Mr. Zero (3 page)

“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.”

A feeling of the blackest dismay came seeping into Gay's mind. I 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 shake 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.

Gay said, “Hully, Algy!” ran down the steps, jumped into the taxi, and settled herself, all in one quick flash.

Algy Somers was one of the very kind-hearted people who helped to make life with Aunt Agatha endurable by taking her out. The fact that she was wearing the same old black dress in which she had dined and danced ever since the parents had departed to Madeira was not to interfere in any way with her enjoyment, neither did she mean to lose a single minute of it. That was another nice thing about Gay, she enjoyed everything so much. Her eyes shone and her cheeks glowed as she turned to Algy and enquired,

“Where are we going?”

Algy looked at her admiringly, and then looked away, because he was a careful young man and girls were apt to get wind in the head if looked at like that. Gay, of course, wasn't like other girls, but still you had to watch your step. He said,

“I'm awfully sorry about dinner. I had to stay over time. Carstairs had a lot of stuff he wanted typed—confidential stuff, you know, so I couldn't take it home and do it later.”

Gay looked away. She looked straight out in front of her over the bonnet of the car and along the dark street. It was one of those quiet streets where the houses look as if everyone in them always went to bed at ten o'clock. She said in a small, vague voice,

“Mr. Carstairs is Mr. Lushington's private secretary, isn't he?”

Algy stared at her profile.

“Well, you ought to know that by now.”

Gay laughed suddenly.

“If you'd been talking to the sort of person I've been talking to this afternoon, you wouldn't be sure you knew anything. I wouldn't have sworn to my own name by the time I got away. I hope you don't expect me to be bright and sparkling, because that sort of thing leaves you as dull as ditchwater.”