MR. FOSS MAKES A SUGGESTION
IMMERSED in her beloved script, Adele Leamington sat on her bed, a box
of _marron glacé_ by her side, her knees tucked up, and a prodigious
frown on her forehead. Try as hard as she would, she found it impossible
to concentrate upon the intricate directions with which Foss invariably
tortured the pages of his scenarios. Ordinarily she could have mastered
this handicap, but, for some reason or other, individual thoughts which
belonged wholly to her and had no association with her art came flowing
forth in such volume that the lines were meaningless and the page, for
all the instruction it gave to her, might as well have been blank.
What _was_ Michael Brixan? He was not her idea of a detective, and why
was he staying in Chichester? Could it be . . . ? She flushed at the
thought and was angry with herself. It was hardly likely that a man who
was engaged in unravelling a terrible crime would linger for the sake of
being near to her. Was the Head-Hunter, the murderer, living near
Chichester? She dropped her manuscript to her knees at the appalling
thought.
The voice of her landlady aroused her.
“Will you see Mr. Foss, miss?”
She jumped up from the bed and opened the door.
“Where is he?”
“I’ve put him in the parlour,” said the woman, who had grown a little
more respectful of late. Possibly the rise of the extra to stardom was
generally known in that small town, which took an interest in the
fortunes of its one ewe lamb of a production company.
Lawley Foss was standing by the window, looking out, when she came into
the room.
“Good afternoon, Adele,” he said genially. (He had never called her by
her Christian name before, even if he had known it.)
“Good afternoon, Mr. Foss,” she said with a smile. “I’m sorry to hear
that you have left us.”
Foss lifted his shoulders in a gesture of indifference.
“The scope was a little too limited for my kind of work,” he said.
He was wondering if Mike had told her about the disc of paper on her
window, and surmised rightly that he had not. Foss himself did not
attach any significance to the white disc, accepting Gregory’s
explanation, which was that, liking the girl, he wished to toss some
flowers and a present, by way of a peace offering, through a window
which he guessed would be open. Foss had thought him a love-sick fool,
and had obliged him. The story that Knebworth had told he dismissed as
sheer melodrama.
“Adele, you’re a foolish little girl to turn down a man like Gregory
Penne,” he said, and saw by her face that he was on dangerous ground.
“There’s no sense in getting up in the air; after all, we’re human
beings, and it isn’t unnatural that Penne should have a crush on you.
There’s nothing wrong in that. Hundreds of girls have dinner with men
without there being anything sinister in it. I’m a friend of Penne’s, in
a way, and I’m seeing him to-night on a very important and personal
matter—will you come along?”
She shook her head.
“There may be no harm in it,” she said, “but there is no pleasure in it
either.”
“He’s a rich man and a powerful man,” said Foss impressively. “He could
be of service to you.”
Again she shook her head.
“I want no other help than my own ability,” she said. “I nearly said
‘genius,’ but that would have sounded like conceit. I do not need the
patronage of any rich man. If I cannot succeed without that, then I am a
hopeless failure and am content to be one!”
Still Foss lingered.
“I think I can manage without you,” he said, “but I’d have been glad of
your co-operation. He’s crazy about you. If Mendoza knew that, she’d
kill you!”
“Miss Mendoza?” gasped the girl. “But why? Does she—she know him?”
He nodded.
“Yes: very few people are aware of the fact. There was a time when he’d
have done anything for her, and she was a wise girl: she let him help!
Mendoza has money to burn and diamonds enough to fill the Jewel House.”
Adele listened, horror-stricken, incredulous, and he hastened to insure
himself against Stella’s wrath.
“You needn’t tell her I told you—this is in strict confidence. I don’t
want to get on the wrong side of Penne either,” he shivered. “That man’s
a devil!”
Her lips twitched.
“And yet you calmly ask me to dine with him, and hold out the bait of
Miss Mendoza’s diamonds!”
“I suppose you think she’s awful,” he sneered.
“I am very sorry for her,” said the girl quietly, “and I am determined
not to be sorry for myself!”
She opened the door to him in silence, and in silence he took his
departure. After all, he thought, there was no need for any outside
help. In his breast pocket was a sheet of manuscript, written on the
Head-Hunter’s typewriter. That ought to be worth thousands when he made
his revelation.