He kissed her, gave her a little hug, and left her. She went to the window and watched him walk quickly down the street.
“Planning a robbery,” she thought. “And I’m to find out the details. Well, the money’s all right. If I don’t have anything to do with the actual robbery I can’t get into trouble.” She looked at the two five-pound notes and smiled. “The money’s fine.”
VI
Julie found Mrs. French’s Domestic Agency was over an antique bookseller’s shop in Mayfair Street. She went into the dimly lit lobby. The bookseller’s door was on her right, in front of her was a flight of stone stairs, and under the stairs was the lift.
A blonde woman, holding a pekinese dog under her arm, stood in the doorway. She looked at Julie without interest, then shifted her heavily shaded eyes back to the street. A man paused in his stride, looked at her, saw Julie and continued on his way. The blonde woman didn’t care. The man had already twice passed the doorway. Obviously he was the type who took time to make up his mind. He would be back again.
Julie entered the lobby, glanced back at the blonde woman and wrinkled her nose. She would never come to that, she told herself.
As she looked round she became aware of a tall, bony man peering at her through the glass panel of the door leading to the bookseller’s shop. He stood very still, his head on one side and surveyed her with intent eyes. He was old and dried up, and his thick, white hair needed a trim. His scrutiny made her feel uncomfortable and she hurriedly ran up the stairs, knowing he would stare at her legs until she was out of sight.
A door marked “Mrs. French. Domestic Agency. Enquiries.” faced her at the head of the stairs; she pushed it open, entered a small, well-furnished room, full of flowers and sunshine.
A girl was typing by the window. She was smart, polished and sophisticated. Her auburn hair was done in an elaborate up-sweep with not a hair out of place. Her white linen dress with its smart red buttons and belt fitted her without a wrinkle. She looked as if she had been taken carefully from a box lined with cellophane and placed with equal care on her chair not a moment before. Julie regarded her with envious interest.
The girl glanced up, her scarlet nails still flashing over the typewriter’s keys. Seeing Julie, she stopped typing and with an irritable frown pushed back her chair and came over to the counter that divided the room.
She had the easy, graceful carriage of a mannequin and she was tall. She made Julie feel shabby and somehow a little cheap, and that immediately put Julie on the offensive.
“Did you want anything?” the girl asked abruptly and eyed Julie with scarcely concealed contempt. She had a low, husky voice that seemed familiar to Julie.
“Mr. Gleb told me to ask for Mrs. French,” she said awkwardly.
“Oh, I see.” The girl’s mouth tightened. “You’re Julie Holland, I suppose? Well, sit down. You’ll have to wait. My mother’s busy at the moment,” and she turned and went back to her typing.
Feeling snubbed and hating the girl, Julie sat down. There followed a long wait. The only sound in the office was the whirr of the typewriter and the sharp ping of the bell at the end of each line. She studied the girl. “They must pay well here.” she thought, “that frock has a marvellous cut, and she’s wearing nylons, too. I’d like a frock like that. I’d look much nicer than she does.”
The girl got up suddenly, swept up a number of papers from her desk, and went into the inner office. After another wait, she came out, jerked her head at Julie.
“Go in. She’s free now.”
Mrs. French sat at a big desk near the window. She wore unrelieved black and, seeing her, like an unwanted relative at a funeral, Julie was startled. Long jet ear-rings swung backwards and forwards whenever she moved her head. She had none of her daughter’s prettiness, but there was a marked resemblance about the determined mouth and chin.
She seemed to know all about Julie and came to the point with startling suddenness.
“Gleb’s told me about you. The job’s simple enough if you use your brains. You don’t look a fool.” And as Julie continued to stand before her desk, she waved impatiently to a chair. “Sit down, sit down.” Her voice was deep and harsh. “You will go this afternoon to 97, Park Way. Do you know where the Albert Hall is? Well, Park Way is just by it. You can’t miss it. It’s big and ugly enough. Your new employer will be Mrs. Howard Wesley. You are to be her personal maid. You’ll have to look after her things, tidy up when she’s finished dressing, answer the door, serve cocktails, arrange flowers and take telephone messages. It’s an easy job as far as the work’s concerned. The permanent staff of the building does all the rest of the work and the meals are sent up from the restaurant. Mrs. Wesley will pay you three pounds a week and all found. You’re to come here every Saturday afternoon for your additional pay. Do you understand all that?”
