Mr. Zero

by Patricia Wentworth

  When he went out to lunch an enterprising representative of the brighter press waylaid him.

  “Mr. Somers?”

  Algy said, “Not particularly,” and the young man looked pained.

  “Now, Mr. Somers, I’d like to have your story.”

  Algy gazed at him and solemnity.

  “I don’t use them.”

  A faint shade passed over the young man’s face.

  “Now, Mr. Somers-what’s the use? Everyone knows about the missing papers. You would naturally like to have the story presented from the right angle. Our circulation-”

  “I prefer a hot water bottle,” said Algy. He walked at a brisk pace, the young man beside him, notebook in hand, incessantly vocal. “For the exclusive rights… And it would be so very much to your advantage… I think you can hardly realize-”

  Algy smiled upon him.

  “Perhaps it’s night starvation. Have you tried Horlick?”

  “But, Mr. Somers-”

  “Walk the Barratt way,” said Algy with bonhomie.

  The encounter cheered him a good deal. He lunched, and rang Miss Gay Hardwicke up. The conversation did not take quite the line he had intended. He had meant to be polite and a little detached. Unfortunately it was not Gay who came to the telephone. The voice which said “Who is there?” was the kind of voice that takes the chair at public meetings. He could picture it addressing a conference of head mistresses. It recalled painful interviews with an aunt who had been a strong believer in corporal punishment for the young.

  He said, “Can I speak to Miss Gay Hardwicke?” and was rather proud of himself for having the courage.

  The voice called “Gay!” on a ringing note, and Gay arrived rather breathless from the stairs.

  Algy was too much relieved to be aloof.

  Gay said, “Oh, it’s you?” And then, “That was Aunt Agatha. What is it?”

  The sound of her voice did something to the gatecrashers. They cast sickly looks at one another, and got into corners. Algy said,

  “Come out tonight, Gay-will you? I want to talk to you.”

  Gay said, “Well-” in a tone which she hoped would sound doubtful, and was rewarded.

  “Please, Gay, I must see you-I must talk to you.”

  “I can’t dine. Aunt Agatha’s got some of her committee coming. She’ll be peeved if I’m not in to dinner, but I don’t think they’ll want me afterwards.”

  “Same as last time?”

  “Yes, that will do.”

  “All right, I’ll be round at half past nine.”

  By half past nine Gay was more than ready to drag herself away from an earnest committee which had been talking about executions for an hour and a half.

  “You’ve no idea how grim. I’m converted absolutely, but I simply couldn’t have listened to them for another minute. I feel as if I’d gone pale green all over.”

  “The bits I can see are all right,” said Algy, as the light of a street-lamp slid over them.

  She came closer and slipped a hand through his arm.

  “Where are we going? I want to have my mind distracted.”

  “Would you mind awfully if it was the Ducks and Drakes again?”

  “No. Why?”

  “I’ll tell you later on.”

  But at first they danced. And then the star turn held the floor, an apparently boneless girl dressed in her own brown skin and some strings of beads which caught the light and flashed it back in ruby, emerald, and sapphire. She had a black fuzz of hair, eyes like pools of ink, and the largest, reddest mouth and the whitest teeth in the world. To the sound of strange percussion instruments and the rhythmic beat of a drum the brown girl twisted, writhed, and swayed. Her black eyes rolled, her white teeth gleamed. There was a fascinating play of muscle under the shining skin. She really didn’t seem to have any bones at all.

  When it was over Algy said, “Do you mind if we talk now?” and Gay said, “No,” and then wondered if she had been a fool, and a fool to come out with him. She threw a quick look at him and found him serious, panicked a little, and said quickly,

  “There’s that Mr. Danvers who was with the Wessex-Gardners the other night.”

  Algy was already aware of Mr. Danvers. He had, in fact, come here in the hope of seeing Mr. Danvers, who appeared to be an habitué. He said casually,

  “Oh, yes, he’s often here, I believe. Do you know him?”

  “Not really. I met him here the other night.”

