Hide My Eyes (21 page)

The impersonal voice was courteous but firm. It did not care how often he had rung or how recently, it explained with patient coldness: the number was now unobtainable, not because the line was engaged nor yet because someone had wedged the receiver to prevent the bell ringing, but because some definite fault had developed since he last called and the address could no longer be reached by telephone.

The news was irrevocable and worrying. Richard came out of the box frowning. Before him the wide road ran on beside the Park towards Marble Arch, Edgware Road, Edge Street and finally the Barrow Road. He scarcely hesitated but set off grimly down the pavement.

About the same time, on the other side of central London, Madame Dominique and her son Peter were saying goodnight to Polly on the steps of their private entrance to The Grotto, a few yards down the small alley which bounded the back of the building. Annabelle had already reached the main street and was waiting on the corner with Florian, who was still in attendance. They were both delighted with themselves and their laughter was softly audible to the little group in the doorway.

Sybylle Dominique was holding Polly’s sleeve. She looked minute standing between her tall son and the other more motherly figure.

“Don’t worry more than you can help. Take something rather than lie awake,” she was murmuring urgently, her feather-weight strength concentrated in an effort to comfort her old friend. “That housekeeper of Matt’s didn’t know a thing. The police hadn’t told her; they don’t.”

Polly looked down at her. Her face was only just visible in the grey light and the skin showed taut over the fine bold bones.

“They’d have let her know if it had been suicide or accident,” she said bluntly.

Sybylle Dominique drew a long uneven breath.

“Oh, Polly,” she said softly, “oh, Polly.”

“Goodnight.”

The two elderly faces met and the soft cheeks touched.

“I don’t
know
anything, Sybylle.” Polly’s words came painfully. “You understand, dear, don’t you? I’m upset, but it’s really only because I’m thinking about poor old Matt. Don’t let me put … anything else into your head, will you?”

“Of course not, my girl, of course not.” The tiny crackling voice was full of pity. “Gerry …”

“What about Gerry?” Terror flared in Polly’s tone, but the whisper was very low.

Sybylle’s grip on her sleeve tightened.

“There’s
some
good in that boy or you couldn’t love him, dearest,” she said. “That’s a law of God and Nature and none of us here will forget it. I’ll give you a ring in the morning, my dear. Now off you go with that staggeringly beautiful child of yours, before my poor little Flo drops on his knees in the gutter. Poor little beasts, isn’t it frightful what they’ve got to find out before they come to the end of
that
story?”

She was talking to ease the tension and Polly put her arms round her, big handbag and all.

“You’re a dear, Sybbie, you always were. Goodnight, Love. God bless.”

Annabelle and Polly caught the last Number Fifteen ’bus of the evening from the bottom of Regent Street. Florian escorted them to the stopping place and stood looking after the vanishing red monster bearing them away. The old woman led the girl up the stairs to the deserted top deck and along to the front seat, but Annabelle paused to wave to him, sending him home ecstatically happy.

The girl was shiny eyed and delighted with herself. It had been a honey of an evening. Alone, grown up at last, and with someone new and city bred to impress. She turned to Polly as soon as she sat down, concentrating on her for the first time since the meal, eager to thank her and to confide.

“Aunt Polly,” she said seriously, “do you know this has been probably the most wonderful evening of my whole life.”

Polly, who had been staring down the curving street picked out in lights, heard the words as if they were far off and utterly meaningless. Her bleak eyes took in the glow on the young face and closed before its unbearable fatuousness.

“Oh, darling, aren’t you well?” There was disappointment in the girl’s cry as well as compassion, and Polly was stung to life by it.

“I’m tired, that’s all. You had a good evening, did you?” She settled herself on the jolting seat, tucking her heavy black skirts about her, folding her hands over her bag, and raising her elbows so that the girl could slip her hand through the crook in her arm to steady herself. “Flo seems to have turned out well,” she ploughed on. “He was pompous as a small boy.”

“Was he? That’s all gone now. I liked him. He’s awfully sensible but terribly young in years.” Annabelle was inclined to sigh over it. “Richard really is more the right age, against mine I mean.”

