Читать книгу Saul and the Spinster - Aidan de Brune - Страница 4

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"PLEASE sit down, Inspector." Miss Westways indicated the chair on the opposite side of the-table.

"Thank you." Saul Murmer felt he was in need of a seat. It was not a strange experience for the Inspector to be informed by individuals that their lives were threatened. Investigation usually showed that the facts did not agree with conclusions, in spite of the wealth of details accompanying the complaints.

Saul Murmer smiled, recalling the case of Sir Abbeyford Aldersham, who almost caused the resignation of a Chief Constable, gave sleepless nights to a number of hard-working policemen, and agitated the press of England. A solution of the threatening letters was only obtained when, enraged by the authorities' refusal to arrest his nephew and heir, Sir Abbeyford turned his hitherto unsuspected abilities as a letter-writer to an anonymous attack on the Chief Constable of his county.

A movement at his elbow caused him to look up. Henri was standing close beside him, his brows well-defined interrogation marks. The detective nodded and the man disappeared, to return almost immediately with the cradled bottle and glasses.

"If I may be permitted, Miss Westways." The Inspector lifted his glass, watching the bubbles rise through the amber liquid. He felt he needed that drink; had already earned it. He drank delicately.

"You were saying, Miss Westways—?"

"I believe that my life is being threatened." The lady repeated her statement gravely; then laughed. "No doubt you think I am mad, Inspector?"

"Not at all;" Saul Murmer was polite and abstractly truthful. If the lady had said "unbalanced" he would have been forced to silence, or untruthfulness. "Er—quite a number of people's lives have been threatened at times."

"And yet live out their numbered days. Is that what you intended to say, Inspector?" Miss Westways laughed gently. "You were inferring that I have no reason to worry—yet you have no knowledge of the circumstances."

"Is there a case—" The Inspector appeared to be addressing the tablecloth. He glanced furtively at the woman on the other side of the table. Somewhere in the forties, he decided; then flushed. He suddenly remembered that he was forty-six. And—she was wonderfully attractive! Brown hair, with a few peeping grey hairs that lent an illusion of moon-halo; a fair skin bearing just the right amount of make-up to perfect its attractiveness; a well-developed body, its charms accentuated by a dark grey dress that softly whispered "Paris"—and worn with that exclusive accent so rarely seen outside the city of feminine authority. And the card the mâitre d'hôtel had brought him had borne in one corner a single, quoted word.

No address was needed. Even essentially masculine Police Headquarters knew of "Florabella," the Mecca of every Australian woman—the leading modiste establishment of Sydney.

"So many people desire death!" Saul Murmer looked up, his full girlish lips parted in a smile, the baby-stare eyes twinkling.

"Not for themselves, but for those they consider—er—redundant. Their reasons? Mainly an overworked inferiority complex! Er—you were saying, Miss Westways—"

The lady smiled; the exclusive feminine how far from gods they may be.

"You think I am—er—unbalanced, Inspector?"

"Not at all, Miss Westways." The detective hastened to refute the idea. "I have admired the cool, collected manner in which you—er—discuss their—er—threat." He paused helplessly.

Miss Westways went to his rescue.

"Why should be flurried and distressed?" A note of asperity came in her voice. "In a business matter—"

"Blackmail?" Saul Murmer nodded, speaking in a whisper. "In a sense, yes." Mathilde Westways also nodded.

"I have received messages."

"Ah!" Inspector Murmer sighed. He liked documentary evidence, especially in a blackmailing ease. "And the letters—"

Not wishing to embarrass the lady in the disclosures he now believed to be inevitable, Saul Murmer had half-turned from the table and was staring down the room in the direction of the entrance. Suddenly he stiffened slightly, then laughed. All he had seen was Mrs. Laine entering the room preceding a brilliantly dark young girl and her husband.

