Walk with Care

by Patricia Wentworth

  He found he would have to leave a deposit, so he hurried off to the bank, cashed a cheque, asked for his pass-book, and having picked up his parcel at the hairdresser’s, returned to Nym’s Row.

  His first glance at the pass-book put everything else out of his head. Exactly a fortnight and two days ago he had opened this account with £20. He had drawn nothing out until to-day, and he had certainly paid nothing in.

  His balance was shown as £70.

  Jeremy stared at the figures, which were of the plainest. He looked at the right-hand page and saw a credit entry of £50. On one Monday he had opened the account with £20, and on the following Monday there was a further credit entry of £50—net balance £70, against which he had just drawn a cheque for three guineas. Through his astonished mind there floated the pleasant cultured voice of Mr Benbow Collingwood Horatio Smith: “Do not forget to examine your passbook. Do not put off doing so.”

  Everything in him sprang sharply to attention. What did he mean? A purely rhetorical question. The pencilled figures of his balance answered it. And how did he know? There wasn’t any answer to that except that he did know. The sense of being in a dark place came strong on Jeremy. It was a black place, and the air was heavy—a closed in place with hidden falls, pits lightly covered into which you might go crashing down, to end miserably in a broken huddle. He came out of this waking nightmare, and found himself sweating in spite of the cold. He looked at his watch. It was twenty to four.

  He put the pass-book into a drawer. It was too late to do anything to-day, but to-morrow he must try and find out who had paid the money in.

  Twice, years ago, old Cousin Emily had given him a present in this way—a tenner the first time, twenty-five pounds the second. It was possible that she had done it again. But how did she know that he had just reopened an account? For the matter of that, there was no reason why she should have known that the account had ever been closed. If it was old Cousin Emily—and it might be—he was getting cold feet about nothing. Only if it was Cousin Emily, where did Mr Benbow Collingwood Horatio Smith come in? He debated whether he would ring him up. He didn’t want to be a nuisance, but it might be safer. Meanwhile Mr Cheeseman had an appointment.

  He rang the bell of No. 1 Tilt Street at four o’clock precisely. He did not think it possible that he should be recognized. In addition to the wig, eyebrows and moustache he had assumed a forward stoop and a large invalidish muffler. A change of voice was assisted by a wadge of chewing-gum. Not that anyone in this house would be likely to know his voice, but the chewing-gum had been part of the original make-up, and the resultant mumble belonged to the rôle and gave him confidence.

  A most severe female opened the door, respectable to the point of rigour—black dress, neat hair, brooch with locks of departed relatives, and a horrid lipless mouth. Jeremy’s heart went out to Rachel, who loved squirrels. This woman looked as if she might be a very efficient jailer.

  As he mumbled, “Cheeseman—I have an appointment,” and stepped into the hall, he was wondering whether Rachel was behind one of those shut doors. There were two of them on the left, and one beyond at the end of the passage. That would be the way to the kitchen—and the cellars. The stairs went up on the right to a half-landing.

  The woman went first. When she came to the landing she stopped, and Jeremy saw what Rosalind had seen on her way down, a table with some half dozen sketches lying on it. The woman blocked his way and indicated the water-colours. She said her piece as she had said it to Rosalind.

  “Do you care to take one of these sketches, sir?”

  So that was it. Asphodel was a shrewd woman. There was no law against selling bad sketches if you could find a purchaser.

  He said, “How much?” and saw the woman look sharply at him out of her colourless eyes. He thought she was sizing him up, and was glad he had dressed Cheeseman in his oldest clothes.

  After a scarcely perceptible delay she said,

  “They are two guineas each.”

  Jeremy paid his two guineas with an ill grace which was all in Mr Cheeseman’s character. He had thirty shillings in his note-case and made up the amount with loose silver. He hoped he was going to get something out of the visit, because what with the hire of the wig and this two guineas, it was going to pretty well clean him out.

  The woman bundled his sketch into a piece of paper, tied it perfunctorily with an odd piece of string, and going on up the remaining stairs, ushered him into what had evidently been intended to be the drawing-room of the house. The room was as Rosalind had seen it. Light came through an alabaster bowl which hung from the black ceiling. It lost itself on black walls and an inky carpet. The place was like the inside of a catafalque.

  Jeremy was shepherded to a chair that faced the hangings, and sat down with the light just over his head. The woman went out of the room and shut the door. Jeremy sat forward and allowed Mr Cheeseman to have a nasty fit of coughing. After his second cough he was aware that the hangings in front of him did not screen the wall but an L-shaped extension of the room. He thought the arrangement a clever one. You stuck your client in a chair under the light and had a good look at him before getting on with the song and dance. He blew Cheeseman’s nose, sighed heavily, and slumped in his chair. And then, with his hand holding the handkerchief on his knee, there came the sudden realization that he had forgotten to take off his ring. It had been his father’s, and his grandfather’s before that—a heavy old-fashioned signet ring with the Ware crest, a mailed fist and the words “Be Ware.” It was on the little finger of his left hand, and the shield stuck up and caught the light. He turned his hand and let the handkerchief cover it. He cursed himself for a fool. But after all what chance was there that anyone would know the ring?

