1951 - But a Short Time to Live Page 10

  "What does it matter?"

  "Oh, but it does."

  "But look, darling, let's be sensible. You need a good suit. If I can get you one why not have it? It's not as if it'll cost me anything."

  "No, I'm sorry," Harry said firmly. "I can't accept any more presents."

  She sat on the arm of a chair and studied him thoughtfully.

  "Why not?"

  "Well, it's not done," Harry said, reddening. "Men don't accept presents from girls. You know it's not done."

  "Who says so?" Clair asked sharply. "Don't be so conventional, Harry. Who cares what's done and what isn't done? And besides, I love you. I want to make you happy. It so happens I have more money than you. I have more useful friends than you. Why shouldn't you share with me? Why shouldn't I have some pleasure? I want to give you what you need."

  "But can't you see, Clair, it'd make me feel like a gigolo. I know these things don't cost you anything, but that's not the point. It's not as if I can give you anything in return."

  Colour swept into her face and her eyes hardened.

  "What a narrow mind you have!" she said impatiently. "All right, if that's how you feel about it, don't take anything from me. I'm not going to beg you to. And don't come here if you feel like a gigolo. You'll be saying I'm keeping you next." She got up and went into the kitchen, her back stiff with anger.

  Harry looked after her in dismay. He hadn't expected her to fly off like this, and the thought he might lose her frightened him. He followed her into the kitchen.

  "Clair . . . please . . ."

  She swung round and he was startled to see tears in her eyes.

  "I'm sorry, Clair. Please don't be unhappy."

  He went to her, but she pushed him away and turned her back on him, and began preparing a salad, bending over the sink so her dark tresses hid her face.

  "I didn't mean to hurt you," Harry said miserably.

  "It's all right," she said in a curt, hard voice. "Forget it. I was just being soft. Look, the tray's over there. Will you lay the table?"

  He turned her.

  "I love you, Clair. I didn't mean to hurt you, and I'll do anything you wish."

  "That's what you say." She tried to pull away, but he held her, and suddenly she put her arms round his neck. "Oh, Harry! I love you so." The desperate urgency in her voice startled him. "I want to do things for you. I've never been able to help anyone before. I've never wanted to."

  "And I want to do things for you too. And I will when I get some money."

  She pushed away from him so she could see him.

  "I keep telling you, Harry: I don't want your money. I want you. If only you'd get that idea into your dear, silly head. I have everything I want except you. Can't you forget your pride? That's all it is. We can have a lovely time together if you'll only share things with me. What does it matter who has the money so long as one of us has it? Can't you see that? What does it matter?"

  "It matters to me. I want to be the one to give you things."

  "But how can you until you earn more money?" she asked, impatience creeping into her voice again. "When you have enough money I'll share it with you. I won't be too proud to take your presents. Harry, please let me help you for the time being, and when you begin to make more money — as I'm sure you will — then you can do all the paying."

  As Harry began to protest, she interrupted him sharply.

  "If you can't do this for me, then I don't believe you love me!"

  "Of course I do," Harry said helplessly. "Well, all right, but it won't be for long. I'm making plans to do something better. All right, I'll share things with you." He kissed her. "I won't make a fuss if you want me to have things, but don't overdo it, will you?"

  "Do you mean that?" she asked, brightening. "Honest?"

  "Yes; honest."

  "Then I have a surprise for you."

  She ran out of the kitchen and into her bedroom.

  It's quite fantastic, Harry thought. If only Ron could know about this. He always said women took and never gave. In spite of his reluctance to accept presents from Clair, he couldn't help being elated. She had taken the trouble to write for those ties, and she wanted him to share everything with her. That must mean she loved him.

  She returned with another small parcel done up in tissue paper.

  "I was going to give you this on your birthday, but I'm not going to wait. I want you to have it now. It used to belong to my father."

  She stripped off the tissue paper and put a gold cigarette case in his hand. He nearly dropped it with surprise. It was the most fascinating and beautiful thing he had seen.

  "Open it," she said, watching him.

  He thumbed the catch and the case opened. Inside was an inscription: For Harry: all my love: Clair.

  He looked at her, his eyes shining.

  "What can I say?" He turned the case over in his hand. "It's a beauty, and of course, something I've always wanted. But honestly, darling, if it belonged to your father, should you part with it?"

  "I want you to have it. Take care of it, Harry, and think of me every time you use it."

  He caught her in his arms.

  "I can't thank you enough, and I don't know what to say," and he kissed her.

  "So long as you're happy I don't care what happens," she said.

  "You will always love me, won't you, Harry? You won't get tired of me and leave me?"

  He lifted her and held her, looking down at her.

  "I'll love you whatever happens, and for always," he said, and carried her across the room.

  "But, Harry . . . supper's ready," she said, as he pushed open the bedroom door and carried her in.

  "Hang supper," Harry said, and kicked the door shut behind them.

  chapter sixteen

  The grey light of dawn filtered through the half-drawn curtains, and Harry stirred and opened his eyes. He lay for some moments, looking at Clair by his side, and as if she felt him watching her, she moved closer to him and murmured sleepily, "It's early, isn't it?"

  "About five." He slid his arm round her. "Clair, are you too sleepy to talk? There's something I want to tell you. I should have told you last night."

  She opened her eyes and smiled up at him.

  "Go ahead. I'm not sleepy. What is it?"

  "You remember my friend, Ron? The chap I share my room with? He was knocked on the head the night before last."

  He felt her stiffen against him.

  "Is he badly hurt?"

  "Yes. It was the same chap who hit me. The police asked me a lot of questions." He hesitated, then plunged on. "I told them about Brady."

