FullReads

‘This does not interest me,’ said Annette.

‘The plot thickens,’ he assured her. ‘We left our hero springing, I think. Just so. Well, you took the West End train and got off at Sloane Square. So did I. You crossed Sloane Square, turned up King’s Road, and finally arrived here. I followed. I saw a notice up, “Studio to Let”. I reflected that, having done a little painting in an amateur way, I could pose as an artist all right; so I took the studio. Also the name of Alan Beverley. My own is Bill Bates. I had often wondered what it would feel like to be called by some name like Alan Beverley or Cyril Trevelyan. It was simply the spin of the coin which decided me in favour of the former. Once in, the problem was how to get to know you. When I heard you playing I knew it was all right. I had only to keep knocking on the floor long enough–‘

‘Do–you–mean–to–tell–me’–Annette’s voice trembled ‘do you mean to tell me that you knocked that time simply to make me come up?’

‘That was it. Rather a scheme, don’t you think? And now, would you mind telling me how you found out that I had been buying your waltz? Those remarks of yours about fools’ paradises were not inspired solely by the affairs of Sellers. But it beats me how you did it. I swore Rozinsky, or whatever his name is, to secrecy.’

‘A Mr Morrison,’ sad Annette, indifferently, ‘rang up on the telephone and asked me to tell you that he was greatly worried by the piles of music which were littering the rooms you lent him.’

The young man burst into a roar of laughter.

‘Poor old Morrison! I forgot all about him. I lent him my rooms at the Albany. He’s writing a novel, and he can’t work if the slightest thing goes wrong. It just shows–‘

‘Mr Bates!’

‘Yes?’

‘Perhaps you didn’t intend to hurt me. I dare say you meant only to be kind. But–but–oh, can’t you see how you have humiliated me? You have treated me like a child, giving me a make-believe success just to–just to keep me quiet, I suppose. You–‘

He was fumbling in his pocket.

‘May I read you a letter?’ he said.

‘A letter?’

‘Quite a short one. It is from Epstein, the picture-dealer. This is what he says. “Sir,” meaning me, not “Dear Bill,” mind you–just “Sir.” “I am glad to be able to inform you that I have this morning received an offer of ten guineas for your picture, ‘Child and Cat’. Kindly let me know if I am to dispose of it at this price.”‘

‘Well?’ said Annette, in a small voice.

‘I have just been to Epstein’s. It seems that the purchaser is a Miss Brown. She gave an address in Bayswater. I called at the address. No Miss Brown lives there, but one of your pupils does. I asked her if she was expecting a parcel for Miss Brown, and she said that she had had your letter and quite understood and would take it in when it arrived.’

Annette was hiding her face in her hands.

‘Go away!’ she said, faintly.

Mr Bates moved a step nearer.

‘Do you remember that story of the people on the island who eked out a precarious livelihood by taking in one another’s washing?’ he asked, casually.

‘Go away!’ cried Annette.

‘I’ve always thought,’ he said, ‘that it must have drawn them very close together–made them feel rather attached to each other. Don’t you?’

‘Go away!’

‘I don’t want to go away. I want to stay and hear you say you’ll marry me.’

‘Please go away! I want to think.’

She heard him moving towards the door. He stopped, then went on again. The door closed quietly. Presently from the room above came the sound of footsteps–footsteps pacing monotonously to and fro like those of an animal in a cage.

Annette sat listening. There was no break in the footsteps.

Suddenly she got up. In one corner of the room was a long pole used for raising and lowering the window-sash. She took it, and for a moment stood irresolute. Then with a quick movement, she lifted it and stabbed three times at the ceiling.