David Brawn – The Mayfair Mystery: 2835 Mayfair (страница 8)
With a clouded brow he had driven up to the Savoy to dine with old Mudge, the eminent family solicitor—solicitor incidentally to Clifford and himself.
From Mudge’s company or from the guests likely to be invited by Mudge he did not expect much amusement.
He found his host and hostess in the hall waiting for him.
Mrs Mudge was obviously Mrs Mudge. She had no figure, no individuality, and no features. Neither had she any colouring. She was, indeed, so colourless as to be almost invisible. When she was with Mr Mudge one could recognise her as his wife. Apart from Mr Mudge one would never have seen her at all.
Harding’s heart fell. He had expected, at worst, a party of men. However large the actual party was to be, Mrs Mudge’s presence would cast a gloom over it. A skeleton at a banquet would be the ‘life and soul of the party’ compared with Mrs Mudge. Horror of horrors, Mr Mudge announced that he was only waiting for one lady.
It flashed through Harding’s mind that it might be possible to say that he had suddenly been called to Scotland, or to state on oath that he was dead, or to tell some other monstrous lie and leave the building.
Then it was that the thing happened.
Sumptuously gowned, magnificently jewelled, a figure glided across the red velvet carpet. Her hair of deep brown was arranged in the French fashion, which on an English woman generally produces the effect of an over-elaborately dressed head, but was particularly becoming to her. Her profile was almost Greek, her violet eyes shone bewitchingly under long eyelashes. But the greatest beauty she possessed was her wonderful complexion like peaches and cream; it was daintily tinted, obviously caressing to the touch. Harding noticed that her figure was in keeping with her other gifts. She walked with all the grace and confidence of an American woman, and she could not be—well, she could not be more than twenty. Oh, if only he was to dine with her!
To his surprise she approached Mr Mudge. This marvel of grace and beauty deliberately went up to the old man with the snow-white Father Christmas beard—a polar beaver of the first water, to be technical—and said:
‘Mr Mudge, I think. Mr Mudge, I’m sure.’
‘May I introduce my wife…Miss Clive. Mr Harding…Miss Clive.’
When the introduction was effected the old man asked:
‘But how did you recognise me?’
‘Ask yourself, Mr Mudge,’ she replied, smiling.
‘Look round this room. Are there any other solicitors here? Obviously you are the only eminent family solicitor present. And you are clearly…oh, so clearly Mr Mudge.’
This little speech had revealed to Harding the additional fact that she was possessed of beautiful teeth. Was the woman in all things perfect? Perhaps she would turn out to be stupid.
He shuddered at the thought. How terrible! What ignominy to fall in love at first sight with a woman who was a dolt!
During dinner he became convinced of two things, one that she was a brilliant woman, and the other that Mr Mudge did not know how to order a meal.
On all subjects she talked, and on all subjects she talked well. Her mind, indeed, seemed to be filled with information that as a rule can only be acquired by personal experience.
He, himself, made every effort to interest her. He even made a sacrifice very uncommon in a barrister. He forbore to tell her anecdotes indicative of his forensic acumen.
The Mudge beard worked hard. He ate heartily and spoke little. Mrs Mudge, after the
Harding and Miss Clive performed a conversational duet. Her face mesmerised him. He absorbed it with his eyes. And strangely enough, although he realised he had never in his life seen any woman so beautiful as she, yet there was about her face something not unfamiliar. Was there any truth in the theory of the transmigration of souls? Had he, in a previous existence, wooed and won this marvellous woman? If he had seen her before in this life, he would certainly have remembered her. There were many men at the Savoy, dining at tables near, who stared at her. He was quite convinced that no one of those, if he met her again, would think he met her for the first time. Why was memory playing him such a strange trick? He, who always prided himself upon the fact that he never forgot names or faces, could not shake off the idea that he had seen her before.
He put the question to her:
‘I can’t help thinking, Miss Clive, that I have met you somewhere. Do you remember ever having seen
‘Your name,’ she answered laughing, ‘is very familiar to me, but I have completely forgotten your face.’
