by Norrey Ford
The summer moved on. The holiday lists went up, there was the usual acrimonious discussion on the allocation of the most popular weeks. Paul raised the matter with Sally.
"Could you take your holidays about the middle of August or early September? I'm going to Scotland for some shooting during the Long Vacation. The
County Court will be closed then, too, so that will lighten the work a trifle."
"Yes, of course I can manage. Mummy and Daddy are doing a coach trip to Switzerland then. I can go with them."
"Good. I'll speak to Ware. Er—how's the tennis?"
She smiled. "In the park? Nice enough when we can manage to book a court. Simon and I get up very early in the morning to play. Evenings are hopeless—you have to queue."
"Simon? Oh yes, your brother."
He thought the girl looked white, tired. The small, ill-built office and narrow streets were wretched in the heat of summer. He tried to picture a life where you had to get up early to secure a tennis-court without queueing. Ever since the unfortunate business of Jeff, he had endeavoured not to think about Sally as an individual, though her small, laughing ghost often beat at the door of his memory. Whenever that happened, he forced himself to think of her face alight with sincerity, her voice charged with conviction on the afternoon when she said so firmly, "I'd do anything to win the man I love." Taught by his profession to know and appraise all the tones of the human voice, he knew then and knew now that Sally March was speaking the truth.
Of the moment when he had seen her with her arm round Shand's neck, had seen Shand kissing her,he preferred not to think at all. His mind shied away from the memory. He had learned by experience in Court that a woman deeply in love could be capable of any deceit, any treachery; capable, too, of believing such deceit to be justified, but somehow he had never applied his knowledge to his own life, to the women he knew. He had believed Sally March to be as honest as bread, incapable of a treacherous act. Yet three witnesses had seen her kissing Jeff Shand; the three people most intimately concerned and the least likely to make a mistake.
And yet from time to time a faint echo of the passionate sincerity of her denial came like a breath of wind to ruffle the deceptively smooth waters of his memory. Was it possible that some awful mistake had been made, that they had all misjudged Sally? He would like to think so—but to do so incriminated Jeff, whom little Caro loved so much. Besides, he had thought heavily more than once, his own eyes might have deceived him, but there were two other witnesses. Better put the whole thing out of one's mind and forget the Sally who had been such a darling. Meantime here was Miss March, an efficient secretary.
"Scotland will be very pleasant," Sally said primly. "The names are so cloak-and-swordish, don't you think? The Braes of Balquhidder or the Kyle of Lochalsh."
"You can hear the skirl of the pipes in them, I agree. We shall be staying near Fort Augustus, which is on Loch Ness. My—that is, the Worths have a smallish house there, and Caro is wild to go. She is determined to watch for the monster." For the moment he had forgotten the estrangement between them and spoken quite naturally, but that the mention of his sister's name he fell back into formality. "Very well then. It's agreed about the dates? I'll tell Mr. Ware."
The results of this conversation were far-reaching, like the ripples from a small pebble dropped into a still pond. The two weeks Sally chose were, unfortunately, precisely the two weeks Miss Downes had set her heart upon.
"Sorry, Miss Downes," said Mr. Ware. "Mr. Paul told me Miss March was to go during the second half of August. You haven't actually booked anywhere, have you? No? Pity, because if you had I could have put a concrete case before him. Come now, take the first two weeks."
"Bank holiday? Ugh, it's so common, and everywhere packed with yelling school-children sucking candy-floss!"
"Ah!" said Mr. Ware, with cunning, "but you get an extra day, you know, in lieu of the Bank holiday."
"All right." Miss Downes shrugged in a martyred way, and went about for the rest of the week with her face set in lines of patient resignation which no one noticed except Mr. Enoch, who kindly offered her an indigestion tablet to suck.
