Mr. Zero

by Patricia Wentworth

  “Why couldn’t you?”

  “Oh, Gay, I couldn’t-I really couldn’t!”

  Gay leaned back against the bed. What was it all about? She said,

  “Sylvia, what’s Francis like?”

  Because, after all, that was what really mattered. You could tell things to some people, and you couldn’t tell them to others. Everything really depended on what Francis was like.

  Sylvia responded with a slightly puzzled air.

  “Well, he’s tall-and fair-and-”

  “Yes-I saw him at the wedding, and that time at Cole Lester. But I don’t want to know what size collar he takes, or what his handicap is at golf-I want to know what he’s like in himself.”

  “Well, he’s much older than I am. Let me see-you and Marcia are the same age-and Marcia is twenty-and I’m two years older-so I’m twenty-two-and Francis was twenty years older than me when we married-and that was a year ago-”

  Gay looked at her almost with awe.

  “In fact, he’s forty-two. Sylly, can’t you really remember how old you are without counting up from Marcia and me?”

  “You’re so good at figures,” said Sylvia in a helpless tone.

  The conversation seemed to have slid right away from Francis. That was what happened when you tried to talk to Sylvia-you slipped, and slid, and didn’t get anywhere at all. Gay made a determined attempt to get back to Francis.

  “We weren’t really talking about how old anyone was. I don’t care whether Francis is fourteen, or forty, or four hundred. I want to know what he’s like to live with. Is he fond of you-is he nice to you-are you fond of him?”

  Sylvia smiled a little consciously.

  “Oh, well, he’s in love with me.”

  “People aren’t always nice to you when they’re in love with you.” Gay was remembering Julian Carr who had made such a frightful scene when she said she wouldn’t marry him. “And they’re not always fond of you either.” And she didn’t know how she knew that, but she did know it.

  “It’s the same thing,” said Sylvia in a puzzled voice.

  “You’re very lucky if it is,” said Gay with a wisdom beyond her years. “But if it really is the same thing with Francis, then you haven’t got to bother at all, because you can just go straight home and tell him, and he can deal with the blue pencil-stamp on it, or push its face in. Anyhow you won’t have to bother any more.”

  Sylvia looked lovely and mournful. She shook her head.

  “It wouldn’t do at all, darling.”

  “Why wouldn’t it?”

  “Oh, it wouldn’t. You don’t know Francis.”

  Gay blew up.

  “Is that my fault? I keep asking you what he’s like, and you’re about as much use as a jelly that hasn’t jelled! Why wouldn’t it do to tell Francis?”

  Sylvia appeared to reflect. The unusual effort brought a tiny line to her white brow.

  “He’d be angry,” she said at last.

  “That won’t hurt you,” said Gay. “You’d much better tell him.”

  Sylvia shook her head again.

  “I can’t.”

  “I’ll do it for you if you like,” said Gay handsomely. “I could do it most awfully well, because I could begin by telling him that you were the world’s prize fool and couldn’t help getting into some mess or other. And then I could tell him about this particular mess-and of course he’d see that it was up to him to get you out of it.”

  Sylvia stood up, and stood trembling. It was as if she had begun to run away and then lost heart, or strength, or nerve-perhaps all three. She said with twitching lips,

  “Don’t tell him! Don’t-don’t-don’t!”

  Gay came over to her and put her back in her chair.

  “Sit down,” she said, “and don’t be an ass. To begin with, I don’t know anything to tell, and to go on with-”

  Sylvia clutched at her wrist.

  “You mustn’t tell Francis! If I could tell him, I wouldn’t have come to you. Promise me you won’t ever tell.”

  “I won’t promise,” said Gay soberly, “but I won’t tell.” She removed her wrist and stood back again. “The question is, are you going to tell me? Because if you’re not, I’ll be getting along.”

  The faint, lovely colour returned to Sylvia’s cheek. She drew a long breath and sat back.

  “Oh, darling, don’t go! I want to tell you.”

  “Then get on with it,” said Gay.

  Sylvia looked up, and down again.

