Rolling Stone (30 page)

“Peter—”

“Terry—”

Terry began to laugh.

“You go on saying it,” she explained.

“I know I do. It's absolutely crass. I don't really want to say anything at all. I've always wondered how people manage to propose without making fools of themselves.”

“They d-don't.”

“You just let yourself go and don't care whether you're making a fool of yourself or not?”

“I think so.”

“Terry—I'm doing it again, and I'm making a fool of myself all right—only I don't care if you don't. Do you?
Do you
?”

“No—I mean—Oh, Peter, you don't really, do you?”

The conversation became incoherent.

CHAPTER XLII

Miss Blanche Hollinger looked at her watch. She was going to have tea with her dear friend Miss Talbot, and Miss Talbot set great store on punctuality. Miss Hollinger set great store on it herself. She had been resting, and she wished to allow herself plenty of time to dress. Tea would be at a quarter past four, and owing to Miss Talbot's recent bereavement—very sad, very sad indeed—it was probable that her dear friend would be the only guest. But she must have plenty of time to dress.

She proceeded in a leisurely fashion, and it was astonishing how long it took. Nobody who knew Miss Blanche Hollinger would have supposed her toilet to have been a lengthy affair. The result hardly seemed commensurate with the time and care expended, yet she seemed abundantly satisfied herself. The tilted glass reflected a stooped, middle-aged figure in very middle-aged underwear of the solid, bulky sort which dressmakers deplore. The grizzled hair was twisted into a bun at the back, but there were a number of wispy ends which defied control. Tinted spectacles are not embellishing, nor was Miss Hollinger's countenance one which it would have been easy to embellish. The skin was sallow and shiny. There was an ugly droop of the mouth—Nevertheless the lady seemed pleased with herself. She donned grey Cashmere stockings and square-toed strap shoes, and then, throwing open a cupboard door, she stood hesitating between her best and her second-best dress. The second-best had it. Miss Fanny would certainly be alone, and after a bright interval the day was breaking down. Her old black would do very well indeed.

She put it on, a frumpy, old-maidish garment of a full and bundly cut. She added the cyclamen scarf, and fastened it at the neck with a pebble brooch.

The hat came next, and again she hesitated, deciding finally on a boat-shaped purple felt. Her old black coat would do, as she had only to run in next door, and she would be leaving it in the hall.

Owing to the fact that her bedroom was at the back of the house, Miss Hollinger missed the arrival of Peter and Terry in a taxi. It set them down and departed again whilst she was fastening her shoes. Terry was being embraced by Miss Talbot whilst Miss Talbot's dear friend was still undecided as to which of her two hats she should wear.

There was a second embrace.

“Oh, my dear child—what a joyful, joyful day!” Miss Talbot produced a handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. “After being so dreadfully, dreadfully unhappy—to have everything come right! It seems almost too much—exactly like the prodigal son. Only of course, my dear, I don't mean that Peter would ever have behaved like that, because he's always been the best of boys.”

Peter put an arm about her.

“That's right, Aunt Fanny—speak up for me. You see, she met me in such bad company that it's going to take quite a lot of living down.”

Miss Talbot looked fondly from one to the other.

“And I have so wanted you to be friends,” she said. Then, with a simplicity which Terry found touching, “He
is
good, my dear—he really is. He has always been very good to his old aunt.”

Peter's conscience gave him a sharp stab. He bent to kiss her, and at this affecting moment the door opened and Miller announced,

“Miss Hollinger—”

The little group broke up in inward if not outward confusion. Miss Hollinger stood just inside the door peering short-sightedly through her glasses. She couldn't believe her eyes—she really couldn't believe her eyes.

Miss Talbot rustled to meet her—not in black, not in mourning at all—in fact quite the contrary. The dress that rustled so imposingly was that rather bright blue silk which she had bought just before the sad news of her nephew's death. And she was wearing her best diamond brooch. No wonder Miss Hollinger blinked.

Miss Talbot took her by both hands and said in a warm, excited voice,

“Oh, my dear, come in, come in! Such wonderful news—you'll never guess—I don't see how anyone could! It's like the most joyful dream, and I'm only afraid that I may wake up! But no, no, it's true—oh, thank God, it's true! My dear, dear Peter whom I thought was dead! Oh, my dear, it is exactly like the prodigal son, except that he never was a
prodigal
. But he was dead and he is alive again, and he was lost and he is found!”

