Pursuit of a Parcel (24 page)

He said, “That's a good idea,” and was enraged when she gave herself the air of hanging back.

“Not if you don't want to of course, Mr. Antony.”

“There is nothing I should like better.”

He drove over Lane Hill and up on to the common. Ivy looked about her, giggled, and remarked that it was a nice quiet place—“but as for anywhere near the village, I'm sure you can't so much as kiss a friend goodnight but what some old cat goes tattling all over the place about it.”

“Why were you coming to see me?” said Antony.

She rolled her eyes.

“Oh, I dunno. Don't you ever have a girl to see you?”

“Was it about Delia?”

“It might have been.”

He turned round to face her.

“Ivy, if you know anything, for God's sake tell me!”

She looked startled. He saw her draw away.

“How could I know anything? I haven't said I know anything.”

“Then why were you coming to see me?”

There was a pause. She said, “Oh, well—” and he had the feeling that she was enjoying herself, but rather frightened too. She broke into a giggle.

“You should have seen old Hopkins when Mum called him a turkey-cock! I thought he'd choke!” She tossed her head. “What's it got to do with the police who I'm friends with? And what's it got to do with that interfering old cat Mrs. Giles who I go with or who I kiss goodnight to? Her precious Tommy's safe enough that she always thought Gladys was after.
Him!
Glad wouldn't have him, not if he went down on his knees, nor would any other girl that didn't want poison for a mother-in-law! Maybe he'll come home with a German frawline, and see how she'll like that—scandalmongering after Glad and me like she does! Pity she hasn't got something else to think about! I'm a married woman, aren't I? How does she know it wasn't my husband I was saying goodnight to?”

“Was it?” said Antony.

There was something underneath this uneasy stream.

“Why should it be? A girl can have a friend, can't she?”

“Ivy—was it your husband?”

She flared up.

“Do you think I'd give him away if it was?”

Something under the stream—something that might be given away—

He said, “No, I don't think so. Who was it?”

The flare died down again.

“I don't know from Adam.”

He heard himself laugh. It struck him with a kind of wonder.

“Then you can give him away with a perfectly clear conscience.”

“I suppose I can. But I wouldn't for everyone, and that's the gospel truth. Miss Delia, she's never been nasty to me and Glad, and I wouldn't be nasty to her. She always spoke nice to Mum, and she'd look and smile the same as if we were anyone else. So that's why I'm telling you.”

Antony said, “Go on.” His throat was tight. Delia in the village street—moving with her quick, light step—giving her enchanting smile to Mrs. Giles, to old Hopkins, to the brazen Parkin girls. It wrenched at his heart.

He must have made some sound, because all in a moment Ivy was crying and telling him not to.

“Don't, Mr. Antony—don't! It can't be all that bad. They wouldn't hurt her—nobody wouldn't hurt Miss Delia. And I wouldn't have told him nothing if I'd known what he was up to, the nasty little ferret.”

Antony caught her wrist.

“What did you tell him? No, don't cry—that's no good. Tell me!”

“I didn't know a thing, Mr. Antony.” She dragged out a handkerchief reeking of cheap scent and dabbed her eyes. “Never seen him before and never want to see him again. Come up to me when I was walking out this way Wednesday. On a motor-bike he was, and got off and passed the time of day and asked if I hadn't got a friend with me—
you
know.” A giggle and a sob came out together. “Well, I hadn't, and I said so. Then we got talking, and he said wasn't it very dull down here for a girl like me, and I said it was. By and by he got talking about who lived in all the houses. We were round about where you picked me up, and he pointed to Fourways and asked who lived there, so I told him Mr. Merridew and his niece Miss Delia Merridew, and he said it would be very dull for her, but he supposed she'd got her friends. And I said oh, yes, there was you and there was Miss Cynthia Kyrle, Dr. Kyrle's daughter. Mr. Antony, I didn't mean any harm nor think any. It was just talk, and him making up to me all the time the way a fellow does when he wants a girl to think he's keen on her. I didn't take a lot of notice of what he said, not till afterwards. I thought it was all just something to talk about whilst we got going, and that's the honest truth.”

