Algy Somers walked home through a number of dark, quiet by-ways. If some parts of London never go to bed, there are others which sleep very soundly indeed. Algy’s footsteps had only their own echo for company, and as he walked he was wondering what had happened to him. He hadn’t known that he was going to take Gay’s hand like that. Something had come up between them as they stood together in the dark porch, and before he knew what he was going to do his hand had closed on hers. The feel of that little hand, and the way it shook under his, was tingling in him still. What he ought to be feeling was relief, because if Gay hadn’t pulled away like that and run into the house, there was really no saying what he might have said or done. He might have said anything, he might have committed himself quite hopelessly, and instead of being grateful for a most providential interruption he was raging because Gay had run away from him. And why? That was what he wanted to know. Why had her hand been all shaky under his, and why had she run away? Was she angry with him, or was she afraid, or…?
It was some time after this that he came to with a start and realized that he hadn’t the very faintest idea where he was. He didn’t know where he was, and he didn’t even know how long it had taken him to get there. It took him quite a long time to get home.
Sylvia Colesborough heard the wall-clock in her sitting-room strike three as she came up the stair. It was the very latest thing in clocks, a bright stretch of glass with the numerals raised in mirror points, and the hands a delicate fretwork of stainless steel. Everything in the room was new and bright, and, to Sylvia’s taste, very, very beautiful. She hated things that were old, or partly worn, or out of fashion. She had grown up amongst things like that and she hated them. Everything in her own sitting-room and in the bedroom next door to it was quite, quite new.
She went into the bedroom and began to undress, moving to and fro with her slow, invariable grace. Sylvia never hurried. She put everything away as she took it off. It had never occurred to her to let her maid sit up for her when she was going to be late. She liked to come alone into her lovely room and go softly to and fro without feeling that there was any need to hurry. The room made a perfect setting for her. The colours in it were all the colours of ice-pale green and blue, and all the shades between. The bed, a classically shaped couch, the dressing-table, and the stool that belonged to it were all made of heavy glass, semi-opaque and with a bluish tinge, but there was bright glass too-brightly faceted glass in the wreath about a mirror, in the clustered ceiling lights, and mirror glass everywhere so that as she moved Sylvia could see herself reflected from every side. Every looking-glass panel was a door. Behind one the bathroom, all pale green glass. Behind the others Sylvia’s many lovely dresses, her hats, her shoes, her filmy, delicate underwear. Sylvia loved her mirrors-loved to see her own reflection come and go, loved the light, the pale colours, and the dazzling brilliance of it all. She loved it most when Francis was away.
It wasn’t that she disliked Francis-she was much too amiable to do that. Had he not given her all these beautiful things? If it were not for Francis she would still be penniless Sylvia Thrale, living with a widowed mother in a small provincial town and being made love to by curates and bank clerks. She shuddered at the thought that she might have married one of them. It was Francis who had saved her from this, and since he was her husband and she had promised to be fond of him, in church and with six bridesmaids and a large congregation all listening to her, it followed as a matter of course that she was fond of Francis. But he was away a lot, and life was much, much pleasanter when he was away-much, much pleasanter.
Sylvia put on a white embroidered chiffon nightdress and sat down on the edge of her wide, low bed to take off her slippers. As the second slipper dropped, the telephone bell rang sharply. The instrument stood on a heavy glass pedestal beside the bed and was masked by the translucent figure of a dancer with outspread skirts.
She got into bed, and when the bell rang a second time she took up the receiver and put it to her ear. It was silly of her heart to beat so fast, because nobody in the world would ring her up at this hour except Francis-nobody in the whole world. But Francis might-Francis sometimes did when he was away like this.
A man’s voice said, “Hullo!” It sounded a long way off. Francis was a long way off. He was somewhere abroad, she wasn’t quite sure where. Francis very seldom told her where he went to on his business journeys.
The faraway voice said, “Hullo!” again.
Sylvia said, “Who’s there?” And the voice said,
“Mr. Zero.”
Gay would have hung up in a rage, but Sylvia wasn’t Gay Hardwicke. The receiver shook, and her hand shook, and her heart shook too. She said,
“I can’t talk to you-I really can’t. Please, please go away.”
Mr. Zero laughed. He had an odd, cold laugh which frightened Sylvia extremely. He said,
“Neither of us is going away until we’ve got our little bit of business fixed up. I’m a martyr to business, and if you don’t want to be a martyr too, and a slaughtered martyr at that, you’ll stay just where you are and listen to me until I say you can hang up.”
Sylvia was puzzled to the point of forgetting to be frightened. In a tone of pure bewilderment she said,
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Mr. Zero laughed again.
“Dear me-I was forgetting that I must use words of one syllable! Very, very stupid of me. Please accept my apologies. And now to business. If you ring off before I’ve finished with you, I shall write and tell your husband about the paper you took last week. Is that quite clear?”
“No!” said Sylvia with a gasp. “Oh, no-you wouldn’t! I mean, you won’t!”
“Not if you do as you’re told. And the first thing is, you are not to hang up until I say you can.”
Sylvia felt a slight relief. If that was all, she could do that. She pulled up a pale blue sheet and a pale green blanket and settled herself against the pillows that matched them. If she had got to talk to this horrible man she might as well be comfortable.
Mr. Zero was speaking, still in that faraway voice.
“I will put everything very simply. As far as possible there shall only be words of one syllable. If I go into two or three syllables, put a wet towel round your head and do your best to understand me.”
“But it would spoil my wave,” said Sylvia in a tone of sincere protest.
“Well, well, I don’t insist upon the towel. Now listen to me! Is your husband away?”
“Oh, yes.”
“When does he come back?”
“Tomorrow-at least I think so.”
“He takes his keys with him of course?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Where does he keep them when he is at home? No, I can tell you that-he has them on a chain in his trouser pocket and changes them over when he changes his clothes. A very careful person. What I don’t know, and what I want you to tell me is what he does with them at night. Does he leave them on his dressing-table?”
Sylvia had almost stopped being frightened. This was quite easy to answer.
“Only when he goes to his bath,” she said.
“And the bathroom opens out of his dressing-room?”
Sylvia drew in her breath in surprise.