But long before the holidays the big Boot Store case reared its head and kept Paul hard at work till late every night for a fortnight. Paul and, of course, his secretary.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE Rightway Boot Store, situated in the slummiest shopping street of the town, was burned out one hot, still night. No one knew how the fire started, but soon afterwards the less respectable population appeared to have been completely re-shod. If a detective put his head inside a pub, feet crept shyly under the benches. If a policeman on his beat glanced at the pavement, passers-by scuffled in the dust.
After a lot of checking-up, of patient waiting and watching, half the known criminals and a good many "new boys" found themselves on charges of looting. Each one claimed to have bought his boots, or "fitted out the kiddies" in the ordinary way of business the day before the fire—and had witnesses to prove it. Most had a touching faith in Paul's ability to help them. One morning Sally arrived to find a queue all the way down the stairs and out into the street. It was late in the evening before the last man had protested his innocence and gone home.
"Most of these witnesses are accused themselves," Paul declared, after the first survey of the situation as a whole. "They're all taking in each other's washing." He pushed his fingers in his hair. "Some, of course, are speaking the truth. The store did normal business that day and sold the usual number of pairs of shoes."
"Could the assistants help?" Sally wondered.
"I hope so. I sincerely hope so. I should say this lot definitely pinched as many boots as they could lay hands on. I shall advise them to plead guilty, and do my best to get them off lightly. The innocents and the doubtfuls are the real problem. Sally, I'm sorry, you should have gone home ages ago."
"It doesn't matter. We haven't much time."
"A week, that's all. Could you type me a list of witnesses with names and addresses, please?"
Day after day he sifted the mass of material on his desk. Every evening he and Sally stayed late at the office, but on the day before the Court hearing, Paul had the situation in hand.
He breezed in cheerfully about four o'clock. "Any tea going, Sally? Fetch me a cup, there's a good girl. Well, that's the last witness tied up, the last defence prepared. I honestly believe that Mrs. Bligh is innocent. Wouldn't say the same for Cork _and Blandish. There'll be hard swearings on both sides. Lord, what a lark! There's been nothing like this in the Magistrates' Court in living memory. Like to come?"
"I'd love to."
He smiled over his cup. "You deserve this reward for your labours. I'll tell Ware I need you urgently, all day. I warn you, the Court will be stuffy and full of bluebottles this warm weather, besides a bit . . ." He wrinkled his nose fastidiously.
She laughed merrily. "I'm used to smells by now."
"Notice a strong fishy niff ?"
"N-no."
"You will, when I open up some of these defences. Ah well, let justice be done! Any messages?"
"Miss Worth telephoned. She says you are to go with her to the Charity Tennis Match this evening, and as you're going in the Chairman's party, you mustn't be late."
He raised strongly marked eyebrows. "That sounds like an ultimatum."
"It did, rather. I gathered you'd—er
"Let her down every night for two weeks? So I have. Poor Brenda! I thought we'd reached an understanding about my work, but"—he rubbed the back of his neck thoughtfully—"thank goodness I can save my bacon tonight and turn up on time."
She said drily, "You'd better. She's calling for you here at six prompt."
He turned away stiffly to the pile of work on his desk. Sally was leaving the room when he called her back. "You're a tennis fan, aren't you? Going to the Charity Match?"
"I wanted to, but I wasn't sure whether I'd have to work late tonight, just before the trial. So I didn't bother to
get a ticket." She smiled. "Too expensive to waste. There wouldn't be a hope of getting one now."
He took out a wallet. "Here are two if you can use them. I shan't need them if Brenda and I are going with the Chairman's party. Perhaps your brother would care to go? It would ease my conscience for having kept you cooped up so long. I assure you they'll go begging if you don't accept them."
She flushed with pleasure. "Then I will. Thank you very much. May I telephone Simon? He can meet me at the entrance to save time."
They smiled at each other companionably, the constraint between them almost dissipated by the team spirit which had kept them working hard and harmoniously the last few days. Sally made her telephone call.
Simon was thrilled about the tennis, but he seemed preoccupied.
"Sally, listen. You haven't seen or heard of Max lately?"
