Читать книгу Miss Brown of X. Y. O - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 6

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Miss Brown was a conscientious young woman, and, notwithstanding the dislocation of her life by her recent adventure, she remembered, after an hour’s seclusion, the fact that she had clients who were expecting her visit, and also that it was her duty to respect the earnest injunction of the man around whom all her sad thoughts were now centred, and carry on as usual. She bandaged her wrist, which was still painful, bathed her eyes, and before half past eleven she had started off upon her round. She transcribed some letters for a retired manufacturer in Hampstead, received some copy from a young author in the same neighbourhood, and in the afternoon spent a couple of hours in a City office. At six o’clock she returned to her room, weary with her round of labours, and with a sense of suppressed excitement which still possessed her. She made herself some tea, took off her gown which was a little wet, and made herself comfortable, stretched in an easy-chair in front of the small gas fire. She considered the events of the day thoughtfully. She was by no means a nervous person or over-imaginative, but she had nevertheless been haunted even during her recent pilgrimages by a feeling that she was never alone, that she was always being followed, always being watched. On the ’bus going to Hampstead, a young man had picked up a glove with which she had no concern, tried to press it upon her, and afterwards to enter into conversation. She had seen the same young man upon her return journey, but had avoided him by taking a ’bus for a short distance in another direction. It was quite possible, of course, that his interest in her was simply the interest of the ordinary boulevardier, for Miss Brown, notwithstanding her reserved manner and demure appearance and the fact that she neither invited nor responded to any advances, was still not at all unaccustomed to finding herself an object of some interest to questing sentimentalists of the other sex. The young man, however, had been persistent, and he had been not the only one interested in her movements. In the City, she was conscious of brushing against a girl whom she had seen at least twice before, during the morning, and whose friendly smile was evidently intended to be an invitation to some sort of casual remark. She had allowed neither incident to trouble her. Nothing had interfered with the calm and methodical pursuit of her day’s business, although to each of her clients she had hinted that she might be obliged to miss one day at any moment. Now that she was back again in her room and alone, she reviewed once more the events of the past few hours. The young man and the girl might both have been coincidences, but there remained with her that uneasy sense of following eyes which had never left her throughout the day, which had made her glance uneasily around even when she had fitted her latchkey into the door and impelled her now, even in the seclusion of her room, to twice leave her seat and glance out into the narrow thoroughfare. Suddenly the thought flashed into her mind that the first part of her task was safely accomplished, that the precious book with the accompanying documents was deep in the vaults of the bank where not a living soul could reach it except herself. Espionage for the present, at any rate, was futile. The sense of oppression left her. She poured herself out a second cup of tea and opened the Times.

She studied first with a new interest the headlines in the general news column. Then she turned to the leading article which she read word for word with an absorbed interest. It recalled to her mind the dominant note in the press during the critical periods of the war—grave but unfailingly hopeful, always ready to recognise and emphasize the serious side of a terrible situation, whilst insisting upon the necessity for, almost the religion of, a dignified confidence. There was the same note to be traced to-day in the article which she perused so carefully. The headlines in the general news spoke of attempted strikes in all parts of the Dominions, of fervent propaganda by the men of the advanced section of the communist world, of interference everywhere with British trade, and British enterprise. The leading article, too, made no effort to minimize the perils of the situation. A coal strike was threatened in Great Britain within the next three months—a strike which in time was to spread to the railways, the transport workers, the wharfingers. The Trades Unions were to be defied, the new party—as they called themselves—of the people, were to issue the challenge and their leaders were already loud-voiced in their confident predictions of success. It was all generalisation, of course, but Miss Brown wished very much that she had some one to explain the whole thing to her. “Capital and Labour,” she read in one paragraph, “would in those days of strike change places. Capital might buy guns, but Capital could never buy a single man to shoulder them. Capital might hold out its bags of gold but the food was in the hands of the people who carried it.” Then she looked at the speaker’s name and smiled. Something might happen to him, she reflected, when those notes of hers were safely transcribed.

She turned to the personal column, knowing full well, however, that it was too soon to expect her message. Afterwards, still searching for any mention of the tragedy of Lombertson Square, she came upon an item which she read curiously from beginning to end. It was headed:—

MAN FOUND SHOT IN LOMBERTSON SQUARE

Early this morning the police constable on duty in Lombertson Square discovered the body of a man lying against the railings of the gardens, shot through the forehead. He was apparently a middle-aged foreigner, without papers or any marks of identification, nor was there any trace of a weapon in the neighbourhood. The body was removed to the nearest mortuary pending identification.

Miss Brown shivered a little, but passed on in her eager yet apprehensive search. She found at last what she had been looking for. In a remote corner there was a paragraph consisting of two lines:—

We regret to announce the death at his residence in Lombertson Square of Colonel Dessiter, D. S. O., the well-known traveller.

There was not another line, no obituary notice, no journalistic acknowledgement of the fact that a famous man had given his life for his country. There were long paragraphs about people of whom she had never heard. A rich tradesman’s gifts to charity were expatiated upon at length, but the man who had saved his country at least two wars, and given his life in the struggle to avert still greater disaster, was dismissed in those two scanty lines. She threw the newspaper down indignantly.

