THE LADY AND THE GENTLEMAN

Evening Star, Issue 26000, 15 January 1947, Page 4

THE LADY AND THE GENTLEMAN

A Short Story

Mr Mallory sat miserably in front of his dining room fire, burning with due care and stealth a painting of a woman who had been murdered yesterday. Ho felt most unhappy. There was about Mr Mallory the guilty concern of a man who is completely m the dark as to what lie will do next. The whole thing had begun so casually; in fact, it would never have happened at all had Thursday been a fine day, but Thursday was a wot day. The rain was so heavy that Mr Mallory, who hated art, was forced to take ( belter in the Art Gallery on the corner of Blackhurst street. He had never regretted anything so much in his life. There was quite a crowd of people there, standing in small groups talking or staring balcfully at the rain. 'Mr Mallory stood slightly apart from them, a dapper little, man obviously dressed for more seasonable ueuther.

He had been standing there for a long time when a neat, middle-aged lady, dressed entirely in grey, picked har way through the crowd around the door, and once inside extracted from her handbag a note nook and short red pencil. She had a sweet if slightly over-made-up face and a voice modu-

lated to charm the public into giving donations to worthy causes. It' was soon apparent that she was selling raffle tickets.

She went around the little groups of people and brightly made her requests. Some smiled and parted with the necessary shilling, others said not today or merely turned away to stare

fixedly at the picture advertising Boner’s ißonny Washing'Soap that was prominently displayed across the street. She approached a ta}l, burly man, with a birch attache c£se. He was a white-collar,worker, but looked strong enough to play cateliball with a Baby Austin. “Will you take a ticket?” she smiled. “ It’6 for a good cause—for the children, the orphans.” The burly man’s lip curled. “ Not ■to-day,” he said, but managed to imply that this also included to-morrow, the day after that, and ever. The lady, rebuffed, smiled meekly and withdrew.

Mr Mallory had - been watching with .interest. He felt sorry lor the grey lady, as he mentally Called her Not that Mr Mallory intended buying a ticket; you couldn’t give to every appeal that came along, but, after all, there was no need to bite the woman's headl off. For one moment he allowed an expression of slight sympathy to flit across his face. The lady Turned and, noting it, came straight over to Mr Mallory. / “I’m sure this gentleman won’t mind buying a ticket to help the orphans.” Several people stared at Mr Mallory. • Hr took a ticket. ' '

“ It’s drawn in a few minutes,” sho said.

*>Jsh?” said Mr Mallory, who had taken countless tickets in raffles and believed that the usual procedure was to keep the ticket holders waiting at least six months before announcing that someone else had walked off with first prize. “ Across the road,” she said, staring into Mr Mallory’s face. “ You’re not very interested in art, are you?” “No,” admitted Mr Mallory. It was a blank statement. She sold several more tickets and then left, assuring the crowd in general and ticket holders in particular that they would hear the lucky winner’s name 'in; a fewminues.

Mr Mallory broodingly watched her step out into the rain. It was, he felt, the last they would hear of the raffle and the poor orphans. He was never more mistaken.

The rain had just begun to slacken

(By STELLA CONWAY.)

•when the lady in grey returned. She came straight to Mr Mallory. “Congratulations,” she-said “You have wbn first prize.” She thrust into his astonished arms a _ flat, squaro parcel, and remarked lightly: “ It’s a beautiful painting and ready for hanging.” * * * * Mr Mallory thanked her vaguely and, as the rain had almost stopped, pushed the painting under his arm and began walking to the office. He arrived there very quickly. Usually it took him 15 minutes to walk that distance, but ho managed it in about eight. Despite his attitude to art, he was anxious to see the painting. For the first time in his life he had won something in a raffle. He hoped it was a pretty thing, a seascape or something, Mr Mallory was rather partial to feascapes, not that be would have admitted it in casual conversation. When he reached the office Mr Mallory put the parcel on his desk and speedily removed the brown paper. When hq drew the painting from the wrapping he experienced a further disappointment. The painting was titled ‘ The Lady,’ and the lady herself looked-like someone’s mother-in-law who considered that her dear - iiild had made a bad match. It shook Mr Mallory, who would have preferred to have lost his shilling. At that moment young Carson, the office hoy, came into the room with Mr Mallory’s waste paper basket. Mr Mallory saw- him smile slightly' and was annoyed. Obviously the young devil thought the woman was Mr Mallory’s wife or something of the sort. “I won it in a raffle,” Mr Mallory explained. “ Took the ticket about quarter of an hour ago. One of the last tickets sold, I should say.” “ I’ve never won anything in a, raffle,” replied the office boy. “ This is the first time I have,” joked Mr Mallory, Looking at the painting, he wished earnestly that something inore attractive had broken his record.

