Cards on the Table hp-15 Page 11

Pink with embarrassment, she pushed the bell.

  The door was opened by an elderly maid.

  "Is – could I – is Mrs. Oliver at home?" asked Rhoda.

  The maid drew back, Rhoda entered; she was shown into a very untidy drawing-room. The maid said, "What name shall I say, please?"

  "Oh – er – Miss Dawes – Miss Rhoda Dawes."

  The maid withdrew. After what seemed to Rhoda about a hundred years but was really exactly a minute and forty-five seconds, the maid returned.

  "Will you step this way, miss?"

  Pinker than ever Rhoda followed her. Along a passage, round a corner, a door was opened; nervously she entered into what seemed at first to her startled eyes to be an African forest!

  Birds – masses of birds, parrots, macaws, birds unknown to ornithology, twined themselves in and out of what seemed to be a primeval forest. In the middle of this riot of bird and vegetable life, Rhoda perceived a battered kitchen table with a typewriter on it, masses of typescript littered all over the floor, and Mrs. Oliver, her hair in wild confusion, rising from a somewhat rickety-looking chair.

  "My dear, how nice to see you," said Mrs. Oliver, holding out a carbon-stained hand and trying with her other hand to smooth her hair, a quite impossible proceeding.

  A paper bag, touched by her elbow, fell from the desk and apples rolled energetically all over the floor.

  "Never mind, my dear, don't bother, someone will pick them up sometime."

  Rather breathless, Rhoda rose from a stooping position with five apples in her grasp.

  "Oh, thank you – no, I shouldn't put them back in the bag. I think it's got a hole in it. Put them on the mantelpiece. That's right. Now then, sit down and let's talk."

  Rhoda accepted a second battered chair and focused her eyes on her hostess.

  "I say, I'm terribly sorry. Am I interrupting or anything?" she asked breathlessly.

  "Well, you are and you aren't," said Mrs. Oliver. "I am working. As you see. But that dreadful Finn of mine has got himself terribly tangled up. He did some awfully clever deduction with a dish of French beans, and now he's just detected deadly poison in the sage and onion stuffing of the Michaelmas goose and I've just remembered that French beans are over by Michaelmas."

  Thrilled by this peep into the inner world of creative detective fiction Rhoda said breathlessly, "They might be tinned."

  "They might, of course," said Mrs. Oliver, doubtfully. "But it would rather spoil the point. I'm always getting tangled up in horticulture and things like that. People write to me and say I've got the wrong flowers all out together. As though it mattered – and anyway they are all out together in a London shop."

  "Of course it doesn't matter." said Rhoda loyally. "Oh, Mrs. Oliver, it must be marvelous to write."

  Mrs. Oliver rubbed her forehead with a carbony finger and asked, "Why?"

  "Oh," said Rhoda, a little taken aback. "Because it must. It must be wonderful just to sit down and write off a whole book."

  "It doesn't happen exactly like that," said Mrs. Oliver. "One actually has to think, you know. And thinking is always a bore. And you have to plan things. And then one gets stuck every now and then and you feel you'll never get out of the mess – but you do! Writing's not particularly enjoyable. It's hard work like everything else."

  "It doesn't seem like work," said Rhoda.

  "Not to you," said Mrs. Oliver, "because you don't have to do it! It feels very like work to me. Some days I can only keep going by repeating over and over to myself the amount of money I might get for my next serial rights. That spurs you on, you know. So does your bankbook when you see how much overdrawn you are."

  "I never imagined you actually typed your books yourself," said Rhoda. "I thought you'd have a secretary."

  "I did have a secretary and I used to try and dictate to her but she was so competent that it used to depress me. I felt she knew so much more about English and grammar and full stops and semicolons than I did, that it gave me a kind of inferiority complex. Then I tried having a thoroughly incompetent secretary but, of course, that didn't answer very well either."

  "It must be so wonderful to be able to think of things," said Rhoda.

  "I can always think of things," said Mrs. Oliver, happily. "What is so tiring is writing them down. I always think I've finished and then when I count up I find I've only written thirty thousand words instead of sixty thousand and so then I have to throw in another murder and get the heroine kidnaped again. It's all very boring."

