Читать книгу Put Out the Light - Ethel Lina White - Страница 9

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THE loss of the Dresden china figure was discovered, the next morning, by the housemaid at the Moat House. Although, at different times, she was entered in the books of the local registry office as "Gloria," "Greta" and "Norma," she was always known as "Fletcher"; for true to national type, she had quite overlooked the opportunity of her own name which was the same as that assumed by the Queen of Hollywood—Mary.

Fletcher was a local beauty, with a complexion of strawberries-and-cream and enormous, rather stupid, grey-green eyes; she had vague ambitions of a film career, and took every chance to look at herself in the glass.

Consequently, the mantelpieces at the Moat House were the best dusted in the neighborhood. And, since her first job was to obtain the requisite light, she began operations by pulling up the blinds.

She saw Wendy nosing soberly about on the lawn, but merely concluded that he had been let out by the cook, who was an earlier riser than herself. The fact that he was not indulging in his usual idiotic capers, with which he expressed his joy of life, escaped her notice. When he saw her, he walked across the lawn, with a serious expression on his face, and scraped at the French window.

She opened it with some slight difficulty, let him in, and then began to dust the mantelpiece, looking arch, proud, amorous and terrified, in turn. Presently, however, it began to dawn upon her that something was amiss; her hand kept groping for an accustomed article, in vain.

Reluctantly she looked away from the mirror, and rolled her big eyes over the shelf. As she stared, first at a china shepherdess, with flaxen hair and rose-garlanded skirt, and then at an empty space, on the other side of the clock, without any effort she registered utter surprise.

Presently, she spoke aloud.

"It's the boy."

Having settled the point, she finished dusting in her usual perfunctory manner, looked at herself again in the glass, and then strolled into the hall, to collect the morning papers.

After she had made a leisurely examination of these, in a vain quest of a photograph of Norma Shearer, she went into the kitchen, where the other maids were at their breakfast.

"Which of you've took the boy?" she asked.

"Boy?" echoed the cook.

"One of them china figures on the drawing room mantelpiece is gone," explained Fletcher.

The cook fixed her with an accusing eye.

"Where have you put the bits?" she asked directly. "The dustbin isn't safe."

Fletcher tossed her head.

"I haven't broken it," she declared. "It's gone, of itself, in the night."

"Then you'd better arrange that it comes back, of itself, in the morning," advised the cook darkly. "You know how nosey-parker she is over her bits."

As Fletcher only rolled her eyes helplessly, the cook got up and went to the drawing room. The first thing that caught her eye was the half-open French window.

"Why is that left open?" she asked.

"It's stuck," explained the housemaid.

"Was it stuck when you shut it, last night?"

"No."

"Well, why does it stick now?"

"I don't know."

The cook began to examine the door, and discovered the scratches around the lock. Immediately excitement ran high, and Fletcher's innocence was vindicated. Hopes soared, as the maids rushed to examine the silver chest and plate basket.

Although nothing appeared to be missing, Cook took advantage of the situation to make a dramatic announcement to her mistress, when she entered the drawing room.

"Please, mum, the burglars have been."

Mrs. Antrobus was a handsome, elderly woman, who made no attempt to disguise her age. Her thick wavy hair was iron-grey, and there were numerous fine lines around her wonderful violet-blue eyes. It was her custom to walk about the house, smoking a cigarette and wearing black satin breeches, while she issued her morning orders.

The fact that she was without her skirt did not detract from her dignity as she listened to Fletcher's story with a magisterial air.

"I'll test this for myself," she said.

The servants stood and watched with interest, as their mistress made a minute examination of the room, after the fashion of a stage detective. Presently, she rose from her knees, lit another cigarette, and spoke to the housemaid.

"What have you done with the pieces, Fletcher?"

Although the cook had asked precisely the same question, without the aid of any elaborate preliminaries, the servants were impressed.

Fletcher began to protest her innocence passionately.

"I didn't. May my Heavenly—"

"Can it be mended?"

"It's not me. It's burglars."

"Do you expect me to believe that childish story?"

"But, madam, look at the door."

"I have. And I've seen marks, made by a chisel, which anyone could make. They are not conclusive."

Fletcher began to experience the mental paralysis of a victim of circumstantial evidence, as Mrs. Antrobus proceeded.

"There are white hairs, from the puppy's coat, on this settee, Fletcher. They were not here, last night. He slept here."

"Oh, no, mum," interposed the cook. "Wendy always retires in the kitchen."

"You mean, he ought to, but it is evident you forgot to shut the door. It is also evident that no strange person could have entered this room, last night, without him barking the house down."

