The Paw in the Bottle

V

On Monday evening, Blanche Wesley returned to her flat in a waspish mood. The week-end hadn’t been a success. Benton had been in a difficult, demanding mood and the hotel had been hell. Of course, Hugh hadn’t much money. He gambled recklessly and was up to his ears in debt, but if he thought anything but the best was good enough for her he had better get any further idea of taking her away again for a week-end out of his miserly, pale head. And she hated Brighton anyway. Why it always had to be Brighton she couldn’t think. There had been a continuous wind; it had been chilly and it rained. The hotel was unbelievable. They had refused to serve meals in the bedroom and had given her a bit of butter the size of a halfpenny with her toast. When she had complained the waiter had actually been impertinent, and that fool Hugh had told her there was a peace on. He seemed to think that was funny. She had wanted a fire in the bedroom, but the management had yammered about the fuel shortage. If it hadn’t been for Hugh, who had hustled her away, she would have told the management exactly what she had thought of the hotel. The final blow had been the discovery that the hotel hadn’t any brandy, and that was something she just couldn’t do without. So she was forced to pub-crawl in the pouring rain, and the muck they offered her wasn’t fit even to cook with, and they had the audacity to charge six shillings a glass for it.

And now, as she swept into the spacious entrance lobby of Park Way, she was determined that here, at least, she wasn’t going to stand any nonsense. This was her permanent home; if she wanted a fire she would have one; if she wanted service, she would get it; if she wanted a pound of butter with her morning toast the porter would damn well produce it or she’d know the reason why. If there was the slightest indication that the service had deteriorated during her absence, she would have a row; and what a glorious, flaming, hell-raising row it would be.

But the moment the head porter saw her he was out of his cubby-hole, snapping orders to the under-porter and respectfully welcoming her. The taxi was paid off, her luggage was brought in, her mail, neatly tied with string, was presented to her with a flourish. A lighted match appeared as if by magic when she put a cigarette in her pouting lips.

This was better, she thought, much more like it, and she mellowed under the soothing, respectful attention bestowed upon her.

‘Well, Harris,’ she said, drawing off her gloves. ‘It’s nice to be back again. I’ve had the most damnable week-end. What’s been happening at the flat. Any callers?’

The head porter was used to this inquiry. He was well aware that nothing was too petty to escape Blanche’s attention. Since he received at least five pounds a week from her in tips it paid him to be servile, although his private opinion of her was startlingly obscene.

‘Mr. Wesley and Mr. Gerridge returned to the flat on Saturday night, madam,’ he told her. ‘And a person called to see your maid on Sunday morning.’

Blanche smiled amiably, flickered her long, spiky eye-lashes and revealed her beautiful little teeth.

‘Did Mr. Wesley stay the week-end at the flat?’ she purred.

‘Oh, no, madam, just Saturday night.’

‘Did Mr. Gerridge stay with him?’

‘No, madam.’

Blanche tapped ash off her cigarette.

‘Of course, my maid was there to help him if he wanted help? She didn’t leave the flat?’

‘No, madam, she was there.’

Blanche nodded, delighted. Here, at least, were the ingredients for a first-class row.

‘Going to make something out of this, the little cow.’ the head porter thought to himself. ‘Well, let her get on with it. It’ll give her something to do for a change.’

‘And who was this person who came to see my maid?’ Blanche asked.

‘He told me he was her brother,’ the head porter said, his fat face darkening, ‘but I must say I considered him an extremely undesirable young fellow. I didn’t like the looks of him at all.’