Читать книгу Wax - Ethel Lina White - Страница 5

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SONIA had barely returned to her hotel when she saw a ghost.

The Golden Lion was an old coaching inn, and, although large and rambling, had been modernised only to a limited extent. Instead of a lounge, there was an entrance hall, with uneven oaken floor, which led directly to the private bar.

Sonia sank down on the first deep leather chair, and was opening her cigarette case, when she recognised, a few yards away, the spectre of the Waxworks.

He had not materialised too well. In the dim gallery, he had been a tall romantic figure. Here, he was revealed as a typical Club man, with a hard, clean-shaven face and black varnished hair. It is true that his profile had the classical outline of a head on an old coin; but it was a depreciated currency.

"Who is that?" she whispered, as the waiter came forward with a lighted match.

"Sir Julian Gough," was the low reply.

"Of course. Isn't his wife tall, with very fair hair?"

"No, miss." The waiter's voice sank lower. "That would be Mrs. Nile. The doctor's wife. That's the doctor—the tall gentleman with the white scarf."

Sonia forgot her exhaustion as she studied the communal life of the bar. Dr. Nile was a big middle-aged man, with rather a worried face and a charming voice. Sonia decided that, probably, he was not clever, but scored over rival brains by his bedside manner.

"I wonder if he knows what I've seen to-night," she thought.

On the surface, the men did not appear to be hostile. They exchanged casual remarks, and seemed chiefly interested in the contents of their glasses. Sonia decided that it was a dull drinking scene, as she listened sleepily to the burr of voices and the clink of glasses. The air was hazed with skeins of floating smoke and it was very warm.

She was beginning to nod over her cigarette, when she was aroused by a shout of laughter. A big burly man, accompanied by two ladies, had just rolled into the bar. Although he was not in the least like Henry the Eighth, she recognised Alderman Cuttle by Mrs. Ames' description. He was florid and ginger, with a deep organ voice and a boisterous laugh.

"Well, ma. How's my old sweetheart tonight?" he roared, as he kissed the stout elderly proprietress on the cheek.

"Not leaving home for you," she replied, pushing him away with a laugh. "Brought the beauty chorus along?"

"Just these two girls, ma. Miss Yates has been working late and can do with a gin and it. And Nurse Davis works all the time. Eh, nurse?"

As he spoke he winked at the nurse. She was a mature girl of about forty-five, plump, with a heart-shaped face and a small mouth, curved like a bow. She wore very becoming uniform.

As for the other "girl," Miss Yates, Sonia could not imagine her meagre painted cheeks with a youthful bloom. She looked hard, ruthless and artificial. Her sharp light eyes were accentuated by green shading powder, and her nails were enamelled ox-blood. Her best points were her light red hair and her wand-like figure.

She wore what is vaguely described as a "Continental Mode" of black and white, which would not have been out of place in Bond Street.

As she watched her thin-lipped scarlet mouth, and listened to her peacock scream laugh, Sonia remembered the stupid shapeless wife at home.

"Poor Mrs. Cuttle," she thought. "That woman's cruel and greedy as Mother Ganges."

With the alderman's entrance, fresh life flowed into the stagnant bar. There was no doubt that the man possessed that indefinite quality known as personality. His remarks were ordinary, but his geniality was unforced. He seemed to revel in noise, much in the spirit of a boy with a firework.

His popularity, too, was amazing. The women clustered round him like bees on a sunflower; but the men, also, plainly regarded him as a good sport. It was obvious that he had both sympathy and tact. Although he regarded the limelight as his special property he could efface himself. Sonia noticed that he, alone, listened to Dr. Nile's longwinded story about an anonymous patient without a trace of boredom.

He fascinated her, so that she could not remove her gaze from him; but, while the amorous alderman flirted as much with the plain elderly barmaid as with the others, he showed no interest in herself.

Sir Julian had already remarked that she was an attractive girl, for he repeatedly tried to catch her eye with the object of putting her into general circulation. But the alderman cast her one penetrating glance from small almond-shaped hazel eyes. It was impersonal, but appraising—and it might have reminded Mrs. Ames of the scrutiny of the poisoners in the Hall of Horrors.

"Thinks me too young," thought Sonia. "How revolting."

As she pressed out her cigarette, the landlady looked across at her young guest.

"Did you have a nice walk?" she asked professionally.

"Yes, thanks," replied Sonia. "I discovered your Waxwork Gallery."

