Cover Her Face (23 page)

Stephen exerted all his charm and explained that he wanted to see whoever was in charge. The matter was personal and very important. He wasn’t trying to sell anything and would honestly not take long. He was sorry that he couldn’t be more explicit but it really was important. “To me, anyway,” he added with a smile.

The smile was successful. It always had been. Miss Titley, flustered into normality by the unusual, retired to the back of her office and made a furtive telephone call. It was a little prolonged. She gave several glances at him during her conversation as if to reassure herself as to his respectability. Eventually she replaced the receiver and came back with the news that Miss Molpas was prepared to see him.

Miss Molpas had her office on the third floor. The drugget-covered stairs were steep and narrow and Stephen and Miss Titley had to stand aside on each of the landings while women clerks passed. There were no men to be seen. When he was finally shown into Miss Molpas’s room he saw that she had chosen well. Three steep flights were a small price to pay for this view over city roofs, this glimpse of a silver ribbon threading down from Westminster. Miss Titley breathed an introduction which was as reverent as it was inarticulate and faded
away. From behind her desk Miss Molpas rose stockily to her feet and waved him to a chair. She was a short, dark woman of remarkable plainness. Her face was round and large and her hair was cut in a thick straight fringe above her eyebrows. She wore horn-rimmed spectacles so large and heavy that they seemed an obvious aid to caricature. She was dressed in a short tweed skirt and a man’s white shirt with a yellow and green woven tie which reminded Stephen unpleasantly of a squashed cabbage caterpillar. But she had one of the pleasant-est speaking voices he had ever heard in a woman and the hand which she held out to him was cool and firm.

“You’re Stephen Maxie, aren’t you? Saw your picture in the
Echo
. People are saying that you killed Sally Jupp. Did you?”

“No,” said Stephen. “And neither did any member of my family. I haven’t come to argue about that. People can believe what they like. I want to know something more about Sally. I thought you might be able to help. It’s the child I’m really worrying about. Now that he hasn’t a mother it seems important to try to find his father. No one’s come forward, but it did strike me that the man may not know. Sally was very independent. If he doesn’t know and would like to do something about Jimmy—well, I think he should be given the chance.”

Miss Molpas pushed a packet of cigarettes across the table at him.

“D’you smoke? No? Well, I will. You’re meddling a bit, aren’t you? Better get your own motives straight. You can’t believe the man didn’t know. Why shouldn’t he? He must know now anyway. There’s been enough publicity. The police have been here on the same tack but I don’t imagine they’re interested in the child’s welfare. More likely looking for a motive. They’re very thorough. You’d do better to leave them to it.”

So the police had been there. It was stupid and irrational to suppose otherwise, but he found the news depressing. They would always be one step ahead. It was presumptuous to suppose that there was anything significant to be discovered about Sally that the police, experienced, persevering and infinitely patient, would not already have found. The disappointment must have shown in his face for Miss Molpas gave a shout of laughter.

“Cheer up! You may beat them to it yet. Not that I can help you much. I told the police all I know and they wrote it down most conscientiously, but I could see it wasn’t getting them anywhere.”

“Except to fix the guilt more firmly where they already believe it rests—on someone in my family.”

“Well, it certainly doesn’t rest on anyone here. I can’t even produce a possible father for the child. We haven’t a man on the premises. She certainly got herself pregnant while she was working here, but don’t ask me how.”

“What was she really like, Miss Molpas?” asked Stephen. He forced out the question against his own realization of its absurdity. They were all asking the same thing. It was as if, in the heart of this maze of evidence and doubt, someone would at last be found who could say, “This was Sally.”

Miss Molpas looked at him curiously. “You should know what she was like. You were in love with her.”

“If I were I should be the last person to know.”

“But you weren’t.” It was a statement not an impertinent question and Stephen met it with a frankness which surprised him.

“I admired her and I wanted to go to bed with her. I suppose you wouldn’t call that love. Never having felt more than that for any woman, I wouldn’t know.”

Miss Molpas looked away from him and out towards the river.

