Some Must Watch - Ethel Lina White (best book club books .TXT) 📗
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formula for poison-gas hardly meets the case. We need brute-force.”
The Professor smiled bleakly.
“My despised brain may yet prove the trump-card,” he said. “Does Simone
know that Rice has left?”
“Yes.” Newton bristled at the implication. “What of it?”
“I leave that to you.”
“She’s got a headache,” said Helen. “Mr. Warren has asked me to see to
her.”
The Professor’s eyes slanted slightly inwards, as though he were trying
to peer inside the lighted recesses of his brain.
“An excellent idea,” he said. “Remember my daughter-in-law is
temperamental. You may have to influence her, but don’t irritate her.”
He whispered to his son, who nodded, and passed on the instruction.
“Miss Capel, it might be wiser not to leave her alone.”
Helen felt rather important as she went up to the red room, although she
was slightly doubtful of the success of her mission. As she paused
outside the door, she could hear the sounds of strangled sobbing. No
notice was taken of her knock, so she entered, uninvited—to find Simone
stretched, face downwards, on the bed.
“Oh, your lovely dress,” she cried. “You’ll ruin it.”
Simone raised her head, showing a tear-streaked face.
“I hate it,” she snarled.
“Then take it off. Anyway, you’ll feel freer in a wrapper.”
It was second nature to Simone, to be waited on, so she made no protest
as Helen peeled the sheath-like gown over her head.
The younger girl took rather a long time in her selection of a
substitute, from the wardrobe. The sight of so many beautiful garments
aroused her wistful envy. “What lover-ly things you have,” she said; as
she returned to the bed, carrying a wisp of georgette and lace, which
was less substantial than the discarded gown.
“What’s the good of them?” asked Simone bitterly. “There’s no man to see
them.”
“There’s your husband,” Helen reminded her.
“I said ‘man’.” “Shall I get you some aspirin for your head?” asked
Helen, who was determined to keep Simone’s ailments on a strictly
physical basis.
“No,” replied Simone. “I feel foul. But it’s not that. I’m so terribly
unhappy.”
“But you’ve everything,” cried Helen.
“Everything. And nothing I want… My whole life has been one of
sacrifice. Whenever I want something, it’s taken from me.” She coiled
herself into a sitting posture, as a prelude to confidence. While her
make-up was ruined, the tempest had swept harmlessly over her plastic
coiffure, for her hair gleamed like unflawed black enamel.
“Has Stephen Rice ever flirted with you?” she asked.
“No,” replied Helen. “And, if he did, I shouldn’t tell you. Affairs
should be kept private.”
“But, my good woman, how can they be? One goes out—balls, restaurants,
and so on. And there’s always the inevitable man.”
“I wasn’t thinking of you,” said Helen. “I was naturally speaking for
myself.”
“You? Have you a lover?”
“Of course,” replied Helen recklessly, as she remembered Dr. Parry’s
prophecy. “I’m sorry, but I’m more interested in myself than you. Of
course, I know that you have your photograph in the papers and that
people talk about you. But to me, you’re a type. I see lots like you,
everywhere.”
Simone stared incredulously at Helen, whom she had only vaguely noticed
as someone small, who wore a pinafore and shook a perpetual duster.
Although she was staggered to realize that the nonentity was actually
claiming individuality, she could not keep off her special subject.
“What do you think of Stephen?” she asked.
“I like him,” replied Helen, “but I think he’s a rotter. He shouldn’t
have left us in the jam.”
“Left us?” echoed Simone, springing up from her reclining posture
“Yes, he’s gone for good. Didn’t you know?”
Helen was rather startled by the effect of her news on Simone. She sat,
as though stunned, her fingers pressed tightly over her lips. “Where did
he go?” she asked in a low voice.
Helen determined to make a thorough job of Simone’s disillusionment.
“To the Bull,” she replied.
“To that woman, you mean.” “If you mean the landlord’s daughter,” Helen
said, “he, was talking about her in the kitchen. He said he couldn’t go
away without wishing her ‘Goodbye’.”
The next second, she realized her blunder, as Simone burst into a storm
of tears.
“He’s gone,” she cried. “That woman has him… I want him so. You
don’t understand. Its’ burning me up… I must do something.”
“Oh, don’t yearn over him,” entreated Helen. “He’s not worth it. You’re
only making yourself cheap.”
“Shut up. And get out of my room.”
“I don’t want to be where I’m not wanted,” Helen said stoutly. “But I’ve
orders not to leave you.”
Her speech roused Simone to white fury.
“So that’s it?” she cried. “You were sent to spy on me? That was clever
of them. Oh, thank them from me. But why didn’t I think of it for
myself?”
“What do you mean?” asked Helen nervously.
“You’ll see. Oh, you’ll see.”
Helen watched in silent dismay, as Simone whirled around the room,
snatching at garments and dressing in frantic haste. She realized that
the situation had passed from her control. She could no more arrest the
inevitable catastrophe than subdue a runaway engine.
She cried out in protest, however, as Simone dragged on her fur coat.
“Where are you going?” she demanded.
