Реймонд Маршалл - The Paw in the Bottle

‘Before you’re ready for what?’ Julie asked sharply.

‘You’ll be told when we want you to know,’ Mrs. French said. ‘Your immediate job is to get established at Park Way. You’re satisfied with the money we’re paying you, aren’t you?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Julie said. ‘The money’s all right.’

‘Be satisfied then, and don’t ask questions.’ Mrs. French opened a drawer, took out a cash box and counted out twelve one-pound notes. ‘Take this. Come in next Saturday and there’ll he another twelve pounds for you. You play along with us and we’ll look after you, but step out of turn and you’ll regret it.’ She eyed Julie, went on in her rasping voice. ‘Now get off and take that muck off your face. You’re supposed to be a servant, not a movie star.’

‘Yes,’ Julie said, hating her. She put the money in her bag.

‘And watch your temper. You’ll need all your control when Mrs. Wesley starts on you. When she’s drunk, she’s rotten; remember that. You can’t be too careful.’

‘I see,’ Julie said.

‘Right, get off now, and tell Dana I want her as you go out.’

Julie was picking up the parcel containing her uniform when Mrs. French said this and nearly dropped the parcel. Dana! So this was the girl who had telephoned Harry and had warned him the police were looking for him. She remembered what Harry had said about her: She isn’t as pretty as you, so you don’t have to worry about her. Wasn’t she? She had everything: poise, prettiness, clothes and immaculate neatness. ‘How could he lie like that?’ she thought, furious and dismayed. ‘He tried to make out she meant nothing to him. A girl like that...’

‘What are you waiting for?’ Mrs. French demanded. ‘You know what to do, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ Julie said, and went into the outer office.

Dana was speaking into the telephone, her back turned to Julie.

‘She’s in there now,’ she was saying. ‘Yes, she looks all right as far as she goes—’ She looked over her shoulder, saw Julie and stopped speaking.

‘Mrs. French wants you,’ Julie said, aware that her voice was shaky. She went out of the office, closed the door and stood listening.

She heard Dana’s voice clearly through the glass panel of the door.

‘Just this moment gone,’ she was saying. ‘A bit of a slut I’d say, but if she does the job... what’s that? Well, I’m not so sure. Oh, of course, they all want money. That’s all they think about. All right. Let’s talk about it tonight.’

Who was she talking to? Julie wondered, her face burning. Not Harry. No, she wouldn’t believe Harry would stand for her being called a slut. She wanted to rush into the office and slap Dana’s face. Then a sudden feeling that she was being watched made her turn. Mrs. French was standing in the doorway that led from her office into the passage. The sunlight coming through the landing window caught the jet ear-rings and made them sparkle. Mrs. French didn’t move nor speak. She looked coldly menacing, like a waxworks in the Chamber of Horrors. Julie forgot her anger, backed to the head of the stairs.

‘I wasn’t listening,’ she said breathlessly.

Mrs. French continued to regard her with stony eyes. The ear-rings continued to flash in the sunlight.

Julie turned and ran down the stairs. Just round the bend of the staircase she nearly collided with the blonde woman who was coming up the stairs. The man, whom Julie had seen in the street, was following her. He didn’t look at Julie, but stared at the stairs, red faced.

In the lobby the thin, bony man stared at her through the glass panel of the bookseller’s door. He was still watching her as she ran down the stone steps into the heat and bustle of Mayfair Street.

A blonde woman in a silk wrap over an oyster-coloured nightdress jerked open the front door of 97, Park Way and demanded furiously: ‘What do you want; calling at this hour? Didn’t they tell you I haven’t a maid?’ Her pretty, doll-like face was puffy with sleep, and she seemed to have just got out of bed.

‘I’m sorry if I have disturbed you,’ Julie was startled and embarrassed. The woman made no attempt to conceal her rage. ‘I was sent by Mrs. French. I... I understood you were expecting me.’

‘Then for goodness’ sake come in,’ Blanche Wesley said. ‘I’ve been without anyone for days. It’s really monstrous how I’m treated.’

She slouched into the hall lounge. Julie closed the front door and followed her.

‘I can’t talk to you until I’ve had some coffee,’ Blanche went on, and ran her little claw-like fingers through her blonde curls. ‘Now you are here — do make yourself useful. The kitchen’s through there. Just poke around until you find everything. Please don’t ask a lot of silly questions. I have a splitting headache. Just get me some coffee. I’ll be in the end room down the passage.’ She stared at Julie; ‘Why, you’re quite pretty. What a pleasant change. I’m so tired of being surrounded by ugly faces. I can never understand why the working classes are so hideous. But do run along. You can make coffee, I suppose, or can’t you?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Julie said, and smiled brightly.

Blanche winced.

‘That’s lovely, but don’t grin at me, please. My nerves simply won’t stand it.’ She frowned down at her quilted satin slippers, went on, ‘I think it would be nice if you said ‘madam’ when you speak to me. Yes, I think I should like that. It shouldn’t be difficult, or do you think it will?’

‘No, madam,’ Julie said. She turned scarlet, and her smile vanished.

‘Are you angry?’ The pencilled eyebrows lifted. ‘Have I said anything to annoy you? You’ve turned the colour of a beetroot; so unbecoming I always think.’

‘Oh, no, madam,’ Julie said, and behind her back her fists clenched tightly.

‘I probably will, sooner or later,’ Blanche said, with evident satisfaction. ‘Mr. Wesley tells me I am so tactless with menials. I suppose I am, but I do think if one pays good wages one should be able to say what one thinks.’

Julie kept silent. The doll-like face, the enchanting little body, the golden curls that reminded her of a halo, fascinated her.

‘Well, do stop gaping at me,’ Blanche said, frowning. ‘Of course, I’m used to people staring, but I do think it’s a little much when I feel like the wrath of God.’

‘I’m sorry, madam,’ Julie tried to look away, but there was something so bizarre about this woman that she couldn’t take her eyes off her for more than a few seconds.

‘I feel positively ill this morning,’ Blanche went on. She pressed her fingers to her temples. ‘And no one cares a damn if I’m dying.’ Then, with a sudden startling blaze-up of rage, she shouted; ‘For God’s sake get that coffee and stop gaping at me as if I were a blue-bottomed baboon!’

‘I’m sorry, madam.’ Julie backed away. ‘I’ll get it at once.’

She went into the kitchen and hurriedly closed the door.

‘Well, I was warned,’ she said to herself, ‘but I didn’t think she’d he quite like this. Phew! I’ll have to watch my step if I’m to keep this job for long.’

While she waited for the water to boil, she hurriedly slipped of her frock, opened the parcel containing her uniform and put it on.

‘Perhaps she’ll be pleased if I wear my uniform,’ she thought. ‘At least, it’ll show her I know my place,’ and she giggled.

Blanche’s room was ablaze with light when Julie entered carrying a tray. There was a strong smell of brandy and stale perfume in the room and the air was thick and stuffy. Although it was past three in the afternoon the curtains were still drawn, and no windows appeared to be open.