The Mayfair Mystery: 2835 Mayfair

He turned to the architect.

‘You surprise me, Sir Algernon. Clifford and I, as you know, are old friends, and he never mentioned to me the fact that he was building a house. The ordinary man can’t buy a motor without boring his friends to death with the subject. It is very strange that Clifford should not have mentioned to me a little thing like that. How long has it been built?’

‘Oh, about six months!’

‘Six months!’ exclaimed the other. ‘But he doesn’t live there?’

‘No,’ replied Sir Algernon, ‘I don’t think he intends to. I think the idea was to let it furnished. It is one of his hobbies, I think.’

‘A very expensive hobby,’ interposed Lampson Lake.

‘Fortunately, he can afford expensive hobbies,’ said the architect. ‘I understand that it is superbly furnished. And now I come to think of it I remember he said that if he let it he would expect to get £2000 a year. No. 69 is one of the smallest houses in Pembroke Street. The idea of £2000 a year is absolutely preposterous.’

To the barrister’s thinking, the whole scheme was preposterous. No matter what Clifford Oakleigh’s fortune might be, it would not stand a habit of building and furnishing houses on which a prohibitive rent was placed.

‘I should like to have a look at the place,’ continued Sir Algernon. ‘But he made me understand,’ he added laughing, ‘that he would never receive me in the house…so as to avoid painful memories as to my professional pride. However, he gave me an excellent dinner at the Savoy the other night. He is a very curious man; certainly, he is a very curious man.’

‘Not for a genius,’ interposed Harding.

It seemed to him uncanny that these four men should be sitting up at night talking of a dead man as though he were alive. Two or three times it had been on the tip of his tongue to tell them of the tragedy that had just occurred. Had it not been for the fact that Reggie might be hopelessly involved therein, he would have spoken. Another reason that kept him silent was the incongruity of his position. His best friend was dead, and he was taking supper at the Gridiron. Why was he taking supper at the Gridiron? He himself hardly knew. His nerves had been shattered by the events of the night.

‘You think he is a genius?’ asked Robinson.

‘Certainly he is,’ Harding replied. ‘Ever since I have known him he has been a genius. He was a genius at Eton, he was a genius at Oxford, and he has been a genius in London. He has one of the largest practices of any physician in London, and what is more he hardly ever has a failure. Then look at “Baldo”. That was really one of the greatest inventions of the age.’

He was alluding to a preparation invented by Clifford that consisted of a white cream which one applied to one’s face in the morning and it instantly removed the night’s growth of hair. By this useful device, a complete substitute for the razor, Clifford Oakleigh had already made nearly half a million.

‘A slight application of “Baldo” to your whiskers, Sir Algernon, would, I am sure, be efficacious,’ said Robinson.

‘Oh, damn my whiskers,’ replied the architect.

Robinson politely responded: ‘My sentiments entirely.’

‘Directly Robinson begins to talk about whiskers, I go home,’ said Lampson Lake, rising.

‘I, too.’

Harding paid his bill and, incidentally, Lampson Lake’s, and left the club.

CHAPTER VI

THE TROUBLE WITH MINGEY

THE next morning, when Harding reached his chambers in King’s Bench Walk, he noticed that his clerk, Mingey, was looking more dismal and lugubrious than usual.

Were it not that the man was so excellent at his business, Harding could not have tolerated the presence of so lamentable a figure. Mingey was six feet tall, intensely lean, with a dank, black, uncharacteristic, drooping moustache, and a pallid face that looked as if it required starching. He always wore shiny black clothes, and presented the appearance of an undertaker with an artistic taste in his calling. Today there were red rims round his colourless eyes.

‘Cheer up, Mingey,’ said Harding, heartily,

‘this is not your funeral, is it?’

‘Excuse me, sir, but something terrible has happened…my daughter, sir.’

‘Ill, is she?’ inquired Harding. ‘I’m very sorry…’

He went to the table and cast his eyes over his briefs.

‘Worse than that, sir,’ replied the clerk, ‘she has disappeared.’

‘Disappeared!’ echoed the K.C. ‘Perhaps she has eloped,’ he suggested.

‘No, sir, she is not that sort of girl. She never had, to my knowledge, any love affairs. She once did show a sort of feeling for one of our ministers, but he turned out to be engaged to a lady in Scotland, so nothing came of that.’

