hopeless muddle,” she said presently. “But I’ll be ready in five minutes. You can be fixing a cocktail while I finish myself off.”
In the living room there was an open trunk in one corner and a half-filled packing case in the middle of the floor. There were scattered heaps of paper around it, and a few partially wrapped and unidentifiable objects on the table. The room had that curiously naked and inhospitable look which a room, has when it has been stripped of all those intimately personal odds and ends of junk which make it a home, and only the bare furniture is left.
The Saint raised his eyebrows.
“Hullo,” he said. “Are you moving?”
“Sort of.” She shrugged. “Moving out, anyway.”
“Where to?”
“I don’t know.”
He realized then that there should have been someone else there, in that room.
“Isn’t your grandmother here any more ?”
“She died four weeks ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“She was a good soul. But she was terribly old. Do you know she was just ninety-seven ?” She held his hand for a moment. “I’ll tell you all about it when I come down. Do you remember where to find the bottles?”
“Templars and elephants never forget.”
He blended bourbon, applejack, vermouth and bitters, skilfully and with the zeal of an artist, while he waited for her, remembering the old lady whom he had seen so often in that room. Also, he remembered the affectionate service that Jacqueline had always lavished on her, cheerfully limiting her own enjoyment of life to meet the demands of an unconscious tyrant who would allow no one else to look after her, and wondered if there was any realistic reason to regret the ending of such a long life. She had, he knew, looked after Jacqueline herself in her time, and had brought her up as her own child since she was left an orphan at the age of three; but life must always belong to the young… . He thought that for Jacqueline it must be a supreme escape, but he knew that she would never say so.
She came down punctually in the five minutes which she had promised. She had changed her dress and put a comb through her hair, and with that seemed to have achieved more than any other woman could have shown for an hour’s fiddling in front of a mirror.-
“You should have been in pictures,” said the Saint, and he meant it.
“Maybe I shall,” she said. “I’ll have to do something to earn a living now.”
“Is it as bad as that?”
She nodded.
“But I can’t complain. I never had to work for anything before. Why shouldn’t I start? Other people have to.”
“Is that why you’re moving out?”
“The house isn’t mine.”
“But didn’t the old girl leave you anything?”
“She left me some letters.”
The Saint almost spilt his drink. He sat down heavily on the edge of the table.
“She left you some letters? After you’d practically been a slave to her ever since you came out of finishing school? What did she do with the rest of her property –leave it to a home for stray cats?”
“No, she left it to Harry.”
“Who?”
“Her grandson.”
“I didn’t know you had any brothers.”
“I haven’t. Harry Westler is my cousin. He’s—well, as a matter of fact he’s a sort of black sheep. He’s a gambler, and he was in prison once for forging a check. Nobody else in the family would have anything to do with him, and if you believe what they used to say about him they were probably quite right; but Granny always had a soft spot for him. She never believed he could do anything wrong—he was just a mischievous boy to her. Well, you know how old she was …”
“And she left everything to him?”
“Practically everything. I’ll show you.”
She went to a drawer of the writing table and brought him a typewritten sheet. He saw that it was a copy of a will, and turned to the details of the bequests.
To my dear granddaughter Jacqueline Laine, who has taken care of me so thoughtfully and unselfishly for four years, One
In the living room there was an open trunk in one corner and a half-filled packing case in the middle of the floor. There were scattered heaps of paper around it, and a few partially wrapped and unidentifiable objects on the table. The room had that curiously naked and inhospitable look which a room, has when it has been stripped of all those intimately personal odds and ends of junk which make it a home, and only the bare furniture is left.
The Saint raised his eyebrows.
“Hullo,” he said. “Are you moving?”
“Sort of.” She shrugged. “Moving out, anyway.”
“Where to?”
“I don’t know.”
He realized then that there should have been someone else there, in that room.
“Isn’t your grandmother here any more ?”
“She died four weeks ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“She was a good soul. But she was terribly old. Do you know she was just ninety-seven ?” She held his hand for a moment. “I’ll tell you all about it when I come down. Do you remember where to find the bottles?”
“Templars and elephants never forget.”
He blended bourbon, applejack, vermouth and bitters, skilfully and with the zeal of an artist, while he waited for her, remembering the old lady whom he had seen so often in that room. Also, he remembered the affectionate service that Jacqueline had always lavished on her, cheerfully limiting her own enjoyment of life to meet the demands of an unconscious tyrant who would allow no one else to look after her, and wondered if there was any realistic reason to regret the ending of such a long life. She had, he knew, looked after Jacqueline herself in her time, and had brought her up as her own child since she was left an orphan at the age of three; but life must always belong to the young… . He thought that for Jacqueline it must be a supreme escape, but he knew that she would never say so.
She came down punctually in the five minutes which she had promised. She had changed her dress and put a comb through her hair, and with that seemed to have achieved more than any other woman could have shown for an hour’s fiddling in front of a mirror.-
“You should have been in pictures,” said the Saint, and he meant it.
“Maybe I shall,” she said. “I’ll have to do something to earn a living now.”
“Is it as bad as that?”
She nodded.
“But I can’t complain. I never had to work for anything before. Why shouldn’t I start? Other people have to.”
“Is that why you’re moving out?”
“The house isn’t mine.”
“But didn’t the old girl leave you anything?”
“She left me some letters.”
The Saint almost spilt his drink. He sat down heavily on the edge of the table.
“She left you some letters? After you’d practically been a slave to her ever since you came out of finishing school? What did she do with the rest of her property –leave it to a home for stray cats?”
“No, she left it to Harry.”
“Who?”
“Her grandson.”
“I didn’t know you had any brothers.”
“I haven’t. Harry Westler is my cousin. He’s—well, as a matter of fact he’s a sort of black sheep. He’s a gambler, and he was in prison once for forging a check. Nobody else in the family would have anything to do with him, and if you believe what they used to say about him they were probably quite right; but Granny always had a soft spot for him. She never believed he could do anything wrong—he was just a mischievous boy to her. Well, you know how old she was …”
“And she left everything to him?”
“Practically everything. I’ll show you.”
She went to a drawer of the writing table and brought him a typewritten sheet. He saw that it was a copy of a will, and turned to the details of the bequests.
To my dear granddaughter Jacqueline Laine, who has taken care of me so thoughtfully and unselfishly for four years, One
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