they’ll find the bottle-top murderer?” he asked. “I was just reading about it.”
“The what?” Perry looked up in surprise.
“The bottle-top murder—or leastways that’s what the papers are calling it.” He licked his lips in morbid glee. “There’s a really juicy crime for you! And you say you haven’t read about it? A girl by the name of Joyce Kempton was murdered early this morning in Manchester. Somebody carved her so beautifully with the broken top of a bottle that it put paid to her jugular. Police inquiry is in full swing, I believe.”
“I haven’t seen the paper,” said Perry, “and if that’s the main point of interest, I’m not sorry I didn’t. Whoever she was, she probably deserved all she got.”
“No doubt,” Moira agreed, eating hungrily. “And let me tell you something, Bill. The details don’t go down very well with this supper.”
Bill started. “Huh! I never thought of that—Sorry, miss. Sorry, sir.”
“What did you do in Bristol?” Perry asked presently. She answered without looking up.
“I was a stenographer, but the firm cut the staff down and I had to go. So I decided on London as the best place to look for a job. I suppose you have no conception of what it means to be out of work and practically broke.”
“Frankly,” Perry said morosely, “I’m crawling with money and bored to death. Or rather, I was. You have sort of changed that.”
“I’m glad...though personally I think I must have been pretty much of a nuisance. After all, you didn’t ask to have a strange girl wished on you in this fashion. Most men would have told me to keep my eyes open—after I bumped into you, I mean.”
“Well, that was the way it happened and I regret nothing. How’s the supper?”
“Perfect! And say, Mr. Lonsdale—”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, call me Perry. I just can’t stick a lot of formality.”
“Perry, then.” She smiled. “I was about to say that we’ll have to part after supper. I’ve got to find a room, something that can’t possibly interest you. We move in completely different orbits.”
“You’re going to spend the night at the Barryvale Hotel,” said Perry, “and tomorrow we’ll talk further on the matter.”
She looked at him for a moment and went on eating. Then she asked a question which was beginning to have a familiar ring.
“Is the Barryvale Hotel quiet?”
“Fairly.” Perry frowned a little and considered her. “Look here, Moira, what’s this fetish you have for being quiet? Are you just naturally the retiring type or...or are you afraid of meeting somebody unpleasant?”
“It’s just as I told you. I don’t like a lot of company. I prefer to be alone. After all, that isn’t unique, is it? Lots of people are like that.”
“Oh, sure they are—but they’re mostly old ones. I can’t imagine why a girl like you should want to hide herself.” Perry tried to read an answer in her expression, and failed. “However, it’s up to you. Suppose we change the subject? What sort of a job are you looking for?”
“Secretarial, same as before.”
“And you like the work?”
“Well, I have to live.”
Perry shook his head moodily. “Yes, that’s true enough, but of all the drab ways to do it I should say that making hieroglyphics and then typing them is about the worst. Look, Moira, suppose you had all the money you needed and could do as you pleased? What would you do?”
“Being only human, I’d enjoy it to the full...in a quiet way.”
“I knew that last bit would come up.” Perry grinned. “You are a perfect living example of a rose wasting its sweetness on the desert air—tell me about Bristol. Did you know many people there?”
“Oh, one or two. I—”
Moira stopped, her eyes fixed on the steamy window. Perry glanced around and saw a man’s face with soft hat pulled low over the eyes. Then it was gone.
“Do you mind if we leave?” she asked abruptly, and was on her feet before Perry answered.
“Leave? Because of—?”
Perry dashed to the door, flung it open and stared into the street.
It was empty. Frowning. Perry closed the door. The girl was standing beside the table, apparently quite composed.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Happened?” Perry exploded. “I was looking for the man who startled you....” He came slowly towards the girl as he spoke. “The one who looked through the window.”
“Honestly, Perry, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I only suggested we leave here because—well, we’ve finished supper, haven’t we? And it’s getting late.”
She turned to her suitcase, but Perry picked it up before she could grasp it. For the first time he noticed it had no initials.
“All right, we’ll go,” he agreed. “How much do I owe you, Bill?”
“Here’s your bill, Mr. Lonsdale—and say, is there anything wrong?”
“Only with my head, I think.” With a grin Perry tossed a five-pound note on the counter. “All yours, Bill, and thanks for the feed. See you again some time.”
“You have a sublime disregard for risks, haven’t you?” she asked after a while, and the look of gratitude was back on her face. “You don’t know a thing about me beyond the fact I’m from Bristol and that my parents are dead, yet you have taken on the job of being my guardian angel. How do you know I’m not a criminal, or somebody who might get you into a heap of trouble before you’re finished?”
“How do you know I’m not?” he asked dryly. “I might be a kid-glove killer, a lounge-suit blackmailer—or even that man, if man it was, who murdered the girl in Manchester with a bottle top.... Never can tell. Your risk is a s great as mine.”
“I’ll take it,” she said at length.
“So will I. That makes us quits.”
It was 11:45 when they entered the Barryvale. To arrange for a room and see the girl safely to it did not take Perry above five minutes. Outside the door of Room 701 he stood regarding her.
“Tomorrow,” he said, “we’ll talk things over?”
“Tomorrow.” She nodded slowly, even happily. “Shall we say ten o’clock, in the lounge?”
“That’ll suit me fine. I’ll be waiting.”
CHAPTER THREE
SWIFT ACTION
ONCE within her room Moira Trent locked the door and switched on the light. She glanced at her suitcase, but instead of opening it, began to unbutton her overcoat.
“Naturally he saw me look at the cafe window,” she said half aloud. “He’s no fool. He knows it was because of that that I decided to leave. I suppose I could have been wrong, but I’m sure it was...Dick.”
She turned restlessly and, crossing to her suitcase, opened it and pulled out the heavy books. One by one she put them on the small table beside the bed. The titles were varied, but they all covered the same field—the mind. They ranged from a cheap edition called Master Yourself to Enrico Ferri’s Criminal Sociology. Each book was worn and thumbed.
The girl smiled as she glanced at them. In the space of several years, she had read each one from cover to cover.
“I know no more now than I did at first,” she mused. “Either I’m