  “It’s so difficult. You see, one of the reasons I can’t tell Francis is that he said I was never, never, never to play cards for money. They play a lot, you know, in his set, and the points are dreadfully high, and he said I wasn’t to ever, because-well, it was after he’d been my partner one night at contract and we lost eight hundred pounds, and he said he wasn’t a millionaire, and even if he was he couldn’t bear the strain, and a lot of things like that.”

  Gay felt some sympathy for Francis Colesborough. She had played cards with Sylvia at school.

  “Did you revoke?” she enquired with interest.

  Sylvia gazed at her mournfully.

  “I expect so-I generally do. I never can remember what it is exactly, but that is one of the things he said I’d done. So he said I wasn’t to play again.”

  “And you did?”

  “Not bridge-baccarat.”

  “And how much did you lose?” It went without saying that Sylvia had lost.

  “About five hundred pounds,” said Sylvia in a small, terrified voice. If she was now the wife of the rich Sir Francis Colesborough and mistress of Cole Lester, she had spent twenty-one years as penniless Sylvia Thrale with a widowed mother whose tiny pension had only just sufficed to feed and clothe herself and her two daughters. Relations had most unwillingly paid the school bills. Sylvia had therefore always heard a great deal about money-bills and the lack of money to pay them with; bills and the sordid necessity of paying them; bills and the horrid things that might happen to you if you didn’t pay them. All this had been impressed upon her in the nursery.

  “What! said Gay. And then, ”But you’ll have to tell Francis. He’s the only person who can help you to pay five hundred pounds.“ Sylvia shook her head.

  “Oh, no, he isn’t-that’s just it.”

  Long practice enabled Gay to snatch the meaning from this remark.

  “You mean someone else gave you the money, and that’s why you can’t tell Francis?”

  “Only half,” said Sylvia, accepting this interpretation.

  “This blue pencil creature?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Gay stamped her foot.

  “You don’t know who gave you the money?”

  “No, darling.”

  A kind of furious calm possessed Gay.

  “Sylvia, if you don’t tell me the whole thing right away, I’m off. No, don’t bleat-begin at the beginning and go right on to the end. You lost five hundred pounds at baccarat. Now begin there, and get a move on!”

  The line came again on Sylvia’s forehead.

  “Someone rang me up-”

  “When?”

  “Last week-end-last Saturday-because we were going down to stay with the Wessex-Gardners. At least, I was going, and Francis was going to come if he could, and he did, only rather late for dinner-we were half way through the fish.”

  Gay broke in.

  “Sylly, for goodness’ sake-”

  Sylvia stared in surprise.

  “So I know it was Saturday. And the bell rang whilst I was dressing. I was all ready except for my fur coat, so I expect it was about five o’clock.”

  “Good girl! Go on-keep on going on! Someone rang you up-”

  “Yes. They said-”

  “Who said?”

  “Well, it was a man-and he said would I like to earn two hundred pounds.”

  “Earn two hundred pounds?”

  “That’s what he said. And I said of course, so then he told me how.”

&nb
sp; A feeling of the blackest dismay came seeping into Gay’s mind. It was like ink seeping into blotting-paper. What on earth had Sylvia done? She said,

  “What did he tell you?”

  “How to do it,” said Sylvia. “It was quite easy really.”

  “What did you do?” said Gay. Her mind felt perfectly blank.

  Sylvia was looking quite pleased.

  “I just waited till he’d gone along to his bath. Of course he’d left his keys on the dressing-table-men always do-and the paper was in his despatch-box, just like the man said it would be, so I got it quite easily.”

  “Sylvia-what are you talking about? Francis-you took a paper out of Francis’ despatch-box?”

  “Oh, no,” said Sylvia in a tone of surprise-“not Francis.”

  Gay wouldn’t have believed that she could feel worse, but she did.

  “You stole a paper from someone else. If it wasn’t Francis, who was it?”

  “The Home Secretary man-at least, I think that’s what he is. He’s quite nice looking, but he’s got such an ugly name-Biffington-Buffington-Billington-one of those names, you know.”

  “I suppose you mean Mr. Lushington?”

  Sylvia brightened.