He thought it was. His grasp tightened on her wrist.

“You never saw him before?”

“No, I never.” She was half crying still.

“Would you know him again?”

“I might.”

“Can you describe him?”

“I dunno. He'd on overalls and a mac—they kind of cover you up—and a cap and goggles, only he pushed the goggles up when he came across to speak to me. There isn't much to see when a fellow's got all that on. He was small, that's one thing—wouldn't hardly have come up to your ear. And a kind of fidgety way with him—he'd blink his eyes when he asked a question—and a London way of speaking. And I couldn't see his hair—it was all hid up under the cap. I should think it'd be light, because he hadn't any eyebrows to speak of, nor eyelashes neither. Kind of pinched-looking, if you know what I mean, but plenty of talk. There's one thing he was right about if he never spoke another word—about Wayshot being dull. It's all right when you don't know anything different, but after London—” she tossed her head and rolled her eyes—“well, there's times I've been so fed up I'd have had a shot at getting off with old Hopkins!”

She jerked at her wrist to get it away, and Antony let her go. He had got as much as he expected and a little more. The description she had given him had possibilities. It might say something to the London police. Anyhow they should have it, and at once.

He started up the car and drove back along the way he had come, Ivy beside him busy with her horrible handkerchief, compact, lipstick. The car fairly stank of chypre. He thought ironically of Garrett—but in a contest of reeks the old foul pipe should hold its own. Under the surface hope pulled frantically against despair.

As they approached the entrance to the drive, Ivy giggled and put a hand on his arm.

“If you'll put me down here, that'll be all right. And thank you for the drive.”

It had been a jaunt—a break in the dullness of Wayshot. A bitter anger came up in him. Delia and he were the sport of a trivial fate! Because Ivy Parkin hankered after London and found Wayshot dull, Delia had been thrown to the wolves. She had doubtless been bored this afternoon. His agony would be a godsend to her. There was a horrible moment when he felt like murder. And then Ivy was getting out of the car. He slammed the door and let both windows down to clear the chypre.

He had his hand on the starter, when she came running up on the off side and leaned right in.

“Mr. Antony—”

“What is is?”

“Mr. Antony—”

He took hold of himself. There was something she wanted to say. Not a chance in a million that it was anything to matter, but he couldn't afford to neglect the millionth chance.

“What is it, Ivy? Have you thought of anything else?”

Her giggle was a nervous one.

“Well, I might have—I dunno. You wouldn't get me into trouble with the police?”

What did one say to that? He chanced it honestly.

“It would depend on what you'd done. I'd do my best. What is it?”

She hesitated, drew back a little, and then came out with,

“Would there be a reward?”

A laughter as bitter as anger swept through him. Money! Of course that was what she was after. What a damned fool he had been not to tumble to it before! He said in what he hoped was a casual voice,

“Oh, yes, there'd be a reward.”

“How much?” said Ivy briskly. Business was business, and a girl had to look out for herself.

“How much do you want?”

There was a momentary hesitation. Then she got it out.

“Fifty pounds.”

“What for?” He wasn't casual now, but as businesslike as she.

“Well—”

“My dear girl, you don't expect me to buy a pig in a poke, do you?”

“I dunno what you mean.” She drew back.

If she turned sulky, he'd lose her. He said quickly,

“You can have your fifty pounds if you've got anything that's worth it. But you must tell me what it is—I can't just give it you blind—you must see that.”

She said, “I dunno—” and stood fingering her bag. And then all at once she began to talk with an uneven rush of words. “I wouldn't have let that old Hopkins have it, not if he'd gone down on his knees. But you're different—and you're a gentleman, Mr. Antony—and if you say I'll get my fifty pounds—well, then you'll see I get it. And as for what it's worth, I can't say—but there's a letter, and—well, you can see for yourself.”