The woman to whom the house belonged, a shadowy sort of person, seldom seen or heard, made a brief appearance.

“A young gentleman has called twice to see you from some newspaper,” she announced.

“Some newspaper?” Miss Brown repeated.

The woman looked over her shoulder.

“He is here again. I thought I’d let you know.”

A young man with his hat in his hand stood upon the threshold and bowed. He was a very harmless looking person indeed, and a complete stranger to Miss Brown. He wore old-fashioned gold-rimmed spectacles, carried the familiar notebook, and his manner was not only apologetic but a little nervous.

“Could you favour me with five minutes’ interview, Miss Brown?” he begged.

The lady of the house had already disappeared. Miss Brown rose to her feet in some perplexity.

“I think that there must be a mistake,” she said.

The young man ventured to take a step forward. He pushed the door to behind him but did not close it.

“Perhaps I have been misinformed,” he began. “My people heard that you had been doing work for Colonel Dessiter who died in the night. We understand that you were there only yesterday. He was engaged, as is everywhere known, upon a book of memoirs. My editor would be greatly obliged if you would give us any information.”

Miss Brown waved her visitor to a seat. She looked at him for a moment thoughtfully. Was this, she wondered, to be the beginning of a new epoch in her life, during which she would have to weigh every word she uttered, be all the time in a state of suspicion and doubt. The young man appeared entirely harmless, and there was nothing in his manner in any way offensive. She much preferred him to the young man on the ’bus.

“What newspaper do you represent?” she asked.

“The Daily Despatch.”

“You have a card?”

“Not with me,” he regretted. “I am fairly well-known, as is my paper. My name is Philip Jackson. I often sign my articles.”

“And what is it you want to know from me?”

“In the first place, whether it is true that Colonel Dessiter up to a late hour yesterday evening was dictating to you a chapter of his reminiscences?”

“I have nothing to say about that,” she answered, after a moment’s reflection.

“Can you tell me,” he went on, a sudden little gleam in his eyes, “whether you have in your possession any notes taken down from him in the nature of unfinished work? My people would very much like to produce anything he wrote or even said during his last few hours.”

“I have nothing of that sort available,” Miss Brown declared.

Her visitor coughed.

“You will understand, madam,” he continued, “that I am not here as a beggar. My paper is a rich one. We pay very highly for material we can use. We are prepared to pay you very highly indeed for any notes which Colonel Dessiter may have given you during the last few days.”

“The Daily Despatch, you said your paper was,” she murmured, after a moment’s silence.

The young man inclined his head. Miss Brown took up the telephone book. A telephone was the one joint extravagance which she and her friend permitted themselves, and this cost them little as it was taken over from a previous tenant. She turned over the pages and, unhooking the receiver, asked for a number.

“May I ask to whom you are telephoning?” the young man ventured.

“I am telephoning to the office of the Daily Despatch,” Miss Brown replied. “You have no card, and I wish to be sure of your bona fides before I enter into conversation with you.”

He smiled. It was meant to be a pleasant smile but somehow or other there was a sour little twist at the corners of the lips.

“Don’t forget my name,” he begged—“Philip Jackson.”

Miss Brown secured her connection and requested a word with a sub-editor or some one in authority.

“I am ringing up to know,” she said, “whether you have a journalist in your employ by the name of Philip Jackson, and whether you have sent him round to interview a Miss Edith Brown in Shepherd’s Market, a stenographer?”

“We have a Philip Jackson on our staff,” was the prompt reply, “but we have not sent him to interview anybody, and he is at present writing an article in this office.”

“I am very much obliged to you,” Miss Brown replied, and rang off. “So you are an imposter!” she added, turning to her visitor. “Somehow or other I thought so.”

The young man made no direct reply.

“We can arrive, perhaps, now,” he suggested, “at a more satisfactory understanding. You were at Colonel Dessiter’s house for two or three hours last night, during which time he dictated an account to you of his recent travels on the Continent, and, I believe, entrusted you with several documents. What are you going to do with the result of your work?”

Miss Brown looked at him steadily.

“You must be a very foolish person,” she said, “to come here and ask me such questions—that is, if you seriously expect to be answered.”

“Will you sell me your notes,” the young man asked, “for five hundred pounds?”

“I certainly will not,” she told him.

“Will you sell them to me for a thousand pounds?”

“You are wasting time.”

The pseudo-journalist reflected.

“Supposing I offered you three thousand pounds in cash for them?”

“If I were a man,” Miss Brown said, “you would have been in the street by now. As it is, will you please go away? You don’t seem to be aware of the fact that you are insulting me.”

“I wouldn’t take it like that if I were you,” the young man advised quietly. “Three thousand pounds is a great deal of money, and if you preserve your present attitude you are interfering, even though passively, with matters of which you know nothing. Believe me, you are going to bring down upon yourself a great deal of trouble. You will have very little peace left in life, perhaps even, if you are obstinate, in the end, very little life.”