  “Darling, you’re so clever about names. Yes, Lushington. And his wife’s sister is married to Binks.”

  “Binks?”

  “Binks Wessex-Gardner-he is Buffo’s brother. They were all staying with the Wessex-Gardners, and so were we. Darling, they’ve got the most lovely place. And you never saw anything like her clothes-too too of course, but dreams. She had an evening dress all white and gold patent leather-”

  “What was this paper you stole?” said Gay.

  Sylvia winced.

  “Oh, that’s a horrid word!”

  “It’s a horrid thing. What paper was it?”

  Sylvia stared.

  “I haven’t the least idea.”

  “What did it look like? You must know that.”

  “Oh, yes, he told me. He said it would be a sort of list on a piece of paper-what do they call that big sort of paper?”

  Gay’s eyes danced for a moment.

  “Do you mean foolscap?”

  “Yes, that’s it! And there wasn’t any printing on it-just a lot of writing and a list of names-in one of those long envelopes. And he said I was to take the envelope just as it was, after I’d looked inside to see if it was the right one, and he said I was to put a plain envelope there instead.”

  Gay gave a horrified gasp.

  “Sylvia!”

  “I did it very well,” said Sylvia with innocent pride.

  “You put a plain envelope there instead?”

  Sylvia nodded.

  “Yes, he told me to-he said to take one off Francis’ table, and he told me what size, and he said to put some paper inside it to make it look all right, and I did.”

  “Sylvia-you said you had to look inside the envelope you took to make sure it was the right one?”

  “Yes, and I did. I was ever so quick.”

  “What were you to look for?”

  Sylvia’s white brow wrinkled.

  “I keep forgetting the word-such a funny one-something to do with shoes-”

  Gay said sharply, “Nonsense, Sylly!”

  “Oh, but it was-not English ones-those French wooden things-”

  “Sabots?”

  Sylvia’s brow relaxed.

  “Yes, that was it-that’s what I had to look for. He said it would be there, right on top, and it was-sabotage.”

  “What did you do with it?” said Gay in a tired voice.

  “I did exactly what he said. I didn’t make any mistakes. I put the envelope in my bag. And after dinner we were in the winter garden and they were playing cards, and what I was to do was to walk down the drive and keep close to the bushes on the left, so I did. I had a fur wrap of course, and when I got about half way down someone flashed a light on me and I stopped, and I said, ‘Who is it?’ like he told me to, so as to be quite sure of not making a mistake and giving it to the wrong person. And he said, ‘Mr. Zero,’ like he said he would, so then I gave him the envelope.”

  “Did you see him?”

  Sylvia shook her head.

  “Oh, no-it was dark. Besides, he didn’t come out of the bushes. He just put out a hand and took the envelope. And then he gave me another with the money in it, and I ran back as fast as I could.”

  Gay still had the two pieces of newspaper in her left hand. She looked at them now, her mind quite dark, quite helpless. “Same time-same place-same money-” She read the words aloud.

  “What does it mean?” she said.

  “It means he wants some more papers,” said Sylvia.

  IV

  Gay went to the window, wrestled with it, opened it, and stuck her head out into the foggy, frosty air. Sylvia was exactly like a jelly, a beautiful, bright, quivering jelly with plenty of sweet whipped cream round it. If you had to talk to her for any length of time, you began to feel as if you were sinking into the jelly and smothering there. The warm room, Marcia’s fripperies, Sylvia’s violet scent, and all that rose colour were suddenly too much for her. The carpet had begun to wave up and down in a horrid pink mist. She much preferred the January fog outside with the lights shining through it like orange moons, and the hard smell of soot and frost. It was cold though. Her head steadied and she drew back with a shiver, but she left an open handsbreath to keep the carpet steady.

  Sylvia was doing her mouth with a pale pink lipstick. She gazed earnestly at her own reflection in the little platinum-backed mirror which belonged to the bag, and said in a plaintive voice,

  “Darling-such a draught!”

  “You made my head go round,” said Gay. “You’d make anyone’s head go round. Now, Sylvia, put all that rubbish away and listen!”

  “Rubbish?” said Sylvia. She turned the mirror to show the diamond S on the back. “Why, it cost masses of money.”

