WHILE SHE SLEEPS (A Thriller Novel). Ethel Lina White
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bedroom. It was a fine but sombre apartment, with a colour scheme suggestive of autumnal leaves—brown, bronze and umber. The suite was walnut—the curtains burnt orange. Outside the windows were wrought-iron verandas.
In spite of the luxurious fittings and the concealed lighting, Miss Loveapple knew that she was not looking forward to the night. She had never been nervous before, either in the Pond House or the bungalow, when Elsie had been away on her holiday. On these occasions she had been surrounded by lonely country and empty beach, yet she had felt no pang of loneliness. Here, in London, sandwiched between two other buildings occupied by people, she felt apprehensive and uneasy.
Suddenly she smiled at her recognition of a familiar factor.
'Why, it's my Luck again,' she told herself. 'My present loss is future gain. I've found out I don't care for this house, just at the very time I have a chance to sell it. If I hadn't gone cowardly, I might have chucked the chance away...No, I'll sit tight over the weekend and tell the crafty Lemon I've changed my mind. I believe he knows me better than I know myself...There's the bell again.'
Glad of a chance to speak to someone, she ran downstairs to the hall and opened the front door.
For the third time that day, a man waited outside. A general description would cover both Buckingham and himself, inasmuch as they might have gone to the same public school, but they were not alike. His face was a narrow oval, his eyes softer, his smile more resolutely stressed.
'Got something to sell,' decided Miss Loveapple. 'Poor devil.'
'A beautiful day,' he remarked hopefully.
Miss Loveapple laughed in the friendly manner which marked her intercourse with those whom she did not wish to impress.
'I'm not going to agree,' she said. 'The last time I did, it cost me ten shillings.'
As she spoke, she noticed that the last button of his waistcoat was unfastened and that he wore grey suède gloves which matched his new suit. In his turn, he was studying her.
'Ten bob is no good to me,' he said. 'I'm a salesman but I can see that I cannot interest you. In our line, we learn to read faces like books.'
'I didn't know I was so obvious.' In her loneliness, Miss Loveapple wished to prolong an interview which committed her to nothing. 'Besides, you should not assume that you've no chance. That is defeatist policy. You should appear confident...What do you sell?'
'Vacuum cleaners.'
Miss Loveapple grew suddenly alert.
'But I am thinking of getting one,' she said.
'Is that on the level?' The young man spoke eagerly. 'If it is, I am trying to put over a new line that's the best value in the market. I can let you have the literature now, if you are interested, I can give you a demonstration.'
He opened his small attaché-case and drew out a pamphlet.
'I am afraid the only one left is soiled,' he said. 'That fine thumb-print on the cover was made by a prospective customer. It is not mine. You see, I always wear gloves.'
'It doesn't matter,' said Miss Loveapple. 'I'll read it up and let you know if I decide anything.'
'Thanks a million. Here's my card.'
She read the name printed upon it.
'"Henry Watkins." Your name does not suit you too well.'
'On the contrary, my friends used to assure me that I was an ideal "Hugo."'
'You mean—that's not your real name?'
'No. Merely assumed for business purposes. I haven't much left, but at least, I can keep my own name.'
'Come down in the world?' asked Miss Loveapple with blunt sympathy.
'No, going up. People used to sell me things—and I was always mug enough to buy. And I was always taken in. Now it's the other way round. I get a real kick out of pitting my brain against the customer—the gentleman who is always right.'
His smile was bitter as he continued to talk, while he kept his soft brown eyes fixed upon her face.
'Usually he is resistant by nature, so I have to compel him to accept my suggestion that he wants to buy. Of course, he is not always taking any. It's a definite clash of personality—and I love it.'
'Are you rather giving away the show?' asked Miss Loveapple.
The young man joined in her laughter.
'No,' he said. 'I've got you taped. You'd see through my usual salesman's patter. You are strong-willed and sensible and you would do nothing against your judgment. I only ask you to judge the vacuum on its merits. When can I give you a demonstration?'
'Not just at present. I'm leaving London on Monday, for a few weeks.'
'But couldn't I show your servants how it works?'
Miss Loveapple opened her lips to explain and then refrained, from instinctive caution.
'Pumping me,' she decided. 'Wants to know if the house will be empty.'
'I couldn't accept any one else's opinion,' she told him.
'Then—might I call this evening?' he persisted.
She thought rapidly. As the house would be shut again until the thirteenth of September, it was sheer waste of opportunity to give any of her carpets a free cleaning. But if the young man were to call on the morning of the fourteenth, before the Brand family came into residence, she would reap the advantage of a free demonstration. In any case, she would have to write to the agency she patronised, asking them to send a reliable woman to clean the house in readiness.
'I'm engaged this evening,' she said. 'But I shall be returning from Switzerland on September the thirteenth and shall stay here for the night. If you care to come quite early on the following morning, you can try out the vacuum. But it must be at your risk, for I cannot give you a definite promise to buy the machine.'
'That is always understood,' explained Mr Watkins. 'I'll make a note of the date.'
As he was scrawling in his book, he made a suggestion.
'I wonder if I might see the carpet you would like me to work on. I want to see the size. You see, if I started and could not finish the effect would be patchy.'
Miss Loveapple's transparent face showed her discomfiture.
'It is rather big,' she admitted. 'You had better come in and see it.'
The young man entered the house and she shut the front door.
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