Hole and Corner (24 page)

She pattered on.

Alfred Phillips must be made to see reason. It had come to her as she walked up and down in Helena's studio that nothing less than a half share was her right, her absolute Legal Right. If Jane had lived Jane would have had half, and she was Jane's Residuary Legatee. Executrix and Residuary Legatee. What a pleasant sound—what an extremely pleasant sound that had. But it wasn't what it ought to have been if Jane had done her duty and lived for another six months.

She went on thinking of all the things she was going to say to Alfred Phillips when she reached the hotel. She hoped he wouldn't be out. It would really be very awkward if he were out, because she wanted to make it quite clear to him at once that the half share was her Legal Right. And then there was something about that young Wrenn. That was important too. She had distrusted him from the very beginning, and Alfred Phillips ought to know what he was up to. It would be another proof that they couldn't get on without her, and that she had earned her share—though of course she didn't have to earn it, because it was her Legal Right. But all the same Alfred Phillips ought to be very, very grateful to her.

If Al Phillips had any feelings of gratitude towards Miss Maltby, they were not in evidence when she looked round the door into the small over-heated room where he and Ettie Miller were sitting over the gas fire. If he managed to conceal a sharp annoyance, it was as much as he had time for, since Miss Maltby had preceded the hotel servant and appeared without any warning. She must certainly be aware that he had been sitting on the arm of Ettie's chair. Those pale darting eyes of hers missed nothing. And what brought her here when it was of all things in the world most important that none of them should be seen together? Women were the very devil when it came to business. Take Ettie—it was all very well for her to be fond of him, but they oughtn't to be here together like this—not now, not at this juncture. And could he get her to see it? No, he couldn't. Never had she been fonder of him or more clinging. And now this old Maltby, who was more than half crazy and about as safe to handle as gunpowder, she must needs come butting in too. He'd had to use her—why, with her Grievance, she was practically asking to be used—but all the same if he'd known how cranky she was, he wasn't so sure that he wouldn't have given her a miss.

He came a step to meet her, and saw her eyes go darting past him. As he had supposed, they missed nothing. Ettie Miller had taken off her hat, and that dark hair of hers was rumpled, decidedly rumpled. The arm of her chair had a pressed-down sort of look. Goings on—that's what there'd been, and they needn't think they could throw dust in her eyes, because they couldn't. A pretty fool Ettie Miller looked with her flushed cheeks and her untidy hair, and a pretty fool she'd be if she let Alfred Phillips get round her for the sake of the money, because that was what he was up to, and you didn't need half an eye to see it unless you were a silly vain fool like Ettie.

Miss Maltby's eyes glittered with contempt as she minced forward and shook hands. Men. What did any woman want with them? Noisy. Inconvenient. Domineering. And up to no good the minute you took your eye off them. As Ettie would find out. Oh yes, quick enough. If she was such a fool as to let Alfred Phillips get his fingers into her purse. She knew his sort. He needn't think she didn't. Or that he could frighten her by frowning, and looking down his nose, and telling her she oughtn't to have come. For that was what he was actually doing. No gratitude. Not a bit. Not even the offer of a chair. Nothing but a sharp “Look here, Miss Maltby, this won't do at all, it really won't. You mustn't come here.”

If they didn't offer her a chair, she would take one. She sat herself down by the fire, laid her umbrella on the floor, settled herself comfortably, and said,

“I oughtn't to have come? That's all you know about it. I'd a very good reason for coming.”

Al Phillips did not sit down. He stood with his hands in his pockets jingling his money and looking put out.

“Well, let's have it—because you mustn't stay.”

Miss Maltby unbuttoned her coat. The fire was hot, and she had no intention of being hurried. She was aware that Ettie was suppressing a laugh, and set it down against her.

“I'll go when I've finished,” she said. “Not before. Not one moment before, Mr Phillips. Not one single moment.”

Al Phillips took his hands out of his pockets. It was no good, he'd have to humour her. He said in a would-be pleasant manner,

“Well, what's it all about, Miss Maltby?”

She sat up straight, her black-gloved fingers on the clasp of the shabby suède bag. She spoke in a sharp, thin voice.

“I hope I'm business-like, Mr Phillips. Men always think that women are not business-like, but I hope I can be as business-like as any man. In my opinion women have a greater aptitude for business than men.”