“I should settle for that. I doubt whether you’ll ever feel more. Your kind don’t.” She turned towards him again and spoke more briskly: “But you were asking what I thought of her. So did the police. The answer’s the same. Sally Jupp was pretty, intelligent, ambitious, sly and insecure.”

“You seem to have known her very well,” said Stephen quietly.

“Not really. She wasn’t easy to know. She worked here for three years and I knew no more about her home circumstances when she left than I did the day I engaged her. Taking her on was an experiment. You’ve probably noticed that we haven’t any youngsters here. They’re difficult to get except at double the wages they’re worth and they don’t keep their minds on the job. I don’t blame them. They’ve only a few years to find a husband and this isn’t a promising hunting-ground. They can be cruel, too, if you put them to work with an older woman. Have you seen young hens pecking away at an injured bird? Well, we only employ old birds here. They may be a bit slow but they’re methodical and reliable. The work doesn’t call for much intelligence. Sally was too good for the job. I never understood why she stayed. She worked for a secretarial agency after finishing her training and came to us as a temporary relief when we were short of staff during a flu epidemic. She liked the job and asked to stay on. The Club was growing and the business justified another shorthand-typist. So I took her on. As I said, it was an experiment. She was the only member of the staff who was under forty-five.”

“Staying in this job doesn’t suggest ambition to me,” said Stephen. “What made you think she was sly?”

“I watched her and listened to her. We’re rather a collection of has-beens here and she must have known it. But she was clever, was our Sally. ‘Yes, Miss Titley. Certainly, Miss Croome. Can I get it for you, Miss Melling?’ Demure as a nun and respectful as a Victorian parlourmaid. She had the poor fools eating out of her hand of course. They said how nice it was to have a young thing about the office. They bought her birthday and Christmas presents. They talked to her about her career. She even asked for advice about her clothes! As if she cared a damn what we wore or what we thought! I should have thought her a fool if she had. It was a very pretty piece of acting. It wasn’t altogether surprising that, after a few months of Sally, we had an office atmosphere. That’s probably not a phenomenon which you have experienced. You can take it from me that it isn’t comfortable. There are tensions, whispered confidences, barbed remarks, unexplained feuds. Old allies no longer speak to each other. Incongruous friendships spring up. It all plays havoc with the work, of course, although some people seem to thrive on it. I don’t. I could see what the trouble was here. She’d got them all in a tizzy of jealousy and the poor fools couldn’t see it. They were really fond of her. I think Miss Melling loved her. If Sally confided in anyone about her pregnancy it would have been Beatrice Melling.”

“Could I talk to Miss Melling?” asked Stephen.

“Not unless you’re clairvoyant. Beatrice died following an uncomplicated operation for appendicitis the week after Sally left. Left, incidentally, without even saying ‘good-bye’ to her. Do you believe in death from a broken heart, Dr. Maxie? No, of course you don’t.”

“What happened when Sally became pregnant?”

“Nothing. No one knew. We’re hardly the most likely community to spot that kind of trouble. And Sally! Meek, virtuous,
quiet little Sally! I noticed that she looked wan and even thinner than usual for a few weeks. Then she was prettier than ever. There was a kind of radiance about her. She must have been about four months’ pregnant when she left. She gave in her week’s notice to me and asked me to tell no one. She gave me no reasons and I asked for none. Frankly, it was a relief. I had no tangible excuse for getting rid of her, but I had known for some time that the experiment was a failure. She went home one Friday and, on Monday, I told the rest of the staff that she had left. They drew their own conclusions, but no one as far as I know drew the right one. We had one glorious row. Miss Croome accused Miss Melling of having driven the girl away by her over-possessiveness and unnatural affection. To do Miss Croome justice I don’t think she meant anything more sinister than that Jupp felt obliged to eat her luncheon sandwiches in Melling’s company when she would rather have visited the nearest Lyons with Croome.”

“So you have no idea who the man was or where she could have met him?”

