Читать книгу Who Pays the Piper? - Dora Amy Elles - Страница 7

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Coming up the garden, Susan met Montague Phipson. He had an inky forefinger, and his usually sleek fair hair was slightly ruffled. His pince-nez dangled by the cord, and without it his pale blue eyes had a vague, short-sighted look. He was hurrying, but when he saw Susan he stopped.

“Oh, Miss Lenox, have you seen Mr. Dale anywhere?”

“He is in the rose garden—I’ve just left him there.”

He looked worried.

“Then perhaps I—or is he just coming, do you think?”

Susan hoped not.

She said, “I’m late—I must fly,” and hurried on. She was angry, resentful, and frightened, but in some odd way Dale had touched her. There had been tears in her eyes. She wanted to get away, to be alone, to think about Gilbert Garnish and fees—lots and lots of comfortable fat fees for Bill, so that they could have their house and make the two ends of their income not only meet but overlap. It was an insult for this other man to call her his wife. What was it Miranda said to Ferdinand in The Tempest? “I am your wife if you will marry me. If not, I’ll die your maid.” She was Bill’s wife and she would marry him. There wasn’t anyone else—there would never be anyone else.

Half way across the terrace she came face to face with a spruce little man she had never seen before. He had rather upstanding black hair and a Charlie Chaplin moustache. His eyes snapped brightly here, there and everywhere. He reminded her of a squirrel looking for nuts. He took off his hat and addressed her politely.

“Have I the pleasure of speaking to Mrs. Dale?” Voice and accent were American.

To her annoyance Susan’s colour rose. It was the flush of anger, but he wasn’t to know that. He thought she was a mighty pretty girl, and he thought Dale was in luck.

“Oh, no—I’m Miss Lenox. If you are looking for Mr. Dale you will find him in the rose garden just down there.”

She pointed, but he stood there and showed a disposition to talk.

“I’m a very old friend of Mr. Dale’s. And will he be pleased to see me!”

Judging this to be a rhetorical question, Susan made no attempt to answer it. The little man threw back his head and laughed.

“And that depends on how much store Mr. Dale sets by his old friends, doesn’t it? That was what you were going to say if I’d given you time. Did you ever hear him speak of Capper G. Bell? That’s my father. Or Vincent C. Bell? That’s me—and very pleased to meet you, Miss Lenox.”

“Thank you,” said Susan. “I have only known Mr. Dale a very short time. If you go down that path at the end of the terrace you will find him.”

She got away this time with a slight inclination of the head and the faintest of smiles. The audience was closed. Vincent Bell considered that he had been given the air. He felt a trifle aggrieved. He was anxious to see Lucas Dale, but business which had kept for a couple of years would have kept for another ten minutes or so. He had an eye for a pretty girl. He looked after her with some regret before taking the path to the rose garden.

He encountered Mr. Montague Phipson coming back.

“Oh, Mr. Bell, I’m sorry you didn’t wait in the drawing-room. Mr. Dale is just coming in.”

Vincent Bell appeared to be amused.

“He’s coming in, and I’m going out. What happens next? I’d say we’d meet—wouldn’t you? We’re very old friends, your Mr. Dale and me, and if you’ve been with him long you’ll know just how much ice that cuts.”

He laughed and went on down the path, leaving Mr. Phipson rather at a loss. Perhaps he ought to have stopped him. Perhaps Mr. Dale would be angry. It was at all times most necessary to know just what would or would not anger Mr. Dale. There seemed to be no rule about it, but just now, when he had announced the arrival of an old friend, there had certainly been no enthusiasm—rather, a certain tension.

Mr. Phipson didn’t really know what to do. Lucas Dale had said quickly, “Where is he—in the drawing-room? All right, keep him there. I’m coming.” And he had had no chance of keeping him there, because Mr. Bell had already followed him. It was quite on the cards that Mr. Dale would be furious. It was equally on the cards that he would be indifferent or amused. It was very worrying indeed not to know where you were. It might be as well to find out.

Mr. Phipson turned and went back along the path towards the rose garden, but before coming to it he struck across the grass and, arriving at the outer side of the fine yew hedge which kept the wind from the roses, proceeded to skirt it, head a little on one side and ears cocked, rather after the manner of the nervous terrier who smells a rat but is almost certain to turn tail and bolt if the rat comes out of his hole.

He had not gone more than a dozen yards, when Lucas Dale’s voice made him start. It was raised above its normal tone, and there was no doubt that it was raised in anger.

“And what do you think you’ll get by coming over here and pitching that sort of tale? You’ve come to the wrong shop, and the sooner you make up your mind to that the better! Not a penny—not a cent—not the smell of half a dime! Do you get that? You’d better!”

Mr. Phipson found himself very much interested. The hedge made a perfect screen, but it afforded no obstacle to sound. He could hear every word. He heard Vincent Bell laugh, and he heard him say in a tone of what he supposed to be mock admiration,

“If that isn’t interesting!”

“I hope it interests you,” said Lucas Dale.

“Very much—very much indeed. I like to see a man change his mind and change his tune, and I’m looking forward to seeing you change yours.”

“You won’t.”

“Will you bet on it? I shouldn’t if I were you, Dale, because you’d lose. You see, I’ve got you in a cinch. And how? You can’t go into court, and I can.” He laughed with apparent enjoyment. “Why, I’d be tickled to death! Too bad, isn’t it? But that’s the way I’m playing. Very nice place you’ve got here too. It would be a pity to have anything happen so that you’d have to move on—wouldn’t it? You think it over, and when you’ve made up your mind you’ll play my way you can let me know.”

There was a pause. Then Mr. Phipson heard his employer say in a slow, harsh voice,

“Where are you staying?”

Vincent Bell sounded more amused than ever. He said,

“I’m stopping here.”