  Gay pounced, removed the lipstick and mirror, put them into the grey suede bag, and shut it with a snap.

  “Now, Sylvia, listen. You say you were told all about stealing this paper on the telephone, but here-” she put the blue-pencilled message down on Sylvia’s knee,-“here it says, ‘Same time-same place-same money.’ What does that mean? It doesn’t fit in. What time? What place?”

  Sylvia looked at the torn piece of paper. Then she looked at Gay.

  “Well, he wanted me to go there again, but I wouldn’t.”

  “He wanted you to go where? Where had you gone?”

  “Well, it was at Cole Lester, you know.”

  “You were at Cole Lester when the man rang you up about stealing the paper?”

  Sylvia looked surprised.

  “Oh, no, darling, that was in London, but we were just going down to Cole Lester, and he said to wait till it was dark and then go and walk in the yew alley. It’s very old, you know, hundreds and hundreds of years, and it meets overhead, so that it’s like being in a tunnel. I didn’t like it very much, but I thought I’d better go, and when I got to the end he said, ‘Is that you?’ And I said, ‘Yes, and please be quick,’ because that sort of place always has spiders and earwigs in it, and he hurried up and told me how to get the paper.”

  “He was in the alley?”

  “Oh, no, darling-outside. I was the one who was in the alley. He was outside. There’s a sort of window, and we talked through it, all whispery. I didn’t like it a bit, and Francis might have thought the most dreadful things, so when he wanted me to go again I wouldn’t. And now he says he’ll tell Francis I took the paper, and if he does, Francis will know about the five hundred pounds, and I don’t know what he’ll say.”

  Gay tried to keep her head.

  “You say this person wants another paper. How do you know he does?”

  Sylvia’s eyes widened.

  “Darling, he told me.”

  Gay put a hand on her shoulder-a firm and angry little hand.

  “Sylly, I shall sh
ake you in about half a minute. How many times have you talked to this man?”

  Sylvia began to count on her fingers.

  “There was the time he rang up-that was the first time. And there was the time I’ve been telling you about at Cole Lester, and the time I was just starting for Wellings. And then I took the paper, and gave it to him, and he gave me the money-I don’t know if you count that.”

  “Count everything,” said Gay. “That’s four. Now what is five?”

  “I suppose it was when he rang me up again.”

  “He rang you up again? Where?”

  “In Bruton Street. And he said he wanted me to do something else, and I said I couldn’t, and I thought I heard Francis coming, so I rang off. And he rang up next day, and the minute I heard his voice I hung up, and he went on ringing for ages, and I just let him. And then I got a big cut out of a paper, and it just said, ‘Two hundred and fifty pounds reward.’ And next day this bit of paper-” she touched the torn piece on her knee-“and today there was the other one to say he was going to tell Francis, and if he does, I shall die.”

  Gay took her hand away, walked to the window, stared blankly at the fog, and came back again.

  “You’ll have to tell Francis,” she said.

  Sylvia’s colour failed suddenly and completely.

  “He’ll kill me,” she said in a frightened whisper.

  “Nonsense, Sylly!”

  “He said he would.”

  “Francis said he’d kill you?”

  Sylvia’s eyes were terrified.

  “No, no-the man-he said he’d kill me if I told Francis-and he would-he said he’d kill me if I even thought about telling Francis.”

  “When did he say all this?”

  “I think it was last night,” said Sylvia vaguely. “I didn’t mean to listen, but he said I must. And we’re going down to Cole Lester, and if I don’t take him the papers, he’ll tell Francis-”

  “What papers does he want this time?” said Gay.

  Sylvia looked at her with brimming eyes.

  “The ones Francis keeps in the safe in his study,” she said.

  V

  Algy Somers jumped out of the taxi, ran up the six steps which led up to Miss Agatha Hardwicke’s front door, and rang the bell. Almost before it had finished ringing the door opened and Gay appeared. That was one of the nice things about Gay, she never kept you waiting. If you said nine o’clock, nine o’clock it was. Algy had bitter memories of girls to whom nine meant anything this side of ten o’clock.