Julie said, “Yes.”
There was something about Mrs. French that made her uneasy : a feeling you have in the dark when you hear a sudden, mysterious sound and you think something horrible is going to jump out on you.
“Your uniform is over there—in that parcel,” Mrs. French went on, and touched her ear-rings. They seemed to give her a secret satisfaction for she smiled. “If it doesn’t fit you, alter it, but I think it’ll be all right. For goodness’ sake don’t look shoddy. Mrs. Wesley has high standards. And here are your references.” She pushed two envelopes across the desk. “Study them. Mrs. Wesley isn’t likely to be too particular, but you never know. One of them is from a doctor and the other a clergyman. I’ve been to a lot of trouble to get them and they cost me money, so don’t lose them.”
“Thank you,” Julie said, bewildered. She put the two envelopes in her bag.
“Well, you know what you have to do,” Mrs. French went on. “I’d better tell you something about the Wesleys. You’ll find out about them quick enough, but you may as well be on your guard. Howard Wesley, the husband, is the senior partner of Wesley-Benton, the aircraft designers. The factory is near Northolt airfield. Wesley goes there every day. You may have read about him. He’s blind : won the V.C. bringing in a burning bomber. He saved the crew or something like that. I forget the details. Anyway, he’s enormously rich—and blind.” She picked up a pencil and began to draw neat little circles on the blotting paper. “Mrs. Wesley, before her marriage, was Blanche Turrell, the musical comedy actress,” she went on. “You’ve probably seen her. Most people have. She drinks like a camel. That’s why she’s given up stage work. Wesley’s always been crazy about her, but she doesn’t give two hoots for anyone but herself. She married Wesley for his money and leads him a hell of a life, so I hear. Her temper’s vicious, her nature’s mean and she has the morals of an alley cat.” She thought for a moment, added, “Oh, yes, she’s a first-class bitch as well.”
“I see,” Julie said, startled.
“You’ll have trouble with her,” Mrs. French went on. “Your work is easy enough, but your dealings with Mrs. Wesley won’t be. That’s why we’re paying you good money. You’ll earn it, all right; don’t think you’re in for a soft job.” She stared at Julie, a satisfied expression in her eyes. “As far as I know she hasn’t kept a maid longer than three weeks, but it is part of your job to stick it out until I tell you. If you quit before we’re ready you’ll lose the fifty pounds. Understand?”
“Before you’re ready for what?” Julie asked sharply.
“You’ll be told when we want you to know,” Mrs. French said. “Your immediate job is to get established at Park Way. You’re satisfied with the money we’re paying you, aren’t you?”
“Oh, yes,” Julie said. “The money’s all right.”
“Be satisfied then, and don’t ask questions.” Mrs. French opened a drawer, took out a cash box and counted out twelve one-pound notes. “Take this. Come in next Saturday and there’ll he another twelve pounds for you. You play along with us and we’ll look after you, but step out of turn and you’ll regret it.” She eyed Julie, went on in her raspi
ng voice. “Now get off and take that muck off your face. You’re supposed to be a servant, not a movie star.”
“Yes,” Julie said, hating her. She put the money in her bag.
“And watch your temper. You’ll need all your control when Mrs. Wesley starts on you. When she’s drunk, she’s rotten; remember that. You can’t be too careful.”
“I see,” Julie said.
“Right, get off now, and tell Dana I want her as you go out.” Julie was picking up the parcel containing her uniform when Mrs. French said this and nearly dropped the parcel.
Dana! So this was the girl who had telephoned Harry and had warned him the police were looking for him. She remembered what Harry had said about her : She isn’t as pretty as you, so you don’t have to worry about her. Wasn’t she? She had everything : poise, prettiness, clothes and immaculate neatness. “How could he lie like that?” she thought, furious and dismayed. “He tried to make out she meant nothing to him. A girl like that . . .”