  Rhoda did not answer. She was staring at Mrs. Oliver with the reverence felt by youth for celebrity – slightly tinged by disappointment.

  "Do you like the wallpaper?" asked Mrs. Oliver, waving an airy hand. "I'm frightfully fond of birds. The foliage is supposed to be tropical. It makes me feel it's a hot day even when it's freezing. I can't do anything unless I feel very, very warm. But Sven Hjerson breaks the ice on his bath every morning!"

  "I think it's all marvelous," said Rhoda. "And it's awfully nice of you to say I'm not interrupting you."

  "We'll have some coffee and toast," said Mrs. Oliver. "Very black coffee and very hot toast. I can always eat that any time."

  She went to the door, opened it, and shouted. Then she returned and said, "What brings you to town – shopping?"

  "Yes, I've been doing some shopping."

  "Is Miss Meredith up too?"

  "Yes, she's gone with Major Despard to a solicitor."

  "Solicitor, eh?" Mrs. Oliver's brows rose inquiringly.

  "Yes, you see Major Despard told her she ought to have one. He's been awfully kind – he really has."

  "I was kind, too," said Mrs. Oliver, "but it didn't seem to go down very well, did it? In fact I think your friend rather resented my coming."

  "Oh, she didn't – really she didn't." Rhoda wriggled on her chair in a paroxysm of embarrassment. "That's really one reason why I wanted to come today – to explain. You see, I saw you had got it all wrong. She did seem very ungracious, but it wasn't that really. I mean it wasn't your coming. It was something you said."

  "Something I said?"

  "Yes, you couldn't tell, of course. It was just unfortunate."

  "What did I say?"

  "I don't expect you remember even. It was just the way you put it. You said something about an accident and poison."

  "Did I?"

  "I knew you'd probably not remember. Yes, you see Anne had a ghastly experience once. She was in a house where a woman took some poison – hat paint, I think it was – by mistake for something else. And she died. And of course, it was an awful shock to Anne. She can't bear thinking of it or speaking of it. And your saying that reminded her, of course, and she dried up and got all stiff and queer like she does. And I saw you noticed it. And I couldn't say anything in front of her. But I did want you to know that it wasn't what you thought. She wasn't ungrateful."

  Mrs. Oliver looked at Rhoda's Hushed eager face. She said slowly, "I see."

  "Anne's awfully sensitive," said Rhoda. "And she's bad about – well, facing things. If anything's upset her, she'd just rather not talk about it – although that isn't any good really – at least I don't think so. Things are there just the some, whether you talk about them or not. It's only running away from them to pretend they don't exist. I'd rather have it all out, however painful it would be."

  "Ah," said Mrs. Oliver quietly. "but you, my dear, are a soldier. Your Anne isn't."

  Rhoda flushed. "Anne's a darling."

  Mrs. Oliver smiled.

  She said, "I didn't say she wasn't. I only said she hadn't got your particular brand of courage."

  She sighed, then said rather unexpectedly to the girl, "Do you believe in the value of truth, my dear, or don't you?"

  "Of course I believe in the truth," said Rhoda, staring.

  "Yes, you say that, but perhaps you haven't thought about it. The truth hurts sometimes – and destroys one's illusions."

  "I'd rather have it all the same," said Rhoda.

>   "So would I. But I don't know that we're wise."

  Rhoda said earnestly. "Don't tell Anne, will you, what I've told you? She wouldn't like it."

  "I certainly shouldn't dream of doing any such thing. Was this long ago?"

  "About four or five years ago. It's odd, isn't it, how the same things happen again and again to people. I had an aunt who was always in shipwrecks. And here's Anne mixed up in two sudden deaths – only, of course, this one is much worse. Murder's rather awful, isn't it?"

  "Yes, it is."

  The black coffee and the hot buttered toast appeared at this minute. Rhoda ate and drank with childish gusto. It was very exciting to her thus to be sharing an intimate meal with a celebrity.

  When they had finished she rose and said, "I do hope I haven't interrupted you too terribly. Would you mind – I mean would it bother you awfully if I sent one of your books to you; would you sign it for me?"

  Mrs. Oliver laughed. "Oh, I can do better than that for you." She opened a cupboard at the far end of the room. "Which would you like? I rather fancy The Affair of the Second Goldfish myself. It's not quite such frightful tripe as the rest."