“Richard.” Polly remembered the name with a sigh of relief. “That’s the pocket-sized tough with the red hair?”

“Did I say tough?” Annabelle was dubious. “He is, of course, but there’s nothing rough about him. He’s formal, if anything. You’ll approve, I think. But look, Auntie, what’s interesting me at the moment is this. Florian says he can get Fellows tickets to the Zoo on Sundays and he knows all
the
keepers. I could go with him one day, couldn’t I? Apparently there’s a ginger pig there who’s exactly like Robinson Tariat the playwright. Florian says it’s rather the thing at the moment to go and see it and give it …”

“Annabelle, I want to talk to you.” Polly was aware of being brutal. “That is why we’ve come back by ’bus. I’m sorry, my dear, but you’ve got to go home.”

There was complete silence for a while and then the girl said, “Oh. Oh, I see.”

It was only too obvious that she did no such thing. Her lovely face wore a mask of blank dismay and her round eyes were full of tears already. Polly regarded her helplessly.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated.

“Oh, it’s all right…. Is it because I’m too young, or have I done something?”

“Neither. Circumstances have altered, that’s all.”

“Oh.” There was another long pause and the girl sat up, drawing her hand away and stiffening. “I only enjoyed the good time because it was given to me,” she remarked presently. “I didn’t
need
it. I mean I hope you’ll let me come and see you anyhow—sometimes.”

“No.” Polly winced at the stare of bewilderment and took hold of herself irritably. “No, dear, I don’t want you to. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I want you to go home first thing tomorrow morning and to put your whole trip up here right out of your mind. I want you to forget that I ever wrote to your mother or that you ever came to see me. I shall give you a note to take to your sister. I don’t want her or you to answer it, or ever to try to see me again. I don’t suppose you’ll want to, but anyway I’d rather you didn’t. Is that absolutely clear?”

“Not
ever
?”

“Not ever. Don’t make it sound like that, child. Don’t be absurd. It’s best. In fact you’ll find it’s vital.”

“But what have I done?”

“Nothing at all. Nothing at all. It’s entirely my affair. Nothing to do with you at all. You’re out of it. Now forget it until we get home. Did you have a nice dinner?”

“You know I did, you had it with me. Oh, don’t treat me
like
a child. What is it? What’s happened? Can’t I help you?”

“No. Be quiet.”

“But you thought I could and said so in the letter. That was why you wanted me. Has it changed?”

“Yes.”

“Could it change again?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

Polly was silent. She seemed to be considering the question, or facing it perhaps.

Annabelle was watching every variation in her expression.

“Oh, I thought it was going to be wonderful,” she burst out in a sudden abandonment of childhood’s grief. “Can’t I come back ever? Are you sure, Aunt Polly? Are you sure?”

The old woman turned her head. Her mind was shuttering.

“Quite sure, dear,” she said and was suddenly calm. “Quite sure. Now let’s forget it and enjoy the ride home. London’s very lovely at night.”

“I shall hate it always after this.”

“No, don’t say that.” Polly was speaking absently and she patted the hand on the tweed-covered knee.

Annabelle turned on her like an infant. Angry tears flooded her eyes.

“Won’t you miss me?” she burst out. “Won’t you miss the fun we would have had? Don’t I remind you of Uncle Frederick? Don’t you want a good daughter to keep you young?”

“Hush,” said Polly. “Hush. Look, that’s Selfridge’s …”

They left the ’bus on the corner of the Barrow Road and went slowly up to the house. The old woman walked heavily and her shoulders were a little bent, but she was occupied and kept sane by the necessity of managing and comforting the child.

“Now when we get in,” she said, “I want you to go up to my sitting-room, light the gas fire and pull the curtains, and wait for me.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to my desk for a minute to drop a note to
Jennifer
. Then I shall heat some milk and bring it up with me, and as we drink it I’ll tell you what I want you to do. I want you to be off very early tomorrow. Could you get up at six?”

