Free No Place for a Lady by Joan Smith Page B

home, Colonel,” I said severely, and closed the door. I set the lock and turned to Miss Whately.
    “Jack likes that, you know,” she said, nodding her head wisely. “A bit of slap and tickle is just up his alley.”
    “Can you get upstairs by yourself?” I asked.
    “We’d best give her a hand or she will rouse the house,” Miss Thackery said. As her flat was on the third floor—and it was fourpence to a groat she would not be able to get her key in her lock anyway—we assisted Miss Whately upstairs. She spoke loudly in her resonant voice all the while, as if she were pitching her lines to the farther row of the balcony.
    “A lovely man, the colonel, Mizz Cummings. What a grand meal he bought me.” She stumbled and nearly sent Miss Thackery tumbling downstairs. “Oh, you’re not Mizz Cummings. You’re Mizz Thatr- Miss T.”
    When we finally got her up one flight, she burst into song at the top of her lungs. “My Jack’s a Soldier,” was the song, and she sang it lustily.
    Mrs. Clarke’s door opened a crack. “Oh, it is only Renie,” she said, stifling a yawn, and closed her door again.
    Almost at once, Mr. Alger’s door opened. I was surprised to see he was still wearing his evening suit. I had thought he would have retired by one o’clock.
    “Can I give you a hand, Miss Irving?” he asked, and came to assist us. “Shame on you, Renie,” he scolded, but he scolded tolerantly. “What will Miss Irving think of you?”
    “Oh, ho! Miss Irving ain’t as nice as she’s cracked herself up to be, Algie. She was rolling her eyes at my Jack. I saw you flaunting your bosom at him, Miss Irving,” she said, shaking a finger at me. I gasped in dismay.
    “I would like to have seen that,” Mr. Alger said, grinning. Then he got a strong arm around Miss Whately and began urging her forth.
    Miss Whately fell back in his arms. With her unfocused eyes gazing up at Mr. Alger, she crooned, “ ‘My Jack’s a soldier; he’s gone to war.’ He’s a grand man, is Jack,” she added, not in song. “And you’re not so bad yourself, Mr. Algie. You’ll join me for a wee glass of wine when we get rid of her,” she said, tossing her curls in my direction. “But you must not seduce me, naughty boy.” So saying, she wrapped both her dimpled arms around his neck and attacked him.
    Mr. Alger gave an appealing glance, and I went to his assistance. We finally got her in motion again. Miss Thackery and I took her arms; Mr. Alger put his weight behind her; we nudged her upstairs one step at a time, to the accompaniment of yelps and giggles and song. I unlocked her door, and we deposited her on the sofa.
    “We should not leave her like this,” Miss Thackery said. “We ought to get her into bed.”
    “Oh Miss T”—she smiled—”you are giving Algie ideas.”
    “She will have a crick in her neck by morning, rolled up on that little sofa,” Miss Thackery said with a tsk.
    “She will have worse than a crick in her neck. Her head will feel like a thundercloud, but that is not our fault,” I said. “Let us leave her. I am sorry we disturbed you, Mr. Alger, but I see you had not retired yet.”
    “Happy to help. I was just reading over some correspondence for Dolman,” he replied. “I shall turn in now.”
    We left him at his door and went downstairs. It was not easy to recapture sleep after such a disturbing interlude. We discussed whether we should turn Miss Whately off, considering the disruption she caused our other tenants. By two o’clock I was beginning to doze off again. At five past two, there was an infernal pounding on the front door. Of course it roused Miss Thackery, too. She came to my door and said, “Who can that be?”
    “Mr. Sharkey is the only one who went out. He must have forgotten his key. Pest of a man.”
    I put on my dressing gown, snatched up a lamp, and went to open the door, with Miss Thackery bringing up the rear. I unlocked the door, trying to decide whether to tackle Sharkey about