Eva Laine saw Miss Westways and directly she entered the room. She waved gaily, crossing the room directly to their table. Saul Murmer watched the group form, somewhat relieved that his tête-à-tête with Miss Westways had been interrupted. He had started the evening with thoughts anticipating enjoyment. Apparently he had been slated for disillusionment. John Pater had let him down, and Miss Westways had shown decided signs of repeating the performance.

Eva Laine's appearance suggested relief; beside the most perfect dancing floor in Sydney she would permit nothing that savoured of serious life. In regard to the blackmailing letters, Saul Murmer decided that he could obtain them from Miss Westways at some other interview. He felt suddenly elated at the thought of another interview with this fascinating lady.

"Room for three more?" Eva called gaily as she came to the table.

"Only myself, a husband, a little girl. Auntie Westways, may I introduce your niece in a perfectly perfect new 'Florabella' gown."

The young girl curtsied deeply, spreading out the voluminous skirts of the lovely red frock. "Isn't it adorable, Mattie. I couldn't resist it this afternoon." She swung with a flurry of flounces and frills on the waiting detective, holding out her hand frankly. "You're Dizzy's friend, Inspector Murmer, aren't, you? I'm not going to say 'Pleased to meet you', for that would make Eva jealous; she looks on you as her own, private, particular lion, guaranteed to roar for her alone. She's awfully mean, even with her husband! Why, this afternoon she wouldn't even let me kiss him—and haven't kissed—"

"Paddy!" Miss Westways' tones were very firm.

"Yes, Mattie." Paddy's voice was suddenly meek. "Oh, the frock! I did tell Miss Lancing to put it down to my account, truly! And I haven't had a frock for ages and ages. And I haven't a rag—"

"There's hardly a rag this side, Paddy," said Dizzy judicially. He was standing behind the girl.

"Pig." Paddy turned on the journalist. "For that—"

"Paddy, are you aware your allowance is sadly overdrawn." Mathilde Westways spoke softly, a twinkle of affection in her eyes.

"So is the national exchequer, it the Post-Advertiser financial expert is telling the truth," observed Dizzy lazily.

"Then Paddy's allowance account looks like a diminutive national exchequer," laughed Eva. "She came to me the—"

"Telling tales, out of school!" The girl shook her black curls. "For that—Dizzy, you shall dance with me, and if you kiss me in that dark corner by the band I won't even bleat!"

"Oh, you children!" Miss Westways reproved. "There's plenty of time to dance. Sit down, all of you!"

Dizzy Laine pulled out a chair for his wife, glancing from the Inspector to the table, which Henri was busily setting for supper. "Who wouldn't be a detective-inspector of police," he said lugubriously. "Eva, you made a mistake when you picked a journalist for a soul-mate. You should have sought a police officer; they can afford the material joys of life—wine, women and—"

"Eva! If Dizzy sings I shall go straight home," said Paddy explosively.

"For your sins, Murmer—" The newspaper man grinned, "Paddy, for your and his sins, you shall sit next your latest 'nice' man. Good! Now, perhaps I shall have one evening's, quietness amid a torrid desert of dancing nights. Miss Westways, please extend your well-known abilities as a chaperone to protect me from the evil designs I see glittering—"

"You—and a chaperon!" Paddy's pretty lips curled scornfully. She moved into the chair next the Inspector. "Please don't take any notice of Dizzy, Inspector."

"I don't." Emphasis empressed the detective's voice. "He is a newspaper man—one of those annoyances, like mosquitoes, ants, and other things, sent to try us good people."

The girl clapped her hands. "So you know him as well as that!"

Without waiting for a reply, she spoke across the table to Miss Westways. "Mattie, what do you think of my dress? It's one of yours, you know."

She turned quickly to Saul Murmer. "I mean, it came out of her shop—not her wardrobe."

"Paddy!" expostulated Miss Westways.

"We all have them," retorted the young girl defensively. "Wardrobes, I mean; though sometimes they're more a deficit than an asset."

