he was before.”
“He often is angry. Still,” Fran conceded thoughtfully, “he’s never been that angry before and he meant it too, didn’t he? About breaking away from us, I mean,” she looked worried. “I wouldn’t want him to do that.”
“Of course you wouldn’t, you silly goose,” Katie said, a little suspicious of these sudden signs of capitulation. “He
did
mean it, I’m sure.”
“O.K.,” the freckled face eased into a smile, “we’ll let sleeping dogs lie; or have I got the right sex?”
Katie would have enjoyed the rest of the outing more had it not been for a nagging doubt at the back of her mind over Fran’s all too rapid capitulation. It was not, she told herself, in keeping with the stubborn Dennison character to give up so easily, and Fran’s apparent surrender to good sense made Katie uneasy, although she did not let Fran know how she felt.
Jamie inspected his car minutely when they returned and examined every inch of it under Fran’s outraged gaze. “Of course it’s all right,” she stormed at him. “I’m a better driver than you are, Jamie Miller, and always have been!”
“I have to make sure,” he said, lifting the bonnet to inspect the engine. “A strange driver—” he shook his head. “Cars can be very temperamental.”
“I’ll be glad when I get my own,” she retorted, “then I shan’t have to borrow yours or Janus’s, I’ll be independent.”
“I’ll be glad too!” Jamie retorted. “Then you’ll stop pestering me to borrow mine; as for being independent, you’re that now.”
“Not while I have to sweet talk you or Janus into letting me have a car,” Fran said, scowling at him. “I’m dependent on you for transport whenever I want to go anywhere.”
“You could always use the British Railways,” Jamie told her, smiling maliciously.
“With two cars in the garage?” she asked, outraged. “It’s not right!”
“Ooh, you poor little tiling!” He took a thick strand of her long hair and wrapped it round her throat, laughing when she knocked his hand away and succeeded also in pulling her own hair.
“You’re a horror,” she told him, “and I don’t think I shall ever borrow your wretched car again I” She turned to Katie, a picture of offended dignity. “Come on, Katie, let’s leave him to coddle his precious car and find ourselves a drink.”
Sitting curled up on the long settee, Fran sipped her drink slowly from its ice-frosted glass, her tanned, freckled face thoughtful, while Katie, sitting more elegantly, watched her apprehensively. She knew without too much guesswork what would be uppermost in Fran’s mind and dreaded any sudden wild notion that she might have for scoring off Eleanor Barlow.
Katie absently fed Golly with biscuits from a box on the table beside her, disregarding the fact that he was normally allowed no more than two, and Golly, not averse to the idea, crunched happily, taking advantage of the air of detachment that allowed him to indulge himself.
“It’s no use,” Fran said at last, with an air of having made up her mind, “I’ve decided that it needs investigating.”
“What needs investigating?” Katie asked, deliberately obtuse.
“La Barlow, of course,” Fran said impatiently, and looked at a nearly replete Golly. “And Golly, too, judging by the pile of crumbs on the carpet.”
“Oh, dear!” Katie hastily closed the lid of the box and Golly, seeing his source of supply cut off, set to licking up the offending crumbs. “I’m sorry, Fran, I wasn’t thinking what I was doing.” She looked at Golly anxiously. “Will he be all right, do you think?”
“Yes, of course he will,” Fran reassured her, and snapped her fingers at the Labrador, calling him over to her. “Sit over here, you overfed hound, out of the way of temptation ! ”
“Please, Fran, don’t do anything about Eleanor.” Katie tried desperately to think of a way to discourage Fran from going too far, without making it obvious that the prospect worried her too much.
“Why not?” Fran asked, as if the question was reasonable enough. “I’m not sure just what I
can
do yet, but there’s no need for John to know until I’m ready for him to.”
“Fran! It’s none of our business,” Katie protested. “We have no right to interfere.”
“Not if it
is
nothing more than another
affaire de coeur
,” Fran admitted, a glitter in her blue eyes reminiscent of John. “But on giving it some thought, Katie, I’m not sure that it is only that.” She put down her empty glass to emphasise each point on her fingers as she spoke. “I’m convinced that dear Eleanor is up to something fishy. First—when we saw her in Barner’s the first time, in the restaurant with Kuran Bey, that packet he gave her could have been anything, not only jewellery.” She looked at Katie enquiringly. “If a boyfriend gave you a present of jewellery, or anything else, would you expect him to slide it across the table hidden under his hand as if he didn’t want anyone to see it? And would you take It, equally slyly, and drop it into your handbag, then make an almost immediate departure, alone?”
