Mr. Zero (8 page)

Nobody said anything more about Algy. He was grateful, but he wondered why, discerning ultimately a queer substratum of loyalty that closed the ranks—and the tongues—against the outsider. Because Brewster—well there he was, just Brewster, Monty's Industrious Apprentice, not quite one of themselves. Algy would be thrown only to his own wolf pack to rend. And who said dog didn't eat dog? Wait and see.

X

Masses of people came in after dinner. They played darts, and shove-halfpenny, and the ancient, never-dying games of Love and Scandal in their most up-to-date forms—fewer words to the game, but the same call of the eye, the same lift of the eyebrow that beckoned a man or killed a reputation in Egypt, Greece or Rome two thousand years ago.

Sylvia couldn't throw a dart straight to save her life. She regarded shove-halfpenny with horror. Why handle coppers if you hadn't got to? She didn't play the other games either. Algy took her to the window, lifted a bright green curtain, and let it fall again behind them.

“Look out here. Wait a minute till you can see. It's worth while.”

They looked down as from a cliff on the dark tops of trees, all dark, all blurred, all moving in a wind which made no sound. More trees. Black houses away on the other side of the square, with bright lines showing here and there where a blind fell short or a curtain did not meet and just one window high up, bright and bare, with a black shadow coming and going in the room behind. And the river away to the left. Lights on it, moving lights, and a dark, slow stream, and the line of houses beyond, like an escarpment, blank and sheer.

To look out like this at night was to be soothed, consoled, assured of things immeasurably old and permanent—London—the river—trees and clouds—houses where people kindled fires from the same flame of hope which burned for ever and did not burn away. Things went on. You were up against it, you sweated blood, you won perhaps. And the game went on. Meanwhile this moment was good. Seen, Sylvia delighted and satisfied the eye. Unseen, she had the gift of silence. She stood with her shoulder touching his and leaned a little upon the sill, but did not speak. The good moment was shared. At least that is how it seemed to Algy. He heard the faintest of faint sighs, and thought it a tribute to the night.

“It's pretty good, isn't it?” he said.

“All those trees—and the river—like the country—” But her voice was flat.

A most horrible suspicion entered Algy's mind.

“Don't you like the country?”

“Oh, no.” Surprise enlived her tone. ‘Oh, no, I hate it—don't you? Especially in the dark. Why, I lived in the country for years. It was dreadful. We hadn't even got a car, and I do hate walking. I think I'd like to go back into the room if you don't mind—I do rather hate the dark.”

Algy held the curtain and saw her pass beyond it. The light caught her gold hair and her gold dress as she went. But he did not follow her. He had been going to ask her about the Wessex-Gardners' week-end party, but there would be time for that. He dropped the curtain, and turned to the river again. The moment had not been shared after all, but it was still good.

From behind him, in a sudden fierce whisper, came the voice of Cedric Blake.

“Muriel, it's no use—I can't stand it—you'll have to!”

The whisper broke, and close by the curtain the red-haired girl laughed under her breath.

“You're driving me mad!”

“I? You're driving yourself.” Her voice was cool and scornful.

The curtain swayed inwards. Algy thought there was a snatched embrace. He thought he ought to say that he was there. He thought he had better not. Muriel's voice came in a pricking undertone.

“If you do that again—”

“What will you do?”

She gave a sudden melting laugh.

“I really don't know. Come and throw a dart.”

Algy heaved a sigh of relief. He was about to lift the curtain and emerge, when he heard his own name. Mary Carster said with tears in her voice,

“It's perfectly horrible. How can they? I love Algy.”

“Bless you, my dear,” said Algy to himself. The refrain of a pleasanter song than
Gilderoy
hummed itself in his mind:

“Kind, kind and gentle is she,

Kind is my Mary.”

It was James who was with her, and the inarticulate James was moved to reply,

“So do I. Rotten! I say, darling, you can't cry here. Do hold up.”

“I'm not crying.”

They moved away.

Algy stood frowning behind the curtain. As bad as that, was it? He heard Sylvia say sweetly and wearily,

“Oh, Mr. Brewster—how kind! I would love a chair. I don't think I like sitting on the floor very much. You see, I don't want to spoil my dress.”