As soon as he left Mr, Mallory’s office young Carson told Jack'Kingsley, his friend and fellow-worker, about old Mallory’s rare daub. “ She had a face like a flatiron. Bet it was his wife, though he told me he won it in a raffle.” He paused. “ Don’t kid me they raffle things like that.”

“I don’t'know. Mupi once won a yellow silk blouse at a fishermen’s picnic. I guess they raffle anything they want to get rid of.” The two boys returned to their work, and Mr Mallory in his office returned to the painting. He carefully rewrapped it and Ved the string very tightly, as' lie did not want the wretched thing bursting open on the way home. It was just his luck. When Mr Mallory reached home that evening he flung the painting carelessly behind the bookcase in the sitting room. It nestled down nicely into the dust, and:Mr Mallory managed to put it completely out of his mind until the following morning: :

It was a beautiful day, but the moment he entered the office Mr Mallory sensed that something was amiss. As he closed the door he heard young Carson say in a resounding stage whisper: “ I tell you, fool’s head, it WAS the dame in the picture. Gee, Jack, once seen ...” Mr Mallory sat: down at his desk and slowly opened his newspaper. Splashed across the front page in the approved theatrical fashion was an inch-high head line, ‘ Lady Van Hock Found Murdered.’ Mr Mallory shortsightedly peered at a huge photograph of the unfortunate woman. Once lie got her squarely under focus he gasped. Jt WAS undoubtedly the woman whose portrait he had cast heartlessly behind the bookcase in the sitting room. Mr Mallory read on:— When he put the paper down there was a horrible suspicion in Mr Mallory’s mind that in this case he had been left holding the painting.

He found it difficult to believe that the raffle had 'been innocent and for a good cause. More likely the murderer had stolen the, portrait, then lost his nerve (or iier nerve, corrected Mr Mallory, remembering the lady in grey).. Then .again, she may have merely been an accomplice or perhaps an accessory after the fact.

Then he thought of the Art Gallery i Surely if the painting was raffled there they would know something about it. Quickly he consulted the telephone book, dialed the number, and waited. “Hullo.”

Mr Mallory spoke carefuly into the telephone. “ I want to make some inquiries' about: a painting raffled at .the Art Gallery yesterday.” “A raffle? I know of no raffle here yesterday.” “ 1 bought a ticket. I was in the gallery waiting for the rain to stop.” Mr Mallory said the last words rather defensively.

“ Well, it was certainly nothing to do with us. Of course, there are a lot of street raffles around nowaadys, and someone selling tickets may have come around the doors of the gallery. If that is the case you’ll probably hear no more , about it ; most of them are of a fraudulent character.’.’

Mr Mallory felt'that his worst suspicions were confirmed.

“Thank you,” he said, and gently put down the receiver. He again studied the paper, vaguely hoping that this time the woman in the news would not look like the' woman in the painting. Certainly she did not look as big in the newspaper photograph; but she was in an ordinary frock, whereas in the painting “The Lady” wore an off-the-shoulder evening gown, which added more to her bulk than her charm.

Mr Mallory lit his pipe and sank back ini-p his deep chair. He stared into air and thought. He did not want to be fouqd with the painting in his mssession. Now that Lady Van Hock lad been murdered no one would believe his raffle story. The few people who could support the fact that he had bought a raffle ticket might be very hard to find, and Mr Mallory could not remember whether anyone had seen the woman in gray hand him the painting. Even if someone had seen “ The Lady ” changing hands the possibility of their coming forward was slight. No one wants to become involved in a murder trial; and, besides, an onlooker could not be sure that the painting was inside the flat, bulkv parcel handed to Air Mallory.

Tt was all very trying, and thinking about it bad worried Mr Mallory into a' headache. ~ He pressed his fingers jjlffn.st his head, and to *ink more clearly, He came to the conclusion that he must destroy the painting.

