CHAPTER FOUR--GIFT FROM CINDERELLA

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      Having made his protest, the builder was now officially on the job. Calling his men from the hall, he clumped into No. 16 and gave a quick look around it.

      "Everyone outside, please," he ordered. As the only inmate of the room, Madame Goya recognized the personal note. She surged forward, her fat arms outstretched like the wings of a guardian angel, resisting pollution of her premises.

      "Pardon," she contradicted, "I shall stay. This is my flat. I am within my legal rights to see what goes on here."

      The builder, who was married, knew when he was outclassed he turned instinctively to the major for protection.

      "Can we run out the furniture, chief?" he asked.

      "Afraid not," replied the major nonchalantly. "It would block the landing."

      "All right, you're the boss. But I warn you we'll waste time shifting all this junk about...Madame, I am sure you would prefer to remove your valuables yourself?"

      The workmen exchanged grins when Goya, with slow and measured movements, cleared from the book shelves a collection of odd china, dead flowers, cigarettes, packs of cards, cosmetics, a crystal, cactus plants and a tea outfit, besides a few novels which bore the labels of a twopenny lending library. She piled them up dangerously on the chairs and also upon the marble mantelpiece which had been retained when the grate was modernized.

      "Now then, get a move on," ordered the builder impatiently. "Start and shift the glass."

      Following his instructions, the men unscrewed the long mirror and propped it against an armchair. Its removal revealed no outline of a concealed door through which Evelyn Cross might have been whisked. There was nothing more incriminating than long drooping moustaches of cobwebs on the wall. The cupboard wardrobe was next wrenched from its position--not without damage to the panelling. Then the huge goddess came down to earth with a bump when her frame was swung off its nails.

      Soon the room was cluttered with fixtures, but Goya persisted in remaining, although the builder chased her from one refuge to another as he examined and sounded the woodwork. The major also stayed, apparently to protect his interests. Foam and Viola could only get an occasional glimpse of the proceedings, for Raphael Cross blocked the doorway.

      At first he watched every movement with concentrated eagerness; but with lack of results, his keenness staled and he could not control his impatience. As he paced the landing again, Viola drew Foam's attention to the fact he kept lighting cigarettes, only to throw them away after a few puffs.

      "He's like a planet," she whispered, "No rest for him...It makes me boil. You can see he's in hell--but the major is only worried about the damage to his precious property...Oh, come along--I want a front stall for the show."

      She plucked Foam's arm and dragged him across to the doorway. He noticed that she seemed actually to thrive on excitement, for her colour grew deeper under her rouge. Although he felt a curious pleasure in sharing the experience, he considered it his duty to warn her of a possible shock.

      "I'm going to say something you may not like," he told her.

      "Sounds like an overture," she remarked. "But I'm a modern girl. I can take it."

      "Just this. That girl's father is nearly off his rocker. Now I suspect he has grounds for his guess--whatever it is. That's why I want you to go back to your flat while the going's good.'

      "Why?"

      "Because they may find her--and a murdered body is not a pleasant sight."

      Although her eyes expressed horror at the prospect, she was not convinced.

      "That's all right," she assured him. "I can't be sick for lack of raw material."

      At that moment, as though he were following Foam's train of thought, the builder spoke to Major Pomeroy.

      "The panelling is O.K., chief. We'll try the floor next for loose boards."

      He gave the order to the men.

      "Roll up the carpet. Shift the stuff as you go along."

      Wedged into a corner by a displaced divan, Madame Goya made an angry protest. "Am I included in the 'stuff'? Let me out, you idiots."

      Then she turned to jeer at the builder.

      "I don't know what you think you're doing. If there was a trapdoor in the floor, the girl would have dropped through the ceiling of the room below. Very clever of you."

      Her eyes bulged at the builder's blunt explanation.

      "A body could be wedged in the space between the floor and the ceiling boards," he told her.

      "A body?" she repeated, in the rising note of hysteria. "Ah, now I'm beginning to understand. I've been very dense. I've only just realized that I am under suspicion."

      As the builder retreated before her threatening advance Major Pomeroy tried to soothe her.

      "No one is suspected," he said. "The idea is farcical. We are simply doing our best to satisfy Mr. Cross that his daughter is not on the premises."

      "Indeed? That doesn't fool me. Now it's my turn to give orders. I insist on this room being hacked to bits, to clear my character."

      "That's not necessary," explained the builder. "I've tested every inch of the walls and there's not the smell of a hollow ring."

      "What are you holding up the work for?" demanded Cross, pushing his way into the room. His ice-blue eyes glittered angrily at the major's explanation. "Haven't I made myself plain?" he asked. "Strip the walls--and to hell with the expense."

      "Finish the floor first," said the builder.

      His examination proved a lengthy business, owing to the accumulation of furniture. There were constant checks and displacements while the men rolled back yard after yard of carpet to expose dirty, stained boards. Foam was growing bored when a diversion was created by the major's secretary whom he had met in the office. She entered the room quietly and slipped a typewritten paper into her employer's hand. He glanced at it and then strolled across to Cross.

      "Mind signing this?" he asked casually. "It's merely to indemnity me for damage. Better read it first."

      Ignoring the advice, Cross scrawled his signature with a force which drove the pen into the paper. The major shrugged as he placed it inside his note case. "Not too satisfactory for me," he explained to Foam in a whisper "Merely a gentleman's agreement, it doesn't cover the ground, but I could not worry the poor chap with details." As he spoke, there was evidence of an increasing bill. With a crash, followed by the splintering of glass, the long mirror fell forward against the marble mantelpiece.

      Madame Goya screamed like a steam siren before she began to blame the nearest workman.

      "It wasn't me, mum." he declared firmly. "You moved the chair it was laying against."

      "But it shouldn't have been on the floor at all," she wailed. "It was safe on the wall. Who's going to buy me a new mirror?"

      "That will be taken care of," promised the major quickly as the builder rose from his knees. He dusted the knees of his trousers and shook his head.

      "Floor's not been tampered with," he said. "The window's screwed and the grate sealed. That only leaves the panelling."

      The men began the work of demolition in a gingerly manner, first loosening the panels before removing them carefully. Instead of commending their caution, however, their slow progress only exasperated Cross to fury.

      "Smash