“Do you think that I am afraid?” Miss Brown asked, with a flash in her blue eyes.

“Unfortunately I can see that you are not,” he admitted promptly. “It would be better for you if you were—much better in the long run.”

She pointed to the door.

“If you go quickly,” she said, “it will be all right. Otherwise, I am going to wave my hand to the policeman who is standing on the opposite side of the pavement.”

The young man took up his hat.

“You have nothing to fear from me in the way of physical violence,” he assured her. “I do not belong to the department which exercises—such—shall I say, pressure. I wish you good afternoon, Miss Brown. I warn you that before you are through with this business you will either change your mind or regret it bitterly.”

She made no reply, content to be rid of him. He let himself out by the front door, closing it carefully behind him. She watched him thread his way amongst the people in the crooked little street until he disappeared in the alley. No more harmless looking person could be imagined, yet somehow or other as she looked after him she gave a shiver. There was something about the very restraint of his manner, the monotonous lack of emotion in his tone, even the way he walked, which seemed to her sinister. When at last he had disappeared, she went over to the looking-glass and indulged in an angry grimace at her own reflection; she hated to admit that fancies were creeping into her life.

Until seven o’clock, Miss Brown was busy working for the young author in Hampstead. As soon as she had finished her task, she pinned the sheets together carefully, glanced them through with an approving little movement of the head, put them safely away in a drawer, and prepared to make a modest toilette. Just as she was putting on her hat, there was the click of the front door being opened by a latchkey, a familiar step in the passage, the door of her room was thrown open, and a tall girl in country clothes, carrying a suitcase, appeared on the threshold.

“Frances!”

“In the flesh and rather too much of it. Glad I caught you!”

The two girls embraced. Perhaps Miss Brown had never before in her life been so glad to see her friend.

“What a welcome!” the latter exclaimed, laughing, as she seated herself upon the edge of the bed. “What’s the matter, Edith? Lonely?”

“Not exactly. But what brings you up? I thought you weren’t going to be here until next week.”

The girl threw off her hat disclosing a neatly shingled head of fair hair and swung a shapely silk-clad leg.

“I got absolutely fed up with the chickens,” she confided. “So I put a few things into a suitcase and left Mollie in charge. We’ll go out and dine somewhere—where there’s some music, if we can run to it.”

Miss Brown endeavoured to look severe.

“How on earth, Frances,” she answered, “can you expect to make chicken farming pay if you keep on leaving the place to look after itself?”

“I don’t. There’s Mollie.”

“Mollie doesn’t count. Besides, there’s the expense.”

“The chicken farm never will pay,” Frances confided—“not anything that’s worth while. Perhaps by the time I’m forty-five and don’t care a damn about anything, there’ll be just enough to keep me from sponging on my relations, and by the time I’m fifty or fifty-five I may be able to get rid of it and live as an elderly spinster at a cheap boarding house. Horrible! Don’t preach, Edith. Get into your best clothes and we’ll go out and have some fun.”

Miss Brown, endeavouring to conceal her satisfaction, took off her shabby little hat, and slipped off her gown, whilst Frances unfastened her bag. They compared notes as to their toilettes and Miss Brown, notwithstanding a faint protest as she thought of the rain-splashed streets, was persuaded to change into silk stockings and patent shoes. When at last they were ready, they presented the picture of two simply clad but very pleasant-looking young women; Frances, with her added height, her more regular features and greater vivacity, perhaps the more attractive, but Miss Brown, in her neat black dress, her trim figure and her air of complete composure, also in her way pleasing to look upon. They locked up the room, passed out into the street and through the alley to Curzon Street, where, to Frances’ amazement, Miss Brown summoned a taxicab.

“Heavens, Edith, what are you up to?” she exclaimed. “We could have had a cocktail each for the price of this taxi.”

Her friend smiled.

“I have had a very lucrative commission,” she confided. “Nothing in the world could have been more fortunate than your coming up. It’s my treat.”

“God bless the child!” Frances exclaimed. “It isn’t going to be anything of the sort, and you know it, but what’s happened to you? You’re changed somehow.”

Miss Brown smiled a little sadly.

“You’re clever,” she acknowledged. “How am I changed?”

Frances looked at her long and thoughtfully out of her grey eyes.

“Edith,” she confided, “I scarcely know. You look somehow as though something serious had happened, as though there were suddenly a background of unhappiness in your life, and—something else.”

“Go on, please.”

“I can’t,” Frances replied. “Give me a little time. Perhaps I’ll be able to tell you before the evening’s over.”

Miss Brown leaned back in the cab and for a moment the light died out of her blue eyes. She was back in that fog-hung room with its strange odour and atmosphere of tragedy, listening to that wonderful voice, back in the throes of hero worship. She was unconscious of her friend’s curious scrutiny. Then a twinge of pain came to her heart, and her eyes moistened. Simultaneously she felt herself grateful for the flood of idle chatter in which Frances had chosen suddenly to indulge.