  A nasty heavy silence settled on the room. Presently he allowed Cheeseman to clear his throat, and, as if it had been a signal, a voice spoke from behind the curtain—a thin, faint voice. It said,

  “Will you give me your hands?” And with that the curtain was parted a little, as a stage curtain parts for an actor to take his call.

  Mr Cheeseman cleared his throat again, hitched his chair a little nearer, and put his right hand through the gap. It was taken in a hard, cold grasp and lightly held. The voice said,

  “Please give me your other hand.”

  Jeremy had just one second to make up his mind. It was possible that someone on the other side of that curtain wanted a close-up of his ring. It might rouse suspicion if he took it off, but on the other hand people on these occasions did remove anything that would be likely to provide a clue to their identity. He put his hand to his mouth, pulled off the ring with his teeth, and pushed it, with the handkerchief, into his breast pocket. Then he hitched his chair nearer still and put his left hand through the gap in the curtain. It was taken in the same cold clasp and turned palm upwards, whilst the hangings fell together against his wrists.

  There was a pause. Then the voice said,

  “Do you want me to tell you the truth?”

  Mr Cheeseman coughed nervously.

  “Er—yes—yes, certainly—that is to say—”

  “Why did you come to me?” said the voice.

  Mr Cheeseman coughed again.

  “I—er—have been thinking—well, in point of fact I’ve been thinking of getting married, and I wondered—well, I rather thought I would like to find out whether the indications were—er—favourable?”

  “There is marriage in your hand,” said the voice.

  Jeremy had a moment’s indecision. Should he declare himself to be a widower? He resisted the temptation to give Cheeseman his head.

  Asphodel was speaking.

  “As to the indications being favourable, they are not. Do you really wish me to tell you the truth?”

  “Yes—oh—er—yes.”

  “You appear to be in a position of great difficulty. I can’t see quite clearly abou
t it, but it seems to me that you are in danger of being very seriously involved. I should not advise you to take any steps in the direction of marriage at present. The future is very threatening. The marriage seems to depend on your taking certain steps. If you take the right steps, there may be a fortunate outcome. If you do not. … You are sure you wish me to be quite frank?”

  Jeremy mumbled a perturbed assent.

  “If you do not, I am afraid I don’t see any future for you at all—there seems to be a blank.”

  Mr Cheeseman cleared a nervous throat.

  “But what steps ought I to take? This—this is very disturbing. But of course you are not really serious, are you?”

  Had he been recognized? Was he being warned?

  The voice said, “I never like to give advice, but there are such strong indications of danger that I feel inclined to break my rule.”

  “Danger?”

  “Very seriously, yes. A complete change in your way of life might avert this danger, but I cannot even be sure of that. If it is possible for you to make a break with your present surroundings, you might escape. If not, I can see nothing but a blank.”

  Mr Cheeseman mumbled a shaken question.

  “What does that mean?”

  “You really wish me to say?”

  “Bless my soul, yes!”

  “It usually means death,” said the faint, thin voice, and with that his hands were released.

  As he drew them back, he parted the curtains. The space beyond was dark, but it was a dark that had only just fallen. A red incandescence still lingered about a bulb on the left. Even as he looked, it faded and the door on his right opened. The woman who had admitted him came a little way into the room and waited for him to go.

  CHAPTER XXVI

  COLONEL GARRETT SAT ON the arm of one of Mr Smith’s capacious leather-covered chairs and smoked his disreputable old pipe. He wore the mustard-coloured suit, with a new and very shiny tie in which crimson and Reckitt’s blue contended for the mastery. His shoes were yellower than ever. His socks were violet, with marmalade-coloured clocks.

  Mr Smith was draped negligently against the mantelpiece, his horn-rimmed glasses pushed well up on to his forehead, his gaze fixed affectionately upon Ananias, who was trying to stand on his head.

  “Well?” said Garrett with a jerk.

  Mr Smith turned the affectionate gaze upon him.

  “My dear Garrett, that is the whole question—is it well? Speaking personally, and without the slightest wish to dogmatize, I should say that the—er—answer was in the negative.”

  Garrett snorted again.

  “You’ve got what you want, haven’t you? There’s Master Geoffrey Livingstone Deane’s dossier, and because it shows him up as a perfectly dull, blameless and respectable secretary you don’t like it. You backed the other one, and you won’t admit that you put your money on the wrong horse.”

  Ananias turned three complete somersaults and, coming right way up again, began to chant in a raucous voice:

  “What shall we do with the drunken sailor? What shall we do with the drunken sailor? What shall we do with the drunken sailor Early in the morning?”

  “Hush, Ananias!” said Mr Smith with the ease of long practice. He continued to address Colonel Garrett.

  “There is nothing that strikes you then in Mr Deane’s dossier?”

  “Does anything strike you?”