The puppy, who was listening to the conversation, at once, gave a demonstration of his talents, with an air of conscious virtue.

"There, good little dog," said Mrs. Antrobus. "But that's enough. Mistress knows her little man can bark. He understands his duty, if no one else does."

Goaded by desperation, Fletcher made rather a brilliant effort.

"He might have left them hairs after I done the room," she said.

On her mettle, as a detective, Mrs. Antrobus rubbed the brocade with a delicate withered finger.

"In that case," she said, "there would be marks of mud or damp, as the puppy's been in the garden. I'll hear no more. Bring me those pieces, and nothing further will be said. Breakfast in ten minutes, Cook."

At the door, Mrs. Antrobus stopped to give another order.

"In future, the puppy's basket is to be taken to my room, at night."

When she was out of earshot, the cook spoke to her mistress.

"What you've always wanted, my lady, only you was afraid we'd think you soppy."

After the truce of breakfast, Mrs. Antrobus took the puppy for his morning walk. In spite of the signs of the spring visible in the green tips of the hawthorn hedges, it was a cold morning, with lacy cloudlets frozen against a pale-blue sky. At the first milestone from Oldtown, she met Superintendent Pye and stopped for a chat.

They had a mutual liking for each other; he admired her as a sensible, good-looking woman, who had collected a husband, while she liked him as a doggy man, although she thought nothing of his acumen in the profession he had mysteriously chosen.

"And how's the big hound?" asked Pye. "I suppose your mistress always wipes out your eyes with boracic, after your walk? I know she does. You're in good hands, my lad."

Mrs. Antrobus smiled flintily to acknowledge his compliment. Then her violet eyes grew soft and wistful.

"Mr. Pye," she said, "of course we both know he's a mongrel. But—does he look one?"

"He looks like an English sportsman. I can give him no higher praise than that."

Clearing his throat, Pye delivered a short lecture on canine welfare, under the impression that he was giving her delicately wrapped-up hints, while Mrs. Antrobus asked questions, and congratulated herself that she was picking his brains, without his knowledge.

Presently, there was a roar, and, almost simultaneously, a great car shot by them, giving them a momentary glimpse of an imitation of a fair-haired girl, who was clutching the wheel.

Mrs. Antrobus snatched up the puppy, just in time to save him from a sinner's just fate, and spoke wrathfully to a vanishing snarl.

"Road-hog. Why did you get in the road, you little fool? That appalling Vine woman. She tried to kill Wendy."

"You were in the wrong," observed the Superintendent. "He shouldn't have been off the lead."

Having done his duty, he relaxed in gossip.

"Would you say that looked like a mighty sick woman?" he asked.

"How can you tell with a permanent schoolgirl complexion?" snapped Mrs. Antrobus.

"Well, she's so ill, she can't wait even a few hours for medical aid. I've just been talking to Learoyd. Dr. Lawrence was due to operate on his missus for adenoids, but he cried off, to attend to Miss Vine instead."

Mrs. Antrobus pursed her lips.

"The man's a fool," she declared. "Who's going to call him in, if he can't be depended on to come?"

"Just what I say. Learoyd told me his missus will throw a nice scene, when she knows about it. They're going to spring it on her, just before the operation, for fear she'll refuse to have it done. Like all the women, she's mad about Lawrence."

"I wonder if that is wise policy," said Mrs. Antrobus thoughtfully. "Well, good-bye. It's so nice to meet someone of the same likes—and dislikes."

When Mrs. Antrobus returned for lunch, she inquired if Fletcher had produced the broken bits of the china ornament.

"No—and never will," was the determined reply.

Notice—on either side—was in the air. Then Mrs. Antrobus remembered the extra work entailed by her nephew's visit, and, being a strategist, decided to let the matter slide, for the present.

But she disliked the look of her drawing room mantelpiece. It not only gave the impression of being lop-sided, but also of sorrow.

The shepherdess seemed to mope for her swain. Her roses appeared to wilt and her blue china eyes were always staring sadly at the vacant place, where her sweetheart had played his pipes, for her delight.

"The poor little shepherdess is missing her shepherd," Mrs. Antrobus told her nephew, who grunted at her inexplicable descent into sentiment.

But that same night the shadow came again to the Moat House. This time, although it was prepared for emergencies, there was no risk of alarm, for the puppy was sleeping upstairs, in his mistress' bed.

A few minutes later there was a flash of white, a splash of olive-green water, and under the mud and the lily-roots, two china lovers were reunited.