Читать книгу Within That Room! - John Russell Fearn - Страница 5

CHAPTER ONE

VERA DECAMPS

There was nothing else for it but to get on the move—to reach London as quickly as possible and there devote what remained of meager savings to a last effort to find suitable employment. Vera Grantham had come to this conclusion slowly, had fought against its inevitability, though she had known all the time that it would finally be forced upon her.

She had emerged from the A.T.S. full of hopes and plans, only to discover that she was one of millions with similar hopes and plans. Her gratuity and savings could not last indefinitely, so—

“Nothing else offers so I’ll have to do it!” she decided, sighing, and she pushed away the piece of paper upon which she had been making figures. Whichever way she had added them up, they had still shown a total of £25 on the wrong side and a balance of £15 in the bank.

“Which isn’t much for a bouncing girl full of health, hope and ambition,” she muttered.

She tried to smile at her misfortune as she sat at the little table in her small room, but just the same it was worry which impelled her hand through her thick blonde hair; it was worry which had brought little lines of strain round the clear blue eyes and puckers to her firm mouth. Vera Grantham, aged twenty-four, blessed with a courage that had defied shells and bombs, now faced a problem that had so far defeated her.

As she sat thinking, gazing absently through the window on to a huddle of gray, dreary rooftops in the hot June sunshine, there came a light tap on the door.

“Are you there, love?”

It was Mrs. Hallam, Vera’s landlady—very generous, very ample, very Lancashire.

“Yes, Mrs. Hallam. Come in.”

Ponderous, gray-haired, enveloped in a large check apron, Mrs. Hallam entered.

“There’s a gent downstairs, love,” she said, her manner confidential. “’E says he wants to see you.”

“Oh?” Then Vera’s moody expression changed. “Oh! Does he? What does he look like?”

“Well, ’e’s smart like, with a dark suit. ’E’s got a flat leather case with ’im. Hoff ’and I’d say ’e’s a lawyer or somethin’.”

Vera got up and closed the door. Then she came back with a thoughtful frown to the surprised Mrs. Hallam.

“Mrs. Hallam,” she said, “You’ve been a very good friend to me, so I think it is only fair that you should know how I stand. I’m—well, about broke. A lot of unpaid bills have mounted up since I was demobbed, and I can’t pay them. That little man down below has probably come with a summons. In other words, I’ve got to get out. I was just thinking it over when you knocked on the door.”

Mrs. Hallam looked at the girl’s serious face. “But, Vera, where’ll you go?”

“Where everybody goes when they’re down on their luck,” Vera smiled. “London. Manchester is no good to me, even though I was born and raised here. There don’t seem to be any openings for a commercial artist, and nothing else will do for me. So I’ll pay what rent I owe and then be on my way. I know a man in London who might be able to help me, if bombs and rockets haven’t blasted him out of business.”

“But—what do I do with that there man down below?” Mrs. Hallam asked.

“Well, it depends on what you told him. What did you say about me?” Mrs. Hallam smiled complacently.

“I told ’im I’d see if you was in. ’E said to tell you ’is name is Thwaite, of Morgan, Thwaite and ’Endricks.”

“Then he is a solicitor!” Vera exclaimed, snapping her fingers. “That means a writ! Tell him I’m out. Get rid of him. I’m going to start packing.”

Mrs. Hallam nodded and left the room. The instant the door was shut, Vera turned quickly and dragged her suitcase from under the bed, began to pack it with her modest belongings and leftovers from the A.T.S.—including a gas mask which she had forgotten to turn in at the depot.

She hummed softly to herself, happy now that she had a plan in mind. The fact that its success was not assured was of no consequence; she was on the move and that was the main thing.

It did not take her more than ten minutes to complete her packing. She was just putting on her hat and coat when Mrs. Hallam knocked and re-entered.

“I got rid of ’im, love,” she said, beaming. “Mind yer, I don’t think ’e believed what I told ’im, but ’e went just the same and said ’e’d come back tonight.”

Vera smiled in relief. “I’ll be in London by then, and since I don’t know where I’m going to settle you can’t give a forwarding address. Now, how much do I owe you?”

“It’ll be twelve and six up today, love—but if you’re ’ard pressed just leave it. Call it square until you get started fair and proper like—”

“No, no. I must be independent if I can, Mrs. Hallam—it’s part of my nature. That’s why I feel so awful at having piled up these bills which I can’t pay; at least not yet.” Vera rummaged in her handbag. “There you are—twelve and six, and thanks for being so good to me.”

“It’s been a pleasure I’m sure. I only ’opes you do all right among them Londoners. You ought to, with your face and figure.”

“I’m afraid they haven’t much selling value to a commercial artist,” Vera sighed—then she looked momentarily surprised as Mrs. Hallam threw her arms about her and gave her a warm kiss.

“Just for luck, love,” she explained, and insisted on seeing the girl down to the street.

As she left the house and waved back, Vera felt as though she were leaving behind a very generous soul. She knew she could never hope to find a kinder landlady than Mrs. Hallam; but in another sense the prospect of change, of fighting for opportunity in London, stirred her young and spirited soul to the challenge.

At the bus stop she set down her case beside her and wondered whether she ought to take off her coat in the warm sunshine. She was still trying to make up her mind when she caught sight of two things one after the other. The bus she wanted was speeding toward her, while from out of the street she had just left, a small man in bowler hat was emerging. He was dressed in dark clothes and carrying a briefcase. It did not have to be Mr. Thwaite, of course, but all the same....

Vera hastily boarded the bus, and found a seat on the lower deck. The legal-looking man also boarded and went upstairs. Vera sat wondering and frowning, so much so that she vaguely resented the presence of the conductor asking for her fare.

At London Road station she took up her case and alighted. Glancing back, she saw that the annoying little man with the briefcase was walking swiftly after her—so she put on speed, mingled with the crowd inside the station, and as far as she could tell managed to lose her pursuer. Unless, of course, there was always the chance he was not Mr. Thwaite at all.

Vera bought her ticket to London and to her relief found the 10:50 already waiting at platform 1. Complimenting herself on her evasive action in face of the enemy she selected a compartment, heaved her case up on the rack, then settled down in a corner seat furthest from the corridor.

When the train had been an hour on its way, however, her complacency was shattered. As she sat reading in her corner she happened to glance up to behold a bowler-hatted figure in dark clothes moving along the corridor. He peered into her compartment, looking straight at her, then at her four traveling companions. Inwardly she began to quiver with indignation, was right on the verge of jumping up and demanding to know what he wanted—then remembering it could only be a summons, she remained still and waited. The little man moved on—but Vera had not the least doubt that he was hovering in the corridor just out of her line of vision.

When she left the compartment in search of the dining car, she glanced casually over her shoulder. Sure enough, there he was. He seemed about to raise a hand at her in signal but she turned away so quickly she could not be sure of it. When she entered the dining car she whipped up a menu quickly and sat peeping over it.

Presently the little man came drifting in. He was forestalled in his approach, however, by the waiter. Vera gave her order and then sat back and looked icily through the pursuer as he dodged in the background. Quite undeterred, though, he came forward, taking off his bowler hat to reveal a bald head fringed with gray fluff.

“Excuse me, but—are you Miss Vera Grantham?” he asked.

His voice was quiet enough, Vera decided, and quite cultured—but she remained coldly uncompromising.

“I am. And if you don’t stop following me, I intend to inform the guard! I strongly object to it!”