“What are you waiting for?” Mrs. French demanded. “You know what to do, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Julie said, and went into the outer office.
Dana was speaking into the telephone, her back turned to Julie.
“She’s in there now,” she was saying. “Yes, she looks all right as far as she goes——” She looked over her shoulder, saw Julie and stopped speaking.
“Mrs. French wants you,” Julie said, aware that her voice was shaky. She went out of the office, closed the door and stood listening.
She heard Dana’s voice clearly through the glass panel of the door.
“Just this moment gone,” she was saying. “A bit of a slut I’d say, but if she does the job . . . what’s that? Well, I’m not so sure. Oh, of course, they all want money. That’s all they think about. All right. Let’s talk about it to-night.”
Who was she talking to? Julie wondered, her face burning. Not Harry. No, she wouldn’t believe Harry would stand for her being called a slut. She wanted to rush into the office and slap Dana’s face. Then a sudden feeling that she was being watched made her turn. Mrs. French was standing in the doorway that led from her office into the passage. The sunlight coming through the landing window caught the jet ear-rings and made them sparkle. Mrs. French didn’t move nor speak. She looked coldly menacing, like a waxworks in the Chamber of Horrors. Julie forgot her anger, backed to the head of the stairs.
“I wasn’t listening,” she said breathlessly.
Mrs. French continued to regard her with stony eyes. The ear-rings continued to flash in the sunlight.
Julie turned and ran down the stairs. Just round the bend of the staircase she nearly collided with the blonde woman who was coming up the stairs. The man, whom Julie had seen in the street, was following her. He didn’t look at Julie, but stared at the stairs, red faced.
In the lobby the thin, bony man stared at her through the glass panel of the bookseller’s door. He was still watching her as she ran down the stone steps into the heat and bustle of Mayfair Street.
CHAPTER TWO
A BLONDE woman in a silk wrap over an oyster-coloured nightdress jerked open the front door of 97, Park Way and demanded furiously : “What do you want; calling at this hour? Didn’t they tell you I haven’t a maid?” Her pretty, doll-like face was puffy with sleep, and she seemed to have just got out of bed.
“I’m sorry if I have disturbed you,” Julie was startled and embarrassed. The woman made no attempt to conceal her rage. “I was sent by Mrs. French. I—I understood you were expecting me.”
“Then for goodness’ sake come in,” Blanche Wesley said. “I’ve been without anyone for days. It’s really monstrous how I’m treated.”
She slouched into the hall lounge. Julie closed the front door and followed her.
“I can’t talk to you until I’ve had some coffee,” Blanche went on, and ran her little claw-like fingers through her blonde curls. “Now you are here—do make yourself useful. The kitchen’s through there. Just poke around until you find everything. Please don’t ask a lot of silly questions. I have a splitting headache. Just get me some coffee. I’ll be in the end room down the passage.” She stared at Julie; “Why, you’re quite pretty. What a pleasant change. I’m so tired of being surrounded by ugly faces. I can never understand why the working classes are so hideous. But do run along. You can make coffee, I suppose, or can’t you?”
“Oh, yes,” Julie said, and smiled brightly.
Blanche winced.
“That’s lovely, but don’t grin at me, please. My nerves simply won’t stand it.” She frowned down at her quilted satin slippers, went on, “I think it would be nice if you said “madam” when you speak to me. Yes, I think I should like that. It shouldn’t be difficult, or do you think it will?”
“No, madam,” Julie said. She turned scarlet, and her smile vanished.
“Are you angry?” The pencilled eyebrows lifted. “Have I said anything to annoy you? You’ve turned the colour of a beetroot; so unbecoming I always think.”
“Oh, no, madam,” Julie said, and behind her back her fists clenched tightly.
“I probably will, sooner or later,” Blanche said, with evident satisfaction. “Mr. Wesley tells me I am so tactless with menials. I suppose I am, but I do think if one pays good wages one should be able to say what one thinks.”
Julie kept silent. The doll-like face, the enchanting little body, the golden curls that reminded her of a halo, fascinated her.
“Well, do stop gaping at me,” Blanche said, frowning. “Of course, I’m used to people staring, but I do think it’s a little much when I feel like the wrath of God.”