The hands that were fiddling with the bag pulled it open. Out came something flat and dark. She pushed it at him. The dusk was closing in, but it was not so dark but that he could see that what she was giving him was a shabby leather wallet. His heart bounded.

“Dropped it out of his rain-coat pocket most likely, when he was saying goodnight. I don't say there wasn't a kiss or two. And what's the harm if you like it? Some do and some don't. And some old cats—well nobody'd want to kiss them any old how, so what's the odds?”

It fell out of his rain-coat.… Antony thought not. He thought those predatory fingers with their scarlet nails had picked it neatly out of an inner pocket. If he had his arms round her, she would have felt it through the stuff. No human being ever carried a wallet in the outside pocket of a rain-coat.… Well, that wasn't his business.

She tugged at his sleeve and said in an urgent whisper,

“You won't let the police get nasty about it, will you? It just dropped out—I swear it did. There wasn't any money, no more than what's there now. You can see for yourself.”

All at once he was in a raging hurry to be gone—to find out what she had given him. He said,

“I'll put it right with the police, and—thank you, Ivy—you shall have your money.”

Five minutes later he was up in the room which had always been his, turning the wallet out on the top of the chest of drawers. There wasn't very much in it. There was a postal order for half a crown—no name filled in. His mouth twisted. He had an idea that Ivy had left it there, as you might say for luck. He didn't think she would have left a note. Perhaps there hadn't been one—perhaps there had been two or three. It was not his affair.

After the postal order a book of stamps—all torn out except two. And after the book of stamps a letter written on thin, cheap paper in a clear, rather childish hand. There was an address at the top—13 Middle Carrick Row, Putney. He read what followed without the slightest compunction:

“Dear Jimmy,

This is to say I can't meet you Saturday like you said. Mum's got one of her turns so I must stay home. I would like to come another time if you will ask me but Mum says I'm not old enough to go out with someone she don't know anything about. She is very strict because of being brought up chapel but I don't like to vex her because of her getting these turns which worries me a lot. She says if you want me to go out will you call and see her because that would make it all right. She says she ought to know anyone I'm going with. I hope you will not mind.

Your sincere friend,

Molly”

Within ten minutes Antony was reading this rather touching effusion over the telephone to Detective Inspector Lamb.

“That all, Mr. Rossiter?”

“I've got a description of Jimmy from the girl who gave me the wallet. I've promised her she shan't get into trouble.”

He told Ivy's tale, and got a “Nice bit of work, Mr. Rossiter. I'll send Abbott along to Middle Carrick Row at once.…”

There was, after all, no evening to be dragged through with Miss Simcox.

Antony took the road again.

He came into the room which Detective Sergeant Abbott had entered no more than a couple of minutes before him, and found him there with Detective Inspector Lamb. He had no idea that he looked ghastly enough to startle the two men, and took Lamb's expression of concern to be the precursor of bad news. The muscles of his face tightened. He came forward to the table and said in a low, hard voice,

“What is it? Better tell me and get it over.”

Abbott said quickly, “There's nothing bad. Here, you look all in. Better have a chair.”

Antony blinked as if he had been hit. He got into the chair and leaned back. After a moment he fished out the wallet and handed it over. Lamb went through it methodically, Abbott standing on the other side of the table—a slim young man in clothes of a most excellent cut. At another time Antony would have wondered about him. Now he was just an image on the retina, sharp and hard and clear, like everything else in the room. The pens on the table, the blotting-pad, the buttons on old Lamb's rather baggy coat, Abbott's slicked-back hair, the lines at the corners of Lamb's eyes, his short-stubby eyelashes—all these things stood out like things seen under a bright, unsparing light—limelight—the headlights of a car—the midday sun on sand in Africa—

He pulled at his thought and heard Lamb saying,

“Abbott's just got back, Mr. Rossiter. I expect you'd like to hear what he's got to say. Carry on, Abbott.”

In the bright picture before Antony's eyes Sergeant Abbott pulled up a chair and sat down. Then he began to speak. He had a noticeably pleasant, cultured voice.