6.15 p.m. In Town To-night.
400 Edition.
Once again we stop the mighty roar of London’s traffic and bring to you some of the interesting people who are in town to-night.
She put the paper down, and saw a small slip of paper on the floor. It was yellow with age, and when she picked it up, she saw some shorthand notes on it. She couldn’t make out the meaning, but it was obviously too old to matter. She screwed it up and tossed it into the waste-paper basket, then went across and glanced at herself in the mirror again, satisfied that she looked her best
It had been impossible to judge how long Bob would be, so they had arranged to meet outside the Aeolian Hall at half-past four. She had only twenty minutes to get there from St. John’s Wood; she shouldn’t have had a bath. She picked up her hand-bag and gloves, and stepped into the hall.
The front door bell rang.
“Oh, bother!” she exclaimed.
Even if the caller only delayed her for a few minutes, she could now no longer hope to be in New Bond Street at half-past four. She hurried to the door and opened it briskly. Then looked in surprise at two men—one little more than a boy. They were dressed in blue overalls, and one of them carried a rope-bag.
“Good-afternoon,” said Barbara.
“Afternoon. Miss. Come about the gas.”
“Gas?” echoed Barbara. “I haven’t sent——”
Then a great fear welled up in her, for the bigger of the two lunged forward. He had something in his hands—a large sponge. While that stab of fear was making her heart swell, and pain shot across her breast, he thrust the sponge into her face. She caught a whiff of a penetrating smell which took her breath away. Her hands were gripped from behind, and she felt herself dragged into the hall. She couldn’t see; something was burning her face, a cloud was filling her mind, it was as if she were breathing in smoke, dense black smoke. Then she couldn’t breathe at all. She retched. The pressure on her arms increased, the burning sensation was unbearable, but—it didn’t last long. That great black cloud enshrouded her, all other pain was lost in the agony of choking, she seemed to be rising from the floor.
She felt sick.
She was sick . . .
She lay back exhausted. There was something hard beneath her head. She couldn’t see properly because of a mist in front of her eyes. She felt the awful nausea in her stomach, and her lips and nose were sore—terribly sore; burning.
The mist receded.
She was in the hall, lying on the floor. She could see Bob’s mackintosh and overcoat hanging on the hall-stand, and the black and white country scene on the wall.
She remembered.
Another spasm of fear clutched at her, as if a hand were gripping at her inside and twisting, but she struggled to get up. One shoe was off, lying near the hall-stand. Her gloves were by her side, her hand-bag was lying open, and all the contents were strewn about the floor.
She stood up.
She caught sight of herself, as she swayed forward, in the hall-stand mirror. Her lipstick was smeared and she was very red about the nose and mouth—but that wasn’t all lipstick; something had burned her. She saw something else. The buttons of her white blouse were undone. She shivered involuntarily, she hadn’t done that. What had happened? What had happened to her? Those two men
She made herself go into the sitting-room, but was exhausted when she reached the nearest chair, and sank into it. The clock began to strike. She missed counting the first. Four—not four, she had heard four. It was—nearly six o’clock, the hands wouldn’t keep steady. It was six o’clock.
She was an hour and a half late. Bob—why hadn’t he returned? Was he still waiting for her? She remembered everything clearly now, but even anxiety about Bob faded into the background. Recollection of the way that man had darted forward and thrust the sponge over her face made her shudder again.
Bob would come back soon, he’d realise that something had gone wrong.
After a while she got up. The burning on her face was very painful, she must bathe it. She went into the bath-room and sprinkled some boracic powder into the hand-basin and bathed her lips and nose, but it didn’t help much. They were puffy and swollen and there was a foul taste in her mouth. She had been chloroformed, she realised. Chloroformed, and
She looked down at her blouse.
Only now did she realise that everything in the first-aid cabinet had been moved. Several things, including Bob’s shaving tackle were on the floor. She couldn’t understand it—but understanding dawned when she returned to the sitting-room, feeling no better, but at least able to see and to take notice. The contents of a writing-table were strewn on the top, the drawer of a card-table was lying on the floor, and the contents were scattered all over the carpet. She made herself go into the bedroom and the tiny dining-room, and found everything in chaos. The fact that it would take hours to straighten everything hardly occurred to her. She ought to tell the police.
Then she remembered what Bob had said about them.
Why hadn’t he come back?
She rinsed her mouth out with cold water, using a mouthwash tablet. Thieves, police, Bob. She went into the hall and looked at the telephone—and it rang!
The sound startled her so much that she jumped and backed away, knocking her head against the wall. The bell went on ringing. She trembled as she stepped towards it, and the receiver quivered in her hand. Her voice was no more than a husky whisper.
“Can’t hear you.” The voice at the other end of the line was sharp, unfamiliar, impatient.
“Mrs.—Alien—speaking.”
“Okay,” the man said. “Your husband’s been delayed. Might not be home until late.”
“Is that the B.B.C.?” she asked, but there was no answer, and she heard the receiver go down at the other end. She held hers in her hand for some seconds, then slowly put it back. Bob delayed, might not be home until late. But—that voice, it hadn’t been a B.B.C. voice! In a sudden frenzy she picked up the directory. Her fingers trembled, she kept fumbling for the “B’s”, found them at last and after a frantic search, found: “British Broadcasting Corporation.” She didn’t want Broadcasting House—Aeolian Hall, there it was.
She dialled.
“B.B.C.,” said a girl crisply.
“May I—may I speak to Mr. Hedley?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t hear you very well. Mr. Who?”
“Mr. Hedley!” She shouted this time, her voice suddenly strong, and the operator said: “I’ll see if he’s in his office.” She held on for a long time, and began to think that she had been forgotten, when the girl spoke again. “I’m sorry, he’s left the building.”
“Are you—sure?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.” Bless that girl, she wasn’t curt, she was helpful.
Barbara said: “I’m sorry to be a nuisance, but my husband had an appointment with Mr. Hedley this afternoon and—and I want to know whether he’s left.”
“What name is it, please?”
“Allen—Robert Allen.”
“I might be able to find out,” said the girl. “Hold on, please.”
There was another long wait Barbara hooked a chair with her foot, drew it close to the table and sat down. She felt so weak. It was half-past six now.