WAX (A British Crime Thriller). Ethel Lina White
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repeated the alderman, in a voice rough with sincerity. "I'm not going to meet a lady. I'm going home to have supper with my wife."
The women only screamed with sceptical laughter. As she went out of the hall, Sonia heard their parting advice.
"Good-night. Be good."
"And if you can't be good, be careful."
It struck her that the stale vulgarism might have been the spirit of the place...
Secrecy.
Directly Alderman Cuttle was outside the hotel, he slipped his great hand through his companion's arm. Linked together, they strolled slowly down the deserted High Street, talking in whispers.
At the black mouth of the Arcade they parted. Miss Yates' arms clasped the alderman possessively around his neck as he lowered his head.
"Good-night, my darling," she said.
"Good-night, my girl. You won't forget what I told you?"
"Do I ever? Can't you trust me by now?"
"I do, my sweet. I do."
Their lips met in a kiss. The tramp of official footsteps sounded in the distance, but the alderman did not break away. When Miss Yates had dived into the Arcade, he strolled on until he met the approaching policeman.
"Good-night, officer," he said.
"Good-night, sir."
The man saluted respectfully, but the alderman dug him in the ribs.
"At my old tricks again, eh, Tom?" he chuckled. "Do you remember you and me with that little red-haired piece at the lollypop shop?"
"You bet," grinned the policeman. "You always were partial to red hair, Willie. I remember, too, as you always cut me out."
"That's my Mae West curves." The alderman slapped his broad chest. "We've hit the high spots, eh, Tom? But we're both married now. And there's no one like a good wife. Always remember that, Tom."
The policeman looked puzzled. He and the alderman had attended the local Grammar School, and, in spite of the difference in their social positions, had remained friends. But, even in the old days, he had never been able to fathom the depth of young Cuttle's sincerity; and now, after many years, he remained the same enigma.
"I want you to know this, Tom," went on the alderman. "The people here call me a gay boy. Maybe. Maybe. But, next year, when I'm mayor, remember what I'm telling you now...I've always been faithful to my wife."
He added with a change of tone, "Good-night, officer. Cigar?"
"Thank you, sir. Good-night, sir."
The policeman stared after the retreating figure. The alderman's deep organ voice had throbbed with feeling, even while a dare-devil had winked from one hazel eye. He told himself that William Cuttle still had him guessing.
Almost within the next minute he was a spectator of a distant comedy. The alderman had met one of his numerous flames, and was chasing her round a lamppost.
The girl was Caroline Brown—Dr. Nile's dispenser and secretary. Of mixed parentage—Scotch and Spanish—she had the tremulous beauty of a convolvulus. But, while the surface was mother, the under-tow was pure father.
She drifted round the lamppost before the alderman's clumsy rushes, like a flower wafted by the west wind; and, when at last he caught her, all he got was a stinging slap in the face.
With peals of laughter she broke loose, while he strolled on, chuckling, and humming snatches of "Sing to me, gipsy."
His house was situated in the best residential quarter of the town. It was a large, solid, grey stone building, surrounded by two acres of well-kept garden. Everything was scrupulously tidy. The drive was cemented, and the lawn—decorated with clumps of non-seasonal enamel crocuses—was edged with a low railing, painted metallic-silver.
The taste was his wife's. Like a good husband, he gave Mrs. Cuttle a free hand both with exterior and interior decorations.
Whatever the result from an artistic standard on a raw autumn night, his home appeared comfortable and prosperous. Mrs. Cuttle had the reputation of being a careful housekeeper, but economy was not allowed to spoil his welcome. An electric lamp outside the front door lighted his way up the stone steps, guarded with lions; and, when he was inside, the centrally-heated hall was thickly carpeted and curtained from draughts.
Cuttle rubbed his hands with satisfaction as he looked around at well-polished furniture and a pot of pink azaleas on a porcelain stand at the foot of the staircase.
"Louie," he called. "I'm home."
At his shout, Mrs. Cuttle came out of the dining-room. She was stout, with a heavy face, dull hair, and a clouded complexion. She wore an unbecoming but expensive gown of bright blue chenille-velvet.
It was she who presented the cheek—and her husband who kissed. But he did so with a hearty smack of relish.
"It's good to come back to you, my duck," he told her. "What have you got for me to-night?"
"More than you deserve so late. Curried mutton."
The alderman sniffed with appreciation, as arm-in-arm they entered the dining-room. It was typical of the prosperous convention of a former generation, with a thick red-and-blue Turkey carpet, mahogany furniture, and an impressive display of plate upon the massive sideboard.
The table was laid as for a banquet, with gleaming silver, elaborately folded napkins, and many different kinds of glasses. Vases were stuffed with choice hot-house flowers which no one looked at or admired. The central stand, piled with fruit, was evidently an ornament, for it was studiously ignored by the alderman and his wife.
The supper was being kept hot on a chafing-dish and they waited on themselves. Both made a hearty meal, eating chiefly in silence. Cuttle was the type of man who did not talk to women when they represented family, and his wife was constitutionally mute. Sometimes she asked questions, but did not seem interested in his replies.
"Why are you late, Will?"
"Business?"
"How is it?"
"So-so."
"Did Miss Yates stay late, too?"
"Did you ever see a dream walking? Did you ever hear of staff working overtime? No."
"What d'you think of the mutton, Will? It's the new butcher."
"Very good. Nothing like good meat. Gough was telling me Nile wants to put him on fruit. Pah. Pips and water."
"Sir Julian could do with dieting. His colour is bad. Is he still meeting Mrs. Nile in the Waxworks?"
"I never heard that he did." The alderman yawned and rose. "Well, my love, I'm for bed."
Mrs. Cuttle looked at the marble clock.
"It's too soon after a heavy meal. Better let me mix you a dose."
"No, you don't, old dear." Cuttle roared with laughter. "You had your chance to poison me when you were nursing me. Now I'm married I'm wise to your tricks."
"A few more late suppers and you'll poison yourself," said Mrs. Cuttle sharply.
"Well, I don't mind a pinch of bi-carb, just to oblige a good wife. I never knew such a woman for drugs. How would like it if the worm turned and I poisoned you for a change?"
"You couldn't if you tried. You've got to understand how poisons work."
The alderman looked thoughtful. He was a good mixer, and he had the local reputation of being able to talk on any subject.
He gave his wife a playful slap.
"Be off to bed. I want to look up something."
His own study was unlike the rest of the house, being bare and austere, with walls of grey satin wood and chromium furniture. The touches of colour