谋杀启事8

II

“You are worried, aren’t you Lotty?”

Miss Blacklock started. She had been sitting at her writing-table, absent-mindedly drawing little fishes on the blotting paper. She looked up intothe anxious face of her old friend.

She was not quite sure what to say to Dora Bunner. Bunny, she knew,mustn’t be worried or upset. She was silent for a moment or two, thinking.

She and Dora Bunner had been at school together. Dora then had been apretty, fair-haired, blue-eyed rather stupid girl. Her being stupid hadn’tmattered, because her gaiety and high spirits and her prettiness had madeher an agreeable companion. She ought, her friend thought, to have mar-ried some nice Army officer, or a country solicitor. She had so many goodqualities—affection, devotion, loyalty. But life had been unkind to DoraBunner. She had had to earn her living. She had been painstaking butnever competent at anything she undertook.

The two friends had lost sight of each other. But six months ago a letterhad come to Miss Blacklock, a rambling, pathetic letter. Dora’s health hadgiven way. She was living in one room, trying to subsist on her old agepension. She endeavoured to do needlework, but her fingers were stiffwith rheumatism. She mentioned their schooldays—since then life haddriven them apart—but could—possibly—her old friend help?

Miss Blacklock had responded impulsively. Poor Dora, poor pretty sillyfluffy Dora. She had swooped down upon Dora, had carried her off, hadinstalled her at Little Paddocks with the comforting fiction that “the house-work is getting too much for me. I need someone to help me run thehouse.” It was not for long—the doctor had told her that—but sometimesshe found poor old Dora a sad trial. She muddled everything, upset thetemperamental foreign “help,” miscounted the laundry, lost bills and let-ters—and sometimes reduced the competent Miss Blacklock to an agony ofexasperation. Poor old muddle-headed Dora, so loyal, so anxious to help,so pleased and proud to think she was of assistance—and, alas, so com-pletely unreliable.

She said sharply:

“Don’t, Dora. You know I asked you—”

“Oh,” Miss Bunner looked guilty. “I know. I forgot. But—but you are,aren’t you?”

“Worried? No. At least,” she added truthfully, “not exactly. You meanabout that silly notice in the Gazette?”

“Yes—even if it’s a joke, it seems to me it’s a—a spiteful sort of joke.”

“Spiteful?”

“Yes. It seems to me there’s spite there somewhere. I mean—it’s not anice kind of joke.”

Miss Blacklock looked at her friend. The mild eyes, the long obstinatemouth, the slightly upturned nose. Poor Dora, so maddening, so muddle-headed, so devoted and such a problem. A dear fussy old idiot and yet, in aqueer way, with an instinctive sense of value.

“I think you’re right, Dora,” said Miss Blacklock. “It’s not a nice joke.”

“I don’t like it at all,” said Dora Bunner with unsuspected vigour. “Itfrightens me.” She added, suddenly: “And it frightens you, Letitia.”

“Nonsense,” said Miss Blacklock with spirit.

“It’s dangerous. I’m sure it is. Like those people who send you bombsdone up in parcels.”

“My dear, it’s just some silly idiot trying to be funny.”

“But it isn’t funny.”

It wasn’t really very funny … Miss Blacklock’s face betrayed herthoughts, and Dora cried triumphantly, “You see. You think so, too!”

“But Dora, my dear—”

She broke off. Through the door there surged a tempestuous young wo-man with a well-developed bosom heaving under a tight jersey. She hadon a dirndl skirt of a bright colour and had greasy dark plaits woundround and round her head. Her eyes were dark and flashing.

She said gustily:

“I can speak to you, yes, please, no?”

Miss Blacklock sighed.

“Of course, Mitzi, what is it?”

Sometimes she thought it would be preferable to do the entire work ofthe house as well as the cooking rather than be bothered with the eternalnerve storms of her refugee “lady help.”

“I tell you at once—it is in order, I hope? I give you my notices and I go—I go at once!”

“For what reason? Has somebody upset you?”

“Yes, I am upset,” said Mitzi dramatically. “I do not wish to die! Alreadyin Europe I escape. My family they all die—they are all killed—my mother,my little brother, my so sweet little niece—all, all they are killed. But me Irun away—I hide. I get to England. I work. I do work that never—neverwould I do in my own country—I—”

“I know all that,” said Miss Blacklock crisply. It was, indeed, a constantrefrain on Mitzi’s lips. “But why do you want to leave now?”

“Because again they come to kill me!”

“Who do?”

“My enemies. The Nazis! Or perhaps this time it is the Bolsheviks. Theyfind out I am here. They come to kill me. I have read it—yes—it is in thenewspaper!”

“Oh, you mean in the Gazette?”

“Here, it is written here.” Mitzi produced the Gazette from where shehad been holding it behind her back. “See—here it says a murder. At LittlePaddocks. That is here, is it not? This evening at 6:30. Ah! I do not wait tobe murdered—no.”

“But why should this apply to you? It’s—we think it is a joke.”

“A joke? It is not a joke to murder someone.”

“No, of course not. But my dear child, if anyone wanted to murder you,they wouldn’t advertise the fact in the paper, would they?”

“You do not think they would?” Mitzi seemed a little shaken. “You think,perhaps, they do not mean to murder anyone at all? Perhaps it is you theymean to murder, Miss Blacklock.”

“I certainly can’t believe anyone wants to murder me,” said Miss Black-lock lightly. “And really, Mitzi, I don’t see why anyone should want tomurder you. After all, why should they?”

“Because they are bad peoples … Very bad peoples. I tell you, mymother, my little brother, my so sweet niece….”

“Yes, yes.” Miss Blacklock stemmed the flow, adroitly. “But I cannotreally believe anyone wants to murder you, Mitzi. Of course, if you want togo off like this at a moment’s notice, I can’t possibly stop you. But I thinkyou will be very silly if you do.”

She added firmly, as Mitzi looked doubtful:

“We’ll have that beef the butcher sent stewed for lunch. It looks verytough.”

“I make you a goulash, a special goulash.”

“If you prefer to call it that, certainly. And perhaps you could use upthat rather hard bit of cheese in making some cheese straws. I think somepeople may come in this evening for drinks.”

“This evening? What do you mean, this evening?”

“At half past six.”

“But that is the time in the paper? Who should come then? Why shouldthey come?”

“They’re coming to the funeral,” said Miss Blacklock with a twinkle.

“That’ll do now, Mitzi. I’m busy. Shut the door after you,” she addedfirmly.

“And that’s settled her for the moment,” she said as the door closed be-hind a puzzled-looking Mitzi.

“You are so efficient, Letty,” said Miss Bunner admiringly.

 

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