  A little shocked at hearing an authoress thus describe the children of her pen, Rhoda accepted eagerly. Mrs. Oliver took the book, opened it, inscribed her name with a superlative flourish, and handed it to Rhoda.

  "There you are."

  "Thank you very much. I have enjoyed myself. Sure you didn't mind my coming?"

  "I wanted you to," said Mrs. Oliver.

  She added after a moment's pause, "You're a nice child. Good-by. Take care of yourself, my dear."

  "Now why did I say that?" she murmured to herself as the door closed behind her guest.

  She shook her head, milled her hair, and returned to the masterly dealings of Sven Hjerson with the sage and onion stuffing.

  Chapter 18

  TEA INTERLUDE

  Mrs. Lorrimer came out of a certain door in Harley Street. She stood for a minute at the top of the steps and then she descended them slowly.

  There was a curious expression on her face – a mingling of grim determination and of strange indecision. She bent her brows a little as though to concentrate on some all-absorbing problem.

  It was just then that she caught sight of Anne Meredith on the opposite pavement. Anne was standing staring up at a big block of flats just on the corner.

  Mrs. Lorrimer hesitated a moment, then she crossed the street. "How do you do, Miss Meredith?"

  Anne started and turned. "Oh, how do you do?"

  "Still in London?" said Mrs. Lorrimer.

  "No. I've only come up for the day. To do some legal business."

  Her eyes were still straying back to the big block of flats. Mrs. Lorrimer said, "Is anything the matter?"

  Anne started guiltily.

  "The matter? Oh, no, what should be the matter?"

  "You were looking as though you had something on your mind."

  "I haven't – well, at least I have – but it's nothing important, something quite silly." She laughed a little.

  She went on, "It's only that I thought I saw my friend – the girl I live with – go in there, and I wondered if she'd gone to see Mrs. Oliver."

  "Is that where Mrs. Oliver lives? I didn't know."

  "Yes. She came to see us the other day and she gave us her address and asked us to come and see her. I wondered if it was Rhoda I saw or not."

  "Do you want to go up and see?"

  "No, I'd rather not do that."

  "Come and have tea with me," said Mrs. Lorrimer. "There is a shop quite near here that I know."

  "It's very kind of you," said Anne, hesitating.

  Side by side they walked down the street and turned into a side street. In a small pastrycook's they were served with tea and muffins. They did not talk much. Each of them seemed to find the other's silence restful.

  Anne asked suddenly, "Has Mrs. Oliver been to see you?"

  Mrs. Lorrimer shook her head.

  "No one has been to see me except Monsieur Poirot."

  "I didn't mean -" began Anne.

  "Didn't you? I think you did," said Mrs. Lorrimer.

  The girl looked up – a quick, frightened glance. Something she saw in Mrs. Lorrimer's face seemed to reassure her.

  "He hasn't been to see me," she said slowly.

  There was a pause.

  "Hasn't Superintendent Battle been to see you?" asked Anne.

  "Oh, yes, of course," said Mrs. Lorrimer.

  Anne said hesitatingly, "What sort of things did he ask you?"

  Mrs. Lorrimer sighed wearily. "The usual things, I suppose. Routine inquiries. He was very pleasant over it all."

  "I suppose he interviewed everyone."

  "I should think so." There was another pause.

  Anne asked, "Mrs. Lorrimer, do you think – they will ever find out who did it?"

  Her eyes were bent on her plate. She did not see the curious expression in the older woman's eyes as she watched the downcast head.

  Mrs. Lorrimer said quietly, "I don't know."

  Anne murmured, "It's not – very nice, is it?"

  There was that same curious appraising and yet sympathetic look in Mrs. Lorrimer's face, as she asked, "How old are you, Anne Meredith?"

  "I – I?" the girl stammered. "I'm twenty-five."

  "And I am sixty-three," said Mrs. Lorrimer.

  She went on slowly, "Most of your life is in front of you."

  Anne shivered. "I might be run over by a bus on the way home," she said.

  "Yes, that is true. And I – might not."

  Mrs. Lorrimer said it in an odd way. Anne looked at her in astonishment.

  "Life is a difficult business," continued Mrs. Lorrimer. "You'll know that when you come to my age. It needs infinite courage and a lot of endurance. And in the end one wonders, 'Was it worth while?'"