"No. Why?"
"There's been a bloke here asking funny questions."
"About Max?"
"Not exactly. About the garage. How it works, and all that."
"What a colossal cheek! People can't ask questions about other people's affairs. I hope you told him so."
There was a pause at the other end. "Certain people can, Sally. This chap was—entitled to."
She felt chilled. "Do you mean he was a—well, a policeman?"
Another pause. "Not exactly. A sort of inspector."
Her fingers tightened on the telephone. "Simon—everything is all right, isn't it?"
He laughed. "Well, he's gone away, so I suppose he was satisfied. But as Max is the boss, I thought he ought to know. But I can't locate him."
"He'll turn up. You know how he travels around."
She went back to her typewriter thoughtfully. Had Simon unintentionally done something illegal, like selling a stolen car? He said not exactly the police—what could that mean? Anyway, the man had gone away so it was probably all right. Secondhand cars are funny things; perhaps it was only a routine check for lost or stolen vehicles.
The thought of the treat to come soon banished her vague fears. It would be a fearful rush to get home and change into her white shark-skin dress, and Mummy would fuss about not having a proper meal. For the seats she or Simon would have bought, her office dress would have done very well, but for Paul's seats, in Row A, she would have to be as well dressed as she could. Thank goodness the sharkskin was new enough to mix with the smart tennis set who would be occupying the best seats.
As she was covering her machine, Paul came out of his room with a sheaf of papers.
"Sally, be a kind girl and drop these in the safe as you go out. You needn't come upstairs again."
She took the papers. "Very well. Thank you for the tickets, and good luck for tomorrow in Court."
He grimaced and crossed his fingers. "We shall need all the luck we can get. Enjoy the game."
She said goodnight to Miss Downes and Miss Moffat. Miss Downes expressed surprise to see her leaving so early.
"I'm going into the safe, but I needn't come upstairs again. Tell Mr. Ware, Downey, will you? He's telephoning now."
The woman nodded sourly. It was a general custom to tell the Chief Clerk when any member of the staff went alone into the safe towards locking-up time. Sally had as lively a dread of being locked in overnight as any of the others, though Mr. Ware laughed at them and insisted that the safe contained enough air to last several hours.
"But how many is several?" Sally always asked, and Miss Moffat said, in her mincing voice, that she knew her bones would be picked clean by mice long before morning.
Sally's spirits soared. Paul had been nice to her the last few days—perhaps he realised how ridiculous it was to suppose she wanted to rob poor little Caro of her man. The hard things said at Lawnside had been said in the heat of the moment. Perhaps even Caro had exonerated her now. She hummed a tune as she ran downstairs, happily anticipating the Charity Match in Simon's company, glad as a bird to be free and out of doors on such a glorious evening, after so much late work.
In the safe she quickly found the right box, and put Paul's documents away. The vault-like place was dimly lit with a small, dusty bulb, and when she turned thankfully to leave, she was startled to see a figure silhouetted black against the daylight in the narrow passage. She blinked, unable to distinguish features.
"Who's that?" she said sharply. For some reason she felt alarmed.
"Can't you see?" asked a scornful voice.
"I'm not a cat, so I can't. You'll have to wait till I come out."
"But you're not coming out, Miss Sally March. Do you think I haven't been told how you and Paul have been closeted in the office late every night this week? At least I've a friend who will write and tell me these things. Paul is mine. I'll make you understand that if I have to shut you up in here all night."
"Brenda!" There was only one woman who could use that insanely jealous tone. Sally leapt for the door, not really believing that the girl meant her sneering threat, but anxious all the same to be out of her prison and able to meet Brenda Worth on equal terms.
"What a bit of—luck—that I should catch you—in here!" Brenda tugged breathlessly at the huge door, almost a foot thick. Sally saw the ponderous steel start to move, and flung her weight against it. She tried to scream for help, but though her throat muscles contracted painfully, she could make no sound. Strength for strength she could probably have defeated Brenda, but the jealous girl had the force of momentum on her side. Once the door had started on its journey, its weight of over half a ton kept it moving. Sally felt herself slipping back and back, until she had only the alternatives of leaping back inside the safe or being crushed to death by the moving metal. She jumped clear and heard the door clang into position.