‘Tell me all about it,’ said Harding, seating himself at his table and preparing to listen.

Succinctly the clerk made his statement. His experience of the Law courts enabled him to do a very unusual thing. He told a simple story in a simple way. It appeared that Miss Mingey was devoted to the creed which her father had discovered was, of all creeds, the most suited to his spiritual wants. [Mr Mingey was, by persuasion, a devout Particular Strict Baptist: an intensely select creed with only two places of worship, one in Peckham and the other in Monmouth Road, Bayswater.] An entirely good girl. She took no interest in clothes or young men. She was, as her father put it, ‘an intellectual girl much given to book-learning.’ As to her appearance, even paternal pride would not enable him to say that she was good-looking.

‘Here is her photo, sir,’ he added to prove his statement.

But the photograph did not quite bear out his contention.

Harding gazed at it intently.

It represented a girl of about twenty—nineteen Mingey maintained was her actual age. Her features, so far as one could judge from a full-face photograph, by a cheap and inadequate practitioner, were regular; she wore spectacles; her hair was done in an unbecoming way; her dress was abominable. It was rather clothing than clothes. With no evidence as to her complexion and her figure one could not say whether the girl was good-looking or plain; but the fact that she took no trouble with her hair, that her dress stood in no relation to the fashion—even, so far as he knew, to Bayswater fashion—that she was photographed in spectacles, proved that she regarded herself as unattractive. A girl who takes this view is almost certain to be right.

He handed the photograph back.

According to the father’s story, after a meat-tea with her mother she had gone out to post a letter. She did not return.

‘She was happy at home, Mingey, was she?’

‘Perfectly, sir. She always attended service twice on Sundays. No, I have never known a girl who was happier, or who had more reason to be happy.’

‘Quite so,’ said the K.C. ‘And no affair of the heart, you say?’

‘Certainly not, sir.’

‘But as to the minister who married the Scotch lady?’

‘Sarah had too much self-respect, sir, to get mixed up with a married man. Directly Mr Septimus Aynesworth married, she—so to speak—cut him out of her life.’

‘Did you go to the police-station?’

‘First thing this morning, sir.’

‘Well, my dear Mingey, I shouldn’t be alarmed if I were you,’ he said, trying to administer consolation. ‘It may be some curious freak…some girlish whim. You will probably find her at home when you get back.’

Mingey shook his head.

‘I’m afraid not, sir. You’ve noticed there have been two mysterious disappearances lately of young girls. They both met their death. There are always three of these things! Sarah will be the third.’

Shaking with grief, he shambled to the door.

‘Wait, wait, wait!’ cried the banister.

‘Surely, surely it was to her that I gave a letter of introduction to Sir Clifford Oakleigh the other day. What did you say the matter was? Her nerves, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes, sir, nerves. It was wonderful the way he put her right then and there. And no charge, sir, to a friend of yours, sir. He’s a wonderful man, sir. She only paid one visit and he cured her completely.’ Woefully he added, ‘And to think it was all no good.’

Then he went out of the room.

CHAPTER VII

MAINLY ABOUT LOVE

THAT night Harding fell in love.

It came about quite suddenly.

At first he did not know what was the matter with him, but gradually the conviction forced itself upon him that he, George Berkeley Harding, had fallen in love at first sight, just as a boy at Eton falls in love with a Dowager-Duchess.

It was during dinner at the Savoy that he became aware of his condition.

As the Courts did not sit on Saturday afternoons, he had walked up to King Street and inquired of Reggie for any news of Clifford Oakleigh.

Reggie had answered in the negative. He had suppressed the servant girl’s story, because he had not been convinced in his mind that she was a witness of truth. She might only have been making fun of him—a course of conduct which he would have resented. If, in very truth, Clifford had left the house drunk with a ‘creature’ he would certainly return, and he would not like the disagreeable fact recounted even to his best friend.

Harding had been in two minds. It was obviously his duty or Reggie’s to inform the police of the mysterious occurrence. But, at the same time, as the story was so completely incredible and rested solely on the evidence of Reggie, he thought it might be wise to wait another day. In the meantime, Clifford might return, or Reggie might develop some conspicuous symptom of insanity.