“It's a very beautiful dress,” said the earnest voice of Cyril Brewster. “It is almost worthy, if I may say so, of its wearer.”

Algy controlled an inward spasm. What a fatuous ass Brewster was. No, not fatuous—that wasn't the right word at all. Simple, earnest, Victorian, bromidic—these were all much better adjectives.

“That's very nice of you,” said Sylvia with evident pleasure.

This was the moment for Algy to come out. He meant to. He was going to. But the temptation to hear more of Cyril in a complimentary mood was too much for him. With his hand on the curtain he dallied, and was rewarded.

“There is a very beautiful line in the
Idylls of the King
,” pursued Mr. Brewster—“an extremely beautiful line in which someone—a man I think—expresses himself to the effect that he that loves beauty should go beautifully. I am almost sure that it was a man, and that the lady's name was Enid, in which case it was from the poem entitled
Enid and Geraint
. I cannot be entirely certain that my memory is accurate, as it is a good many years since I opened my Tennyson.”

“I have a dreadful memory too,” said Sylvia comfortably.

Algy blessed her, and would have given a good deal to see Cyril's face. He ought to come out though, he ought to come out.

His hand went to the curtain and stayed there, because Sylvia was saying,

“Is there something wrong about Mr. Somers? I thought he was so nice.”

On any other night of any other month Algy would have taken that cue, bowed with hand on heart, and most convincingly have guaranteed his niceness. But not tonight, not with this damnable thing hanging over him. He stayed where he was, and heard Brewster, politely embarrassed.

“Oh, there's nothing, Lady Colesborough—nothing at all. I really don't know who could have given you such an impression.”

“Linda,” said Sylvia—“Mrs. Westgate, you know. I said how much I liked him and I thought I'd ask him to go to the Kensingtons' dance next week, and she said better not, and Francis wouldn't like it, but she wouldn't say why—and I did like him so much.”

“Oh, but I assure you—”

Algy began to edge away towards the second window. He lost Cyril's embarrassed defence, but he managed to emerge from behind the end curtain without being noticed.

Sylvia sat lightly on one of the chromium-plated chairs in her golden dress. Mr. Brewster occupied a jade-green cushion at her feet. Neither the colour nor the attitude became him. Darts were flying, a thought dangerously. There was a constant babel and babble of voices.

Algy found James Craster.

“Here,” he said, “I want to know how serious is this damned story—for me, I mean?”

James was large, and fair, and taciturn. He took thought, and produced reluctant words.

“Damned serious, I'm afraid.”

“People are believing it?”

“Not Mary and me.”

“Thanks. Other people though?”

James took thought again, again found words—more words than usual.

“Perhaps not today. All saying can't believe such a thing.”

“Depends how that's said.” Algy's tone was grim.

James nodded, and saved a word.

“Tomorrow they'll be spreading it. Saying ‘Suppose he did.' Next day it'll be, ‘Well, I always thought.' That's how it goes. Unless it's stopped. Better stop it quick. Get Lushington to stop it. That's my advice. Lies breed like flies.”

Algy was rather grey. James hit hard. Once you got him going he'd say what he thought. No beating about the bush. No tact. A good friend.

He passed on, talked to Mary for a little, and found her gentle commonplaces a balm. She never said anything that you could label as wise or witty. She looked with her friendly eyes, and her voice was like running water, clear, and cool, and sweet. Algy esteemed James a lucky fellow.

When he saw Mr. Brewster rise not very gracefully from his cushion at Sylvia's feet, he crossed over, sped Cyril on his way and annexed the vacant place. Sylvia, vaguely embarrassed, seemed about to be gone. Algy smiled at her.

“Do stay and talk to me, Lady Colesborough. Has he been warning you against me? Do tell me.”

Sylvia responded with a smile, a little nervously, and said,

“Oh, no.”

“I'm not really dangerous, you know, and we got on beautifully the other night, didn't we? Now let's talk about the country. Why do you hate it?”