She was breathing hard, and for a moment panic clawed her. She fought against it, and slowly gained control.
The door was not bolted, though she could not, unaided, push it open from the inside. In ten minutes or so Mr. Ware would come down for the nightly ritual of locking up. Miss Downes would have told him Sally had gone down to the safe, so before turning the great keys he would look inside. She had only to sit down quietly and wait.
She sat on an upturned box, clasping her hands loosely over her knees. In her mouth was the metallic taste of fear, and she had to exercise firm self-control to stop herself screaming and beating on the door. No one would hear her if she did.
The minutes crawled. What was happening outside? Brenda Worth had called at the office for Paul, as arranged. Her shutting Sally up. couldn't have been planned; she had noticed her rival going into the safe at the very moment she arrived. Nothing
odd in that, for it was about the normal closing time for the office, the time she'd naturally arrive to collect Paul.
But there was something odd, all the same. Sally went over her words again. At least I've a friend who will write and tell me these things!
Who was that friend?
Had somebody really told Brenda that Paul's evenings were spent with Sally March? Or had her jealousy fed itself on suspicions and been fanned into flame by the sight of her supposed rival? If someone had told, who—who? Someone, surely, who hated both Paul and Sally, and was aware of Brenda Worth's jealous temperament. There seemed to be no one in the office to whom such a description could possibly apply.
She became so interested in this train of thought that she came back to her immediate situation with a sharp sense that quite a long time had passed. Peering in the dim light, she discovered it was ten past six by her watch—which might, perhaps, be fast. She stood close to the door, straining her ears for the faintest sound outside. Would she hear anything? Not footsteps, perhaps—but surely she'd hear the working of the locks? Suppose Mr. Ware didn't look inside but merely turned the key and walked away! Would he hear her if she banged the door and yelled at the top of her voice?
She was trembling and her hands were damp. In a sudden burst of terror she screamed, finding relief in the harsh rip of sound in her throat. But her voice fell ba
ck, flat and deadened by the enclosing walls, and in a minute she regained control and was able to stop, though she propped herself against the door, too weakened by fear to stand upright.
She giggled, thinking she was like Alice at the bottom of the well. Groping her way back to the upturned box, she decided to recite the longest poem she could remember, and then look at her watch again. She began on The Pied Piper of Hamelin, but stopped, shuddering; she had been trying to forget
the mice. Instead she started on the multiplication tables, knowing she was likely to be floored by seven times, which she could never remember.
When Paul and Brenda arrived at the Tennis Club it was late and the crowd had already gone in. Paul, hurrying after Brenda towards the members' private entrance, saw someone vaguely familiar, pacing up and down.
"Hello, there! Simon March, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir. I say, thanks awfully for the tickets. The only thing is, we're likely to miss the start of play. Sally hasn't turned up yet."
"Funny. She left the office promptly. Women take the dickens of a time changing." They exchanged a masculine grimace and shrug, and Simon said, "That'll be it. Being only a brother I shall tell Sally off good and proper. Can't understand it, though. She was so keen not to miss a minute of her Wimbledon idols."
"She'll be here soon. Cheerio."
After the first exciting match Paul glanced across to the front row where his seats were situated. So Sally was as keen as that, was she? He was glad he'd thought of giving her the tickets; she'd looked a bit wan lately, the fresh air would do her good.
He frowned and exclaimed sharply.
"What's the matter?" Brenda wanted to know. "Sally. She hasn't arrived."
"Your office girl—does that matter? Really, Paul, you've no sense of proportion."
He said thoughtfully, "It may matter a good deal. She left the office about six." He swivelled in his seat. "Why, you must have seen her as you came in."