The elder lady sighed, though the shadow of a smile hovered at the corners of her lips.

"That is why we named her Paddy," explained Dizzy carefully. "Because of her peculiar ability to say the wrong thing at the right moment."

"Is Miss Burke Irish?" asked Saul Murmer, with very apparent innocence.

"Only by etymological adoption." explained Eva. "By birth she is a Jewess. I have a suspicion that her Irish veneer was induced by a frantic, but hopeless, passion for Dizzy."

"Gott in—" Dizzy leaned back in his chair limply.

"Eva!" Paddy's high, clear voice rose above the murmur of laughter. "Why will you not respect my girlish confidences Now he will pester me to run away with him, but I won't go unless you come, too."

With the quick turn of thought characteristic of her, she turned to the Inspector.

"Do you know, I'm quite thrilled to sit next to you, Mr. Murmer. Please tell me what you and Mattie were discussing before we came. My sins?"

"Nothing so important, Paddy," replied Miss Westways quickly. "I was telling Inspector Murmer of those strange missives I have received lately."

"Aren't they thrilling!" exclaimed the girl.

"I don't know," replied Saul Murmer guardedly.

"He uses lovely notepaper—the kind you get at Salfvalley's for sixpence a dozen sheets, and violet ink," the girl continued. "But he can't match colours, or draw, not a weeny bit."

"Sounds interesting," observed Dizzy. "Why haven't I heard of these love-letters before?"

"Because you're dangerous," retorted the girl. "Eva says you wrote up your own wedding for the newspapers, and then sent them bills for the 'news' at space rates."

"Well, it cost a lot to marry Eva," said the journalist defensively. "I had to get it back somehow. Wait until you are married—"

"I'll do my own publicity, thank you." Paddy turned her well-defined nose up. "Besides—I shall never marry—"

"Is that a vow of celibacy—or a hint at something improper? As a good Jewess you're an anti-assimilationist, and I haven't forgotten that Theo is a heathen Gen—ough!"

Dizzy broke off suddenly, bending and rubbing his shin.

"But what of those letters?" asked Saul Murmer.

"They're not proper letters," interposed Paddy before Miss Westways could speak. She added, hastily: "I don't, mean they're improper, as Dizzy understands it, only they're drawings, not words."

Eva Laine lifted her glass and sipped meditatively. "Paddy, I do happen to know this is your first glass of wine—"

"I had a cocktail with Theo when we had dinner at Prince's!" exclaimed the girl.

"Do modern University students run to cocktails and dinners at Prince's?" asked Dizzy.

"Why wasn't I—"

"I wouldn't have married you if you had been," Eva laughed. "Theo is a—"

"University student," completed her husband.

"He's a B.A.," announced Paddy complacently. "And his father has oceans of money."

"You can't, really, Paddy," protested Dizzy, in mock alarm.

"Eva did," replied the girl darkly.

"Eva's a Gentile," defended the Journalist.

"She assimilated you—and looks as if she's had mental indigestion ever since!" Paddy put in her thrust triumphantly. She turned to her aunt. "What is it, dear."

"You are talking too much." Miss Westways hesitated. "Our new generation is so-so—

"We don't want brains," drawled Dizzy "We've got wireless."

"But what of those letters?" asked Saul Murmer inquisitively, when the laughter had died down. Miss Westways opened her bag and took out a thick mauve envelope. She handed it to the detective.

The police officer took it delicately and extracted a folded sheet of mauve paper. He spread it open on the tablecloth. The paper was of fair quality, matching the envelope. On it had been drawn, in violet ink, a crude Illustration of a box. There was no other mark on the paper.

For some moments Saul Murmer examined the drawing in silence. A strange, creepy feeling grew on him. He could not suppress the idea that the sketch was intended to represent a coffin. He fumbled in his waistcoat pocket and produced a very thick monocle. Screwing this into his left eye, he bent again to the paper.

