The Black Cabinet (17 page)

Chapter XXXI

In the dining-room of the flat two people were waiting for the bell to ring. One of them was Mr. Leonard Wroughton, and the other a handsome, black-browed woman of about forty.

Wroughton stood with his back to the fire. The woman had pushed her chair a little away from the table, and was looking at him with a hint of mockery in her fine eyes.

“You're sure?” said Wroughton.

“My good Leonard, how jumpy you are. I am
quite
sure that I can play the secretary to the life—and even sure that I can remember that outlandish jumble of letters. I
am
, in fact, secretary of the N.Y.S.Z.K.U.”

“All right, all right.”—Wroughton was frowning—“Remember we've got to have the receipt whatever happens. Stran can come in when we've got it, and play the gallant rescuer for all it's worth. It might be worth a good deal, but I'm not counting on it. We don't do too badly if we get the letters.”

“Supposing she hasn't got the receipt for the suit-cases on her.”

Wroughton moved impatiently.

“She'll have it in her purse—bound to—you said so yourself—you said she'd be bound to have it on her because she wouldn't have anywhere to leave it. What are you getting at, Maudie?”

Maudie twirled a pencil between her first and second fingers; she also tipped her chair a little.

“Oh, run away and play,” she said, and then came down to earth with a jerk as the bell rang.

Chloe came into the dining-room from the rather dark hall, and was struck by its neat ordinariness—a red paper on the wall; a fumed oak dining-room suite; an enlarged photograph of the Bridge of Sighs over the mantelpiece; no flowers, no books; a tall woman in navy blue, writing at one end of the table.

Chloe's companion shut the door, and the tall woman looked up, nodded slightly, and said:

“Ah, Miss Green! Good evening.” Her voice had a judicial sound, her “Miss Green” a distinct flavour of the prisoner at the bar.

One bit of Chloe felt angry, and another bit of her felt amused. But behind both the amusement and the anger there was just a little quiver of dread, enough to make her hope that the step which she had heard on the stair was Michael's step. She said:

“I am Mrs. Mostyn Llewellyn's secretary. My name is Dene, not Green. You wanted to see me?”

“I asked Miss Smith to bring you round to see me. I wanted to see you particularly. Perhaps you will sit down.”

Chloe sat down. The prisoner was accommodated with a chair. Miss Smith remained standing by the door.

“You must realize that this is a very serious matter—unless, of course, you have some explanation to give.” The secretary's glance was direct, her tone so grave that the words impressed instead of offending.

Chloe ceased to be either angry or amused. She spoke impulsively:

“There's some extraordinary mistake!”

The secretary tapped the table.

“Not on our side. Perhaps it would be better if I gave you the facts. Mrs. Venables, one of our oldest and most valued subscribers, says that she picked up a large diamond ornament in the shape of a star last night at the end of the last dance. It was lying against the wall just by the archway lined with mirrors, which separates the lounge from the ball-room. She says she picked it up, saw you sitting at your table only a yard or two away, and took it over to you. She says you had been pointed out to her as Mrs. Mostyn Llewellyn's secretary earlier in the evening by Mrs. Mostyn Llewellyn herself. She described you to us with great accuracy, and declares that she left the ornament in your charge.”

“What
nonsense
!” said Chloe.

The secretary's mouth hardened.

“That, Miss Dene, is not quite the tone to take. You don't seem to realize your position, if I may say so. We have not communicated with the police yet—” She paused significantly.

Chloe pushed back her chair and sprang up.

“If Mrs. Venables says these things, she ought to be here!” she cried. “She ought to say them to me! She's making a ridiculous mistake; but I can't prove that it's a mistake unless I see her. Where is she? Ring her up and ask her to come here at once!”

The secretary's eyebrows rose a little.

“Mrs. Venables is out of town,” she said.

“And I think you should realize your position. This excitement doesn't improve it; it looks, in fact, a good deal like bravado.”

“How dare you?” said Chloe in low, furious tones.

The secretary smiled.

“My dear Miss Dene, you're being very foolish. If you are really anxious to prove your innocence, you will not, I suppose, object to the usual search.”

Chloe's little, angry laugh rang out:

“If I were to steal a diamond star, do you
suppose
I'd be such a fool as to walk about with it in my pocket?”

“No,” said the secretary. “But I think it is quite likely that you would have the pawn-ticket in your purse.”

