‘Ah, tea!’ exclaimed Steve. ‘I’ll help you, Mrs. Neddy.’
Mrs. Neddy was the benevolent Irish woman of uncertain age, though Steve gathered it was at least fifty, who ‘did’ for her. She would come early in the morning to get Steve’s breakfast ready and spend the greater part of the day there instead of the three hours for which she was paid. She had transformed the little flat into a real home for the girl who had no time to perform for herself all the many services she required.
‘That’s all right, dearie!’ Mrs. Neddy said. ‘I can manage.’
‘Good afternoon!’ said Temple.
‘Good afternoon to ye, sir!’ she answered with her delicious West-of-Ireland brogue.
She set the tea-tray on the sideboard and began to clear the accumulation of debris from the fireside table. Then she set the tray down on it and was about to go out when Steve stopped her.
‘Is that parcel for me, Mrs. Neddy?’ she asked.
Mrs. Neddy had entered the room carrying a parcel under her arm, and all the while she was clearing the things so that the two could drink their tea in comfort, she still carried the parcel.
‘Parcel?’ she now asked with some surprise, having completely forgotten its existence. Then suddenly she remembered. ‘Why, yes, of course!’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s a good job you mentioned it now! I should ’ave probably gone to bed with it under my arm!’
Steve began to laugh. ‘I gather the memory isn’t improving!’ she said.
‘Improving!’ echoed the Irish woman. ‘Oh, ’tis something shocking, miss. There are times when I wonder who the devil I am!’
The two began to laugh at the kindly but absent-minded Mrs. Neddy. But whatever her faults, and they included the most complete disregard and contempt for any kind of efficiency, she did her work well. She kept the flat absolutely spotless, and the most fastidious of epicures could not have found fault with the excellence of her cooking. It might have lacked the variety of a Soho restaurant, but it was good, tasty, and nourishing.
Steve Trent took the parcel from her and began to inspect it. There was no stamp and no indication of its sender. It was about an inch in thickness and a foot and a half across. ‘A plate or a dish of some sort,’ reflected Steve.
‘Where did the parcel come from, Mrs. Neddy?’ asked Steve, rather puzzled.
‘It was delivered about an hour ago, by a boy. A cheeky- faced monkey he was an’ all.’
‘Was there any message?’
‘No,’ replied Mrs. Neddy. ‘No message, dearie.’ She had been staring at the tea-tray on the table in what might have been wistful contemplation. ‘Lordy!’ she exclaimed suddenly, ‘I’ve forgotten the buttered scones! You’ll have to be excusing me!’
Gathering her voluminous skirts about her, Mrs. Neddy swept majestically out of the room, bent on retrieving yet another error. Mrs. Neddy was always making errors, but errors of a kind that endeared her to Steve. Besides, she had a way of saving her face that at once completely removed any possible ill-feeling or grievance.
‘Mrs. Neddy seems quite a character!’ said Paul Temple, as she closed the door.
‘She’s a dear!’ agreed Steve fervently. Then her face became a little more serious. ‘I wonder what this is?’
‘It looks like a disc of some sort, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Steve quietly. She walked over to the sideboard, opened a drawer and took out a pair of scissors. Then she cut the string which fastened the parcel.
‘We’ll soon find out,’ she said, as she pulled back some sheets of corrugated paper and at last extracted a flat cardboard box. Inside was a gramophone record.
Steve looked at Paul Temple, a frown of curiosity over her face. ‘I wonder who sent it?’ she speculated.
‘Isn’t there some writing on the—’ Temple stopped in midsentence. The girl in front of him had turned a deathly pallor. ‘Steve!’ he exclaimed. ‘Steve, what’s the matter?’
She passed him the black disc. ‘Look what it says on the record!’ she said tensely.
Paul Temple examined the label. ‘To Louise Harvey,’ he read. ‘From the Knave of Diamonds.’
He caught her eye. For a moment neither of them spoke.
‘Max Lorraine!’ whispered Steve at last.
‘Yes!’ he agreed.
Steve Trent took the record out of his hands, and walked slowly over to the radiogram.
‘Steve!’ he said sharply. ‘What are you going to do?’
She hesitated an instant. ‘I’m going to play the record,’ she said decisively.
She opened the radiogram, switched it on, and placed the record carefully on the turntable. ‘The set takes a little while to warm up,’ she added.
‘Yes.’
‘Paul!’ This time there were traces of anxiety in her voice. ‘What do you think is on the record?’
‘I don’t know. Probably a message from the—’ He hesitated. ‘Steve!’ he said suddenly. ‘You’re shaking!’
‘No,’ she replied, though without any great conviction. ‘No, I’m…all right.’
‘Here – I’ll set it going. You sit down, dear!’
He took Steve gently by the arm and led her to one of the comfortable armchairs. She sat down in it with an infinite look of gratitude in her eyes.
Paul Temple walked slowly back to the radiogram. For some seconds he looked down at the gramophone record. From where she was sitting, Steve Trent watched him with curiosity.
‘What is it, Paul?’ she asked at length. ‘Why don’t you put the record on?’
‘Just a minute,’ said Temple. ‘Just a minute!’ He hesitated. ‘Aren’t we being a little obvious, my dear?’
‘A little obvious?’
‘Steve…Supposing you sent someone you knew a record – a gramophone record. It had no official label, and looked very mysterious. What do you think would be the first thing they’d do with it?’
‘Why, play it, of course! That’s what everyone would do under the circumstances.’
‘Yes, of course it is,’ agreed Temple. ‘That’s what everyone would do under the circumstances,’ he added slowly.
Steve looked even more puzzled.
‘Paul…I don’t understand.’
‘The person who sent you this record knew that you’d be puzzled by it,’ Paul Temple explained, ‘and he knew, without a shadow of doubt, that the first thing you’d want to do would be to satisfy your curiosity by playing it.’
‘Well?’ she inquired.
Paul Temple began to grow a little excited. His reason had told him something he did not even care to think about.
‘Steve, don’t you see?’ he asked urgently. ‘That’s the whole point! The Knave wants you to play this record – and immediately you do so, his purpose in sending it to you is fulfilled!’
‘But—but what is his purpose?’ asked Steve. Not yet had she begun to suspect what was in Paul Temple’s mind. ‘Why should he send me a gramophone record? If it contains a message, then—’
‘Any message it contains could have been sent to you in writing,’ interposed Temple quietly.
‘Yes,