Читать книгу Miss Silver Deals with Death - Dora Amy Elles - Страница 9

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At half past eleven Mrs. Underwood went down in the lift. She walked to the corner of the road and took a penny bus, after which she went into a call-box and shut the door.

The bell interrupted Miss Silver in the midst of an earnest calculation as to whether her coupons would provide sufficient wool to make her niece Ethel a new blue jumper, and at the same time enable her to knit a couple of pairs of socks for Lisle Jerningham’s baby. She turned with reluctance to the telephone and heard her own name in a high, affected voice.

“Miss Silver?”

“It is Miss Silver speaking. Good morning, Mrs. Underwood.”

A breath was sharply drawn.

“Oh! How did you know who it was?”

Miss Silver coughed.

“It is my business to remember voices. Is anything the matter?”

The voice wavered.

“Why, no—not exactly. I’m speaking from a call-box. Perhaps I shouldn’t have troubled you.”

A woman does not leave her own flat with its convenient telephone and ring up from a call-box unless she has some reason for wishing to make quite sure of not being overheard. Miss Silver said crisply,

“It is no trouble. Perhaps you will tell me why you called me up.”

There was a gulp, and then,

“I’m frightened.”

“Please tell me why. Has anything fresh occurred?”

“Yes, it has—in a way—”

“Yes?”

“Well, I went upstairs for some bridge last night—the people on the next floor, I often go there. Sometimes her sister comes in to make a fourth, she lives quite near, and Mr. Willard sees her home. And the Spooners from the top floor used to come down, but they’ve gone away—he’s been called up and she’s joined the A.T.S.—so once or twice it’s been Mr. Drake from the flat opposite, but he’s very stand-offish and it wasn’t a great success, so last night they had the girl from the other top-floor flat. Her name is Carola Roland—at least I don’t suppose it is for a moment, but that’s what she calls herself. And oh, Miss Silver, I had such a dreadful shock!”

Miss Silver said, “Yes?” in her most encouraging manner.

Mrs. Underwood took up the word and echoed it.

“Yes, I did. I felt better after talking to you, you know. And then Meade came in—that’s my niece. And the young man I told you about—the one she was going to be engaged to—well, it seems he wasn’t drowned after all, but there’s some talk about his having lost his memory, which is a thing that’s very easy to say and no doubt very convenient, but he’ll find he’s got her uncle to reckon with. So you can imagine I’d plenty to think about, and what with packing Meade off to bed, for she looked like fainting on her feet, and getting ready to go up to the Willards, it’s the real truth I never gave a thought to what I told you about. I went up, and we had a nice little supper—just the three of us—Miss Roland didn’t come in till afterwards. It was Mrs. Willard’s birthday and she’d had a present of eggs from her sister in the country—her married sister, not the one who comes in for bridge—and she’d made an omelette with a tomato purée and we had some very good soup and a grapefruit jelly. Quite a dinner-party, as I said to her, and I told Mr. Willard he was a lucky man to have a wife who can cook like she does. And then Miss Roland came down, and we had coffee and began our bridge. Well, I’m telling you all this for you to understand that I wasn’t giving a thought to you know what. I was enjoying myself. I’d better cards than I’ve held for a long time, and they were all most interested about Giles Armitage turning up like that, and his memory going—if it really has. Mr. Willard told us about a man he used to know who drew out five hundred pounds and went to Australia, and when they traced him he couldn’t remember who he was, or being married, or anything, and he’d just had his banns put up with a goodlooking widow. Miss Roland laughed and said that sort of memory was very convenient—and then she opened her bag for a cigarette, and it was when she was getting out the case that I had my shock.”

“What happened?”

The voice dragged and came slowly, as if it needed those extra breaths to force the words.

“There was a letter—at the bottom—of the bag. I think—it was—my letter. There was—that corner torn off—”

Miss Silver said,

“This is a grave accusation, Mrs. Underwood.”

“It was the same paper—greyish blue. It had the corner torn off.”

“Did you see the writing?”

“No, I didn’t. It was all folded up—I only saw it for a moment—then she pushed her case down on to it and shut the bag.”

Miss Silver took time to think. Then she said in her firmest voice,

“You will have to make up your mind whether you wish me to take up this case professionally.”

Mabel Underwood said in a blundering sort of way,

“Oh, I don’t know—what could you do?”

“I could make some enquiries. I could probably find out who is blackmailing you. And that would almost certainly have the effect of putting a stop to it.”

Mrs. Underwood gulped and said abruptly,

“Would it be expensive?”

Miss Silver named a modest sum.

“We could agree on that to cover a preliminary enquiry. Then if you wished me to go on, I would tell you what I considered would be a fair fee. You had better think the matter over and let me know. If you desire me to take the case, I should like to see you as soon as possible.”

Mrs. Underwood hesitated. She couldn’t really afford the fee—she couldn’t afford to be blackmailed—She didn’t feel as certain of her ground as she had when she came out. When you spoke about things they slipped away from you. A letter might very easily get torn lying around in a bag. She might be making a fool of herself. It mightn’t be her letter at all.

She said, “Oh, well—” And then, “Yes, I’ll think it over and let you know.”