The Listening Eye (3 page)

MISS SILVER was reading a letter from her niece Ethel Burkett, the wife of a bank manager in the Midlands. The subject of the letter was a distressing one, the foolish and frivolous conduct of Ethel’s sister Gladys Robinson, who had taken the unjustifiable step of leaving an excellent husband whom she complained of finding dull.

“As if anyone in their senses expects their husband to be exciting!” wrote Mrs. Burkett. “And she doesn’t say where she is, or what she is doing, so all we can hope and trust is that she is alone, and that she hasn’t done anything which Andrew would find it impossible to forgive. Because what is she going to live on!” There was a good deal more in this strain.

Laying Ethel’s letter down on the left-hand side of her writing-table, Miss Silver addressed herself to answering it in a neat legible hand.

The table stood out in the room by reason of its plainness, most of the other furniture being of the mid-Victorian period—chairs with curly arms and legs of yellow walnut and the wide spreading laps which had been made to accommodate the crinoline popularized by the Empress Eugenie; curtains and upholstery of the cheerful shade which used to be called peacock-blue; the carpet in the same tone with flowery wreaths; whilst looking down upon what might have been a contemporary scene were reproductions of the masterpieces of the same era—The Stag at Bay, the lovely nun of the St. Bartholomew massacre, and Hope with her bandaged eyes drooping gracefully over a darkened world.

Miss Silver suited her room. She had the old-fashioned and dated appearance of someone in the kind of family group which young people turn out to laugh at and exclaim over in the winter evenings. In any such picture she would unhesitatingly have been identified as the governess. She had, in fact, graduated into this branch of what she termed the scholastic profession when she left school, and for many years had no other expectation than that she would grow old in it and ultimately retire upon such a pittance as could be saved from her salary. The curious combination of circumstances always referred to by her as “providential” which led to her taking up instead the much more varied and lucrative occupation of a private enquiry agent now lay far behind her in the past. But though the profession had been thus left behind, the professional appearance remained and was an enduring asset. She could not only pass in a crowd, she could— which was much more useful—pass unregarded in a drawing-room. She could melt into the background, she was no check upon anybody’s tongue, she could be, and very often was, ignored. She had a good deal of soft mousy hair with only a little grey in it. This she wore piled in a fringe above her forehead and plaited at the back, the whole very neatly controlled by an invisible net. She wore a dress of olive-green cashmere, black woollen stockings, and black glacé shoes. Her features were neat, her skin pale and clear, and her eyes of some indeterminate shade. She held her pen poised for a moment, and then wrote:

“Dearest Ethel

I am indeed sorry that you have had this anxiety about Gladys, but let me hasten to relieve your mind. She has acted with inconsiderate folly, but she certainly has not eloped with anyone. She has merely quarrelled with Andrew and gone off to Southend with her friend Mrs. Farmer. You will remember that Andrew did not like her influence. Gladys has written to me and asked me for money to pay her hotel bill, which I am prepared to do provided she returns home before the end of the week. She is fortunate in having so long-suffering a husband.”

Miss Silver had turned to the pleasanter topic of Ethel’s three boys and of her little Josephine, now nearly eight years old and everybody’s darling—a pretty, fair child, though at the moment going through a plainer stage owing to changing teeth.

She had written, “I really do not think the alteration in her looks should trouble you. Once the new teeth have settled down, her expression will, I am sure, be just as sweet as it was before,” when she caught the sound of the front-door bell. Since she was expecting it, she laid a sheet of blotting paper over her letter and turned towards the door. It was opened by her faithful Emma, and Paulina Paine came into the room.

She was, as Margaret Moray had described her, good, solid and dependable in appearance. She was also uneasy and nervous. Most of the people who came into this room were that. In many cases the impulse which brought them there had expended itself and they desired nothing so much as to be somewhere else. Paulina did not go quite as far as this. She sat down in a chair with its back to the window, glad to be off her feet again.