“We were so poor,” said Sylvia with simplicity.

Algy liked her for that. He pursued his ordered way. A very good reason.

“But do you hate it when you're not poor? You were at Wellings last week, weren't you? Do you hate a place like that? It's lovely, isn't it?”

“I suppose so,” said Sylvia doubtfully. “In summer it might be. I like lights in the streets, and plenty of shops, and people.”

Algy laughed. She looked like the sun and the moon and the stars, but she didn't like those things. She liked people and shops. He said,

“I expect there were plenty of people at Wellings, weren't there?”

“Well, it wasn't a big party.”

“Who did you have?”

“Well, Poppy and Buffo—but of course it's their house. You know them, don't you?”

“Just a little.”

“She has the most divine clothes.” Sylvia's eyes waked into starry beauty. “She designs them herself, you know, and I can't think how she does it. I do think clever people are marvellous—don't you?”

“They're a menace,” said Algy. “I always avoid them. Who else did you have?”

“Well, his brother—Buffo's brother Binks—and his wife, Constance. She isn't a bit like Poppy.”

“And you and your husband?”

“Yes, but Francis was late for dinner because he couldn't get away—business is so tiresome that way—so I had to go down alone.”

“The Lushingtons were there, weren't they?”

Sylvia nodded.

“They had just arrived when I got there, but we had to go off and dress for dinner almost at once.”

She was quite pleased to prattle. With a very little trouble Algy discovered the geography of the house and the whereabouts of the guests. There was an east wing and a west wing. Buffo and Poppy were in the west wing, and so were Binks and Constance. The Lushingtons had the big suite at the end of the east wing, and the Colesboroughs were next to them—“And we each had a room and a bathroom. You know, it's dreadful how few bathrooms we've got at Cole Lester—only three besides our own two, and I can't get Francis to see that it isn't enough.”

They talked earnestly about bathrooms, and presently Algy got her back to Wellings again. It was possible to get her back, but not possible to keep her there. She broke away in the middle of a sentence and said,

“You're a friend of Gay's, aren't you?”

Algy said, “Yes,” and wondered if it was true. He was Gay's friend last night, but last night was a long time ago. They stood together in the dark with anger flashing between them—hot anger—hot, dangerous anger. And someone had put Monty's envelope in his pocket, and Monty was being pressed to look no farther than his own household for the thief. Last night was a long way off. He wondered whether he was Gay's friend today, and he said,

“Oh, yes.”

Sylvia went on babbling about Gay.

XI

Gay waked with a start to realize that the telephone bell was ringing. She said something short and sharp, sat up, and switched on the light. Her watch made it half past twelve, an hour which seems quite early when you are out but feels like the middle of the night when you have gone to bed. It felt like the middle of the night to Gay. Who in this world and all could be ringing up at such a ghastly time? She sat listening and hoping against hope that the thing hadn't rung, or that, having rung without getting an answer, it wouldn't ring again.

It rang again—a very persevering effort.

Gay ran barefoot down the stairs, switching on lights as she went, a dressing-gown hung dolman-fashion across her shoulders and clutched together in front. Aunt Agatha would sleep through a duet between Big Ben and the Westminster Chimes. The staff firmly disregarded any telephone call between eleven at night and seven in the morning.

The bell was still ringing when Gay snatched the receiver and said in an abusive whisper.

“Who are you?”

But of course she might have guessed. Sylvia said in a plaintive voice,

“Oh, darling, you do sound cross.”

“Homicidal!” said Gay. “What's the matter? Do you know what time it is?”

“Darling, it's quite early.”

“That's because you're turning night into day. I was in bed and asleep, and I haven't even got my dressing-gown on properly. I've come down five flights of stairs, and the temperature is somewhere round about zero.”

She heard Sylvia catch her breath.

“Darling, how did you hear it up five flights of stairs?”

This was pressure upon a wound. Gay spoke with bitterness.

“I didn't—no one could. That's why Aunt Agatha had a bell fixed up on my floor. It's supposed to be for the staff, but they just won't. Is this a talk on telephones, or do you really want anything?”