Chloe dived into her pocket, pulled out the shabby purse which had been Rose's Christmas present two years ago, and flung it on the table. It slid a few inches and spun round. The secretary's hand covered it just a shade too quickly; and for a moment her face changed. Chloe saw another woman, eager, avid; the judicial atmosphere was gone—instead, strain, uncertainty, the quick grasp of a hand that had broken from control.

Chloe took a half step back, and remembered that the receipt for the suit-cases was in the inner pocket of the purse. She stared across the table, and saw the secretary's fingers shake a little as they opened it. A ten shilling note in one pocket; six shillings in silver; half a dozen coppers, one of them bad—

“Perhaps they'll say I'm a coiner next”—; and in the last compartment, a folded luggage receipt.

“Well?” said Chloe.

The secretary took the receipt, and looked seriously at her.

“This, I think, requires looking into.”

“That,” said Chloe in a biting voice, “is a left-luggage receipt, not a pawn-ticket.”

“Exactly. Luggage left in a cloak-room would make an admirable hiding-place. I think we must ask to see the contents of these two packages.” The voice had a hint of triumph and, for the first time, a trace of accent.

The scene in the study at Danesborough came back vividly. This, yes, this, was the voice which had said “Hullo! I want to speak to Mr. Wroughton.” Chloe became suddenly very clear and cool. The star and Mrs. Venables were non-existent. This woman who knew Wroughton was trying to bluff her; she wanted the receipt. The whole of this comedy meant nothing less than that. She said:

“Will you please give me back my purse and that receipt.” And as she spoke, a bell rang in the hall.

The secretary began to pick up the money and put it back; she picked it up slowly, one coin at a time. The hall door had opened before she spoke.

“You shall have the receipt when we have satisfied ourselves that the missing star isn't hidden in one of those cases.”

She pushed the purse across to Chloe, and as she did so the dining-room door opened and a man came in. Miss Smith uttered an exclamation and slipped aside. The secretary rose to her feet. Chloe whirled round, and saw Michael Foster closing the door behind him. She had him by the arm in a moment.

“Michael, make her give me my receipt!” Michael looked about him. He saw Miss Smith with one hand at her mouth, the other holding on to the back of a chair—a clear case of abject funk. He saw the secretary, composed, enquiring. And he saw Chloe, her face very near him, her eyes wet and brilliant, her lips parted, her breath coming quickly. “Is anything the matter?” he said.

“Miss Dene” began the secretary.

Chloe shook Michael's arm.

“Make her give it back to me! Make her give it to me at once!”

“I say, what on earth”

The secretary's voice broke in on Michael's rather bewildered opening:

“If you are a friend of Miss Dene's—”

Chloe wheeled round, still holding Michael tight. “He is! And you've no right to keep that receipt—you know you haven't! Please give it back to me!”

The secretary spoke to Michael, ignoring Chloe as one ignores an angry child.

“Miss Dene is in a very serious position, and I cannot get her to treat it seriously.”

“Make her give it up! And take me away quick!”—she clutched him tighter—“I don't like this place at all.”

Michael looked from one to the other and came forward a step. As soon as he did this, little Miss Smith slipped behind him and ran out of the room. In the hall they could hear whispers and footsteps. “I don't understand,” said Michael; he addressed the woman in the chair. “If you have anything of Miss Dene's and she wants it back, I'm sure”—he smiled pleasantly—“well, I mean of course you'll give it back, won't you?”

“Miss Dene is accused of stealing a diamond star.” The secretary's hand was clenched on the paper it held.

Michael said, “What rot!” and heard Chloe whisper, “Get the paper and come away. They're thieves.” He nodded, and took a stride forward, holding out his hand.

“Miss Dene's receipt, please. You've no right to take it, and you've no right to keep it—you know that as well as I do.” The woman faced him, sulky, undecided.

“Who are you, anyhow?” she said.

“Come,” said Michael, “you're on the wrong side of the law. If you've anything to say about Miss Dene, let's all go round to the nearest police station, and you can say it there. You can't keep that receipt, my dear lady.” He smiled at her affably, and saw her blench.

“Oh, you're an accomplice, are you?”

“That's one of the things you can talk to the police about,” said Michael. He still held out his hand. “The receipt, please.”

She put her hands behind her, scowling. Michael's pleasant tone changed suddenly.

“Look here, do you want me to smash a window and whistle for the police? I will if you don't hand that thing over. And once the police come in, it isn't Miss Dene that's going to get hurt, I think.” The woman stamped her foot with sudden violence and flung the paper on the floor.