Miss Silver took the chair on the other side of the hearth and reached for the flowered knitting-bag which lay on a small table beside her. She drew from it a partly completed baby shawl in a delicate shade of blue, but she did not immediately begin to knit. She was remembering that Miss Paine was stone-deaf, and she was much interested in the prospect of receiving a practical demonstration of the art of lip-reading. She said,

“We did meet at Mrs. Moray’s a little while ago, did we not? I do not believe I heard your name then, but as soon as you came into the room I remembered meeting you. But on that occasion I had no idea that you were deaf. We conversed quite easily. What a wonderful thing lip-reading must be.”

Paulina said gravely, “Yes, it is wonderful. You are very easy to read from. After I had talked to you Mrs. Moray told me about your work. She said you were a detective.”

Miss Silver smiled.

“I prefer to call myself a private enquiry agent.”

As she spoke she picked up the needles and began to knit in an easy, effortless manner. Paulina said,

“Mrs. Moray told me that you have helped a great many people.”

“And do you feel that you are in need of help, Miss Paine?”

Paulina gave a short, quick nod.

“I think I may be. I think I’ve got to talk to someone—I don’t think I can cope with it alone. So I thought if I came round straight away without losing any time—”

“There is something that has just occurred —something which troubles you?”

“Yes.”

“And you would like to tell me about it?”

“Yes. I’m going to.”

There was a pause. The room was quiet. Miss Silver knitted. The old-fashioned pictures looked down. Everything was very safe and peaceful and ordinary. Paulina Paine recalled a line which she could not place— “The world shut out, and peace shut in.” It seemed a pity to break in upon it. Everything in her quieted. She said,

“I was in a picture gallery—one of those places where they have shows. It is run by Masters, the art dealers. I have let my top floor to a cousin of the Morays who is an artist. Well, he painted a picture of me and he called it The Listener. It is in this gallery, and it has been sold. A young cousin of mine, Wilfrid Gaunt, has two pictures there too. I thought I ought to go and see them, so this afternoon I did.”

Miss Silver, looking across the cloud of pale blue wool in her lap, saw the hand in the grey kid glove tighten upon the arm of the chair. The knuckles strained for a moment and then relaxed again. She said,

“Something happened?”

“Yes.”

Paulina’s sentences came short and jerky.

“There was a man on a seat at the end of the gallery. He had a catalogue. He was just sitting there. Another man came in. He looked at the pictures, and then he went and sat down on the same seat. After a little he turned round and spoke to the first man. I was on another seat quite a way off. I couldn’t have heard what he said—no one could. But the light was good and he was facing me, and I could see what he was saying. I want to tell you about it—I’ve got to tell someone.”

Miss Silver said clearly and firmly,

“What did he say?”

Paulina went on.

“He said, ‘It’s for tomorrow. The secretary leaves the bank with it at twelve noon. Nothing can be done whilst he is on the main road, but as soon as he turns into the lane, that will be the time. It should be quite easy. When I’ve got the stuff I meet you as arranged, and there we are.’ He stopped there, and the other man said something. I could see the muscle moving in his cheek, but I couldn’t see his lips. When he stopped, the first one said, ‘I’m not taking any chances of being recognized, and that’s final. Give me a clear stretch of the lane and no one on it to turn his head at a shot, and leave the rest to me.’ The other man spoke again, and the first one said, ‘I tell you I won’t touch it on any other terms. This way it’s a certainty.’ The other man put up his hand with a catalogue in it and said something, and the first one said, ‘Then there will be two of them for it, that’s all,’ and he laughed and got up and went over to look at one of the pictures. And I got up too and went away. I didn’t know what to think, I didn’t know what to do. I was afraid they would notice me. I went into a tea-shop and sat down. They were planning a robbery and a murder, and I felt I must do something to stop them. I felt better when I had had a cup of tea, and I went back to the gallery. Both the men had gone. I talked to old Mr. Pegler, the man in charge there. I said I thought I might have dropped a handkerchief near the seat where the two gentlemen were. He told me one of them had noticed my picture—it’s a very good likeness. Mr. Pegler said he had told the gentleman about my being deaf and about the lip-reading. He said I wouldn’t believe how interested he was.” Miss Silver was knitting quietly. She said, “Did Mr. Pegler imply that this man had recognized you as the original of the picture?”