“Out of this house. I won’t stay to be watched and insulted.” Simone
snatched up a handful of jewelry, thrust it inside her bag, and turned
to Helen. “I’m going’ to my lover. Tell the Professor I shan’t be
back-tonight.”
“No, you shan’t go,” declared Helen, trying to grip Simone’s wrists. “He
doesn’t want you.”
The struggle was short and desperate, but Simone was the stronger,
besides being entirely reckless. Careless of consequences, she pushed
Helen away with such force that the girl was thrown to the floor.
Although Helen was not hurt, she wasted a little time in assuring
herself that such was actually the case. While she was rubbing her
aching head, she heard the click of a key in the lock, and realized that
she was a prisoner.
THE DEFENCE WEAKENS
The sound brought Helen to her feet and sent her rushing to the door,
even while she knew that she was too late. She tugged at the handle and
battered on the panels, to relieve her feelings, rather than with any
hope of release.
It was a humiliating situation, and indignation was her strongest
emotion. She had been, thrown about, as though she were a dummy, in a
film. Worst of all, she had failed again in a position of trust. The
thought quickened her sense of responsibility and made her rack her
brain for some method of arousing the household—only to be forced back
on the hopeless expedient of ringing the bell.
Even as she pressed the button, she knew that no one would come. The
bell rang down in the basement-hall, where Mrs. Oates would only hear it
as a soothing accompaniment to her snores. Were she roused, she would
ignore it, on principle.
Bells were none of her business. She did so much during her
working-hours, that she was forced, in self-defence, to guard her
precious leisure. Helen remembered how she would point, either to her
husband or the girl, and sing “The bells of Hell go ting-a-ling-a-ling,
for you, but not for me,” whenever she noticed an unanswered tinkle.
It was soon obvious that she did not intend to relax her rule on this
occasion. Helen stopped prodding the button, and resigned herself to an
indefinite wait.
At first, she had plenty of occupation, for she was able to satisfy her
curiosity over Simone’s wardrobe and toilet-aids; but she could not
bring her usual interest to her investigations. Every silk stocking and
pot of rouge reminded her of Simone. She was out in the storm—lashed on
by a spluttering match of desire, which she had magnified to a torch of
passion.
Helen reconstructed her—a luxury-product, spoiled neurotic and useless
from her cradle, every wish had been gratified and every whim forestalled.
She had been shielded under a glass-case, lest life should blow too
roughly upon her.
And, even then, the horror might be closing over her—the glass shattered,
leaving her defenceless, to face reality.
Instead of protecting arms, she would see hands stretched out, in
menace. She would cry for help, and—for the first time in her life—she
would cry in vain.
That was the vision which kept flashing across Helen’s mind, as she
thought of Simone’s peril. Although she had done her best, she still
felt a sense of guilt. In order to prepare her story for the defence,
she began to reconstruct the incident.
As she did so, she was again visited by a disquieting memory. This time,
it was an auditory illusion. She was positive that she had heard the key
click in the lock at the same time as she listened to the sound of
Simone’s frantic flight down the stairs.
“Someone else locked me in,” she whispered. “Who? And why?”
She could only conjecture that Nurse Barker had been on the landing,
probably attracted up there by the noise of the scuffle. If she had
grasped the situation, her jealousy might have urged her to imprison
Helen, in order to stamp her as an incompetent.
Suddenly Helen received a belated inspiration. Mrs. Oates had told her
that all the doors in the Summit were fitted with the same lock. In that
case, Newton’s dressingroom key should fit the bedroom keyhole.
She had some difficulty in wrenching it out, for it was rusted from
desuetude. From her recent investigations, she knew where to find
Newton’s hair-oil; but before she began her lubrications, she decided to
match it with the lock.
As she grasped the handle of the bedroom door, it slipped round in her
fingers, and swung open. Her lips, too, fell apart, as she stared out at
the deserted landing.
“Well,” she gasped.
Faced with the prospect of a violent drop in favour, she ran downstairs,
to raise the alarm. While she had established the fact that she was the
victim of a practicaljoke—or trick—it was impossible to prove it to
her employers. She decided that it would be wiser to accept any blame,
and remain silent, only to find that no explanation was required. When
she blurted out the news of Simone’s flight, the Warren family was
united in a solid front, to save the situation.
As the Professor, Miss Warren and Newton looked at each other, the
likeness between them, became plain. The muscles of their thin overbred
faces worked convulsively as the steel jaws of a trap, betraying the
violence of their emotion, and the force of their self-control.
Although Newton’s high voice broke in an occasional squeak, his manner
remained as temperate as though the subject of discussion was the
weather.
“You say, Miss Capel, that she went to the Bull, to join Rice,” asked
the Professor.
“Yes,” said.Helen, avoiding looking at Newton. “I fought with her,
but—”
“Yes, yes… The question is—who will go after her, Newton. You or
I”
“I’m going,” replied Newton,
“No, darling,” urged Miss Warren. “You’re the younger man. Your father
will have more authority. Your place is here.”
“You’re in no danger,” Newton told her. “But she’s running a horrible
risk.”
The Professor laid his hand on his son’s shoulder, to steady him, and
Helen noticed
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