Chapter 17
THE EVIDENCE OF RHODA DAWES
Rhoda Dawes came out of Debenham's and stood meditatively upon the pavement. Indecision was written all over her face. It was an expressive face, each fleeting emotion showed itself in a quickly varying expression.
Quite plainly at this moment Rhoda's face said, 'Shall I or shan't I?' 'I'd like to -' 'But perhaps I'd better not.'
The commissionaire said, 'Taxi, miss?' to her hopefully. Rhoda shook her head.
A stout woman carrying parcels with an eager 'shopping early for Christmas' expression on her face cannoned into her severely, but still Rhoda stood stock still trying to make up her mind.
Chaotic odds and ends of thoughts flashed through her mind. After all, why shouldn't I? She asked me to – But perhaps it's just a thing she says to everyone. She doesn't mean it to be taken seriously – Well, after all, Anne didn't want me. She made it quite clear she'd rather go with Major Despard to the solicitor man alone – And why shouldn't she? I mean, three is a crowd – And it isn't really any business of mine. It isn't as though I particularly wanted to see Major Despard – He is nice, though – I think he must have fallen for Anne. Men don't take a lot of trouble unless they have – I mean, it's never just kindness.
A messenger boy bumped into Rhoda and said, 'Beg pardon, miss,' in a reproachful tone.
Oh dear, thought Rhoda. I can't go on standing here all day. Just because I'm such an idiot that I can't make up my mind – I think that coat and skirt's going to be awfully nice. I wonder if brown would have been more useful than green? No, I don't think so. Well, come on, shall I go, or shan't I? Half-past three – it's quite a good time – I mean it doesn't look as though I'm cadging a meal or anything. I might just go and look, anyway.
She plunged across the road, turned to the right, and then to the left, up Harley Street, finally pausing by the block of flats always airily described by Mrs. Oliver as 'all among the nursing homes.'
Well, she can't eat me, thought Rhoda and plunged boldly into the building.
Mrs. Oliver's flat was on the top floor. A uniformed attendant whisked her up in a lift and let her out on a smart new mat outside a bright green door.
This is awful, thought Rhoda. Worse than dentists. I must go through with it now, though.
Pink with embarrassment, she pushed the bell.
The door was opened by an elderly maid.
'Is – could I – is Mrs. Oliver at home?' asked Rhoda.
The maid drew back, Rhoda entered; she was shown into a very untidy drawing-room. The maid said, 'What name shall I say, please?'
'Oh – er – Miss Dawes – Miss Rhoda Dawes.'
The maid withdrew. After what seemed to Rhoda about a hundred years but was really exactly a minute and forty-five seconds, the maid returned.
'Will you step this way, miss?'
Pinker than ever Rhoda followed her. Along a passage, round a corner, a door was opened; nervously she entered into what seemed at first to her startled eyes to be an African forest!
Birds – masses of birds, parrots, macaws, birds unknown to ornithology, twined themselves in and out of what seemed to be a primeval forest. In the middle of this riot of bird and vegetable life, Rhoda perceived a battered kitchen table with a typewriter on it, masses of typescript littered all over the floor, and Mrs. Oliver, her hair in wild confusion, rising from a somewhat rickety-looking chair.
'My dear, how nice to see you,' said Mrs. Oliver, holding out a carbon-stained hand and trying with her other hand to smooth her hair, a quite impossible proceeding.
A paper bag, touched by her elbow, fell from the desk and apples rolled energetically all over the floor.
'Never mind, my dear, don't bother, someone will pick them up sometime.'
Rather breathless, Rhoda rose from a stooping position with five apples in her grasp.
'Oh, thank you – no, I shouldn't put them back in the bag. I think it's got a hole in it. Put them on the mantelpiece. That's right. Now then, sit down and let's talk.'
Rhoda accepted a second battered chair and focused her eyes on her hostess.
'I say, I'm terribly sorry. Am I interrupting or anything?' she asked breathlessly.
'Well, you are and you aren't,' said Mrs. Oliver. 'I am working. As you see. But that dreadful Finn of mine has got himself terribly tangled up. He did some awfully clever deduction with a dish of French beans, and now he's just detected deadly poison in the sage and onion stuffing of the Michaelmas goose and I've just remembered that French beans are over by Michaelmas.'
Thrilled by this peep into the inner world of creative detective fiction Rhoda said breathlessly, 'They might be tinned.'
'They might, of course,' said Mrs. Oliver, doubtfully. 'But it would rather spoil the point. I'm always getting tangled up in horticulture and things like that. People write to me and say I've got the wrong flowers all out together. As though it mattered – and anyway they are all out together in a London shop.'
'Of course it doesn't matter.' said Rhoda loyally. 'Oh, Mrs. Oliver, it must be marvelous to write.'
Mrs. Oliver rubbed her forehead with a carbony finger and asked, 'Why?'
'Oh,' said Rhoda, a little taken aback. 'Because it must. It must be wonderful just to sit down and write off a whole book.'
'It doesn't happen exactly like that,' said Mrs. Oliver. 'One actually has to think, you know. And thinking is always a bore. And you have to plan things. And then one gets stuck every now and then and you feel you'll never get out of the mess – but you do! Writing's not particularly enjoyable. It's hard work like everything else.'
'It doesn't seem like work,' said Rhoda.
'Not to you,' said Mrs. Oliver, 'because you don't have to do it! It feels very like work to me. Some days I can only keep going by repeating over and over to myself the amount of money I might get for my next serial rights. That spurs you on, you know. So does your bankbook when you see how much overdrawn you are.'
'I never imagined you actually typed your books yourself,' said Rhoda. 'I thought you'd have a secretary.'
'I did have a secretary and I used to try and dictate to her but she was so competent that it used to depress me. I felt she knew so much more about English and grammar and full stops and semicolons than I did, that it gave me a kind of inferiority complex. Then I tried having a thoroughly incompetent secretary but, of course, that didn't answer very well either.'
'It must be so wonderful to be able to think of things,' said Rhoda.
'I can always think of things,' said Mrs. Oliver, happily. 'What is so tiring is writing them down. I always think I've finished and then when I count up I find I've only written thirty thousand words instead of sixty thousand and so then I have to throw in another murder and get the heroine kidnaped again. It's all very boring.'
Rhoda did not answer. She was staring at Mrs. Oliver with the reverence felt by youth for celebrity – slightly tinged by disappointment.
'Do you like the wallpaper?' asked Mrs. Oliver, waving an airy hand. 'I'm frightfully fond of birds. The foliage is supposed to be tropical. It makes me feel it's a hot day even when it's freezing. I can't do anything unless I feel very, very warm. But Sven Hjerson breaks the ice on his bath every morning!'
'I think it's all marvelous,' said Rhoda. 'And it's awfully nice of you to say I'm not interrupting you.'
'We'll have some coffee and toast,' said Mrs. Oliver. 'Very black coffee and very hot toast. I can always eat that any time.'
She went to the door, opened it, and shouted. Then she returned and said, 'What brings you to town – shopping?'
'Yes, I've been doing some shopping.'
'Is Miss Meredith up too?'
'Yes, she's gone with Major Despard to a solicitor.'
'Solicitor, eh?' Mrs. Oliver's brows rose inquiringly.
'Yes, you see Major Despard told her she ought to have one. He's been awfully kind – he really has.'
'I was kind, too,' said Mrs. Oliver, 'but it didn't seem to go down very well, did it? In fact I think your friend
