Twenty-two I

Frances Cary, carrying her overnight bag, walked down Mandeville Road, chattering¹ with thefriend she had just met on the corner, towards the bulk of Borodene Mansions².
“Really, Frances, it’s like living in a prison block, that building. Wormwood Scrubs orsomething.”
“Nonsense, Eileen. I tell you, they’re frightfully comfortable, these flats. I’m very lucky andClaudia is a splendid person to share with—never bothers you. And she’s got a wonderful daily.
The flat’s really very nicely run.”
“Are there just the two of you? I forget. I thought you had a third girl?”
“Oh, well, she seems to have walked out on us.”
“You mean she doesn’t pay her rent?”
“Oh, I think the rent’s all right. I think she’s probably having some affair with a boyfriend.”
Eileen lost interest. Boyfriends were too much a matter of course.
“Where are you coming back from now?”
“Manchester. Private view was on. Great success.”
“Are you really going to Vienna next month?”
“Yes, I think so. It’s pretty well fixed³ up by now. Rather fun.”
“Wouldn’t it be awful if some of the pictures got stolen?”
“Oh, they’re all insured,” said Frances. “All the really valuable ones, anyway.”
“How did your friend Peter’s show go?”
“Not terribly well, I’m afraid. But there was quite a good review by the critic of The Artist, andthat counts a lot.”
Frances turned into Borodene Mansions, and her friend went on her way to her own small mewshouse farther down the road. Frances said “Good evening” to the porter, and went up in the lift tothe sixth floor. She walked along the passage, humming a little tune⁴ to herself.
She inserted her key in the door of the flat. The light in the hall was not on yet. Claudia was notdue back from the office for another hour and a half. But in the sitting room, the door of whichwas ajar, the light was on.
Frances said aloud: “Light’s on. That’s funny.”
She slipped out of her coat, dropped her overnight bag, pushed the sitting room door fartheropen and went in….

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