Miss Blanche Hollinger stood there peering and blinking, first at the ample figure, the bright blue dress, the large plump face and handsome white hair of her dearest friend, and then at the two young people by the tea-table. They were standing quite close together—that girl Terry Clive whom she had never really liked, and a young man with blunt features and fair hair who, astonishing though it seemed, must be dear, dear Peter.

Miller had turned on the light in the old-fashioned crystal chandelier. The drops dazzled with all the colours of the rainbow, and the light shone full upon Peter Talbot. Miss Hollinger gave a little gasp and pressed the hands which still grasped her own. She said in her high, toneless voice—a faded voice with no ring in it,

“Oh, my dear friend—” She paused, apparently to seek for words, and finding none, fell back on a fluttered repetition. “Oh, my
dear
friend—”

“Come and meet him,” said Miss Talbot. She released her clasp, put an arm about Miss Hollinger's shoulders, and drew her forward. “You know my dear Terry, but you and Peter—I don't think you have ever met.”

“Once in the dark.” Peter came and shook hands. “And of course I know you by sight, Miss Hollinger—I've seen you from the windows here. But you wouldn't know me.”

Miss Hollinger fluttered.

“No, no—of course not,” she said. “And your aunt has no photograph, Mr. Talbot.”

“He wouldn't be done,” sighed Miss Talbot. “But you must now, my dear boy, for you know, when I thought you were dead and I hadn't even got a photograph—no, no, I don't want to think about that dreadful time. But it would have been a comfort—I did feel that, though of course no picture really does justice to someone you love.”

“Oh, yes—that is so true,” said Miss Hollinger. “How do you do, Miss Clive. And now you must not really let me intrude upon this family re-union. You should have put me off, my dear friend—I could come another day—”

But Miss Talbot held her firmly.

“Certainly not! Why, I wouldn't hear of it! I asked you to tea when I thought I was only going to have my own poor company to offer you, and now that Peter and Terry are here, it's the most delightful thing in the world, because I always like my friends to know and like each other, and I've wanted you to meet my dear Peter for so long. But that time you did meet—in the dark—he was just going abroad. Sit down here, my dear, between Peter and me. And, Terry dear, you come over here.… Yes, abroad, my dear, and that is how the stupid mistake arose about his being dead.… Yes, ring for the tea, Peter—and Miller can draw the curtains too.… They are so very careless abroad—really criminally so. You know, I always feel as if anything might happen there. And, you see, it
did
. That poor man with the very odd name—what was it, Peter?—Mr. Spike—yes, Spike Reilly—if it had happened in England, he might have died ten times over in the same hotel as Peter without such a disgraceful mistake being made. Because that is how it happened, my dear, though I shall never quite understand how it was possible,
even abroad
. That poor man died in the hotel, and by some disgracefully careless mistake he was buried as Peter Talbot.”

The entrance of Miller with the tea-tray had by no means interrupted the flow of Miss Fanny's talk. Miss Hollinger said,

“Oh dear—what a terrible mistake!” and, “Oh, thank you,” when she took a cup of tea.

Miller, at the window, released the rose-coloured curtains from the silk cords which held them back. The room was gay with a rose chintz, the gold of picture frames, and the smooth sheen of flower-patterned china under the sparkling chandelier. Miss Fanny Talbot sat behind a massive Victorian silver tray and dispensed tea from an immense bulbous teapot. Her white hair picked up the light and shimmered like frost. Her fine dark eyes were shining with excitement. Her really beautiful rings flashed with ruby—diamond—sapphire—

In this bright setting Miss Hollinger made a faded picture. The purple boater had seen better days, the cyclamen scarf was a wilted rag, and she was wearing her old black. She may have wished that she had not put it on. It is certain that she had no idea of the sound foundation on which such a wish might very well have rested.