  “Did you dance with him?”

  She made a little face.

  “Once.”

  “And what did you think of him?”

  “Oh, I hated him,” said Gay cheerfully.

  “Do you mind telling me why?”

  “I’d love to tell you why. I’ve been wanting to let off steam ever since.”

  “Why, what did he do?”

  “He didn’t do anything. He looked over the top of my head and told me how he had made a steel combine toe the line.”

  Algy burst out laughing.

  “My poor child! I’m afraid I can’t break his head for that.”

  “No-it’s a pity, isn’t it? And when he had finished about the steel combine he began about a gas corporation-he’s got a tame one that eats out of his hand. And he rolls in wealth, but he’s very careful about girls-not to give them any encouragement, you know.”

  “Can you look me in the eye and swear he told you that?”

  “No, darling. That was Poppy Wessex-Gardner. Being kind, you know, so that I shouldn’t have any false hopes raised through being danced with and having heart-to-heart confidences about gas. And I said, ‘Oh, no, Mrs. Wessex-Gardner,’ and, ‘Oh, yes, Mrs. Wessex-Gardner,’ and looked meek, and my old black dress helped a lot, so she thawed a little and let me off with a caution instead of sending for the court executioner and saying ‘Off with her head!’ ”

  “My child, you rave.”

  “I know I do. It’s Aunt Agatha’s capital punishment people.” Her voice changed suddenly. “Why do you want to know about Mr. Danvers, and what do you want to know about Mr. Danvers?”

  Algy leaned nearer and said in a low, direct voice,

  “I want to know whether he’s your blackmailer, Gay.”

  They were at a table in an alcove. There was no one near enough to hear, but anyone might have seen Gay’s change of colour and her startled look. She said all in a hurry,

  “Why should he be?” And then, “I haven’t got a blackmailer! Don’t call him mine!” After which she took breath and said in a serious voice, “Algy, what on earth do you mean?”

  Algy did not answer at once. He took time to look at Gay, time to be sure that he trusted her, time to tell himself that he had been a fool. He said at last,

  “When we were here the other night something was slipped into one of my pockets, and I’m wondering who did it. You asked me what I would do if someone tried to blackmail me, and then you were angry because I thought you meant that someone was blackmailing you. I wish you’d tell me the rest.”

  “There isn’t any more, and if there was, I couldn’t tell you. What did you find in your pocket-a love letter?”

  “Something that had been stolen.”

  “Algy-not really! How thrilling!”

  Algy said, “No.” And then after a pause, “Damnable.”

  Her face changed.

  “Algy, please. What is it? Do tell me.”

  He shook his head.

  “I can’t. You’ll probably hear about it-there’s a considerable amount of chat going on. But I’d rather you didn’t say anything about the envelope being put into my pocket.”

  Her eyes opened so widely that the lights shone down into them as the sun shines into dark peaty water, lightening its colour, filling it with floating golden specks. He thought with a faint shock of surprise, “Her eyes aren’t dark at all, they’re amber. It’s the shade of the lashes that makes them look black.”

  She caught her breath and opened her lips to speak,
but didn’t speak. She was remembering something, and trying not to remember it.

  Algy said quickly, “What is it, Gay?” and she said nothing. And then,

  “Why should anyone put an envelope in your pocket?”

  Algy leaned an elbow on the table.

  “I think someone had the kind thought that my rooms might be searched, and that it might be found there. Fortunately I found it myself.”

  Gay leaned over the table too.

  “Algy-how horrid! Who could possibly-”

  “That’s what I’m going to find out.”

  She spoke quickly.

  “You’re not-in any trouble? It’s not-it’s not serious?”

  “It might be.”

  “How?” The word was rather breathless.

  He looked away from her because it was dangerous to be so near, to see her eyes so soft and anxious-for him. He said in a studiously quiet voice,

  “Someone’s trying to get me into trouble. If they bring it off, I should be finished as far as my present job is concerned, and as far as politics are concerned. There’d be a black mark against me. But they’re not going to bring it off. I’m going to get to the bottom of it and clear myself.”

