Patricia Wentworth - Mr. Zero

The telephone bell rang, and went on ringing. Miss Agatha Hardwicke kept her instrument in the front hall where everyone could hear every single word that was said. If the postman came while you were talking, or a caller, or an errand boy, he, she or it was also included in the audience. And if you happened to be in your bedroom five floors up, you had to run all the way down and arrive breathless.

Gay Hardwicke arrived breathless. If its anyone else about that blighted bazaar, Ill smash you! she said, and jammed the receiver against one ear. With the other she heard the kitchen door open at the foot of the basement stair. That meant that Mrs. Hollings was listening in. She always did when Gay telephoned, and Gay didnt really mind, because Holly was an old pet and so passionately interested in her affairs. She probably wouldnt listen for very long this time, because it was a female voice that said,

Miss Hardwicke-can I speak to Miss Hardwicke?

Miss Hardwicke is out, Im afraid.

Why Aunt Agatha couldnt be at home to take her own blighted calls about her own blighted bazaar instead of having them just when one was half way through washing ones hair-

But the telephone had suddenly become eager and explanatory.

Gay-darling-is that you? Your voice sounded all woofly-

So would yours if you had to run down five flights of stairs every time Aunt Agathas League of Help thought of a new pattern for a pincushion.

My poor angel-how grim! Its Marcia Thrale speaking.

Yes, I got that. Where are you?

Well, its too marvellous-darling, I must see you-Im at the Luxe.

What on earth are you doing at the Luxe?

Well, its simply too marvellous. You know my Uncle George?

Is that the one in Java, or the one who could never keep a job in South America?

No, that was Denis. Hes Mummys brother-on the other side. This is the one in Java, George Thrale, and hes got pots of money, and hes my godfather, and after sending me a christening mug three years running he stopped doing anything about it till a fortnight ago, and then he sent Mummy a cheque for three hundred pounds and said, Get her all the proper clothes and let her come out with my friends the Middletons who are sailing on the fifth of Feb.

But, Marcia, thats tomorrow!

I know, darling. And thats positively all there was in the letter, except Dear Mary at the beginning and Cable reply. Love. George at the end. Gay, I must speak to you. What are you doing?

Well, I was trying to wash my hair. Its dripping all over the hall table at this minute.

Darling, how grim! Jane told me you were with your Aunt Agatha-but why? The last I heard, you were going to Madeira.

It wouldnt run to it, said Gay mournfully. Daddy and Mummy had to go because someones started a lawsuit about Mummys property out there. If it doesnt come out all right, therell be frightfully little money, so when Aunt Agatha offered to have me they said Thank you very much, kind sister and dumped me.

Darling, how utterly grim!

Gay sparkled at her end of the line. Even with her black curls wet and dripping and an old school dressing-gown pulled hastily round her, she didnt look at all like the sort of girl who would sit down and play Cinderella whilst her parents basked in the sun. Aunt Agatha was a bore, and bazaars were a bore, but there were compensations. She said,

Oh-well-

Marcia pounced.

What does that mean?

Gay made a little impudent face. Her nose wrinkled and her dark eyes danced.

Very kind-hearted people sometimes take me out, she said.

Marcia giggled.

Dont I know it! Youre that sort, you little wretch. Then, with a sudden change of tone, Get your hair dry and come round. Ive got to see you.

Gay drew back an inch or two. Something said, Dont go. The words were so loud and distinct in her mind that she very nearly dropped the receiver. She stood there frowning at it, her gay, bright colour gone as if a puff of wind had blown it out-a wind of fear-a cold, cold wind of dread.

Gay-where are you-are you there?

Gay said, Yes. The wind went past her and was gone. The fear was gone. Her colour came back.

Gay-whats the matter? You sounded-funny.

Gay laughed her own gay laugh.

I went all cold. Theres a beast of a draught under Aunt Agathas front door. Why do you want me to come round?

Marcia giggled.

Darling, what a thing to ask! I want to see you of course.

Gay frowned again.

Why do you want me? Marcia didnt, unless there was something you could do for her.

Marcia stopped giggling. She said imploringly.

Oh, Gay, do come! Its about Sylvia-shes in an awful jam.

Sylvias such an idiot, said Marcia Thrale with a giggle.

She always was, said Gay. She didnt giggle, she frowned. She was remembering all the different times Sylvia had been an idiot, and had got in a jam, and had had to be hauled out again. And it wasnt Marcia who had done the hauling, though she was her sister, it was nearly always Gay Hardwicke. And a jam at school was one thing, but a jam after you are married and ought to be living happy ever after was quite another. Her frown deepened, and she said impatiently, What on earth has she been doing now?

They were in Marcia Thrales bedroom at the Luxe. It was a riotous orgy of pink. Everything that could be pink had been painted, upholstered, or draped in that colour. Mercifully, a good deal of it was obscured by the boxes, the dresses, the hats, coats, shoes, stockings, and gloves which Marcia was taking to Java. Gay had firmly made a place for herself on the edge of the rose-coloured bed, Marcia, in a pink satin dressing-gown, having already annexed the only armchair. Marcia was like that. It ran in the family, because Sylvia was like it too-only more so. But then Sylvia was a lovely, and everyone had always spoiled her. Marcia wasnt bad-looking when you saw her away from Sylvia, but nobody would ever look at her if they could look at Sylvia instead, so Marcia hadnt really got the same excuse.

Gay tossed back her damp black curls and said,

What on earth is it this time?

Marcia spoke comfortably from the chair.

Well, you know what Sylvia is. She never writes-at least only postcards to Mummy, because if she didnt do that, shed have Mummy ringing up every other day to know if she was dead.

Yes? said Gay. You couldnt hurry Marcia, but you could try.

I dont think Ive had a single letter from her since she was married, and thats just on a year ago. And Ive only seen her at home, when she rushed down for about half an hour, and of course Mummy was there the whole time. But I lunched with her yesterday-to say goodbye, you know-and she told me she was in this awful jam. She really did look pretty ghastly. I mean shed got on the wrong stockings for her dress, and her lipstick all crooked, so I think things are pretty grim.

What is it? said Gay, in a resigned tone.

Marcia waved a newly manicured hand.

Darling, she never told me. We only had about ten minutes after lunch, and the moment she began I said quite firmly, Well, my dear, its no good your asking me to do anything, because Im absolutely up to my eyes and sailing day after tomorrow at some ghastly hour like cock-crow. And she was just beginning to go all orphan-of-the-storm, when Francis came in, and she dried right up and got rid of me as soon as she possibly could-I cant think why. I wouldnt have married Francis if hed been fifty times as rich, but weve always got on all right.