Mr. Zero by Patricia Wentworth Read Free Book Online

Francis—nobody in the whole world. But Francis might—Francis sometimes did when he was away like this.
    A man’s voice said, “Hullo!” It sounded a long way off. Francis was a long way off. He was somewhere abroad, she wasn’t quite sure where. Francis very seldom told her where he went to on his business journeys.
    The faraway voice said, “Hullo!” again.
    Sylvia said, “Who’s there?” And the voice said,
    â€œMr. Zero.”
    Gay would have hung up in a rage, but Sylvia wasn’t Gay Hardwicke. The receiver shook, and her hand shook, and her heart shook too. She said,
    â€œI can’t talk to you—I really can’t. Please, please go away.”
    Mr. Zero laughed. He had an odd, cold laugh which frightened Sylvia extremely. He said,
    â€œNeither of us is going away until we’ve got our little bit of business fixed up. I’m a martyr to business, and if you don’t want to be a martyr too, and a slaughtered martyr at that, you’ll stay just where you are and listen to me until I say you can hang up.”
    Sylvia was puzzled to the point of forgetting to be frightened. In a tone of pure bewilderment she said,
    â€œI don’t know what you mean.”
    Mr. Zero laughed again.
    â€œDear me—I was forgetting that I must use words of one syllable! Very, very stupid of me. Please accept my apologies. And now to business. If you ring off before I’ve finished with you, I shall write and tell your husband about the paper you took last week. Is that quite clear?”
    â€œ No !” said Sylvia with a gasp. “Oh, no—you wouldn’t! I mean, you won’t!”
    â€œNot if you do as you’re told. And the first thing is, you are not to hang up until I say you can.”
    Sylvia felt a slight relief. If that was all, she could do that. She pulled up a pale blue sheet and a pale green blanket and settled herself against the pillows that matched them. If she had got to talk to this horrible man she might as well be comfortable.
    Mr. Zero was speaking, still in that faraway voice.
    â€œI will put everything very simply. As far as possible there shall only be words of one syllable. If I go into two or three syllables, put a wet towel round your head and do your best to understand me.”
    â€œBut it would spoil my wave,” said Sylvia in a tone of sincere protest.
    â€œWell, well, I don’t insist upon the towel. Now listen to me! Is your husband away?”
    â€œOh, yes.”
    â€œWhen does he come back?”
    â€œTomorrow—at least I think so.”
    â€œHe takes his keys with him of course?”
    â€œOh, yes.”
    â€œWhere does he keep them when he is at home? No, I can tell you that—he has them on a chain in his trouser pocket and changes them over when he changes his clothes. A very careful person. What I don’t know, and what I want you to tell me is what he does with them at night. Does he leave them on his dressing-table?”
    Sylvia had almost stopped being frightened. This was quite easy to answer.
    â€œOnly when he goes to his bath,” she said.
    â€œAnd the bathroom opens out of his dressing-room?”
    Sylvia drew in her breath in surprise.
    â€œHow do you know that?”
    Mr. Zero laughed. She did so wish that he wouldn’t laugh.
    â€œNever mind—it does, doesn’t it? Is he one of the people who enjoy a good long, lingering bath? Could you do anything about the keys then?”
    â€œOh, no—his man is there.”
    â€œAlways?”
    â€œOh, yes, always.”
    â€œAre you telling the truth?” said Mr. Zero.
    Sylvia was very much affronted. She drew herself up against her pillow and said,
    â€œI always tell the truth.”
    She heard that horrid laugh again.
    â€œ Always? ”
    â€œExcept when I can’t .”
    â€œI see. And you’re sure this isn’t one of those times?”
    He had puzzled her