He puzzled over these problems all the morning and he was still worrying about them after lunch when the front door bell rang sharply startling him almost out of his wits.
He put down the frying pan he was scouring, wiped his hands, whipped off his apron and hurried up the basement stairs to the hall.
A young man in a drab sports coat and baggy flannel trousers stood on the doorstep.
“Trying to sell something,” Cedric thought peevishly, and was just about to snap, “Not today, thank you,” and slam the door when he suddenly caught the look in the young man’s eyes. So instead of slamming the door in the young man’s face, Cedric stood gaping at him.
“Does Miss Hedder live here?” the young man asked in a curiously soft, abrupt voice.
“Yes,” said Cedric, “but she’s out at the moment.”
This statement did not seem to surprise the young man. He took out a crumpled envelope from his pocket and thrust it at Cedric. “Give her that as soon as she comes in,” he commanded.
Cedric took the envelope as if he expected it to bite him and began to close the door.
The young man looked at him contemptuously. “And don’t steam it open,” he threatened. “I know what you nosey fat louts are like.”
He went down the steps and along the street, leaving Cedric gasping with guilty fear and fury.
“The idea!” Cedric gasped, slamming the front door. “Well, really! I mean if that’s the way young people talk these days . . .! I’ve never heard such a thing!” He went back to his kitchen and, still holding the envelope, he sat limply in a chair.
When he had recovered sufficiently to put on the kettle for a cup of tea, he examined the envelope with curious eyes. He hesitated for some time before finally making up his mind. It was his duty he told himself to find out what was going on. Who was this desperate-looking young man? What did he want with Susan? What in the world did it all mean?
He took a long time opening the envelope, taking the greatest care not to tear the flap. His fingers trembled as he pulled out the scrap of notepaper and read its message: Go to Fresby’s Agency 24c Rupert Court, W.C.2. He’ll get you in. J.C.
Cedric replaced the note and carefully resealed the envelope. He was as wise as he was before and it worried him. He put the envelope on the hallstand, returned to the kitchen and made the tea.
As he was pouring out a cup, he heard the front door open and recognized Susan’s quick, light step.
“Only just in time,” he thought to himself. “I really must be more careful. What would she have thought if she’d come in five minutes sooner?”
He went into the hall to find Susan reading the note.
“There you are,” he said. “You’re early, aren’t you?”
Susan looked up quickly, nodded and picked up her other letters. “Hmm,” she said, then remembering her manners, went on, “Yes. It’s a lovely day, isn’t it, Mr. Smythe?”
Cedric noted that she was moving casually to the stairs. “I’ve just made a nice cup of tea, Miss Hedder,” he said. “Do come and have a cup. Now come along, I just won’t take no for an answer.”
“It’s very nice of you, Mr. Smythe, but I’m in rather a hurry,” Susan said, smiling at him. “Thank you all the same,” and she flashed up the stairs before Cedric could stop her.
In her room, Susan sat on the bed and re-read Joe’s note.
He must mean that if I go to Fresby’s Agency, they’ll get me a job at the Gilded Lily Club, she thought excitedly, putting the letter away in her bag. As she did so her mind dwelt on the man in the black shirt and the strange but thrilling voice of the woman in the mews flat. Should she go? she asked herself, or should she forget all about Kester Weidmann, his dead brother and Joe? She couldn’t do that, not now she knew all about them. Besides not many girls had the opportunity of an exciting job like this. She was, after all, her own mistress now and that was something in itself.
She got up and looked at herself in the long mirror.
Susan was a nice-looking girl. She was fair, her eyes were blue and her complexion was excellent. She had dimples when she smiled and her teeth were small, even and white.
Fresby’s Agency was hidden away in a grimy little court leading off Rupert Street, Piccadilly. It was on the third floor, but there was no lift.
Susan walked up the stone stairs, aware that her heart was beating rapidly rather more from excitement and nervousness than from the exertion of climbing the stairs. On the first floor was a bookmaker’s office, and as she passed the door she could hear telephones ringing and a number of men talking in rough, coarse voices. The second floor offices were empty and as she mounted the stairs to the third floor she noticed the stairs were dirty and the banister rail was coated with dust.
She pushed open a door marked Enquiries, but there was no one there. The little room contained a desk and a chair. On the desk was a telephone directory and a vase of dead flowers and a saucer full of cigarette butts. There was a smell of dirt and stale air in the room. She waited a few moments and then explored further, trying another door.
A thin, elderly man, wearing a baggy brown suit glanced up suspiciously. He was sitting at a desk, a cup of tea and a rock bun on a piece of paper before him. He was chewing slowly and crumbs decorated his drooping, nicotine-stained moustache.
“Excuse me,” Susan said, in a small voice. “There seemed no one about.”
The thin man scowled at her. “It’s no good expecting any tea,” he said, crumbling the rock cake between two dirty ink— stained fingers. “I haven’t got another cup. I don’t know why people call at tea time.”
Susan repressed a desire to giggle. There was something pathetic about the dignity of this thin, pinched looking man. His collar was a little frayed and his shirt was not quite clean. The crumbs on his moustache made him look rather ridiculous and yet he did somehow manage to retain a sad dignity which was quite out of place in the dilapidated dirty little room.
“I don’t want any tea, thank you,” she said, moving further into the room. “I wanted a job at the Gilded Lily Club,” Susan said, suddenly wondering if she had come to the right place. This man—she presumed he was Mr. Fresby—did not look as if he had jobs to give away. He looked in need of a job himself.
“Oh,” Fresby said and grunted.
Susan sat down. “Perhaps you don’t understand,” she said patiently. “Mr.— er—Crawford told me to come and see you.”
“I know,” Mr. Fresby said and looked at her. She realized with a little stab of fear that he was looking at her very strangely. His dim, pale eyes seemed to be looking under her clothes and she felt suddenly hot, embarrassed and angry.
“If you haven’t anything for me,” she said sharply, “then I won’t waste your time.”
The telephone began to ring.
Fresby eyed it suspiciously, then he picked up the receiver and said “Hello?”
He sat listening to a soft male voice which Susan thought sounded like Joe’s.
She glanced at Fresby and noticed that he looked suddenly older and very tired.
“Yes,” he said. “All right. Oh, yes. I understand. No, you needn’t worry, you know me. Well, you know what I mean. No . . . no . . . of course not.” He listened some more and then hung up.
“That was Joe,” he said in a low voice and Susan saw beads of perspiration on his forehead. “He’s a devil. You be careful of him. He thought I wasn’t going to be polite to you. He’s wrong, isn’t he, Miss? I’ve said nothing out of place?” His sudden anxiety to please was as pathetic as his former dignity.
“No,” Susan said. “It’s all right.”
“Is there a vacancy at the Gilded Lily Club?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Not at the moment,” he said. “But there will be. I’ll arrange that. Go and see them tomorrow morning. Ask to see Mr. Marsh. I know him. He lives on women. I’ll speak to him tonight.” He stroked his moustache thoughtfully. “They give you six months for living on women in this country. He’ll give you a job. What can you do? A receptionist?”