The Attic Murder. S. Fowler Wright

lodger, had retreated to the kitchen to dish it up, and Francis was spared an introduction he did not desire.

      The man who entered was dark, large, heavily built, and of professional rather than commercial aspect, in spite of the absurd toothbrush on his upper lip, which appeared to understudy either Charlie Chaplin or the German Chancellor.

      He looked at Francis with unconcealed annoyance, for which there may have been sufficient reason in the fact that he had anticipated the presence of Mary Jones, and that she would be his sole company at the meal.

      But this first glance was casual in its hostility. The second was more intent.

      “Good morning, Mr. Vaughan,” he said, with some stress on the final word. Francis looked at him with an expression which he intended for indifferent surprise. “My name is Edwards.”

      “Glad to know.... I expect you think it’s best not to go out in this weather.”

      Francis was spared the necessity of reply by the arrival of Mrs. Benson with a tray bearing a boiled neck of mutton, and two dishes of vegetables; and before she retired, Mary Jones had also entered, and taken her seat at the table.

      Miss Jones said nothing, nor did she look at either of her fellow-guests, settling herself to her own meal as indifferently as though she were the only one there.

      It appeared that it was a table at which no one presided, its etiquette being that the dishes were passed or pushed toward each diner in turn, for the satisfaction of their own requirements. Jones accepted these services with monosyllabic thanks to those in whose existence she seemed otherwise uninterested.

      Conversation was slow to commence among three people who were alike in feeling that they were one too many, though they would have differed as to the one whose presence was not required.

      Mr. Rabone, who preferred better meals than Mrs. Benson provided, had come in with the sole object of indulging in the society of Miss Jones in a manner inappropriate to the presence of a third party: Francis had even more urgent, if not more important reason for wishing to talk to that lady alone: Mary Jones had a report to make which was not for Mr. Rabone’s ears. She also would have preferred that Francis should have been alone when she arrived, but, as Rabone was there, she had a modified satisfaction in the fact that she was not singly with him. But she told herself that this was mere cowardice, by which she thanked fate for postponing that which she had been active to bring about.

      The neck of mutton had been succeeded by apple-dumplings when Rabone addressed Miss Jones in a direct and serious way. His question was blunt to the edge of rudeness: “Shall you be going out this afternoon?”

      Her reply hesitated, as though the question were an embarrassment, and when she replied it was indirectly, and with a timidity of tone and manner very different from that in which she had conversed with Francis during the morning, and which reminded him again of the voice which he had first heard through the attic door. She said: “I expect I shall be in this evening.”

      Mr. Rabone considered this reply, on which he made no comment to her, but he looked at Francis to ask, in a manner which was more a direction than a request: “You will be going out after dark?”

      Francis restrained himself to answer: “Perhaps I shall.”

      Mr. Rabone said no more until the meal ended, and Miss Jones had risen and silently left the room. Then he turned to Francis with unfriendly and somewhat contemptuous eyes. “Staying here?” he asked curtly.

      “I may.”

      “I think not.”

      Francis made no answer to that. He saw that those who recognized him were now in a position to move him on, as a policeman deals with a tramp. But without money—without having the girl’s report of the errand in which she had so probably failed—

      Mr. Rabone spoke again: “Can you give me change for ten shillings?”

      “Not at the moment.”

      “So I supposed.” He pulled out a pocket-book fat with notes. Evidently it was not poverty which caused him to choose that modest, if respectable lodging.

      He took out a pound-note, hesitated between that and one for half the amount, and finally selected two of ten shillings each, which he passed across the table.

      Francis looked at the money, letting it lie. The action was generous in itself, but it was evidently without goodwill. Its manner made it an insult, very hard not to refuse.

      But suppose that the girl had failed, as her delay in returning appeared to indicate? Suppose that she were waiting now for the opportunity to tell him quietly that he could not be too speedy to leave? There might be freedom in those two slips of coloured paper so contemptuously tossed over the cloth. There would surely be rest and food at an urgent need

      Anyway, he must learn to obey the orders of all men who could address him as Harold Vaughan, even though they offered no money to enforce their wills.

      He picked it up with a conventional word of thanks which did attempt pretence of gratitude, as for a friend’s aid, nor that he was in less than an utter need. He said: “We will call it a loan. You shall have it back during the next few days.”

      “Call it what you will. You must be gone from here when I get back. That’s at six tonight.”

      He rose, and went up to his room. Ten minutes later Francis heard him leave, and almost immediately after Miss Jones came down.

      She had her bag in her hand, from which she drew the cheque-book that he required.

      “Was it all right?” he asked. “I was afraid when you didn’t get back—”

      “I think so, but I’m not sure. I went to a cashier who was not occupied when I got to the counter, and gave him the note. He was reading it when another customer came up. The cashier looked at him, and then said to me: “Just a moment, please,” and went to the back.

      “I thought I should have some trouble to face, but when he returned he just gave me the book in the usual way. The man who came after me had pushed a cheque over to him for payment, and I looked back as I went out of the door, and the cashier wasn’t paying it, but talking to him, with it in his hand.

      “That looked as though he had gone behind to enquire something about him rather than me, when he first saw him come up, without wishing to do it so that he would be understood—perhaps to see what his balance was—and I felt easy; but after that I got an idea that I was being followed. It may have been only nervousness, but I went a good way round, to make sure.”

      “You are sure?”

      “Yes. I mean I’m sure no one followed me here.”

      Francis noticed the quiet confidence in her voice, and that she had been sufficiently conversant with banking methods to judge what had occurred in a cool and probable way. He asked: “You won’t mind going again? There’ll be just about time before they close.”

      She did not refuse, but neither did she agree. She said:

      “It seems rather a needless risk, if we could do it a better way.... I wonder whether you’d care to trust me with a cheque that I could get a firm I know to put through their account? We could get the money in a couple of days.”

      “But it could be traced through another bank?”

      “I don’t know that that would matter. You’ve got a right to draw cheques on your own account. They wouldn’t give you away.”

      He was slow to answer, and there was reserve in her voice when she spoke again: “But I expect you can think of a better plan. Anyway, you’ve got the cheque-book now.”

      He saw that he must have appeared distrustful of the offer, and even ungrateful for what she had already done. He was in danger of losing the one friend he had, at a time when friends were his greatest need. He said: “It isn’t that. The fact is I’ve just been told to clear out before six o’clock. Mr. Rabone knows who I am.”