WAX (A British Crime Thriller). Ethel Lina White
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"It's an inspired idea," he said. "Buns always has it, so we have it too, to keep us from going Red."
Sonia enjoyed the cocoa-party, even while she dimly resented it. She had pictured her plunge into journalism as a dive into molten emotions, and a frantic race against time, to the stamp of overdriven machines.
But, even while she sipped her cocoa, while the clock ticked lazily on, a new element was creeping into her life. Young Wells looked at her with fresh interest.
"I'm wondering why girls leave home," he said presently.
"Meaning me?" she asked. "Well, you shall have the story of my life, but I warn you it's pathetic...Nobody loves me at home. The only time I was popular with my father was before I was born. I believe he mistook me for a boy. And he's just gone and married a girl who was at school with me."
"Poor girl," said Wells with feeling. "I bet you gave her hell."
"You bet I did." Sonia added, "For one ghastly moment, I thought you were going to pity me. Such a lot of men have poor-kidded me since the marriage. And I loathe it."
"I knew that. Here's Lobb. Trust him to turn up in time for the cocoa. He's a meal hound."
Sonia looked curiously at the tall gaunt man who had just entered. He was a striking figure for Riverpool, for he wore a cape and slouched black felt hat. Yet, in spite of appearing shabby, unhappy, and ill, his ravaged face held some of the dark broken beauty of a fallen angel.
"This is our Miss Thompson," said Wells. "She's real."
Sonia saw the light leap up in Hubert Lobb's sunken eyes, like fire rising through charred ash. He stared at her almost thirstily, as though he were refreshed by her youth.
"We'd come to regard you as fabulous. Rather like a unicorn," he explained, as he dropped down on a chair and drank his cocoa quickly, draining his cup.
Sonia, who was watching him, wondered compassionately whether he had come out without a proper breakfast. After glancing at his dusty coat, she decided that he was at the mercy of a neglectful landlady.
He met her speculative gaze with a half-smile.
"A new venture, isn't it?" he asked. "I hope you'll let me help you in any difficulty. But—you won't be here long."
"No," Sonia spoke eagerly. "This is only a jumping-off place for Manchester or Birmingham. After that, London."
"Ah. If I'd one grain of your enthusiasm, plus my weight of failures, I should be—" He pointed upwards and added, "Not here. As things are, Horatio has the only chance of being in the first flight."
"All the same, I rather envy you. You've lived. I feel so—unbegun."
Young Wells, who had noticed Sonia's interest in his colleague, thought it time to intervene.
"How's your wife, Lobb?"
"Not too well, thanks."
"And the kid?"
"Perfectly fit."
"Coming home for the holidays?"
"I suppose so." Lobb rose, the light in his eyes extinguished. "I suppose I must do some work—. or what passes for work here. By the way, Mrs. Forbes, wife of the chemist in Flannel Street, had her bag snatched last night."
"That's new for Riverpool. We're looking up. Does she know who lifted it?"
"No, too dark. She says someone snatched it and was round the corner in a flash."
"Much chink?"
"The week's housekeeping money...Do you want to see me, sir?"
He spoke to Leonard Eden, who stood drooping in the doorway.
"No, Lobb. Sonia, my wife is expecting you to dinner. As early as you can get out. Better not start here to-day. Just get the feel of things. Wells will give you a copy of the Chronicle for you to study. If you want anything for the office, my wife has an account at Cuttle's. Have it charged. Good-bye, my dear...Wells, downstairs, please."
Leonard drifted from the room, and Wells prepared to follow him. He stopped, however, to speak to Sonia.
"What's wrong here? Do you really want to shop?"
"Of course. I simply must have an amusing waste-paper basket. And a vase. I can't work without flowers. And a cushion. Shall I get some for the rest of you?"
"Please do." Wells spoke with deadly sweetness. "My colour's blue. I can't work unless everything's blue. But it must match my eyes."
As the door slammed, Horatio, who had been typing furiously to impress Sonia, moistened his lips nervously.
"Oh, Miss Thompson, if you got him a cushion, he'd pitch it into the fire. Why, he's the best centre-forward the team's ever had. And he's captain."
"Then he should play back. I always did. Hockey, I mean. We'll discuss the point one day, Horatio. Good-bye, angel."
She patted Wells' airedale, whose name was "Goal," and then glanced into the inner office, where Lobb was rattling away on a defective machine.
"Apparently a story has broken at last," she murmured.
Since bag-snatching had become epidemic, she could not enter into the general excitement, although she realised that it was a local novelty.
But no one, with the exception of the victim, knew of the exceptional feature connected with this special theft.
CHAPTER V. THE VOICE
Riverpool had already astonished Sonia by the unexpected size of its Waxwork Gallery and also of its chief hotel. It had a third surprise for her in Alderman Cuttle's shop.
It revealed him as a man of ambition and taste. Although not a modern trade palace of marble and metal, it was unnecessarily spacious and expensively decorated in grey and silver. The carpets were thick purple pile and the assistants all wore violet.
It was run on a skeleton staff, and when Sonia entered there were only a few customers. But the apparent slackness of trade did not worry the alderman, who was laughing heartily as he chatted to Miss Yates.
The daylight showed up the hardness of the woman's face and the patches of rouge on her high cheek-bones. She wore a skin-tight black satin gown, and spectacles with an orange frame to match her hair.
She took no notice of Sonia, but stared exclusively at her clothes—her eyes passing directly from her scarf to her hat, and leaping the gap of her face. But the alderman, who looked vast in long baggy grey plus-fours, gave her an impressive welcome.
"I'm honoured to see you here, Miss Thompson. I hope you will test my claim that you can do as well here as in London or Paris. Although we never tout for custom, I think we can satisfy the most critical taste."
"I'm sure you can if Miss Yates' dress is a sample," said Sonia diplomatically.
"Ah, you've got the name already. The journalistic instinct, I suppose. You see, we know all about you. Penalty of fame."
His laugh rolled down the building, as Miss Yates beckoned to an assistant and walked away. He certainly made Sonia's shopping easy, for he had a selection of articles brought from different departments. While she worked through her list, he lingered, giving advice and chatting casually.
Although she did not intend to be drawn, she thawed gradually under the geniality of his manner. His questions ceased to appear curiosity and became genuine personal interest.
"How do you stimulate your imagination?" he asked. "Strong tea? Alcohol? Or do you smoke opium like de Quincey?"
"I don't imagine." Sonia could not resist feeling flattered at being mistaken for an experienced journalist. "I