“None at all. Except that they met on Saturday mornings. I got that from the police. We work a five-day week here and the office is never open on Saturdays. Apparently Sally told her uncle and aunt that it was. She came up to town nearly every Saturday morning as if to work. It was a neat deception. They apparently took no interest in her job and, even had they tried to telephone her on a Saturday morning, the assumption would be that the line had been left unattended. She was a clever little liar was Sally.”

The dislike in her voice was surely too bitter to be the result of anything but a personal hurt. Stephen wondered what else could have been told about Sally’s office life.

“Were you surprised to hear of her death?” he asked.

“As surprised and shocked as one usually is when something as horrible and unreal as murder touches one’s own world. When I thought about it I was less surprised. She seemed in some ways a natural murderee. What did astound me was the news that she was an unmarried mother. She struck me as too careful, too scheming for that kind of trouble. I would have said, too, that she was undersexed rather than the reverse.”

“We had one curious incident when she had been here a few weeks. The packing was done in the basement then and we had a male packer. He was a quiet, middle-aged, under-sized little man with about six children. We didn’t see much of him, but Sally was sent down to the packing-room with a message. Apparently he made some kind of sexual advance to her. It can’t have been serious. The man was genuinely surprised when he got the sack for it. He may only have tried to kiss her. I never did get the whole story. But from the fuss she made you’d have thought she was stripped naked and raped. It was all very estimable of her to be so shocked, but most girls today seem to be able to cope with that kind of situation without having hysterics. And she wasn’t play-acting that time. It was real, all right. You can’t mistake genuine fear and disgust. I felt rather sorry for Jelks. Luckily I have a brother with a business in Glasgow, which was the man’s home town, and I was able to get him fixed up there. He’s doing well and, no doubt, he’s learnt his lesson. But, believe me, Sally Jupp was no nymphomaniac.”

That much Stephen had known for himself. There seemed nothing more to be learnt from Miss Molpas. He had already been away from the hospital for over an hour and Standen would be getting impatient. He said his “good-byes” and made his own way back to the ground-floor office. Miss Titley was
still in attendance and had just finished pacifying an aggrieved subscriber whose last three books had failed to satisfy. Stephen waited for a moment while they finished their conversation. The neat rows of maroon-backed volumes had touched a chord of memory. Someone he knew subscribed to Select Books Limited. It was no one at the hospital. Methodically he let his mind range over the bookcases of his friends and acquaintances and time brought the answer.

“I’m afraid I haven’t much time for reading,” he said to Miss Titley. “But the books look wonderful value. I think one of my friends is a member. Do you ever see Sir Reynold Price?”

Miss Titley did indeed see Sir Reynold. Sir Reynold was a dear member. He came in himself for his monthly books and they had such interesting talks together. A charming man in every way was Sir Reynold Price.

“I wonder if he ever met Miss Sally Jupp here?” Stephen asked his question diffidently. He expected it to provoke some surprise, but Miss Titley’s reaction was unexpected. She was affronted. With infinite kindness but great firmness, she explained that Miss Jupp could not have met Sir Reynold at Select Books Limited. She, Miss Titley, was in charge of the public office. She had held that job for over ten years now. All the customers knew Miss Titley and Miss Titley knew them. Dealing personally with the members was a job requiring tact and experience. Miss Molpas had every confidence in Miss Titley and would never dream of putting anyone else in the public office. Miss Jupp, concluded Miss Titley, had only been the office junior. She was just an inexperienced girl.

And with this ironic parting shot Stephen had to be content. It was nearly four when Stephen got back to the hospital. As he passed by the porter’s room Colley called to him and leaned over his counter with the wariness of a conspirator.
His kind old eyes were troubled. Stephen remembered that the police had been to the hospital. It was Colley they would have spoken to. He wondered how much harm the old man might have done by a too-loyal determination to give nothing away. And there was nothing to give away. Sally had only been to the hospital once. Colley could only have confirmed what the police already knew. But the porter was speaking: “There’s been a telephone call for you, sir. It was from Martingale. Miss Bowers said would you please ring as soon as you came in. It’s urgent, sir.”

Stephen fought down panic and made himself scan the letter-rack as if for an expected letter before replying.

“Did Miss Bowers leave a message, Colley?”

“No, sir. No message.”