And What Happened Then?

Evening Star, Issue 23681, 14 September 1940, Page 3

And What Happened Then?

Written by MARY SCOTT, for the ‘ Evening Star.’

The wireless ceased suddenly, and all through the restaurant scraps of talk were caught and hung suspended upon the oddly vacant air. Fortunate in lunching alone, 1 was spared the painful experience of hearing my own ringing tones voicing some unfinished confidence. and was able to enjoy the embarrassment of my neighbours. Next me a sentence abruptly bitten off seized and held my imagination : “ But it was the egg beater that opened his eyes.” It sounded almost too good to be true. Finding it impossible to resist the allure of that remark, I glanced across and then discreetly lowered my eyes, listening shamelessly. But I was foiled, as an eavesdropper should be. The narrative ceased with those intriguing words, and the two women rose and made their way to the pay desk. “ I’ll tell you the rest as we go down the stairs,” one murmured as she passed my chair. It was almost too much for me. 1 looked at my plate. Fruit salad, and scarcely tasted. Should I, or should 1 not? Thrift, together with some remnant of decency, gave mo pause. I had better finish my ninoponceworth and at the same time make an effort to behave like a lady.

de luxe car travelling at high speed. You will admit that crime in such a setting deserves and repays thought. But not more than the egg-beater, and hero the prospect is a far poorer ’one. What chance have lof ever hearing how the egg-beater opened his eyes —and why? And yet the problem haunts me. Admitting that his eyes badly needed opening—every man’s do at times, at least in his wife’s eyes—yet, why choose an egg-beater as the weapon? To what particular fact of life would an egg-beater fling open the door? Or could the blindness bo temporary and physical ? Could the victim have fainted and remained with eyes obstinately closed despite the woman’s frantic efforts? Even then—why an egg-beater ? Rather let us agree that, then, more than ever, an egg-beater is the last cure to which an ordinary mind would leap. No, it is alt very puzzling, very disturbing. But I shall never know the truth. Lowering my eyes discreetly, I had not time even thoroughly to master the details of the speaker’s appearance; confused by the vivid yet elusive nature of her speech, I did not notice how she was dressed. And, even if I had—what help was there ? Even had I noted some oddly-distinguishing characteristic, how walk up to a complete stranger and say, “ Excuse me, but you were in such and such a restaurant last Friday and you said. . . ; Would you please explain to ; me just what you meant? It has been haunting me ever since.” No, it wouldn’t do. The woman would be startled, resentful, would very probably give me in charge for being either a lunatic or a fifth columnist. I must simply go through life with one of its greatest problems for ever unsolved.

I have regretted both resolves ever since. Being a lady is not much fun, perhaps because I am not very clever at it. The fruit salad was largely synthetic and certainly out of a tin. It usually is at this time of year. In any case, despite the remonstrance of my Scottish blood, it would have been better, far better, to have squandered nincpence and not have been left with this aching void of curiosity. I have had few experiences more painiu!; indeed, it ha« vividly recalled the occasion when some interfering member of my family returned to the library a thriller to whose climax I had just attained—and, by the time I discovered the loss, 1 regret to confess that both the title and the author had entirely eluded me. I have been looking for that thriller ever since.

It is not, of course, the only tag-end that I have encountered. We all eavesdrop inadvertently at times, and are usually rewarded by some tit-bit of unsolved mystery. A few weeks ago, for example, when using a public telephone box. I was startled to hear a man’s voice through the partition speaking into the next telephone. “ I’ve made up my mind, I tell you. Mabel’s no good. Thick in the leg and a poor head. _ Uncertain temper, too, and, unreliable. Shooting’s the only thing.” Even as I proceeded discreetly to dial _my own number I could feel my hair rising. Had I casually overheard the planning of cold-blooded murder, stumbled upon some valuable clue?. My heart ached for Mabel. What had the poor woman done? Elderly, probably, and unwanted. What crime is there in being thick in the leg as the years yoll by? Many of us, too, have poor heads and unreliable nerves in these days. It was some time before my unromantic family could convince me that Mabel was probably a racehorse; even then I felt defrauded, and I am still covertly watching the crime news. If Mabel is shortly done to death I shall come into my own, but too late. But even that, for all its suggestion of a prize thriller, has not the desperate personal appeal of the egg-beater.

But there is more hope about that loss than in the matter of the unfinished sentence. Eventually I must find that book. The girl, I remember was called Serena—or could that have been the name of the authoress? No; if Serena is unusual as the name of a thriller heroine, it is impossible for its author. Uneconomic, too; who would want to read a thriller with that calm, peace-fully-flowing name on the title page? In any case, I am quite sure that the hero’s name was d’Arey—for it is not one of my few favourites, and I had to conquer a considerable prejudice before I did justice to his exploits. Serena and d’Arcy; the combination of those two names must some day lead me back to the cupboard door that was just swinging slowly open, to the origin of that sound of quiet, monotonous dripping, of Serena’s blood-curdling shriek. Some day 1 shall read the solution of that perfectly good murder, committed, if my memory is not playing mo idiotically false, upon the roof of a