“And your business?” He managed to keep his tone smooth.

“There are two points. The first is about my Share. I am not satisfied. Oh, not at all. Very far from satisfied. If I had been a man, you would not have tried to put me off with less than my Legal Share.”

Miss Ettie Miller rolled her fine dark eyes in an expressive manner. They said quite plainly, “Here's a pretty kettle of fish!”

“Your legal share?” inquired Mr Phillips. “What are you talking about? You haven't got one.”

Miss Maltby began to snap the clasp of her bag. Her fingers were bony but very strong. They clicked the bag open, and they clicked it shut—click, click, click, and click, click, click again.

“No?” she said.

“Certainly not,” said Al Phillips.

“Perhaps the police will say I have.”

“Nobody could possibly say you had.”

Miss Maltby went on clicking. If Jane Rigg had lived, she would have had half. And no risk.

“I am Jane Rigg's Residuary Legatee. And Executrix.
And
Executrix. I have a Legal Right to Jane's share.”

Ettie Miller leaned forward. She said in a soothing voice,

“We haven't any of us got anything yet, Miss Maltby. You'll get your share all right when it comes to shelling out.”

Miss Maltby darted suspicion and dislike at her.

“My Legal Share?”

“Of course. Why, Mr Phillips is in a law firm—you know that. He'll have it all as legal as can be. But it's no use going into it now, because we haven't got the money yet, and if you were to do anything silly like going to the police, we shouldn't get it. And then what would happen to your Share as you call it?”

Miss Maltby stopped clicking for a minute. Her eyes became feed upon Ettie's. A cunning look passed over her face.

“That is a point. That is certainly a point. A woman's business sense is more acute than a man's. If I go to the police, there will be no Share. Because, though of course it is my
Legal
Share, the whole transaction is not quite as legal as it might be. I take your meaning. Or perhaps I don't.” She frowned a little. The cunning look was succeeded by a vague one. The fingers relaxed, slipping away from the bag into her lap. “I don't know. It's all very confusing when you put it like that. I must think it over.”

“That's right,” said Al Phillips. “You go down to that cottage of yours at Emshot and think it over. I thought you were going there yesterday. Why didn't you?”

The vague look passed.

“Oh, but I did. I went down last night.”

“Then why didn't you stay there?”

Miss Maltby pulled herself up.

“Really, Mr Phillips!” Then, offence swept away by what she had to tell, “I went down. And she was there. That girl was there.”

“What girl?” said Al Phillips coldly.

“Shirley Dale.” Miss Maltby's whisper was piercingly distinct.

“Miss Maltby—you don't mean that!”

She nodded triumphantly.

“There. In my house. In my kitchen. And I thought it was Mrs Ward who does for me. And she ran away out of the back door. And she left her bag and her hat More like a cap than a hat. Such things as girls wear! Anything to get themselves noticed!”

Her manner shook Mr Phillips. If she wasn't raving—if it was true—

“How do you know the things were hers?” he said.

Miss Maltby gave a thin laugh.

“Men don't notice these things. Women do. Every day for months that cap's gone past my door. On that girl's head. Of course I know it. And the bag. There was a letter in it.” She clicked open her own bag, picked out an envelope by one corner, and held it out. “It was in the bag. Miss Shirley Dale. From her old Aunt Emily's cook. To say she hoped her dear Miss Shirley is well.” She laughed again. “Seeing is believing, Mr Phillips.”

Mr Phillips believed. But he didn't see what sense there was in Miss Maltby coming along here to tell him about something which happened yesterday. Anything that could have been done about it should have been done then. He said so. He said with acerbity,

“What's the good of coming out with all this now? You ought to have rung up the police last night.”

Miss Maltby bridled.

“And how do you know I didn't?”

“Did you?” There was a gleam of hope in his eye. If she had—

“No telephone,” said Miss Maltby brightly.

It would have given Mr Phillips a great deal of pleasure to shake her. He said with great restraint,

“What
did
you do?”

“Nothing,” she said. “Nothing at all. Why should I? There wasn't anything to do. Not till to-day. Then I came back to town. To see you.”

It wasn't any good being angry with her. She could go to the police with her story now. It oughtn't to be so difficult to trace Shirley Dale from Emshot. She wouldn't have enough money to go very far afield. He said,

“Well, you'd better go along to the police now. Take the bag and the cap with you and say where you found them. I suppose you've had them round at Findon Road making inquiries?”