  “Er—yes,” said Mr Smith. “He has been six years with Mr Mannister. He has a room in his house, but actually, and as a rule, he lives out. He seems to have had at least six changes of address in the past year, but the dossier does not pretend to go farther back than that. For all we know he may have changed his rooms six times in every year of the six years he has been with Mannister.”

  “Well, why shouldn’t he?” said Garrett with a grunt.

  “It strikes me as—er—excessive.”

  Mr Smith’s gaze went back to Ananias, who began to chant in a whisper:

  “Hooray, and up she rises, Hooray, and up she rises, Hooray, and up she rises Early in the morning!”

  Each line was a little louder than the last.

  “No,” said Mr Smith, “No, Ananias!”

  He turned back again to Garrett.

  “I won’t—er—labour the point. Let us pass to the question of Number One Tilt Street.”

  Garrett dived into one of his bulging pockets and produced a violent bandanna, a battered olive-wood match-box, a hank of twine, and an aged pocket-book. From the pocket-book he extracted a half sheet of paper.

  “Tenant, Miss Phoebe Dart. Middle-aged and of respectable appearance. A medium who calls herself Asphodel appears to rent part of the house. It’s difficult to get details, because there are no servants. Miss Dart seems to do all the work of the house herself. I’ve made inquiries at Scotland Yard about Asphodel. They know all about her. She’s been going for years. Select clientele, and the usual devices for dodging the law. Describes herself as an entertainer. Is said to give good value in thrills. Doesn’t take fees, but you buy a sketch, or a pottery vase, or some other truck at about three times the market price.”

  “The—er—market price of works of art being rather—er—difficult for Scotland Yard to assess.”

  Garrett gave a short laugh.

  “Exactly!”

  “And Asphodel’s real name?” said Mr Smith.

  Garrett grinned.

  “Simpson. Romantic—isn’t it? Maud Simpson.”

  “Married or single?”

  “They don’t know. She was run in for telling fortunes at Eastbourne in nineteen-nineteen, since when she’s been too clever for them. That’s all I could dig up.”

  “And Phoebe Dart?”

  “Not known to the police. She’s the rather grim family servant type, I gather. They very often go in for letting rooms when they retire.”

  Mr Smith stooped and put a log on the fire.

  “There isn’t a young girl in the house?”

  “Not that I know of. Ought there to be?”

  “I think so.”

  Ananias resumed his chant with vigour:

  “Put him in the scuppers with a hose-pipe on him! Put him in the scuppers—”

  “No!” said Mr Smith with unusual firmness.

  The telephone bell rang, and at the same moment the clock on the mantelpiece struck five. As the last stroke died away, Mr Smith took down the receiver. He said,

  “Hullo!”

  Ananias, on the perch behind him, listened attentively.

  Jeremy Ware’s voice said,

  “Is that Mr Smith?”

  “Awk?” said Ananias on a gently inquiring note.

  Mr Smith said, “Yes.”

  “I didn’t know whether to ring you up or not, sir. I thought I’d better.”

  “Do you speak German?” said Mr Smith abruptly.

  Jeremy’s voice sounded rather astonished as he said, “Yes.”

  “Do so then. Go on.”

  Jeremy went on in German.

  “I got my pass-book this afternoon.”

  “Yes?”

  “It shows a credit of fifty pounds that I don’t know anything about.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Not a thing. I’m going back to-morrow to find out how it was paid in. An old cousin of my father’s has sometimes given me presents in that way, but I’ve only just opened this account and I can’t make out how she could have known. There’s something I don’t like about it.”

  Mr Smith said “Yes” again.

  “Then I went to the house we were speaking of last night. Number One—”

  Mr Smith stopped him.

  “You need not say the name of the street.”

  “After we left you last night I was told that it was the address of a medium—�
�

  Mr Smith stopped him again.

  “Yes, I know the name—you need not say it. Why did you go there?”

  Jeremy’s laugh came along the wire.

  “I thought I’d like to have my fortune told, sir.”

  “Do you think that was—er—wise?”

  “Oh, I didn’t go as myself. I’d no end of a good get-up—middle-aged mumbler with a cough and a lot of extra hair. I didn’t think anyone could possibly have spotted me—”

  “But now you wonder whether they did?”

  “‘Johnny, come down to Hilo!’” said Ananias in a wooing tone.

  Mr Smith went on speaking.

  “Ananias has—er—spotted you now. Will you go on? Do you think you were—er—recognized?”

  “I don’t know. I was fool enough not to take off my signet-ring. It might have been seen.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “Well, I thought perhaps I was being—warned.”

  “Go on.”

  “I didn’t see the woman. She took my hands through a fold in the curtains—the whole place was hung with black curtains. I put up a yarn about wanting to get married and wondering if it would be a good plan, and I got—what might have been a warning.”

  “Yes?”

  “I was told I’d better make a complete break in whatever I was doing—clear out and clear off. If I didn’t, my future was a blank. And when I asked what that meant, I was told that it generally meant death.”