As she spoke, she had an instinctive sense of withdrawals and recoils, as though she had thrown a stone into a slimy pool, and disturbed hidden forms of pond life.

"That's rather a low part of the town," said the landlady. "I'm ashamed to say I've never been in the Gallery myself."

"Neither have I," declared Sir Julian.

"Oh, you should drop in, Gough," remarked the alderman. "I do, myself, from time to time. Just to keep old Mother Ames on her toes. Civic property, you know...Ever been there, Nile?"

"Once, only," replied the doctor. "Ames called me in to see that poor chap the other day. He wanted to know if he was dead."

Sir Julian burst into a shout of laughter.

"That's a good one," he said. "They wanted to make sure he was dead, so they called in the doctor. No hope for him after that."

Sonia saw the sudden gleam in the doctor's sleepy brown eyes. She noticed, too, that Cuttle did not join in the amusement, which was short-lived.

"What did the poor fellow really die of, doctor?" he asked.

"A fit. He was in a shocking state. Liver shot to bits, and so on."

"I know that. But what caused the fit?"

"Ah, you have me there, Cuttle. Personally, I'd say it was the Waxworks."

"How?"

"Probably they frightened him to death."

"Rot," scoffed Sir Julian.

"No, sober fact," declared the doctor. "You've no idea how uncanny these big deserted buildings can be at night. There are all sorts of queer noises...When I was a student, I once spent a night in a haunted house."

"See anything?" asked the alderman.

"No, for a reason which will appeal to your sense of humour, Gough. I cleared out just before the show was due to start. I wasn't a fool, and I realised by then that—after a time—one could imagine anything."

"Now, that's interesting, doctor." The alderman put down his glass and caught Miss Yates' eye. "Time to go Miss Yates."

The red-haired woman got down from her stool and adjusted her hat.

"Now, don't you two hold any business conferences on the way home," advised the barmaid archly.

"No," chimed in the landlady. "You must behave, now you're our future mayor. You'll have to break your engagement with the lady."

"Lady?" repeated the alderman, in a voice rough with sincerity. "I'm not going to meet a lady. I'm going home to have supper with my wife."

The women only screamed with sceptical laughter. As she went out of the hall, Sonia heard their parting advice.

"Good-night. Be good."

"And if you can't be good, be careful."

It struck her that the stale vulgarism might have been the spirit of the place...

Secrecy.

Directly Alderman Cuttle was outside the hotel, he slipped his great hand through his companion's arm. Linked together, they strolled slowly down the deserted High Street, talking in whispers.

At the black mouth of the Arcade they parted. Miss Yates' arms clasped the alderman possessively around his neck as he lowered his head.

"Good-night, my darling," she said.

"Good-night, my girl. You won't forget what I told you?"

"Do I ever? Can't you trust me by now?"

"I do, my sweet. I do."

Their lips met in a kiss. The tramp of official footsteps sounded in the distance, but the alderman did not break away. When Miss Yates had dived into the Arcade, he strolled on until he met the approaching policeman.

"Good-night, officer," he said.

"Good-night, sir."

The man saluted respectfully, but the alderman dug him in the ribs.

"At my old tricks again, eh, Tom?" he chuckled. "Do you remember you and me with that little red-haired piece at the lollypop shop?"

"You bet," grinned the policeman. "You always were partial to red hair, Willie. I remember, too, as you always cut me out."

"That's my Mae West curves." The alderman slapped his broad chest. "We've hit the high spots, eh, Tom? But we're both married now. And there's no one like a good wife. Always remember that, Tom."

The policeman looked puzzled. He and the alderman had attended the local Grammar School, and, in spite of the difference in their social positions, had remained friends. But, even in the old days, he had never been able to fathom the depth of young Cuttle's sincerity; and now, after many years, he remained the same enigma.

"I want you to know this, Tom," went on the alderman. "The people here call me a gay boy. Maybe. Maybe. But, next year, when I'm mayor, remember what I'm telling you now...I've always been faithful to my wife."

He added with a change of tone, "Good-night, officer. Cigar?"

"Thank you, sir. Good-night, sir."

The policeman stared after the retreating figure. The alderman's deep organ voice had throbbed with feeling, even while a dare-devil had winked from one hazel eye. He told himself that William Cuttle still had him guessing.

Almost within the next minute he was a spectator of a distant comedy. The alderman had met one of his numerous flames, and was chasing her round a lamppost.

