BODIE. We are coming to her. Perhaps I ought to tell you my
name—Mr. Bodie. (_Indicating the Venus._) This is Mrs. Bodie. No,
I am not married. It is merely a name given her because she is my
ideal.
POLICEMAN. You gave me a turn.
BODIE. Now that I think of it, I believe the name was given to her
by the very woman we are talking about.
POLICEMAN (_producing his note book_). To begin with, who is the
woman we are talking about?
BODIE (_becoming more serious_). On the surface, she is just a
little drudge. These studios are looked after by a housekeeper, who
employs this girl to do the work.
POLICEMAN. H’m! Sleeps on the premises?
BODIE. No; she is here from eight to six.
POLICEMAN. Place of abode?
BODIE. She won’t tell anyone that.
POLICEMAN. Aha! What’s the party’s name?
BODIE. Cinderella.
(_The_ POLICEMAN _writes it down unmoved_. MR. BODIE
_twinkles_.)
Haven’t you heard that name before?
POLICEMAN. Can’t say I have, sir. But I’ll make inquiries at the
Yard.
BODIE. It was really I who gave her that name, because she
seemed such a poor little neglected waif. After the girl in the
story-book, you know.
POLICEMAN. No, sir, I don’t know. In the Force we find it
impossible to keep up with current fiction.
BODIE. She was a girl with a broom. There must have been more in
the story than that, but I forget the rest.
POLICEMAN. The point is, that’s not the name she calls herself by.
BODIE. Yes, indeed it is. I think she was called something else
when she came, Miss Thing, or some such name; but she took to the
name of Cinderella with avidity, and now she absolutely denies that
she ever had any other.
POLICEMAN. Parentage?
BODIE (_now interested in his tale_). That’s another odd thing.
I seem to remember vaguely her telling me that her parents when
alive were very humble persons indeed. Touch of Scotch about her, I
should say—perhaps from some distant ancestor; but Scotch words and
phrases still stick to the Cockney child like bits of egg-shell to
a chicken.
POLICEMAN (_writing_). Egg-shell to chicken.
BODIE. I find, however, that she has lately been telling the
housekeeper quite a different story.
POLICEMAN (_like a counsel_). Proceed.
BODIE. According to this, her people were of considerable
position—a Baron and Baroness, in fact.
POLICEMAN. Proceed.
BODIE. The only other relatives she seems to have mentioned are
two sisters of unprepossessing appearance.
POLICEMAN (_cleverly_). If this story is correct, what is she doing
here?
BODIE. I understand there is something about her father having
married again, and her being badly treated. She doesn’t expect this
to last. It seems that she has reason to believe that some very
remarkable change may take place in her circumstances at an early
date, at a ball for which her godmother is to get her what she
calls an invite. This is evidently to be a very swagger function at
which something momentous is to occur, the culminating moment being
at midnight.
POLICEMAN (_writing_). Godmother. Invite. Twelve P.M. Fishy! Tell
me about them boards now.
BODIE (_who is evidently fond of the child_). You can’t think how
wistful she is to get hold of boards. She has them on the brain.
Carries them off herself into the unknown.
POLICEMAN. I daresay she breaks them up for firewood.
BODIE. No; she makes them into large boxes.
POLICEMAN (_sagaciously_). Very likely to keep things in.
BODIE. She has admitted that she keeps things in them. But what
things? Ask her that, and her mouth shuts like a trap.
POLICEMAN. Any suspicions?
(MR. BODIE _hesitates. It seems absurd to suspect this
waif—and yet!_)
BODIE. I’m sorry to say I have. I don’t know what the things are,
but I do know they are connected in some way with Germany.
POLICEMAN (_darkly_). Proceed.
BODIE (_really troubled_). Officer, she is too curious about
Germany.
POLICEMAN. That’s bad.
BODIE. She plies me with questions about it—not openly—very
cunningly.
POLICEMAN. Such as—?
BODIE. For instance, what would be the punishment for an English
person caught hiding aliens in this country?