“I am sure he recognized me. He pointed to the seat on which he had been sitting, and he said, ‘You don’t mean to say she could be standing over there and she could tell just what we were saying by looking at us?’ And Mr. Pegler said that he had heard Mr. Moray who had painted the picture put it that very way when he was talking to the gentleman who had bought it!”

“Mr. Moray’s name was mentioned?”

“Yes, it was.”

“But not your name?”

“No. It wouldn’t be difficult for him to find it out if he wanted to.”

Miss Silver supposed not. She said,

“You may have to tell this story to the police, but there is, of course, no means of identifying what was to be stolen, or in what locality the theft was to take place. Can you describe the two men?”

Paulina did her best. She had seen one of the men full-face, and the other in profile. One had had a drab raincoat, and the other a dark one. When she had described them, they sounded like any two men whom you would meet before you walked the length of any street in any part of London. All she could say was that she had seen them, that she remembered what she had seen, and that she would know them if she saw them again.

Miss Silver pulled on her pale blue ball.

“Miss Paine, do you think that you were followed after you left the gallery?”

“No—no—I don’t think so. You see, I had gone away first. It was only afterwards that one of them saw my picture and Mr. Pegler told him about my being deaf and about the lip-reading.”

“I see. And when you came here?”

Paulina looked at her oddly.

“Why do you ask that?”

“Why do you not answer what I asked you?”

“Because I’m not sure. The fact is, I’m not a nervous person, but I’ve behaved like one. I opened the front door to go out, and there was a taxi just beyond the Square with a man in it. He was just sitting there. I didn’t like it. I went back into the house, and I got Mrs. Mount who had the basement flat to come up and telephone for a taxi for me.”

“And did the other taxi follow you?”

“It came along after us. I think we lost it in the traffic, but I don’t know. One taxi looks very like another, and I couldn’t see the man’s face.”

Miss Silver said in a very thoughtful tone,

“Miss Paine, I think you should take your story to Scotland Yard.”

But Paulina shook her head.

“There’s nothing for the police to go on, is there? And you know how they would be about the lip-reading—they wouldn’t believe it could be done, and they would just think I had been making it up. People do that sort of thing to get themselves noticed. And even if they believed me, what could they do?”

Miss Silver spoke firmly,

“Nevertheless it is your duty to tell them.”

Paulina got to her feet.

“You have been very kind, but I think I have been foolish to speak of it at all, except that doing so has shown me how very little there is to go on. It is not like me, but I feel that in this case I have given way to a nervous impulse. I was startled, and I think perhaps I have made a mountain out of a molehill. The men may have been discussing the plot of a book or of a film. I may have been mistaken in a word or words which would alter the whole sense, and of course only one side of the conversation reached me.”

The rapidity with which these phrases sprang to her lips surprised her. Whereas all her energies had been bent upon reaching Miss Silver, she now desired nothing so much as to take leave of her without being pushed or persuaded into going to the police.

But if Paulina was surprised, Miss Maud Silver was not. It was not the first time that she had encountered the reaction which follows upon the shifting of a burden. In such a case there is very often an immediate sense of relief and a lessened sense of the importance of what has been described. She did not feel that there was anything she could do about it. It was possible that Miss Paine might return. But she could not force her to go to the police, she could only once more and with the utmost gravity advise her to do so.

Paulina shook her head.

“Talking to you like this has done me good. It was most kind of you to see me. It is of course a professional visit, and you must let me know what I owe you.”

“For advising you to go to the police? My dear Miss Paine, since I have done nothing more than that, you do not owe me anything at all. You will let me ring up for a taxi?”

But Paulina said no to that too. The evening was fine, her spirits had risen. She felt quite convinced that any idea that she might have been followed was a trick of the imagination. She said goodbye with a smile and went down the stairs and out into Marsham Street.