"Isn't that dinky?" Paddy clasped her hands admiringly. "Mr. Murmer, when we're married I shall insist on your always wearing a monocle."

"While you wear his bracelets," suggested Dizzy, laughingly.

"Ugh! Not his kind," retorted the girl with a little shiver. "It you please, I'll choose my own, I hate bracelets to match, except on the same wrist."

She paused, a sudden thought striking her, and touched the engrossed Inspector on the arm. "Mr. Murmer, please lend me your handcuffs."

"My—what?" Saul Murmer looked up astonished.

"Your handcuffs, please. Don't tell me you haven't brought them!" Paddy was growing excited. "Mattie! I've got a simply gorgeous idea! A new fashion! Oh—it's a wow! A real humdinger! Listen, all of you!" Her excited hands swept over the table, nearly sending several glasses to destruction. "Sorry, dears; but this is important! I've found a new fashion. Listen! Listen!"

"Quiet, darling!" Dizzy spoke soothingly. "You'll tell the world, and then Miss Westways won't be able to make a million or two out of it."

"It's great! It's a booster-boost; the king of wiggle-boys!" In her excitement Paddy rose to her feet. "Listen! I'm going to get a pair of silver handcuffs made, and wear them."

"Thank heaven!" Dizzy lifted pious hands. "My cigarettes and your aunt's purse will at last be safe."

"Not on different wrists, silly-darling," Paddy patronised. "Both on the same arm. Isn't it great, Eva? We'll set a new fashion, and Mattie shall pay us well tor the idea, and advertising it—and then I won't have any deficit for you to worry about. And I can have all the frocks I want. Eva, I saw a perfect dream of a dance-fr—"

"Sans back, tight-fitting breastplate in front, a bewildering mass of frills and furbelows at foot, to twine and twist round a poor man's ankles—" complemented Dizzy.

"Poor men don't come to expensive night-clubs," chided the girl.

"Journalists are taken to nightclubs by wives—and they're poor men," defended the newspaper-man. "But go to it, Paddy. It you can show Eva how to relieve the deficit in the domestic budget, I'm all for—"

"Oh, there's Theo!"

In a moment the girl was running, down the room to greet a tall, blonde young man, standing, just inside the doorway, a somewhat vacant look on his round, pleasant face.

"Wireless triumphant over brains," observed Dizzy, somewhat disparagingly.

"You're jealous. He's only typical," retorted Eva. "He's working for his. M.A."

"Or his father is." Dizzy was in one of his obstinate moods, determined to have the last word.

From the half-lights appeared Henri and a subordinate waiter, carrying laden trays. Inspector Murmer folded the mauve notepaper, replaced it in its envelope, and slipped it into his pocket. He sat back, to watch Paddy Burke approach the table, her hand in the crook of the tall youth's arm.

"Here's Theo—Theo Manning, people," announced the girl. "Henri, we shall want another chair, please. Sit up tight, for Theo's going to sit with us. Now, Mattie, no scowls. If you frighten him away to another table, I shall go, too—and that will shock all your Early Victorian minds."

"The feminine Victorian mind, or the University Victorian mind?" asked the newspaper-man, with apparent innocence.

"Bother those streamers," The Green Lagoon was festooned with a number of gay paper streamers, dependant from the floor of the gallery over the tables, and arching over the dancing floor. One of these had broken loose from its fastenings on the wall, and had fallen between Dizzy and the waiter, busy arranging the dishes on the table.

The journalist caught at it and tugged. To his surprise it would not break. It fell against the edge of the table again. Theo Manning leaned across Dizzy, drawing the streamer towards him. It caught on the edge of the table and, at the same moment, was hauled boldly up by someone in the gallery above. The table tilted sharply, and before anyone could interfere dishes, glass, cutlery and wine were cascaded into Inspector Murmer's lap.

Miss Westways blanched to the lips; a frightened look came in her eyes.

"I expected that," she said softly. "What on earth does it mean?"