Реймонд Маршалл - The Paw in the Bottle

He pulled her to him and kissed her.

‘If you want me urgently give Mrs. French a message. I’ll be out of Town for a day or so, but she’ll know where she can get in touch with me. All right?’

She looked up at him.

‘It’ll have to be.’

He kissed her, gave her a little hug, and left her. She went to the window and watched him walk quickly down the street.

‘Planning a robbery,’ she thought. ‘And I’m to find out the details. Well, the money’s all right. If I don’t have anything to do with the actual robbery I can’t get into trouble.’ She looked at the two five-pound notes and smiled. ‘The money’s fine.’

Julie found Mrs. French’s Domestic Agency was over an antique bookseller’s shop in Mayfair Street. She went into the dimly lit lobby. The bookseller’s door was on her right, in front of her was a flight of stone stairs, and under the stairs was the lift.

A blonde woman, holding a Pekinese dog under her arm, stood in the doorway. She looked at Julie without interest, then shifted her heavily shaded eyes back to the street. A man paused in his stride, looked at her, saw Julie and continued on his way. The blonde woman didn’t care. The man had already twice passed the doorway. Obviously he was the type who took time to make up his mind. He would be back again.

Julie entered the lobby, glanced back at the blonde woman and wrinkled her nose. She would never come to that, she told herself.

As she looked round she became aware of a tall, bony man peering at her through the glass panel of the door leading to the bookseller’s shop. He stood very still, his head on one side and surveyed her with intent eyes. He was old and dried up, and his thick, white hair needed a trim. His scrutiny made her feel uncomfortable and she hurriedly ran up the stairs, knowing he would stare at her legs until she was out of sight.

A door marked ‘Mrs. French. Domestic Agency. Enquiries.’ faced her at the head of the stairs; she pushed it open, entered a small, well-furnished room, full of flowers and sunshine.

A girl was typing by the window. She was smart, polished and sophisticated. Her auburn hair was done in an elaborate up-sweep with not a hair out of place. Her white linen dress with its smart red buttons and belt fitted her without a wrinkle. She looked as if she had been taken carefully from a box lined with cellophane and placed with equal care on her chair not a moment before. Julie regarded her with envious interest.

The girl glanced up, her scarlet nails still flashing over the typewriter’s keys. Seeing Julie, she stopped typing and with an irritable frown pushed back her chair and came over to the counter that divided the room.

She had the easy, graceful carriage of a mannequin and she was tall. She made Julie feel shabby and somehow a little cheap, and that immediately put Julie on the offensive.

‘Did you want anything?’ the girl asked abruptly and eyed Julie with scarcely concealed contempt. She had a low, husky voice that seemed familiar to Julie.

‘Mr. Gleb told me to ask for Mrs. French,’ she said awkwardly.

‘Oh, I see.’ The girl’s mouth tightened. ‘You’re Julie Holland, I suppose? Well, sit down. You’ll have to wait. My mother’s busy at the moment,’ and she turned and went back to her typing.

Feeling snubbed and hating the girl, Julie sat down. There followed a long wait. The only sound in the office was the whirr of the typewriter and the sharp ping of the bell at the end of each line. She studied the girl. ‘They must pay well here.’ she thought, ‘that frock has a marvellous cut, and she’s wearing nylons, too. I’d like a frock like that. I’d look much nicer than she does.’

The girl got up suddenly, swept up a number of papers from her desk, and went into the inner office. After another wait, she came out, jerked her head at Julie.

‘Go in. She’s free now.’

Mrs. French sat at a big desk near the window. She wore unrelieved black and, seeing her, like an unwanted relative at a funeral, Julie was startled. Long jet ear-rings swung backwards and forwards whenever she moved her head. She had none of her daughter’s prettiness, but there was a marked resemblance about the determined mouth and chin.

She seemed to know all about Julie and came to the point with startling suddenness.

‘Gleb’s told me about you. The job’s simple enough if you use your brains. You don’t look a fool.’ And as Julie continued to stand before her desk, she waved impatiently to a chair. ‘Sit down, sit down.’ Her voice was deep and harsh. ‘You will go this afternoon to 97, Park Way. Do you know where the Albert Hall is? Well, Park Way is just by it. You can’t miss it. It’s big and ugly enough. Your new employer will be Mrs. Howard Wesley. You are to be her personal maid. You’ll have to look after her things, tidy up when she’s finished dressing, answer the door, serve cocktails, arrange flowers and take telephone messages. It’s an easy job as far as the work’s concerned. The permanent staff of the building does all the rest of the work and the meals are sent up from the restaurant. Mrs. Wesley will pay you three pounds a week and all found. You’re to come here every Saturday afternoon for your additional pay. Do you understand all that?’

Julie said, ‘Yes.’

There was something about Mrs. French that made her uneasy: a feeling you have in the dark when you hear a sudden, mysterious sound and you think something horrible is going to jump out on you.

‘Your uniform is over there — in that parcel,’ Mrs. French went on, and touched her ear-rings. They seemed to give her a secret satisfaction for she smiled. ‘If it doesn’t fit you, alter it, but I think it’ll be all right. For goodness’ sake don’t look shoddy. Mrs. Wesley has high standards. And here are your references.’ She pushed two envelopes across the desk. ‘Study them. Mrs. Wesley isn’t likely to be too particular, but you never know. One of them is from a doctor and the other a clergyman. I’ve been to a lot of trouble to get them and they cost me money, so don’t lose them.’

‘Thank you,’ Julie said, bewildered. She put the two envelopes in her bag.

‘Well, you know what you have to do,’ Mrs. French went on. ‘I’d better tell you something about the Wesleys. You’ll find out about them quick enough, but you may as well be on your guard. Howard Wesley, the husband, is the senior partner of Wesley-Benton, the aircraft designers. The factory is near Northolt airfield. Wesley goes there every day. You may have read about him. He’s blind: won the V.C. bringing in a burning bomber. He saved the crew or something like that. I forget the details. Anyway, he’s enormously rich — and blind.’ She picked up a pencil and began to draw neat little circles on the blotting paper. ‘Mrs. Wesley, before her marriage, was Blanche Turrell, the musical comedy actress,’ she went on. ‘You’ve probably seen her. Most people have. She drinks like a camel. That’s why she’s given up stage work. Wesley’s always been crazy about her, but she doesn’t give two hoots for anyone but herself. She married Wesley for his money and leads him a hell of a life, so I hear. Her temper’s vicious, her nature’s mean and she has the morals of an alley cat.’ She thought for a moment, added, ‘Oh, yes, she’s a first-class bitch as well.’

‘I see,’ Julie said, startled.

‘You’ll have trouble with her,’ Mrs. French went on. ‘Your work is easy enough, but your dealings with Mrs. Wesley won’t be. That’s why we’re paying you good money. You’ll earn it, all right; don’t think you’re in for a soft job.’ She stared at Julie, a satisfied expression in her eyes. ‘As far as I know she hasn’t kept a maid longer than three weeks, but it is part of your job to stick it out until I tell you. If you quit before we’re ready you’ll lose the fifty pounds. Understand?’