  “You can’t tell me about it?”

  He did look at her then. This was a Gay he had not seen before-serious, troubled. He said,

  “I don’t think so. You’ll hear the talk-you’re bound to.”

  Her lip quivered. She put up her hand to it like a child and shook her head.

  “I wouldn’t listen-you know that. Won’t you tell me?”

  “I don’t think I must, Gay.”

  She looked away with a quick turn of the head as if he had hurt her. He found his hand on her arm.

  “Gay-don’t. I’d like to tell you, but it’s not my affair.”

  Gay jumped up.

  “Come and dance! That’s what we came here for, isn’t it? Oh, no-you did say something about wanting to talk to me-didn’t you? But of course-how stupid of me-you only meant to find out whether someone had been blackmailing me into putting stolen whatnots into your pocket.”

  “Gay!” He had got up too. There was the width of the table between them, and hard breaking waves of anger.

  Gay’s head was high and her eyes bright.

  “Well, that was it, wasn’t it! Wasn’t it? You can’t say it wasn’t-can you?”

  Algy was quite as angry as she was-angrier perhaps, because he had the disadvantage of a guilty conscience. He smiled and said,

  “Is this an invitation to the waltz?”

  Gay considered. Even in the middle of her just indignation she could be practical. If you quarrel with your young man at a night-club, proper pride demands that you either go off with someone else or that you take a taxi home. As the only possible alternative to Algy was Mr. Danvers, and going home would mean more capital punishment, she blenched. Her lip twitched and she broke into an angry laugh.

  “For tuppence I’d catch the Danvers ’ eye!”

  Algy produced the tuppence and held it out.

  “This will be number two in our programme entitled ‘Why Girls Take Gas.’ Go on-I dare you!”

  “Algy, you’re a beast!”

  He put the coppers in his pocket, slipped his arm round her waist, and said,

  “Fierce-aren’t you? Come along and dance.”

  XIV

  They had made their way as part of a rhythmically moving crowd to the other side of the room, when Gay looked across the packed floor and said in a surprised voice,

  “There’s Sylvia-and Francis.”

  Algy looked with admiration at Sylvia in white, and with interest at the big fair man beside her.

  “They’re a good-looking couple.”

  “Yes. I only met him once-and at the wedding, you know. I was a bridesmaid. But you couldn’t miss him, could you?”

  The Colesboroughs penetrated the dancing mass and were absorbed, but the two fair heads could be distinguished. Algy followed them with his eyes, then turned to Gay.

  “My word, she’s lovely! What’s she really like, Gay?”

  Gay lifted eyes with a sparkle in them.

  “You’ve danced with her, darling.”

  “You always call me darling when you’re annoyed. Does one know what a person is really like after dancing with her once?”

  Gay said, “You very often think you do when it’s someone like Sylvia.”

  He let that go, and said in a serious voice,

  “I really want to know. Tell me what she’s like.”

  Gay dropped her lashes. She said,

  “I’ve known her all my life. I’ve never seen her lose her temper.”

  “Yes?” said Algy in an encouraging tone. “She looks like that. What else?”

  “She likes beautiful things.”

  “That’s not a crime.”

  The lashes went up again.

  “I didn’t say it was.”

  “Did you mean that she likes herself?”

  Gay’s eyes sparkled suddenly.

  “Darling, how prig! That’s not a crime either. I love myself very, very much, and so do you.”

  “Yes-I think I do,” said Algy in an odd voice.

  Gay’s cheeks burned.

  “I love my self, and you love your self,” she said as quickly as her tongue would go.

  “I didn’t mean that,” said Algy. “You know what I meant, but I oughtn’t to have said it, so I’m not going to say it again, but when this mess is cleared up-”

  “We were talking about Sylvia,” said Gay in a hurry.

  “Yes-go on telling me about her.”

  “There isn’t anything more to tell.”

  “You mean that?”

  Gay said, “Yes.”

