“Just a little.”
“She has the most divine clothes.” Sylvia’s eyes waked into starry beauty. “She designs them herself, you know, and I can’t think how she does it. I do think clever people are marvellous-don’t you?”
“They’re a menace,” said Algy. “I always avoid them. Who else did you have?”
“Well, his brother-Buffo’s brother Binks-and his wife, Constance. She isn’t a bit like Poppy.”
“And you and your husband?”
“Yes, but Francis was late for dinner because he couldn’t get away-business is so tiresome that way-so I had to go down alone.”
“The Lushingtons were there, weren’t they?”
Sylvia nodded.
“They had just arrived when I got there, but we had to go off and dress for dinner almost at once.”
She was quite pleased to prattle. With a very little trouble Algy discovered the geography of the house and the whereabouts of the guests. There was an east wing and a west wing. Buffo and Poppy were in the west wing, and so were Binks and Constance. The Lushingtons had the big suite at the end of the east wing, and the Colesboroughs were next to them-“And we each had a room and a bathroom. You know, it’s dreadful how few bathrooms we’ve got at Cole Lester-only three besides our own two, and I can’t get Francis to see that it isn’t enough.”
They talked earnestly about bathrooms, and presently Algy got her back to Wellings again. It was possible to get her back, but not possible to keep her there. She broke away in the middle of a sentence and said,
“You’re a friend of Gay’s, aren’t you?”
Algy said, “Yes,” and wondered if it was true. He was Gay’s friend last night, but last night was a long time ago. They stood together in the dark with anger flashing between them-hot anger-hot, dangerous anger. And someone had put Monty’s envelope in his pocket, and Monty was being pressed to look no farther than his own household for the thief. Last night was a long way off. He wondered whether he was Gay’s friend today, and he said,
“Oh, yes.”
Sylvia went on babbling about Gay.
XI
Gay waked with a start to realize that the telephone bell was ringing. She said something short and sharp, sat up, and switched on the light. Her watch made it half past twelve, an hour which seems quite early when you are out but feels like the middle of the night when you have gone to bed. It felt like the middle of the night to Gay. Who in this world and all could be ringing up at such a ghastly time? She sat listening and hoping against hope that the thing hadn’t rung, or that, having rung without getting an answer, it wouldn’t ring again.
It rang again-a very persevering effort.
Gay ran barefoot down the stairs, switching on lights as she went, a dressing-gown hung dolman-fashion across her shoulders and clutched together in front. Aunt Agatha would sleep through a duet between Big Ben and the Westminster Chimes. The staff firmly disregarded any telephone call between eleven at night and seven in the morning.
The bell was still ringing when Gay snatched the receiver and said in an abusive whisper.
“Who are you?”
But of course she might have guessed. Sylvia said in a plaintive voice,
“Oh, darling, you do sound cross.”
“Homicidal!” said Gay. “What’s the matter? Do you know what time it is?”
“Darling, it’s quite early.”
“That’s because you’re turning night into day. I was in bed and asleep, and I haven’t even got my dressing-gown on properly. I’ve come down five flights of stairs, and the temperature is somewhere round about zero.”
She heard Sylvia catch her breath.
“Darling, how did you hear it up five flights of stairs?”
This was pressure upon a wound. Gay spoke with bitterness.
“I didn’t-no one could. That’s why Aunt Agatha had a bell fixed up on my floor. It’s supposed to be for the staff, but they just won’t. Is this a talk on telephones, or do you really want anything?”
“Oh, I do.” Sylvia’s voice changed. “Gay, I’m so frightened-I just had to ring you up.”
“What are you frightened of? What have you been doing?”
“Nothing-I haven’t really. But I shall have to. It’s-it’s so dreadful to have it coming nearer and nearer.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You see, I’ve been out all day. I went shopping with Poppy, and we lunched together, and then we watched a mannequin show, and I had three cocktail parties, and I was going to dine with Mr. Brewster but fortunately I remembered about being engaged to Linda, and Francis had gone off to Birmingham or somewhere, so I took Mr. Brewster instead. And I liked it awfully. I wore my gold dress, you know, and I had a lot of compliments-”
“Sylly, what are you talking about?”
“Linda Westgate’s party. Oh, and your Algy Somers was there.”
Gay denied him with vehemence.
“He’s not my Algy Somers!”
“Oh, I thought he was.” Sylvia was vague and amiable. “But perhaps you’d better not, because Linda and Francis wouldn’t like it if I let him take me out. No, really-she meant there was something wrong, only she wouldn’t tell me what it was, and Mr. Brewster wouldn’t either.”
“Sylly, this is pure drivel. Have you got anything to say or haven’t you? Because if you have, get on with it, and if you haven’t, I’m going back to bed. There isn’t any central heating in this house, and I’ve probably got frost-bite already.”
Sylvia, in a temperature mounting to 70°, was without sympathy.
“You see,” she pursued, “I quite forgot about it all day-at least not quite but almost-but as soon as I came in and got up to my own room I felt dreadful again, because I know he’ll make me do it, and I simply can’t think what will happen if Francis finds out. And he will-I’m sure he will. He-he guesses things, and comes down on you like lightning.”
“Sylly, listen!” Gay spoke firmly. “You’re not to do anything at all. If this man wants you to take papers for him, you’re not to do it.”
“I shall have to-he’ll tell Francis if I don’t.”
“Tell Francis yourself, then you’ll be all clear. If you take these papers you’ll be in the worst hole you’ve ever been in in your life.”
“Darling, it’s not papers.”
Gay stamped, and wished she hadn’t. Her foot was cold, and the floor pure ice.
“You said it was.”
“No, it’s his keys-Francis’ keys.” Her tone suddenly brightened. “How stupid of me! I needn’t have worried. Because Francis is away. He got a telegram and he went off, and of course he took his keys, so no one, not even that horrid Zero man, could make me do anything about them tonight. I can just go off to bed and not bother. And I needn’t have rung you up, but I’ve loved talking to you. Good-night, darling.”
Gay didn’t say good-night. She pitched the receiver back on to its hook and ran violently up five flights of stairs to her room, where she took a flying leap into the bed and called her hot water bottle to witness that the telephone might ring itself blue in the face if it liked, but if it thought she was going to answer, it could think again.
Sylvia hung up at her end with a little satisfied sigh. It was beautifully simple. Francis wasn’t here, and his keys weren’t here, so she couldn’t take them. Even Mr. Zero must see that. She needn’t have worried at all. She began to hum a little tune to herself as she moved to and fro in her room.
And then all of a sudden it came to her that Mr. Zero would be waiting outside the dining-room window from one to two, and it would look so very odd if anyone saw him. They might think all sorts of things, or they might arrest him, and if he was arrested, there was no knowing what he might tell the police. She thought she had better go down and tell him to go away. She could open just a little bit of the dining-room window and say, “It’s no good-Francis isn’t here,” and Mr. Zero would go away and they could all go to bed. It was a very comfortable plan.