  "Oh, don't," said Anne.

  Mrs. Lorrimer laughed, her old competent self again.

  "It's rather cheap to say gloomy things about life," she said. She called the waitress and settled the bill.

  As they got to the shop door a taxi crawled past and Mrs. Lorrimer hailed it.

  "Can I give you a lift?" she asked. "I am going south of the Park."

  Anne's face had lighted up.

  "No, thank you. I see my friend turning the corner. Thank you so much, Mrs. Lorrimer. Good-by."

  "Good-by. Good luck," said the older woman.

  She drove away and Anne hurried forward.

  Rhoda's face lighted up when she saw her friend, then changed to a slightly guilty expression. "Rhoda, have you been to see Mrs. Oliver?" demanded Anne.

  "Well, as a matter of fact, I have."

  "And I just caught you."

  "I don't know what you mean by caught. Let's go down here and take a bus. You'd gone off on your own with the boy friend. I thought at least he'd give you tea."

  Anne was silent for a minute – a voice ringing in her ears, "Can't we pick up your friend somewhere and all have tea together?"

  And her own answer – hurried, without taking time to think, "Thanks awfully, but we've got to go out to tea together with some people."

  A lie – and such a silly lie. The stupid way one said the first thing that came into one's head instead of just taking a minute or two to think. Perfectly easy to have said, "Thanks, but my friend has got to go out to eat." That is, if you didn't want, as she hadn't wanted, to have Rhoda, too.

  Rather odd, that, the way she hadn't wanted Rhoda. She had wanted, definitely, to keep Despard to herself. She had felt jealous. Jealous of Rhoda. Rhoda was so bright, so ready to talk, so full of enthusiasm and life. The other evening Major Despard had looked as though he thought Rhoda nice. But it was her, Anne Meredith, he had come down to see. Rhoda was like that. She didn't mean it, but she reduced you to background. No, definitely she hadn't wanted Rhoda there.

  But she had managed it very stupidly, getting flurried like that. If she'd managed better, sh
e might be sitting now having tea with Major Despard at his club or somewhere.

  She felt definitely annoyed with Rhoda. Rhoda was a nuisance. And what she had been doing, going to see Mrs. Oliver? Out loud she said, "Why did you go and see Mrs. Oliver?"

  "Well, she asked us to."

  "Yes, but I didn't suppose she really meant it. I expect she always has to say that."

  "She did mean it. She was awfully nice – couldn't have been nicer. She gave me one of her books. Look."

  Rhoda flourished her prize.

  Anne said suspiciously, "What did you talk about? Not me?"

  "Listen to the conceit of the girl!"

  "No, but did you? Did you talk about the – the murder?"

  "We talked about her murders. She's writing one where there's poison in the sage and onions. She was frightfully human – and said writing was awfully hard work and said how she got into tangles with plots, and we had black coffee and hot buttered toast," finished Rhoda in a triumphant burst.

  Then she added, "Oh, Anne, you want your tea."

  "No, I don't. I've had it, with Mrs. Lorrimer,"

  "Mrs. Lorrimer? Isn't that the one – the one who was there?"

  Anne nodded.

  "Where did you come across her? Did you go and see her?"

  "No. I ran across her in Harley Street."

  "What was she like?"

  Anne said slowly, "I don't know. She was – rather queer. Not at all like the other night."

  "Do you still think she did it?" asked Rhoda.

  Anne was silent for a minute or two. Then she said, "I don't know. Don't let's talk of it. Rhoda! You know how I hate talking of things."

  "All right, darling. What was the solicitor like? Very dry and legal?"

  "Rather alert."

  "Sounds all right." She waited a little and then asked, "How was Major Despard?"

  "Very kind."

  "He's fallen for you, Anne. I'm sure he has."

  "Rhoda, don't talk nonsense."

  "Well, you'll see."

  Rhoda began humming to herself. She thought, Of course he's fallen for her. Anne's awfully pretty. But a bit wishy-washy – She'll never go on treks with him. Why, she'd scream if she saw a snake. Men always do take fancies to unsuitable women.

  Then she said aloud, "That bus will take us to Paddington. We'll just catch the four-forty-eight."