That evening Mr'Mallory took the painting frdni behind the bookcase and

studied it for the last time. He wondered if it was valuable, and how valuable it was. The newspaper had mentioned a missing painting, one of the Van Hock collection. It was this fact that had decided Mr .Mallory. It had terrified him. The painting had to be destroyed. Once more Mr Mallory picked up the newspaper. He reread every word about the murder very carefully. The Lady was a patron <rf the arts, how interesting. Mr Mallory sucked his teeth, and wished that Lady Van Hock had found some other hobby for her leisure time. Then he came to the paragraph about the missing painting—it leered at him. Quickly and without regret Mr Mallory seized “The Lady” in his hands and pushed her with unnecessary force.into the sitting room fire. She burnt well.

Mr Mallory watched with mingled satisfaction and fear. He now felt rather childish, but he could not have risked one of his friends walking in and saying blandly; “I say, old boy, isn’t that a portrait of Lady Van Hock? The murder victim.”

No. Now Mr Mallory watched the blaze only with satisfaction. Such a hideous portrait, how could it be of any real value. The telephone rang and Mr Mallory nervously eyed it. Then quite calmly he lifted the receiver. “ Hullo,” he said. “ Hullo, Mr Mallory,” replied the voice at the other end. 1

Mr Mallory pressed his thumb nail against the table until it really hurt him. He was listening to the sweet modulated voice of the lady in grey who charmed people into giving donations to worthy causes. Mr Mallory made up his mind firmly that he was not going to allow himself to be blackmailed. He would take the whole matter to the police rather than become further involved with the crooks. For some unknown reason Mr Mallory had now come to the conclusion that he was being used as a cat’spaw by a gang. “ Mr Mallory,” continued the voice, “ 1 just wanted to let you know about the painting. Poor, dear Lady Van Hock, you’ve read about the tragedy, of course?” '

Mr Mallory admitted that he had. A terrible thing, a dreadful thing, Mr Mallory. I do hope they catch the person who did it.” Mr Mallory remarked that he hoped so, too. “ About the painting . . .” Mr Mallory felt himself compelled to glance at the fire. The voice continued. “ The day before her end, murder, er—demise, Lady Van Hock promised to send us a painting to be raffied for orphans. Lady Van Hock is a patron of the arts.”

“ Yes, yes,” Mr Mallory felt that he wanted to kick the telephone. “ Unfortunately she did not .inform her family of this intention. Lady Van Hock was killed on the day she was to have despatched the painting. You see it was a last-minute donation to our cause. _ Well, when the painting did not arrive we rang up to make inquiries, and Lady Van Hock was not at home. Unknown to us she was at that moment lying murdered in the 'greenhouse at .the bottom of the garden. Well, as we could not speak to Lady Van Hock, we spoke to Lord Van Hock, and he promised to send around a painting immediately. The dear mail was so eager to help us, he said he had no idea which painting Lady Van Hock had in mind, but he knew of one which could be despatched without delay. A portrait of Lady Van Hock’s mother done by the famous artist, Darby Darby. Lady Van HockSvas very attached to this painting, but he said he felt sure she would be glad to see ft donated to us to help the little ones. In the tragedy of his great bereavement he forgot to mention this, but he has now informed the papers that the report that a painting has been stolen is erroneous. We thought you might have become alarmed, so I looked you up in the phone book.” “ Thank you,” began Mr Mallory. “ Please, Mr Mallory, don’t hang up. You see we had no idea that the painting was so valuable. Lord Van Hock did not inform us olf its worth at the time; but to-day we discovered that if auctioned connoisseurs would bid in thousands. You wouldn’t like to exchange the. painting for a less valuable prize, would Mr Mallory? It would help us so much, we have such a big programme for this year and could do with more financial support.” “ No. I—l have already disposed of the painting. I’m sorry. Goodbye.” Mr Mallory felt a furious heel. He felt sorry for the grey lady, the orphans/ but mostly for himself. After quietly replacing the receiver he swore with a vehemence that would have dolie credit to a buccaneer. “ Thousands o'f smackers,” he whispered dangerously. He snatched the. paper off the table and pounded it into a ball. This he flung on top of the last glowing, red embers. He could think of nothing more to say, there was nothing left to say. He snapped out the light,, wishing that he had braved the rain.