“Oh yes. Yes. Certainly. They searched her room. A pity they found nothing. It would have been better that way. I said so all along. Women have more finesse than men. Much more.”

“Better be getting along,” said Mr Phillips coldly.

“Not yet,” said Miss Maltby with composure. “Not just yet. Not till I've told you about that young Wrenn. And the suit-case.”

“What suit-case?”

“Shirley Dale's.”

“Who the devil's Wrenn?”

“Language!” said Miss Maltby. “You interrupt. I'm telling you. Helena Pocklington's cousin. Room opposite mine. Rude, scowling young man. Infatuated with Shirley Dale.”

“What's all this got to do with her suit-case?”

Ettie was leaning back in her chair between boredom and amusement. The old Maltby woman provided the boredom, but it amused her to see Al baited and afraid to let his temper go.

Miss Maltby was very bright in her manner—like a governess with a pettish child.

“I'm telling you. If you will listen. I heard him go upstairs into her room. It is over mine. I heard him distinctly. Moving about. Then I heard him come down. Right down. To the front door. When I looked over the banisters, there he was. Going out of the door with that girl's suit-case in his hand.”

She had them both interested now. They couldn't do without her. No, no—not at all.

“Did you follow him?” said Al Phillips.

“No hat,” said Miss Maltby with regret. “No coat. No gloves. Too much attention would have been attracted. A woman thinks of these things. By the time I had dressed no sign of him. No sign at all. But I am convinced he has gone to meet that girl.”

“Sounds like it,” said Ettie Miller. She yawned. “I don't see what we can do about it.”

Miss Maltby darted a look of contempt at her.

“I shall inform the police. The young man must be called to account. As soon as I was dressed I went round to Helena Pocklington's. She lives at Pattenham Mews and is at present abroad.”

“Why on earth?”

“He goes there to feed the canary. He has a key. It occurred to me that the girl might be there. A woman's intuition.”

“Well?”

Miss Maltby coughed.

“The house appeared to be empty. If you can call it a house. Most inconvenient, and such a steep stair. I came away.”

“Because there wasn't anyone there?”

The vague look passed over Miss Maltby's face again.

“No. No. Not exactly. It came over me that I was not satisfied. About my Share, you know. My Legal Share.”

“Al, for
mercy's
sake!” said Ettie. Her eyes rolled in protest.

Mr Phillips rose to the occasion. He produced a notebook and an air of cold efficiency.

“Thanks, Miss Maltby,” he said. “What Mews did you say? I'll just take down the address, and then you'd better go straight to the police-station. You don't want the girl to get away—do you?”

The vague look passed. Miss Maltby picked up her umbrella and began to button her coat.

“I shall have to go home. To get the bag and cap.”

“Yes, yes—you'd better hurry.”

He came back after seeing her out, to find Ettie turning down the fire.

“If I have to see much of that woman, Al, you'll have to put me in an asylum,” she said.

“I wish she was in one,” said Mr Phillips gloomily.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Jasper Wrenn retrieved Anthony's suit-case without difficulty. Put like that, there is nothing in it, but to Jasper the affair was by no means a simple one. First of all there was a state of homicidal jealousy to be reckoned with. What sort of right had Anthony to send him off to fetch suit-cases whilst
he
went to Shirley? It wasn't Jasper's suit-case. It wasn't even Shirley's suit-case. It was Mr Anthony Leigh's suit-case. And Mr Anthony Leigh couldn't do his own fetching and carrying. In the calmest manner in the world he sent other people on his errands—people who had a great deal more right to be with Shirley than he had. Well, that was where the point went sharply home. Had they? Had they more right? No, not they—
he
. Had he any right at all? Did Shirley want him, or did she want this damned fellow who sent him fagging across London as if he were a schoolboy? Jasper's blood boiled. The worst part of the whole thing was that when Anthony said, “Go!” he had gone. He hadn't said, “Fetch your own suit-case and be damned to you!” He hadn't said anything at all, and whilst he was still thinking of something to say, Anthony had hung up at the other end of the line and he had been left. If the suit-case hadn't been in some sort Shirley's, and if it hadn't been she herself who had entrusted him with the ticket, he would have turned back half way. As it was, he went on.