WAX (A British Crime Thriller). Ethel Lina White
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leaping from shock, she jumped up in bed, and snapping on the light looked at her watch. It was ten minutes past three. At that hour in the morning, there was an urgency in the telephone bell which she feared was the prelude to bad news.
In a panic, she picked up the receiver and heard the sleepy mumble of the porter who had connected the call with the extension.
"Hallo," she called.
A voice seemed to limp over the wire. It was faint and breathless, as though the person had been running.
"Are—you—there?"
"Yes," she replied. "Who are you?"
"Are you Room Eight, Golden Lion?"
"Yes. Who are—"
"I want to speak to my cousin. Miss Smith. She's staying here, in this room."
"I'm sorry, but you've got the wrong number," Sonia told the voice.
"No, please wait. It's so desperately urgent. Don't ring off...Are you alone?"
"Yes."
"So am I. So terribly alone."
The distress in the Voice touched Sonia's pity.
"Where are you speaking from?" she asked.
"From a call-office."
Sonia looked at the outside darkness with a shudder. The rain was still streaming down the glass. When she realised that a woman was out in merciless weather at that time of the morning alone—she felt almost ashamed of her own security and comfort.
"Why don't you ask the porter if your cousin is staying here?" she asked. "You've probably been told the wrong room."
There was no reply but a strangled sob. Sonia began to wonder whether the cousin were a fiction born of necessity.
"Are you in trouble?" she ventured.
"Trouble?" The voice laughed bitterly. "I'm drowning in deep water."
"Well." Sonia hesitated and then took the plunge. "If you'll come here and ask for me, perhaps I may be able to—to help."
"No. I'm past help."
"But—I don't understand—"
"You couldn't understand. I'm desperately lonely. I wanted to hear another voice. To know someone was alive beside myself. Devils are following me...I'm afraid."
"What are you afraid of?"
Two words jolted over the wire so faintly that at the time Sonia could not distinguish them. Then silence followed. She spoke several times, but got no reply. Presently she gave up and rang off.
"Pray it was a practical joke," she muttered. She looked around her bridal blue and silver room, and the festive cupids for reassurance, before she switched off the light.
Just as she was dropping off to sleep, the last two despairing words stirred inside her ear like the murmur of the sea in a shell.
"I'm doomed."
CHAPTER VI. THE BIRTH OF MURDER
When Sonia walked in at the gate of Stonehenge Lodge two afternoons later, she felt, not only an old member of the staff of the Chronicle, but that London had withdrawn to an incredible distance. The ancient town, with its worn cobbles, its murmurous underground river and hollowed pavements, had hypnotised her almost to the belief that she had lived there all her life.
When she was shown into the drawing-room Mrs. Cuttle was entertaining two other guests; or, to be accurate, she was at home to them while they entertained her.
Sonia had been prepared to find her hostess the pathetic creature of her dream. She had come in a generous spirit—eager to champion her, if help were necessary or possible. It was, therefore, rather a disappointment to discover that the lady was stolid, prosperous, and very well satisfied with herself.
As she sat enthroned in a corpulent chair, she reminded Sonia of an over-stuffed satin pin-cushion. Her eyes were blue and expressionless, except when they rested on the tea-table which gleamed with the best silver. Then they reflected complacency.
Sonia recognised Nurse Davis—still in becoming uniform. The other girl, who was tall, slight, and had honey-gold hair, was introduced as Mrs. Nile.
She chatted like a fountain, while Nurse Davis rolled on like a river, leaving Sonia free to study the room. It was large and crowded with good furniture; the carpet was a hand-made Sparta—the hangings expensive. But there was too much of everything; from the Italian landscapes on the walls to the vases which held more flowers than they could display effectively.
"It's the room of a greedy person," thought Sonia. Then she softened her judgment to "Or someone who's been kept short."
In spite of its size the drawing-room was warm and airless. A huge fire burned in the brass dog-grate, and heavy blue velvet curtains shut out the still grey November daylight.
Presently Sonia felt too torpid even to attempt to talk. At the same time her mind remained acutely receptive and tuned in to capture every impression.
She seemed to be a spectator of some domestic drama. At first the action was sluggish, for the talk was of servants. Nurse Davis declared that there was a domestic famine, and told long stories of the local ladies' shifts and difficulties. She had barely stopped for breath when Mrs. Nile gave a lively exaggeration of the system of bribery and corruption by which she said she kept her servants.
Mrs. Cuttle listened with pursed lips and nods. Presently she explained her own domestic arrangements.
It was like listening to a vast cistern being emptied drop by drop. She spoke slowly—often pausing to capture an elusive word. Yet she remained unflurried, and resisted any attempt to hurry or help her account.
"My girls are quite good. Well, not too bad. But I have to let them sleep out. It suits me. They come at seven and prepare the supper before they go."
This was the gist of her long and detailed statement. But had she been outside Time, instead of being enclosed in a padded chair, she might have realised the future significance of her domestic arrangements.
When at last she ran dry, Nurse Davis rushed into the gap.
"Your house is always so beautifully kept," she gushed. "This room looks as if it had just been spring-cleaned."
Mrs. Nile caught Sonia's eye with an elfin grin.
"Mrs. Cuttle has no pets," she said.
"No." Mrs. Cuttle nodded complacently. "Mr. Cuttle would like one, but cats scratch the furniture and dogs bring in dirt. I have a husband, so I don't want an animal."
"And I have a husband, two dogs, and a cat with expectations," remarked Mrs. Nile. "You can't keep a good woman down."
Still listening with detachment, Sonia decided that she liked Lilith Nile. She might be provocative and indiscreet, but she was also good-natured, amusing and gay.
Presently Mrs. Cuttle explained the delayed tea. "I'm waiting for my husband."
"I suppose he'll be bringing some girls along?" suggested Nurse Davis archly.
"I wouldn't put it past him. They won't leave him alone."
She spoke with placid indifference; and, when a few minutes later the alderman burst in, accompanied by Miss Yates and his model, Bessie Blair, Sonia saw no change in her face.
The alderman went directly to his wife and kissed her.
"Here we are, my love. These girls have missed their tea, so I ran them up in the car. They've been out at Lady Priday's. Poor Bessie's been modelling all the afternoon."
"Sit down, Bessie," invited Mrs. Cuttle.