She looked searchingly at Colonel Julyan. He did not answer. He hesitated, tugging at his mustache. I saw him throw another glance at Maxim.
“What the hell’s the use of all this?” said Favell, coming forward. “We’re streaking away from the point the whole bloody time. Who cares about this Baker fellow? What’s he got to do with it? It was probably some damn merchant who sold stockings, or face cream. If he had been anyone important Danny here would know him. Rebecca had no secrets from Danny.”
But I was watching Mrs. Danvers. She had the book in her hands and was turning the leaves. Suddenly she gave an exclamation.
“There’s something here,” she said, “right at the back among the telephone numbers. Baker. And there’s a number beside it: 0488. But there is no exchange.”
“Brilliant Danny,” said Favell: “becoming quite a sleuth in your old age, aren’t you? But you’re just twelve months too late. If you’d done this a year ago there might have been some use in it.”
“That’s his number all right,” said Colonel Julyan, “0488, and the name Baker beside it. Why didn’t she put the exchange?”
“Try every exchange in London,” jeered Favell. “It will take you through the night but we don’t mind. Max doesn’t care if his telephone bill is a hundred pounds, do you, Max? You want to play for time, and so should I, if I were in your shoes.”
“There is a mark beside the number but it might mean anything,” said Colonel Julyan; “take a look at it, Mrs. Danvers. Could it possibly be an M?”
Mrs. Danvers took the diary in her hands again. “It might be,” she said doubtfully. “It’s not like her usual M but she may have scribbled it in a hurry. Yes, it might be M.”
“Mayfair 0488,” said Favell; “what a genius, what a brain!”
“Well?” said Maxim, lighting his first cigarette, “something had better be done about it. Frank? Go through and ask the exchange for Mayfair 0488.”
The nagging pain was strong beneath my heart. I stood quite still, my hands by my side. Maxim did not look at me.
“Go on, Frank,” he said. “What are you waiting for?”
Frank went through to the little room beyond. We waited while he called the exchange. In a moment he was back again. “They’re going to ring me,” he said quietly. Colonel Julyan clasped his hands behind his back and began walking up and down the room. No one said anything. After about four minutes the telephone rang shrill and insistent, that irritating, monotonous note of a long-distance call. Frank went through to answer it. “Is that Mayfair 0488?” he said. “Can you tell me if anyone of the name of Baker lives there? Oh, I see. I’m so sorry. Yes, I must have got the wrong number. Thank you very much.”
The little click as he replaced the receiver. Then he came back into the room. “Someone called Lady Eastleigh lives at Mayfair 0488. It’s an address in Grosvenor Street. They’ve never heard of Baker.”
Favell gave a great cackle of laughter. “The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker, they all jumped out of a rotten potato,” he said. “Carry on, detective Number One, what’s the next exchange on the list?”
“Try Museum,” said Mrs. Danvers.
Frank glanced at Maxim. “Go ahead,” said Maxim.
The farce was repeated all over again. Colonel Julyan repeated his walk up and down the room. Another five minutes went by, and the telephone rang again. Frank went to answer it. He left the door wide open, I could see him lean down to the table where the telephone stood, and bend to the mouthpiece.
“Hullo? Is that Museum 0488? Can you tell me if anyone of the name of Baker lives there? Oh; who is that speaking? A night porter. Yes. Yes, I understand. Not offices. No, no of course. Can you give me the address? Yes, it’s rather important.” He paused. He called to us over his shoulder. “I think we’ve got him,” he said.
Oh, God, don’t let it be true. Don’t let Baker be found. Please God make Baker be dead. I knew who Baker was. I had known all along. I watched Frank through the door, I watched him lean forward suddenly, reach for a pencil and a piece of paper. “Hullo? Yes, I’m still here. Could you spell it? Thank you. Thank you very much. Good night.” He came back into the room, the piece of paper in his hands. Frank who loved Maxim, who did not know that the piece of paper he held was the one shred of evidence that was worth a damn in the whole nightmare of our evening, and that by producing it he could destroy Maxim as well and truly as though he had a dagger in his hand and stabbed him in the back.