As he handed her into her motor, he said:
‘May I come and see you?’
She smiled graciously.
‘Certainly, Mr Harding. I shall be delighted.’
‘On what day?’
‘I am often in about tea-time.’
‘But what day?’ he persisted.
Pouting her lips into a rose-bud, whilst her eyes twinkled, she answered:
‘Oh, please, won’t you take your chance, or am I asking too much? Besides, I am on the telephone. 2835 Mayfair.’
‘2835 Mayfair is the most beautiful telephone number in the world. But what is your address?’
‘Sixty-nine Pembroke Street.’
Then the motor glided off.
She was living in Clifford Oakleigh’s house.
HE went back to Mudge, whose duties as a host, so far as the speeding of the parting guest was concerned, he had usurped.
The solicitor, while an attendant helped him with his greatcoat, was being told by his wife on no account to neglect putting on his muffler. He extricated his huge beard from his coat and draped it satisfactorily over the muffler.
‘What a charming woman!’ exclaimed Harding.
‘I’m delighted to have met her.’
He was intent on extracting particulars. Throughout dinner she had given him no hint as to her circumstances. Beyond the facts that she was Miss Clive, that she was extraordinarily beautiful and fascinating, and that he was hopelessly in love with her, he knew nothing. And yet he did not like to put definite questions to Mudge. He felt that any curiosity exhibited by him would reveal the state of his affections.
‘Is she by any chance the daughter of Frederick Clive—in the wool business?’ he asked, nonchalantly.
He knew of no Frederick Clive in the wool business; he knew of nobody in the wool business; he had but a vague idea of what the wool business was. But the question served its purpose.
‘No,’ replied the solicitor, ‘her father is not alive: neither of the girl’s parents is alive. I’m glad you like her,’ he added, ‘I fancy she takes an interest in you.’
‘You flatter me,’ Harding answered gallantly.
At that moment the lumbering Mudge landau drew up at the door. The shapeless Mudge footman, in the ill-fitting Mudge livery, opened the door and the Mudges entered. Much to his annoyance they did not ask him whether they could give him a lift. He was athirst for information as to Miss Clive. But the landau drove off into the Strand, leaving him alone on the pavement.
However, he knew that her telephone number was 2835 Mayfair.
When he reached his home, he took up a Court Guide and searched the ‘Clives’ for a hint of elucidation. He had faint hope that he would trace her. He found that there existed two Captain Clives; there was also a General Clive; and a Mrs Clive lived in Campden Hill Gardens. They might or might not be related to the only woman in the world.
He felt an irresistible desire to ring her up on the telephone. Irresistible though the desire was, he resisted it.
Heavens! he thought, he must be phenomenally in love to think even for a minute of making himself so ridiculous. Even if he were to ring her up and announce that he had broken his leg, or changed his religion, or grown a beard, such a proceeding would not fail to be regarded as an intolerable impertinence. To summon her to the telephone and say, ‘Are you Miss Clive? I have a shrewd suspicion that your house is on fire. A well-wisher,’ was a course that actually suggested itself to him. He would love to hear her voice. After all, he was in love with her. She was bound to find out that he was in love with her. It would be the object of his life to tell her that he was in love with her. Why should he not let her suspect at once the condition of his feelings?
Although it is idiotic to fall in love at first sight, it is not an unpleasant occurrence to be fallen in love with at first sight. At any rate, she could not take offence. He would zealously lay siege to her heart.
Suddenly he seized his courage in both hands and went to the telephone.
‘2835 Mayfair, please.’
…
‘Are you 2835 Mayfair? Can I speak to Miss Clive?’
…
‘Oh, you
His face broke into a smile.
‘I hope you won’t think I’m awfully rude. I know I have no business to wake you up.’
…
‘Oh, you have only just got into bed. So you have your telephone by your bedside. How very convenient!’
He noticed that she had not asked who he was. Could it be—obviously it must be—that she had recognised his voice? How delightfully intimate was the knowledge that she was talking to him from her bed! How marvellously beautiful she must look in bed!