tastes suddenly jumped up.
But his first remark was one of quiet good humour.
‘So this is where you write all those soul-stirring articles for The Evening Post!’ he said.
Steve Trent, who had been watching him very closely, bubbled over with her infectious laughter. ‘Well, I’m glad somebody thinks they’re soul-stirring!’ she said. Suddenly she became aware that Paul Temple’s arms were still burdened with a host of small parcels, the raw material for the tête-à-tête evening meal Steve had promised him. There were also some cigarettes, a couple of books, and other little purchases Paul Temple had made.
‘Put those parcels on the table, dear!’ she told him.
Paul Temple did as he was told, and then subsided into one of the armchairs he had so much admired when he came into the room.
‘How long have you been on The Evening Post, Steve?’ he asked.
‘Oh, about eighteen months,’ came the reply. ‘I started as “Auntie Molly”,’ she continued with a smile.
‘Auntie Molly?’ queried Paul Temple, looking slightly puzzled.
‘Yes, the—er—the answers to correspondence,’ explained Steve. ‘You know, the—er—the—’ she broke off a little awkwardly.
‘Oh, you mean writing articles about—about love, and things like that?’
‘Mostly about—things like that!’ rippled Steve, and they both began to laugh.
‘I say,’ said Temple, ‘this is a grand little place, isn’t it?’
Steve looked pleased. ‘I’m glad you like it,’ she said.
‘By Timothy, yes!’ said Temple. Slowly he rose out of the depths of his chair and looked round the room again. His eyes finally rested on her radiogram, an extremely large instrument which occupied a corner of the room. It was clearly no ordinary mass production instrument. Its case was of the limed pine of which the rest of her furniture was made.
‘Rather unusual radiogram you’ve got, Steve!’ he said.
‘Yes. Gerald bought it for me in Paris the year he—’
A knock at the door interrupted what Steve was saying.
The door opened, and a homely, cheery-looking woman who made up in bulk what she lacked in height, appeared, carrying a tray.
‘Ah, tea!’ exclaimed Steve. ‘I’ll help you, Mrs. Neddy.’
Mrs. Neddy was the benevolent Irish woman of uncertain age, though Steve gathered it was at least fifty, who ‘did’ for her. She would come early in the morning to get Steve’s breakfast ready and spend the greater part of the day there instead of the three hours for which she was paid. She had transformed the little flat into a real home for the girl who had no time to perform for herself all the many services she required.
‘That’s all right, dearie!’ Mrs. Neddy said. ‘I can manage.’
‘Good afternoon!’ said Temple.
‘Good afternoon to ye, sir!’ she answered with her delicious West-of-Ireland brogue.
She set the tea-tray on the sideboard and began to clear the accumulation of debris from the fireside table. Then she set the tray down on it and was about to go out when Steve stopped her.
‘Is that parcel for me, Mrs. Neddy?’ she asked.
Mrs. Neddy had entered the room carrying a parcel under her arm, and all the while she was clearing the things so that the two could drink their tea in comfort, she still carried the parcel.
‘Parcel?’ she now asked with some surprise, having completely forgotten its existence. Then suddenly she remembered. ‘Why, yes, of course!’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s a good job you mentioned it now! I should ’ave probably gone to bed with it under my arm!’
Steve began to laugh. ‘I gather the memory isn’t improving!’ she said.
‘Improving!’ echoed the Irish woman. ‘Oh, ’tis something shocking, miss. There are times when I wonder who the devil I am!’
The two began to laugh at the kindly but absent-minded Mrs. Neddy. But whatever her faults, and they included the most complete disregard and contempt for any kind of efficiency, she did her work well. She kept the flat absolutely spotless, and the most fastidious of epicures could not have found fault with the excellence of her cooking. It might have lacked the variety of a Soho restaurant, but it was good, tasty, and nourishing.
Steve Trent took the parcel from her and began to inspect it. There was no stamp and no indication of its sender. It was about an inch in thickness and a foot and a half across. ‘A plate or a dish of some sort,’ reflected Steve.
‘Where did the parcel come from, Mrs. Neddy?’ asked Steve, rather puzzled.
‘It was delivered about an hour ago, by a boy. A cheeky- faced monkey he was an’ all.’
‘Was there any message?’
‘No,’ replied Mrs. Neddy. ‘No message, dearie.’ She had been staring at the tea-tray on the table in what might have been wistful contemplation. ‘Lordy!’ she exclaimed suddenly, ‘I’ve forgotten the buttered scones! You’ll have to be excusing me!’
Gathering her voluminous skirts about her, Mrs. Neddy swept majestically out of the room, bent on retrieving yet another error. Mrs. Neddy was always making errors, but errors of a kind that endeared her to Steve. Besides, she had a way of saving her face that at once completely removed any possible ill-feeling or grievance.
‘Mrs. Neddy seems quite a character!’ said Paul Temple, as she closed the door.
‘She’s a dear!’ agreed Steve fervently. Then her face became a little more serious. ‘I wonder what this is?’
‘It looks like a disc of some sort, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Steve quietly. She walked over to the sideboard, opened a drawer and took out a pair of scissors. Then she cut the string which fastened the parcel.
‘We’ll soon find out,’ she said, as she pulled back some sheets of corrugated paper and at last extracted a flat cardboard box. Inside was a gramophone record.
Steve looked at Paul Temple, a frown of curiosity over her face. ‘I wonder who sent it?’ she speculated.
‘Isn’t there some writing on the—’ Temple stopped in midsentence. The girl in front of him had turned a deathly pallor. ‘Steve!’ he exclaimed. ‘Steve, what’s the matter?’
She passed him the black disc. ‘Look what it says on the record!’ she said tensely.
Paul Temple examined the label. ‘To Louise Harvey,’ he read. ‘From the Knave of Diamonds.’
He caught her eye. For a moment neither of them spoke.
‘Max