  “Nothing behind all that except a sweet temper?”

  “The house is practically unfurnished,” said Gay.

  The music stopped. As they went towards their table, the Colesboroughs emerged from a group that was breaking up. The Westgates were in the centre of it with Sir James Harringay, the well-known K.C. Linda waved a hand. Giles nodded. Sir James looked, and looked away. It was not quite a cut, but it was as near as makes no difference. Gay saw what was impossible to miss-she saw Algy’s jaw stiffen. She rushed into a “How do you do?” to Francis Colesborough, and then tingled lest she should have done the wrong thing. But Francis made himself pleasant, asked why he hadn’t seen her since the wedding, said she must come down to Cole Lester, and was polite to Algy. Sylvia put her hand through Gay’s arm and pinched it-an old signal that meant “I want to speak to you.” They passed on.

  When they were at their table, Algy said, “What about Colesborough? He’s not an uninhabited house, I take it.”

  Gay said “No” in a doubtful voice. “I don’t know him-I think he’s good to Sylvia-I think she’s afraid of him-I don’t know him.”

  They danced again. When the final chord blared out Sylvia came to them through the crowd. Algy could not help saying, “How beautifully she moves.” There was no hurry, no effort. The crowd did not seem to impede her. She took her own easy, floating way. But there was no ease in the look that met Gay’s and spoke an urgent message. It said, “I must see you,” but her words were commonplace enough.

  “Darling, I’m coming to bits. Be an angel and pin me.”

  She carried Gay off. In the cloakroom, at the farthest glass, she began in a rapid whisper.

  “I simply had to see you. It’s too dreadful. I don’t know what to do.”

  The cloakroom was empty except for a stolid sandy-haired attendant who seemed more than half asleep. Gay said in a exasperated undertone,

  “What on earth has happened now?”

  Sylvia clutched her.

  “Nothing-not yet-but it will. I mean, he’ll make me do it-and I’m so frightened.”

  “Sylly, we can’t stay here. If you want to say anything, say it.”

  “I am,” said Sylvia with tears in her eyes. “You know when I rang
you up last night, and I thought it was going to be all right because Francis was away so of course there wasn’t anything I could do about his keys, and I was quite happy, but then it came over me that that Zero man would be waiting on the doorstep, and I thought how odd it would look-if anyone saw him, you know-so I thought I’d just go down and tell him it wasn’t any good, and just as I was getting the window open-”

  “Why the window?”

  “The dining-room window,” said Sylvia, as if that explained everything. “I was behind the curtain, and, darling, I nearly died, because just as I was getting it to move I heard his latchkey, and there he was in the hall.”

  “Who was?”

  “Francis, darling-I told you I heard his latchkey. And of course he wanted to know what I was doing downstairs in my dressing-gown, and just as I got him soothed he saw the curtain move, and when he found I’d been opening the window he was quite dreadful-all suspicious, like a person in a play. As if I would!”

  Sylvia’s moral indignation was most edifyingly genuine. She would steal-and call it something else-but to her last breath she would remain an honest woman.

  Gay released herself. She wanted to be firm and impressive, and it is difficult to impress when you are being clutched. She said,

  “Sylvia, if you don’t tell Francis, something dreadful will happen.”

  Sylvia opened lovely startled eyes.

  “There couldn’t be anything worse. You don’t know him. And you’re not letting me tell you what happened. We had a dreadful night, and in the morning, just as I dropped off to sleep, that horrible Zero man rang up again.”

  “Where was Francis?”

  “Having his bath. He always gets up most frightfully early, and I thought I was going to get a little sleep.”

  Gay was definitely unsympathetic.

  “That doesn’t matter. What did the creature want?”

  “Those papers,” said Sylvia in a frightened whisper-“a packet of letters tied up with a rubber band. He says they’re in Francis’ safe and he’s simply got to have them. He says they belong to him. He says I’ll know which they are because they’ve got Zero on them. He says it’s too late to get the keys for him now-he says I must get the papers myself.”