Miss Talbot, pouring out tea and talking all the time, was a little chilled, a little disappointed. She expected more sympathy, more warmth from her dear friend. And perhaps Miss Hollinger realized this, for quite suddenly she was responding just as Miss Talbot would have wished her to respond. She could not stem the tide of talk—it would have been vain to attempt it—but she cast her offerings upon its tide—an “Oh,
yes”;
a “Yes, indeed”; an air of devout attention; short interjections expressing wonder, sympathy, interest, and thankfulness. Peter proffered cake. A small piece was taken, nibbled slightly, and crumbled on the plate. Miss Hollinger's attention was entirely taken up with what her dear friend was saying.

Peter, very much bored, caught Terry's eye. He was afraid he was going to laugh, and looked quickly away.

His glance fell by chance upon one of the breadths of Miss Hollinger's bundly skirt. It was made very full after some archaic fashion, and as she sat turned towards Miss Talbot and away from him, the breadth of black stuff displayed a row of little holes. In other circumstances he might have thought that the moth had got into it, but the moment he saw those holes he knew that he had made them himself. With a pair of nail-scissors. In a taxi. With an old lady who had coughed and explained to him that he was to look after Terry Clive until she could safely and conveniently be murdered.

Peter felt himself turning cold. Ice-cold and steel-hard.

The old lady with the cough had been Maud Millicent Simpson.

She had sat beside him in a taxi.

He had cut those five nicks in her skirt.

It was Maud Millicent Simpson's skirt.

It was Miss Blanche Hollinger's skirt.

His thoughts raced, but neither his face nor his body moved. His eyes lifted to Miss Hollinger's face and dropped again. Maud Millicent's ears had been pierced. She had worn pearl studs in them. Miss Hollinger's ears were pierced. She wore small gold rings in them. Her grey, untidy hair hid all the ear except the pierced lobe, but as soon as Peter's eyes had rested upon that lobe his racing thoughts came to a sudden stop. They had reached certainty. They stayed upon it.

The lobe of an ear. Not much to go upon, but enough. No two lobes are alike in shape, in texture, in the way they join the line of the jaw. The lobe that had worn the pearl stud was the lobe that was wearing the gold ring. He was as sure of it as he had ever been of anything in all his life.

And so what?

Miss Talbot's voice broke in.

“Terry darling, you are eating nothing. Mrs. Grey will be seriously offended if nobody eats her cake. She has made a very special angel-cake for us. Cut it, Peter dear, and give Terry a piece—and then, I think, Miss Hollinger will be ready.”

Peter got up. He stood there cutting the cake. What was he going to do? Could he make an excuse to get out of the room and telephone to Garrett—to Scotland Yard? Garrett would be the quickest—half a dozen words would be enough. He had them all ready—“Maud Millicent here at Aunt Fanny's. Get Scotland Yard.”

He took Terry her piece of cake. The plan was a washout. He simply did not dare leave Terry and Aunt Fanny alone with Maud Millicent, who might guess why he had left the room. That she was as cunning as she was ruthless he knew very well. The disturbance of his thought might have warned her already. She might be guessing
now
. Just what a facer it must have been to come into Aunt Fanny's drawing-room and meet him there, he could imagine.

He cut another piece of cake slowly. Thank heaven Aunt Fanny never stopped talking. He took off his hat to Maud Millicent's nerve, but it appalled him. Aunt Fanny's drawing-room and Spike Reilly—and she hadn't showed a thing! A woman with a nerve like that would take any desperate chance to get away. That bunchy skirt would easily accommodate the little pistol which she had pressed against Terry's neck only last night.

He carried the cake to Miss Hollinger. She helped herself, twittering excuses.

“Dear Miss Talbot—always so kind—but indeed I hardly ever eat cake—only—as you say—Mrs. Grey—such an excellent cook—and, I'm sure, such an excellent cake.”

Peter turned away and set the plate down again. The plain fact was that she could shoot them all—if she chose to take a chance. Not such a desperate chance when all was said and done. Mrs. Grey was as deaf as a post, and Miller tolerably hard of hearing though she wouldn't admit it—and the two of them a couple of floors down in a basement kitchen. Not much risk there—an empty house on one side since old Mrs. Langley's death, and Miss Hollinger's own house on the other, empty too. He remembered Aunt Fanny saying that she only had a morning maid. If Maud Millicent could get ten minutes' start, the police would never lay hands on her. Wig, hat, and dress—it wouldn't take ten minutes to change these, and he would certainly have a bolt-hole where, as Frank Garrett said, she could change her skin.