Chapter XXXII

The hall was almost dark and quite empty as Chloe and Michael came through it. Chloe did not let go of Michael's arm until they were sinking down, down in the little lift. She let go just before it stopped, laughed shakily, and said:

“I've pinched you black and blue.”

“Come and have some tea,” said Michael. “I know a place where we can be quiet and talk.” When they were waiting for their tea Chloe laughed again; this time the laughter had a more natural sound.

“That's the second time you've turned up just when I wanted you. How
do
you manage it?” Michael looked pleased.

“Well, the other night I'd been driving some people to the ball. When I was fetching them, I had to come into the hall with a message; and I saw you. So when I'd dropped them, I came back on the chance of your letting me drive you home.”

“Well?”

A tinge of embarrassment crept into his tone.

“Oh, I don't know,” he said. “It seemed such awful cheek. I saw you come out, and I didn't like to speak to you. And I didn't think you ought to be walking about by yourself at that sort of hour, so—so I just kept you in sight.”

The arrival of the tea here afforded him relief; but as soon as the girl who had brought it had gone, Chloe looked at him teasingly and said:

“So much for last night. What about this afternoon?”

“Well, I was afraid you might think I was butting in. Did you?”

Chloe's smile was suddenly sweet.

“Did you think I did? But I'd like to know what made you come in just then.”

Michael stirred his tea with absorbed interest. “Well, you waggled your hand for me to follow you—at least I thought that was what you meant me to do. I walked up the stairs, and just saw the door of the flat shut upon you. So then I thought I'd find out who lived there, and I rang the bell of the opposite flat. A topping girl opened the door, and she told me the people across the way had gone abroad for a month and let the flat to some people called Smith, and she'd be glad when they came back, because they all thought the Smiths were a bit odd. I thanked her and came away. I thought I'd wait for you down in the hall. I'd just got down when I saw Martin Fossetter come up the steps.”

“Oh!” said Chloe. “Are you sure?”

“Well, it was darkish—no, I'm not sure—I
thought
it was. Whoever it was turned sharp round and went back down the steps again. I didn't like it; and I thought I'd come up and see how you were getting along—have one of those sticky buns; they're jolly good.” Chloe took a bun, and he added, “I say, don't tell me anything you don't want to. But the whole thing was pretty rocky, wasn't it?”

“I can't think why they let you in.”

Michael grinned like a schoolboy.

“They didn't exactly
let
me in. They opened the door, and I put my foot in it and barged in because I heard you call out. No, they didn't exactly let me in! What were they playing at?”

“I don't mind telling you,” said Chloe. “But I hate talking about it. You see, I ran away from Danesborough, and I took a lot of papers which belonged to Mr. Dane. I'm sure, I'm
sure
he meant me to destroy them. But Mr. Wroughton thinks they're worth a lot of money, and he wants to get them back.”

“Where are the papers?”

“I packed them into two suit-cases, and they're in the cloak-room at Victoria. That woman wanted the receipt, and I'm quite,
quite
sure that she wanted it for Mr. Wroughton.”

“And Fossetter?”

Chloe's cheeks burned.

“No—no—I don't know. Don't talk about him.”

“All right.”

She blinked once or twice rapidly; then she said: “I don't know what to do about those papers. They ought to be burned, and I can't burn them at Mrs. Rowse's. If they were burnt, perhaps Mr. Wroughton would leave me alone. You see, it's fearfully complicated. Mr. Dane left everything to me, so I suppose the papers are mine; but I shan't be of age till February, and as soon as I am of age, I'm going to refuse to take anything under his will.”

Michael looked up quickly. Chloe nodded.

“I can't take it—I can't take anything from him—I couldn't if I was starving. So I suppose, properly and legally, I ought not to destroy anything.”

“No, I don't think you ought.”

He saw her colour brighten. She rapped the table vigorously.

“But I'm going to. Even if I was going to be put in prison for it, I'd do it.”

“I see,” said Michael. He went on looking at Chloe. Then he said, “If it's stocks and shares, I really don't think you'd better burn them.”

“It isn't,” said Chloe; “it's letters. And they
must
be burnt—they've got to be burnt.” She clasped her hands under her chin, set her elbows on the table, and leaned towards Michael. Her eyes were bright and defiant.

“Oh, letters,” said Michael in a tone of relief. “If that's all, I'd burn them for you myself. Would you like me to?”

