Patricia Wentworth: Mr. Zero

The telephone bell rang, and went on ringing. Miss Agatha Hardwicke kept her instrument in the front hall where everyone could hear every single word that was said. If the postman came while you were talking, or a caller, or an errand boy, he, she or it was also included in the audience. And if you happened to be in your bedroom five floors up, you had to run all the way down and arrive breathless.

Gay Hardwicke arrived breathless. “If it’s anyone else about that blighted bazaar, I’ll smash you!” she said, and jammed the receiver against one ear. With the other she heard the kitchen door open at the foot of the basement stair. That meant that Mrs. Hollings was listening in. She always did when Gay telephoned, and Gay didn’t really mind, because Holly was an old pet and so passionately interested in her affairs. She probably wouldn’t listen for very long this time, because it was a female voice that said,

“Miss Hardwicke-can I speak to Miss Hardwicke?”

“Miss Hardwicke is out, I’m afraid.”

Why Aunt Agatha couldn’t be at home to take her own blighted calls about her own blighted bazaar instead of having them just when one was half way through washing one’s hair-

But the telephone had suddenly become eager and explanatory.

“Gay- darling -is that you? Your voice sounded all woofly-”

“So would yours if you had to run down five flights of stairs every time Aunt Agatha’s League of Help thought of a new pattern for a pincushion.”

“My poor angel-how grim! It’s Marcia Thrale speaking.”

“Yes, I got that. Where are you?”

“Well, it’s too marvellous-darling, I must see you-I’m at the Luxe.”

“What on earth are you doing at the Luxe?”

Well, it’s simply too marvellous. You know my Uncle George?“

“Is that the one in Java, or the one who could never keep a job in South America?”

“No, that was Denis. He’s Mummy’s brother-on the other side. This is the one in Java, George Thrale, and he’s got pots of money, and he’s my godfather, and after sending me a christening mug three years running he stopped doing anything about it till a fortnight ago, and then he sent Mummy a cheque for three hundred pounds and said, ‘Get her all the proper clothes and let her come out with my friends the Middletons who are sailing on the fifth of Feb.’ ”

“But, Marcia, that’s tomorrow!”

“I know, darling. And that’s positively all there was in the letter, except ‘Dear Mary’ at the beginning and ‘Cable reply. Love. George’ at the end. Gay, I must speak to you. What are you doing?”

“Well, I was trying to wash my hair. It’s dripping all over the hall table at this minute.”

“Darling, how grim ! Jane told me you were with your Aunt Agatha-but why? The last I heard, you were going to Madeira.”

“It wouldn’t run to it,” said Gay mournfully. “Daddy and Mummy had to go because someone’s started a lawsuit about Mummy’s property out there. If it doesn’t come out all right, there’ll be frightfully little money, so when Aunt Agatha offered to have me they said ‘Thank you very much, kind sister’ and dumped me.”

“Darling, how utterly grim!”

Gay sparkled at her end of the line. Even with her black curls wet and dripping and an old school dressing-gown pulled hastily round her, she didn’t look at all like the sort of girl who would sit down and play Cinderella whilst her parents basked in the sun. Aunt Agatha was a bore, and bazaars were a bore, but there were compensations. She said,

“Oh-well-”

Marcia pounced.

“What does that mean?”

Gay made a little impudent face. Her nose wrinkled and her dark eyes danced.

“ Very kind-hearted people sometimes take me out,” she said.

Marcia giggled.

“Don’t I know it! You’re that sort, you little wretch.” Then, with a sudden change of tone, “Get your hair dry and come round. I’ve got to see you.”

Gay drew back an inch or two. Something said, “ Don’t go .” The words were so loud and distinct in her mind that she very nearly dropped the receiver. She stood there frowning at it, her gay, bright colour gone as if a puff of wind had blown it out-a wind of fear-a cold, cold wind of dread.

“Gay-where are you-are you there?”

Gay said, “Yes.” The wind went past her and was gone. The fear was gone. Her colour came back.

“Gay-what’s the matter? You sounded-funny.”

Gay laughed her own gay laugh.

“I went all cold. There’s a beast of a draught under Aunt Agatha’s front door. Why do you want me to come round?”

Marcia giggled.

“Darling, what a thing to ask! I want to see you of course.”

Gay frowned again.

“Why do you want me?” Marcia didn’t , unless there was something you could do for her.

Marcia stopped giggling. She said imploringly.

“Oh, Gay, do come! It’s about Sylvia-she’s in an awful jam.”

Sylvia’s such an idiot,“ said Marcia Thrale with a giggle.

“She always was,” said Gay. She didn’t giggle, she frowned. She was remembering all the different times Sylvia had been an idiot, and had got in a jam, and had had to be hauled out again. And it wasn’t Marcia who had done the hauling, though she was her sister, it was nearly always Gay Hardwicke. And a jam at school was one thing, but a jam after you are married and ought to be living happy ever after was quite another. Her frown deepened, and she said impatiently, “What on earth has she been doing now?”

They were in Marcia Thrale’s bedroom at the Luxe. It was a riotous orgy of pink. Everything that could be pink had been painted, upholstered, or draped in that colour. Mercifully, a good deal of it was obscured by the boxes, the dresses, the hats, coats, shoes, stockings, and gloves which Marcia was taking to Java. Gay had firmly made a place for herself on the edge of the rose-coloured bed, Marcia, in a pink satin dressing-gown, having already annexed the only armchair. Marcia was like that. It ran in the family, because Sylvia was like it too-only more so. But then Sylvia was a lovely, and everyone had always spoiled her. Marcia wasn’t bad-looking when you saw her away from Sylvia, but nobody would ever look at her if they could look at Sylvia instead, so Marcia hadn’t really got the same excuse.

Gay tossed back her damp black curls and said,

“What on earth is it this time?”

Marcia spoke comfortably from the chair.

“Well, you know what Sylvia is. She never writes-at least only postcards to Mummy, because if she didn’t do that, she’d have Mummy ringing up every other day to know if she was dead.”

“Yes?” said Gay. You couldn’t hurry Marcia, but you could try.

“I don’t think I’ve had a single letter from her since she was married, and that’s just on a year ago. And I’ve only seen her at home, when she rushed down for about half an hour, and of course Mummy was there the whole time. But I lunched with her yesterday-to say goodbye, you know-and she told me she was in this awful jam. She really did look pretty ghastly. I mean she’d got on the wrong stockings for her dress, and her lipstick all crooked, so I think things are pretty grim.”

“What is it?” said Gay, in a resigned tone.

Marcia waved a newly manicured hand.

“Darling, she never told me. We only had about ten minutes after lunch, and the moment she began I said quite firmly, ‘Well, my dear, it’s no good your asking me to do anything, because I’m absolutely up to my eyes and sailing day after tomorrow at some ghastly hour like cock-crow.’ And she was just beginning to go all orphan-of-the-storm, when Francis came in, and she dried right up and got rid of me as soon as she possibly could-I can’t think why. I wouldn’t have married Francis if he’d been fifty times as rich, but we’ve always got on all right.”