“No,” Katie admitted, her spirits sinking as she saw how close to trouble Fran was getting, “I don’t think I would. I should certainly say something in the way of thanks and probably open it.”
“Of
course
you would!” Fran retorted. “Any girl would; and the second time, today in Barner’s fur department, the same underhand method of passing over the package and then almost immediately leaving separately. They had no more intention of buying that mink than I had, but everyone knows that the fur department is quiet at that time of the year and in this weather, much safer than the restaurant when she’s supposed to be in London.”
“There’s probably a perfectly simple explanation,” Katie said unconvincingly.
“Even the wig?” Fran retaliated, thoroughly warming to her subject “Why wear a black wig and dark glasses except to avoid recognition? Eleanor Barlow is well known to millions of people, and Eleanor Barlow is supposed to be in London, she could not take a chance on being recognised.”
“Oh, Fran, for heaven’s sake! Thousands of people wear wigs these days, you’re exaggerating.” A rising fear of how far Fran would go with her persistence made Katie cold inside as she watched her friend’s bright, eager face intent on discovery of Eleanor Barlow’s secret and, inevitably, John’s as well.
“I’m not,” Fran insisted, her chin set stubbornly. “La Barlow is playing some game and I mean to find out what it is. I think it might well be illegal, and if it is even John can’t say I’m wrong to find out.”
“No!” a shrill note edged Katie’s voice. “You’re talking nonsense, Fran, and you know it. Please leave it alone and forget about it.”
“Not on your life!” said Fran, and she had never looked more like her cousin than at that moment with her stubborn expression, unrelentingly fierce, and her blue eyes glittering like ice. “I’ve never liked Eleanor Barlow and the thought of her marrying John appalls me; I'm not going to let it happen if I can do anything at all to prevent it. Will you help me?” For a moment her expression relaxed as she looked at Katie’s worried face. “Will you, Katie?”
“No, Fran,” Katie shook her head, rolling her empty glass between restless hands, “I—I can’t, I don’t think we should.”
“O.K.,” the' long fair hair fell across Fran’s face, hiding her expression as she leaned over to pat Golly, “you don’t have to, I understand to a certain extent; I suppose you don’t feel as strongly as I do, I can’t expect you to.”
“I’m sorry if you think I’m letting you down,” Katie sensed, for the first time since the beginning of their friendship, a coolness between them. “But I don’t want to interfere in anyone else’s life, unless of course they’re really doing something criminal,” she swallowed hard over the last words.
“Oh, it’s all right.” For a moment they were silent, then Fran raised her head, her face more relaxed and wearing almost its customary smile. “I’m sorry, Katie, I shouldn’t have expected you to become involved in a purely personal vendetta.”
“I’m glad to hear you realise what it is,” Katie said quietly, still hopeful of a change of heart.
Fran smiled wryly. “I'm a vicious little honor, aren’t I?” she asked ruefully. “Don’t be afraid to say so, I’m sure Jamie would agree with you.”
“I wouldn’t quite go that far,” Katie told her, smiling uneasily. “It’s just that Eleanor is a sore point with you and you get carried away.”
“Mm, I s’pose I do,” Fran glanced at Katie shrewdly. “You don’t like her, though, do you?”
“No,” Katie admitted cautiously, “I don’t.”
“But you don’t care if she marries John?”
“I don’t think she will,” Katie answered evasively, and wondered how much she could safely say without starting up another hare.
“Oh?” The bright curiosity she dreaded lit Fran’s blue eyes. “What makes you say that?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Katie laughed, and shrugged her shoulders, not meeting the other girl’s eyes. “Gall it intuition if you like, or that I think John has too much sense.”
“I wish I was as sure as you are," said Fran, "but the most intelligent men can go soft in the head when a woman is concerned.”
Katie laughed, her grey eyes twinkling affectionately at her friend. “A very profound statement, Miss Dennison, but I don’t think it applies in this case.”
Katie made no mention to her aunt of having seen Eleanor Barlow in Sea Bar because she had no wish to be involved in further arguments on the rights and wrongs of the woman’s behaviour, but she was worried about Fran. The fact that she had understood Katie’s reluctance to be involved in the matter did not mean, she was certain, that she intended to let the whole thing drop. Aunt Cora had made no comment on her unusual quietness, but several times she was aware of the old lady watching her and frowning as if something worried her.