“Would you?—would you really?—not look at them at all, but just burn them?”

“Yes, rather!—if you wanted me to.”

Chloe took her hands from under her chin and clapped them.

“Angel!” she said. “If only those beastly things were burnt, I believe I'd get out of this sort of nightmare into something nice and ordinary and every-day again. Will you really do it?”

Michael lost his head a little. He said, “Chloe,” and then blushed furiously. “I beg your pardon. I mean I'll do anything you want me to.”

“You
are
an angel!” said Chloe. “Why did you beg my pardon? Of course you can call me Chloe. Do you think I'm going to call an angel rescuer Mr. Foster? I'm
not.
But how can I call you Michael if you don't call me Chloe?”

Michael's blush extended to the very tips of his ears.

“It's an absolutely topping name,” he said.

“Yes, isn't it?” said Chloe. “If I'd been called Gwendoline, or Gladys, or Emily, or Harriet, I should have gone through life just simply hating my godfathers and godmothers. On the other hand, I should probably have been much worthier. Will you really, truly burn those letters?”

Michael nodded without speaking. Chloe dived into a pocket, produced her purse, and extracted the rescued receipt.

“There are two suit-cases, and they've got Mr. Dane's initials on them—C.M.D. And you'll be frightfully careful, won't you?—because, I'm trusting you
most
tremendously. How will you do it?”

“Take them out on to Finchley Common, sop 'em with petrol, and apply a match.”

“You'll be sure they're quite, quite burnt? They're—they're letters, you know,—letters that other people oughtn't to see.”

“It's rotten to keep letters,” said Michael, frowning. “They're either simply frightfully dull, or else they're like you say—the sort that other people oughtn't to see. Well, I'll undertake that there won't be anything left of this particular lot. I say, if I'm arrested as a dangerous incendiary, and sent to penal servitude for umpteen years, you'll come and see me in prison, won't you?”

“I'll bring you sticky buns,” said Chloe. She took one, bit it, and looked at him, sparkling. “They're ripping buns. I'll bring you a dozen in a paper bag every time I come. I could throw them through the bars when the warders weren't looking, and you'd have to be frightfully clever and get a whole one into your mouth every time. I should simply love to see you!”

“All right,” said Michael, “that's a bargain. And if I'm not arrested, won't you—I mean, mayn't I—I mean—”

“
What
do you mean?”

“I mean, even if the bars and the buns are a wash-out, I'd like to roll up and report progress—if you'll let me. You'll want to know for certain that I've done the job. I was thinking perhaps I could call for you to-morrow.”

“I'm one of the world's workers,” said Chloe. “I'm Mrs. Mostyn Llewellyn's secretary, but I don't know that I can go back to her. You see, I want to hide till I'm twenty-one; and that sham secretary woman knows where I'm working; and Mrs. Mostyn Llewellyn knows where I'm living. Oh!” said Chloe. “Oh, Michael!”—the sparkle in her eyes was suddenly drowned in tears—“Oh, Michael dear, I shall have to run away again. And I
am
so tired of running away.”

“Must you?”

“Yes, yes, I must. And I've just settled down and got Mrs. Rowse to love me a little. And Albert, who is a frightfully red-hot Communist, was going to teach me how to sing ‘The Red Flag,' and save my life nobly whenever the Red Revolution came along—and—and—it's all very well for you to grin like that, but how would you like to have to turn out at a moment's notice and go and look for a room, when you don't know a single person in London and you've only got sixteen and sixpence in the world?”

Michael was considering.

“I don't see why you shouldn't keep on your job. There wouldn't be any need to let your Mrs. Thingummy know that you'd changed your address, would there?”

“N' no. Michael how clever of you!”

“You could carry on for a bit anyhow. And about a room—I'm—well, as a matter of fact, I'm moving out of my own room, and I wondered whether it would suit you.”

“You mean,” said Chloe with a very direct look—“you mean you're going to give up your room because I'm in a hole. How
frightfully
nice of you!” A wave of warm, honest gratitude seemed to flow from her as she spoke.

“I can find something in five minutes; it's quite easy for a man. I only thought—you don't think it awful cheek, do you?—I mean my landlady, Mrs. Moffat, used to be one of our housemaids, and she's a really topping sort; you could absolutely bank on her.”

“She'll hate me at first sight for turning you out.”

“Nobody could,” said Michael quite simply.