“Of course I could and I expect there’s a train, but …”

“No buts. Just do what I say. I’ll give you the note for Jenny tonight. Get up as early as you can and come down to the kitchen and I’ll give you a cup of tea and you can be off before the char arrives. Oh, and Annabelle, I don’t want you to buy a paper until you get home.”

The girl looked at her sharply but she did not ask questions.

“Very well,” she said.

The house looked pretty and bright even by the light of the old-fashioned street lamp outside the gate. Polly unlocked the front door and turned on the light.

“Now you run up.”

“Let me get the milk.”

“You can if you like. You’ll find everything in the kitchen. Or are you frightened to go down there alone in the dark?”

“No. It’s not that sort of house, is it? It’s so gay and feels so full of people, even when no one’s here. I do love it so.” Annabelle’s young voice was uncertain but she controlled it with a valiance none the worse for being conscious. “I’ll take the milk straight up.”

She went off down the two or three steps to the kitchen and Polly turned into the tiny room on the right of the hall door, which was practically filled by an old-fashioned roll-top desk with a telephone on it. It had been the front parlour in the days when the house had been a Victorian cottage and was now used by Polly as the office to which she had become used when keeping an hotel. She opened the desk, sat down at it, and pulled a sheet of paper towards her.

“My dear Jenny—” the familiar sprawling hand spread over the page—“I am sending this to you instead of to A. because you will know how it is best for her to spend it. Training for something, or on Savings Certificates. However, whatever is done, she must have a real say in it so it is made out to her, as you will see. I enclose a smaller one for you,
dear
, as a wedding present. See you both cash them at once and do not mention them to anyone, except your Bank Manager of course. As A. will tell you, and I expect you will see for yourself, this is goodbye. I cannot have either of you mixed up in anything not your business. I am sure you are a nice family and I wish I could have known you all, but there it is. I do not want any thanks for cheques and no letters or messages of any kind to come to this house. If any newspaper
should
get on to you at any time—unlikely but you never know—simply say clearly that you have never seen me in your life and keep A. well out of the way.

My love to you both,

Polly Tassie.

“P.S. Take care of A. She is almost too pretty just now, but it will wear off later, I expect. When I die there may be a little bit more for her, but not much as I am about to incur some very heavy expenses. God bless you all.”

She read the note through, took a cheque book out of her bag, and made out a draft to Annabelle for a thousand pounds and another for Jennifer for one hundred. She took time to scan them carefully and check the date with the calendar. Then she folded them into the letter and addressed the envelope to Miss J. Tassie. By Hand.

She had put the envelope into her pocket and was rising to shut up the desk when she heard Annabelle pass the door and go upstairs, and at the same time her glance fell on the small steel box on the wall into which the telephone cable disappeared. It was a chance in a thousand that she should have noticed it because of an occasional chair standing just in front of it, but some faint change in the arrangement of the piece of furniture had caught her attention. She leant forward to touch the plaited flex with an exploring finger. The cable which had been wrenched from the box and replaced loosely, came away in her hand. For an instant she looked at it stupidly and then, turning abruptly, sped out of the room and up the stairs with the agility of a woman half her age. As she reached the landing she heard Annabelle’s laugh. It was shy but gay and innocently flattered.

The colour had gone from Mrs. Tassie’s lips but there was no surprise in her expression by the time she had opened the door and come face to face with the man who had been waiting for her in the bright little room.

Gerry was standing on the hearthrug staring at the girl, the expression of horrified incredulity which had made her laugh still showing in his face. He looked grey and excited. But the thing about him which startled the old woman was that he was without jacket or waistcoat, and the sleeves of his city shirt were rolled up.

As his glance turned slowly towards her the sound of the front-door buzzer came floating up from the hall, two sharp and determined rings.

Chapter 17

HARD BEHIND HIM

CHARLIE LUKE SAT ON
the edge of the desk in a small private office of the main C.I.D. room in the new Tailor Street Station, looking more like a black cat than ever as he listened to the telephone. His head was held on one side and his eyes were deeply pleased.

The voice at the other end of the wire belonged to his immediate superior, Chief Superintendent Yeo. It was blunt, as usual, but sounded content for a change and even conciliatory.