“I’m sorry, madam,” Julie tried to look away, but there was something so bizarre about this woman that she couldn’t take her eyes off her for more than a few seconds.
“I feel positively ill this morning,” Blanche went on. She pressed her fingers to her temples. “And no one cares a damn if I’m dying.” Then, with a sudden startling blaze-up of rage, she shouted; “For God’s sake get that coffee and stop gaping at me as if I were a blue-bottomed baboon !”
“I’m sorry, madam.” Julie backed away. “I’ll get it at once.” She went into the kitchen and hurriedly closed the door. “Well, I was warned,” she said to herself, “but I didn’t think she’d he quite like this. Phew ! I’ll have to watch my step if I’m to keep this job for long.”
While she waited for the water to boil, she hurriedly slipped of her frock, opened the parcel containing her uniform and put it on.
“Perhaps she’ll be pleased if I wear my uniform,” she thought. “At least, it’ll show her I know my place,” and she giggled.
Blanche’s room was ablaze with light when Julie entered carrying a tray. There was a strong smell of brandy and stale perfume in the room and the air was thick and stuffy. Although it was past three in the afternoon the curtains were still drawn, and no windows appeared to be open.
Blanche was wandering about amid overwhelming luxury and confusion. The walls of the room were covered with pale blue quilting. Arm-chairs, a quilted chaise-longue and a blue and white leather pouf were dotted about on the thick, white carpet. The ornate dressing-table was covered with spilt powder, oozing tubes of grease paint, and overturned bottles. Clothes lay about the floor, on the chairs, and over the foot of the bed. Shoes lay in corners where they had been carelessly thrown. A straw hat, almost the size of a sunshade, hung from one of the electric light brackets.
“What a time you’ve been,” Blanche said, crossly. “You’ll have to be a little quicker than this if we’re to get along together.” She peered at Julie, went on, “Oh, you’ve changed. Why, you look quite nice. What a pretty uniform.” She pointed to a bedside table. “Put the tray down and leave me. Perhaps you’d like to tidy the bathroom, then we’ll have a talk. It’s through there. I’ll be ready for you in a minute or so.”
The bathroom made Julie envious. There was a shower cabinet, a sunken bath, a dressing-table, a massage machin
e, a Turkish bath cabinet, and a hair dryer : everything an idle, spoilt woman could wish for. And, like the bedroom, this room was also in confusion. The bath hadn’t been emptied. A towel floated on the milky water. Powder was scattered over the floor, and bath salt crystals crunched under Julie’s shoes as she moved about, picking up cleansing tissues and hand towels sticky with cold cream.
Working as quickly as she could, she tidied the room, emptied the bath, wrung out the towel and wiped over the floor with it.
Blanche was still pacing up and down when she returned to the bedroom. On the dressing-table, partly concealed by a powder bowl, was a tumbler half-full of brandy.
“There you are,” Blanche said, and smiled. She looked brighter now and more amiable. Did I ask your name? I don’t believe I did.”
“Julie Holland, madam.”
Blanche dropped in an arm-chair, closed her eyes for a moment, then looked up and gave Julie a long, searching stare.
“Did you say Mrs. French sent you? I never seem to remember anything these days.”
“Yes, madam.”
“Oh, well, I suppose you must be all right. You’ve got references, I suppose?”
Julie handed over the two envelopes.
“That woman’s so efficient,” Blanche said a little crossly as she ripped open the envelopes. She glanced at the references, tossed them on the dressing-table. “She told you the wages, I suppose?”
“Yes, madam.”
“Well, you’d better consider yourself engaged.” She leaned forward to peer into the mirror. “Well see how we get on together. That was very good coffee you made. So long as you keep the place tidy and help me when I want help that’s all I shall expect from you. Your room’s at the other end of the passage. It’s a nice room. I believe in making people comfortable. You can begin at once?”
“Yes, madam.”
Blanche picked up a comb and began to run it through her blonde curls.
“I shall be away to-night. I would like you to move in immediately. I don’t like the flat left empty if I can help it. Do you think you can manage that, or don’t you?”
The Paw in The Bottle Page 5