The girl was Caroline Brown—Dr. Nile's dispenser and secretary. Of mixed parentage—Scotch and Spanish—she had the tremulous beauty of a convolvulus. But, while the surface was mother, the under-tow was pure father.

She drifted round the lamppost before the alderman's clumsy rushes, like a flower wafted by the west wind; and, when at last he caught her, all he got was a stinging slap in the face.

With peals of laughter she broke loose, while he strolled on, chuckling, and humming snatches of "Sing to me, gipsy."

His house was situated in the best residential quarter of the town. It was a large, solid, grey stone building, surrounded by two acres of well-kept garden. Everything was scrupulously tidy. The drive was cemented, and the lawn—decorated with clumps of non-seasonal enamel crocuses—was edged with a low railing, painted metallic-silver.

The taste was his wife's. Like a good husband, he gave Mrs. Cuttle a free hand both with exterior and interior decorations.

Whatever the result from an artistic standard on a raw autumn night, his home appeared comfortable and prosperous. Mrs. Cuttle had the reputation of being a careful housekeeper, but economy was not allowed to spoil his welcome. An electric lamp outside the front door lighted his way up the stone steps, guarded with lions; and, when he was inside, the centrally-heated hall was thickly carpeted and curtained from draughts.

Cuttle rubbed his hands with satisfaction as he looked around at well-polished furniture and a pot of pink azaleas on a porcelain stand at the foot of the staircase.

"Louie," he called. "I'm home."

At his shout, Mrs. Cuttle came out of the dining-room. She was stout, with a heavy face, dull hair, and a clouded complexion. She wore an unbecoming but expensive gown of bright blue chenille-velvet.

It was she who presented the cheek—and her husband who kissed. But he did so with a hearty smack of relish.

"It's good to come back to you, my duck," he told her. "What have you got for me to-night?"

"More than you deserve so late. Curried mutton."

The alderman sniffed with appreciation, as arm-in-arm they entered the dining-room. It was typical of the prosperous convention of a former generation, with a thick red-and-blue Turkey carpet, mahogany furniture, and an impressive display of plate upon the massive sideboard.

The table was laid as for a banquet, with gleaming silver, elaborately folded napkins, and many different kinds of glasses. Vases were stuffed with choice hot-house flowers which no one looked at or admired. The central stand, piled with fruit, was evidently an ornament, for it was studiously ignored by the alderman and his wife.

The supper was being kept hot on a chafing-dish and they waited on themselves. Both made a hearty meal, eating chiefly in silence. Cuttle was the type of man who did not talk to women when they represented family, and his wife was constitutionally mute. Sometimes she asked questions, but did not seem interested in his replies.

"Why are you late, Will?"

"Business?"

"How is it?"

"So-so."

"Did Miss Yates stay late, too?"

"Did you ever see a dream walking? Did you ever hear of staff working overtime? No."

"What d'you think of the mutton, Will? It's the new butcher."

"Very good. Nothing like good meat. Gough was telling me Nile wants to put him on fruit. Pah. Pips and water."

"Sir Julian could do with dieting. His colour is bad. Is he still meeting Mrs. Nile in the Waxworks?"

"I never heard that he did." The alderman yawned and rose. "Well, my love, I'm for bed."

Mrs. Cuttle looked at the marble clock.

"It's too soon after a heavy meal. Better let me mix you a dose."

"No, you don't, old dear." Cuttle roared with laughter. "You had your chance to poison me when you were nursing me. Now I'm married I'm wise to your tricks."

"A few more late suppers and you'll poison yourself," said Mrs. Cuttle sharply.

"Well, I don't mind a pinch of bi-carb, just to oblige a good wife. I never knew such a woman for drugs. How would like it if the worm turned and I poisoned you for a change?"

"You couldn't if you tried. You've got to understand how poisons work."

The alderman looked thoughtful. He was a good mixer, and he had the local reputation of being able to talk on any subject.

He gave his wife a playful slap.

"Be off to bed. I want to look up something."

His own study was unlike the rest of the house, being bare and austere, with walls of grey satin wood and chromium furniture. The touches of colour were supplied by a dull purple leather cushion and a bough of forced lilac in a silver stand.

Mrs. Cuttle dimly resented this room. She had nursed her husband in sickness and in health, chosen his meals, mended his pants. She believed she knew him inside out, but for this hint of unexplored territory.

The alderman walked directly to the bookcase and drew out an encyclopaedia. With his wife's taunt rankling in his mind, he opened the book at the section "P," and ran his finger down the pages until he reached "POISONS."