Throughout the afternoon he had vainly puzzled his brain for a solution.

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 entrée, had practically ceased to be present.

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 me?’

‘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.

CHAPTER VIII

2835 MAYFAIR

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 are Miss Clive?’

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!

‘Oh, you know who I am. Yes, I am Mr Harding. George Harding. And I rang you up because I am most anxious to know whether you will be in between four and five tomorrow. I am very methodical,’ he added, by way of explanation, ‘and I never like to go to bed without knowing exactly what I am going to do the next day.’

But her answer displeased him.

A shade of disappointment passed over his face.

‘Well, on Monday?’

To this query the reply was satisfactory.

‘Good-night. I am so sorry to have disturbed you.’

He glanced at his watch.

Twelve o’clock. Good Heavens, there were forty hours to get through before four o’clock on Monday!

He looked at his engagement book. It was good to know that he was lunching out with some cheery friends. The afternoon he would spend in paying calls, and in the evening he was dining with ‘The Beavers’ at the Ritz. He was sure of a delightful evening at the best of all London dining clubs. ‘The Beavers’ would not break up until well after twelve: there would be delightful conversation and merry jests. And on Monday he would be busy in the morning and afternoon in Court.

Yes, he thought, it would be quite possible to live through those forty hours.

Picturing to himself the huge joy of the forty-first he undressed and went to bed.

Sunday passed far less tediously than he had dared to hope.

On Monday morning the papers were full of the disappearance of Mingey’s daughter. Disappearances, apparently, were the order of the day; tunnel murders were no longer in fashion. In two papers which he read there were leaders on the subject. These journals were seriously alarmed. It appeared that no one was safe. Anybody, the most unlikely person for choice, might vanish at any moment. The Morning Star maintained that Parliament ought to interfere. The Morning Star always believed in the omnipotence of Parliament, mainly because it was against the Government. If the weather was bad for crops—which the weather always is—if a church was struck by lightning, the Morning Star tried to rouse the legislature from its lethargy. At the first symptom of the end of the world the Morning Star would certainly urge the Government to take strenuous action to frustrate the peril.

The facts given were exactly as Mingey had described them. There were no new details. The girl had left her humble home in the Monmouth Road, Bayswater, and she had not yet returned. The parents were disconsolate and could suggest no clue. The Morning Star gave a portrait, a wood block, that made the heroine so painfully unattractive that any suggestion of an amorous solution of the matter appeared impossible. As he walked along Piccadilly on his way to the Temple, most of the contents bills bore the legend:

MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE OF A BAYSWATER GIRL

However mysterious the disappearance of this girl might be, he reflected, it was not so mysterious as the appearance of Miss Clive in his life.

Miss Clive! He did not even know her Christian name. He ran through a list of names suitable for beautiful women, but he could not fix upon one which seemed suitable for her. She required a stately name, a beautiful name.

Gwendolen was possible but not adequate. Katherine would not be out of the question. He dismissed contemptuously Winifred and Hilda and Margaret and Maud. Mary was, perhaps, of all names the most beautiful, chiefly in a measure owing to its sentiment. He would not be disappointed if her name was Mary. It would be the right name; the only possible name. As she was perfect in figure and in face, there would be no jarring note in her name.

It could not be that she would answer to the name of Muriel or of Nellie.

He shuddered at the thought.

CHAPTER IX

69 PEMBROKE STREET

THAT afternoon, when he rang the bell at 69 Pembroke Street, he was in an ecstasy of happiness. So triumphant was he, that no fear lest she should not be at home crossed his mind.

And she was at home.

A dignified butler showed him to the drawing-room, which was furnished entirely in the fashion of Louis XV. Every piece of furniture in the room was genuine. Each ornament was a veritable specimen of the period.

He felt that he was out of place, angular, awkward, hideously modern in these beautiful antique surroundings. She, on the other hand, though dressed in the height of the fashion of the day, seemed perfectly in the picture. All beautiful things are, as has been well said, of the same period.

‘How good of you to be in, Miss Clive!’

‘How good of you,’ she corrected, ‘to keep your word!’

As he looked at her it seemed to him that she was genuinely pleased at his arrival.

‘I hope you have forgiven me for ringing you up in such an unmannerly way. But I was very, very anxious to see you again.’