receiver.
“That would be a catastrophe for you, Mr Narth,” he said. “You owe us fifty thousand pounds which you can never repay.”
“Never repay?” snarled the other. “You seem to forget that I’m the heir of Joe Bray.”
The Chinaman showed his white teeth in a humorous grin.
“An heirship is not of very much value until the testator dies,” he said.
“But Joe Bray is dead!” gasped the other.
“Joe Bray,” said Fing-Su coolly, as he tapped a cigarette upon a golden box he had taken from his waistcoat pocket, “is very much alive. In fact, I heard him with my own ears last night!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
With no other thought save one of perplexity at Stephen Narth’s changed appearance, Joan went forth on a mission which would have been dear to any woman but was especially pleasing to her in the circumstances. She counted the money as she sat in the taxi: there was L320—an enormous sum to one who had never owned more than ten pounds in her life.
Madame Ferroni’s address she had given to the driver, and for the next ten minutes she was interested in the skill with which he threaded his way through the traffic, worked round the blocks at every busy street crossing, till he reached the comparative freedom of the Euston Road.
Fitzroy Square has a peculiar character of its own; its proximity to the West End trading centres has saved it from the indignity which has befallen so many of the obscure squares of London and has converted fine old Queen Anne houses into tenements. It boasted a restaurant of some reputation, a dancing club or two, and numerous business offices.
The doorpost of No. 704 was almost entirely covered with brass plates announcing the variegated professions and trades which were carried on behind its open doorway. Painted at the top were the words: “Madame Ferroni, Modiste, 3rd floor back.” The paint, she noticed, was still wet.
She had dismissed the cabman to satisfy the frugal views of her relation, and mounting the stairs she came at last, a little out of breath but elated with the exhilarating character of her visit, to a door on which, also newly painted, was the dressmaker’s name. She knocked, and was immediately admitted. The woman who opened the door to her was dark-faced and forbidding. She was dressed in black, and this emphasized her sallow complexion. Hers was a complexion distinct from the normal darkness of European races; there were faint, livid shadows under her eyes; her lips were thick, her nose a little squat. She was unquestionably a half caste. The slant eyes, the yellow tinge to her skin, marked her unmistakably to a student of ethnology—but Joan was not such a student.
This would not have alarmed the girl but for the fact that the room into which she was ushered was almost empty and the door that closed upon her was immediately locked. There was an inner door of baize, and this also the woman fastened.
Joan looked round a room bare except for a big wardrobe, a settee and a tea table which had been laid, and the kettle on which was steaming. Of dresses there was none, unless they were in the wardrobe, which, she saw, was a fixture.
“Please do not be alarmed, Miss Bray,” said the sallow woman, with an effort at amiability which made her plain face even more unprepossessing. “I do not keep my dresses here; this is where I interview my clients.”
“Why did you fasten the door?” asked the girl, and although she summoned her reserves of courage to her aid, she felt the colour leaving her face.
Madame Ferroni cringed double in her anxiety to preserve the confidence of her visitor.
“I do not wish to be interrupted while I have a very important client, Miss Bray,” she said. “You see, miss, your uncle, Mr Narth, put all his money into this business and I wish to please him. It is natural! I have the dresses at my shop in Savoy Street, and we will go there at once and you shall choose what you wish. But first I wanted to have a little talk with you—to obtain ideas of your requirements.”
She spoke with a certain precision, almost as though she were reciting passages which she had committed to memory.
“You must join me in a cup of tea,” she went on. “This tea habit is one which I have acquired since I came to this country.”
Joan was not especially interested in habits, except the habit of locked doors that remained fastened.
“Madame Ferroni—I am afraid I cannot stay now. I will come back later.”
Joan pulled open the green baize, but the key had been taken from the lock of the outer door.
“Certainly, if you wish,” Madame Ferroni had a trick of shrugging one shoulder. “But you realize that if I do not please you I may lose my job?”
She had the awkwardness of a foreigner making tea, and now poured forth the strong dark-brown liquid, treated it over-generously with milk, and handed the cup to the girl. She had need of stimulant, but would have welcomed a glass of water, for her mouth had gone dry with fear, and she found an increasing difficulty in speaking.
One thought was at the back of her mind—she must not let the woman know she was afraid, or that she suspected there was anything unusual in this method of receiving a possible client. She stirred the tea and drank eagerly, as Madame took the key from the table and, walking slowly to the door, slipped it in the lock and turned it. She turned it twice, once to open and once to close it again, but of this fact Joan was unaware.
“Now I will put on my hat and we will go,” said Madame Ferroni, accompanying her words by lifting down a huge black hat from a peg on the wall. “I do not like Fitzroy Square; it is so dull. And as I told Mr Narth, clients will not climb three flights of stairs to try on pretty dresses…”
The cup dropped from Joan’s fingers and smashed to splinters. With the litheness of a tiger, Madame leapt suddenly across the room and, catching the dazed girl as she swayed, lowered her gently to the floor.
As she did so there came a thunderous knock at the outer door, and Madame Ferroni’s face went green.
“Anybody here?”
There was authority in the tone, and the woman stood trembling, her hand on the key.
Again came the summons.
“Open the door; I can see the key on the inside,” said the voice.
Turning swiftly, Madame opened the wall-wardrobe and lifted out the loose bottom. There were eight inches of space between the floor of the room and the baseboard of the cupboard, and, lifting the limp figure of Joan, she laid her in the dusty cavity. Replacing the loose bottom, she closed and locked the wardrobe, took the girl’s tea cup and saucer, and, pushing open the window, flung them out into the little backyard. A swift glance round, and, walking to the door, she turned the key and flung it open.
A man was standing on the landing. Madame’s knowledge of the police was more than academical, and that this was a Scotland Yard man she knew. She had a tawny husband who had been snatched from her by such a man as this. She half recognized the caller but did not remember his name.
“Hallo!” he asked. “Where is Miss Bray?”
“Miss–-?” The woman frowned as though she had not heard the name aright.
“Miss Bray. She came in here five minutes ago.”
Madame Ferroni smiled and shook her head.
“You are mistaken,” she said. “Nobody has been here but me.”
The detective walked into the room and looked around. He saw the table and the solitary cup.
“What is in that cupboard?”
“Nothing—would you like to see it?” asked Madame sarcastically, and added: “May I ask who you are?”
“I am Detective-Sergeant Long of Scotland Yard,” said the other. “You know who I am—I raided your house two years ago and pinched your Chinese husband for peddling dope. Open that cupboard.”
With her one-shouldered shrug ‘Madame Ferroni’ threw open the doors. The floorboard was in place; not for an instant did it occur to the detective to wonder what occupied the space between that and the floor.
“Has she been and gone?” he asked. “Is that what you’re telling me?”
“I don’t know of whom you speak.”
From his pocket he took a small card, bearing the address written in Stephen Narth’s hand—he had followed the taxi to Fitzroy Square, had intercepted the driver and taken the card from him.
“You call yourself Madame Ferroni now, don’t you?”
She nodded. And then came an inspiration.