  She lifted her head from the pillow and looked at him. In the dim light her face was hard and set.

  "You told them about Robert? But, why? What's he to do with it?"

  "You remember when I was hurt? I told you they wanted to know if anyone objected to being photographed, and I said no. Inspector Parkins had an idea I wasn't telling the truth, and when Ron was hurt, he asked me again. I was rattled, and told him."

  "Did you tell him I was with Robert?"

  "I wouldn't give him your name. I said you — you were my fiancée, and he seemed to think that was all right," Harry said wretchedly. He felt she had suddenly withdrawn from him, although she still lay in his arms.

  "What did they say about Robert?"

  "Parkins lost interest in him when I told him he was an advertising agent and your boss."

  "You talked a lot, didn't you?"

  "I hope I didn't say too much. You see, Clair, there's a gang of pickpockets working the West End, and Ron was trying to get information about them for an article. He got a tip to go to the Red Circle cafe, in Soho. The police think that's where he was attacked."

  She sat up abruptly and pulled away from him, reaching out for a packet of cigarettes on her bedside table. She lit a cigarette and flopped back on the pillow, but she was away from him now.

  "Why tell me all this? I couldn't be less interested," she said
curtly.

  "Parkins and I went to Athens Street last night. He wanted me to point out the cafe. We arrived there about two o'clock, and you and some other girls were coming out. Brady was there too."

  In the half-light the red glowing tip of her cigarette burned brightly.

  "Well, what about it?"

  "That's all," Harry said, wishing he hadn't started this. "I thought I'd tell you."

  "Did you point me out to your policeman friend?"

  "Of course not. He had left me and was going into the cafe. I — I don't think he even noticed you."

  "I couldn't care less if he did."

  There was a long awkward pause.

  "I've been worrying about you," Harry said. "The police think girls are responsible for these robberies. They hang about the West End and pick up well-to-do men, then rob them and pass the stuff to an accomplice."

  She stubbed out her cigarette.

  "I can't see why you should tell me all this, and why I should worry you. What exactly are you driving at?"

  Harry sat up in bed and tried to take her hand, but she jerked away from him.

  "Surely, Clair, you can see why. You haven't forgotten Wingate, have you? Don't you see this gang works in the same way. If Wingate had given you in charge, as he might well have done, the police would have thought you belonged to the gang. You took his wallet and passed it to me. That's how they work."

  "Oh, I didn't think of that," she said. "You don't think I'm a thief, do you, Harry?"

  "Of course not! But you must never do anything like that again. And, Clair, tell me the truth: is Brady anything to do with this chap who attacked me and Ron?"

  "What on earth are you talking about?" she said. "Why should he be?"

  "Well, don't you see, Brady objected to being photographed, and five minutes after the film is stolen. It kind of hooks up."

  "Oh, rot!" she said angrily. "Really, Harry, how can you suggest such a thing? Of course, Robert's nothing to do with it. For goodness' sake don't go telling the police that. I'll lose my job if he finds out you've been gossiping about him."

  "Of course I won't," Harry said. "I won't mention him again. Don't look cross, Clair."

  "It's enough to make anyone cross." She forced a laugh. "You had me rattled for a moment. Robert would be livid if he knew you had given his name to the police. You're sure they're not going to question him?"

  "I don't think so. Why should they?"

  "Are you seeing the inspector again?"

  "I hope not, but I don't know."

  "Well, if you do, be careful what you tell him about me, won't you. I don't want the police to come here. Promise me you'll never give them this address?"

  "Of course I promise," Harry said, bewildered. "I won't even give them your name. But it's all right, Clair, I'm sure they're no longer interested in either you or Brady."

  "I don't trust policemen. They're so damned suspicious. If they knew I was living alone here they might watch me. I know what they are. They pick on girls like me."

  "But, surely, Clair —"

  "But they do!" she exclaimed irritably. "I know more about this than you do. If they found out you spent the night here they'd tell my landlord and he might throw me out'

  "I don't see why."

  "You can't be too careful if you live in the West End. They'd probably try to make out that this was a brothel."

  "Well, of course I won't say a word."

  She suddenly moved into his arms again.

  "Dear Harry. You're not worrying any more, are you?"

  He said he wasn't, although he felt uneasy and not entirely satisfied, but thought it best to change the subject and asked her if she would sit for a portrait.

  "I want to try my hand at portrait work again," he explained, "and if I could make a good study of you and put it in the window it might encourage trade. Would you mind, Clair?"

  "No. I'd love to help you." She seemed glad he had changed the subject. "Do you mean you're putting money into the business after all?"

  "I'm putting in a hundred pounds to equip the studio. I didn't mean to tell you. I wanted it to be a surprise. Mooney and I are partners now. It's a gamble, but I think it'll come off. If you would sit for me I know it would help."

  "When shall I come, and what would you like me to wear?"

  "I won't be ready until this afternoon. I want to be sure of my lighting, and I don't want to keep you hanging about I'll get Mooney to be your standin. Let's have lunch together, and then we'll go on to the studio."

  "I can't lunch. I have a business date. I can get along about five. Will that do? What would you like me to wear — a bathing dress?"

  Harry laughed.

  "Oh, no. I want to take the kind of picture anyone seeing it would say "That's how I want to be photographed." It has to be just theatrical enough to be glamorous, but no more than that. I'll try a head and shoulders study, I think. If you have a picture hat and a summer dress; that'd be fine."

  "I'll show you," she said, and scrambled out of bed.

  "Wouldn't I love to take a picture of you like that," Harry said, looking at her with shining eyes.

  "You'd make a perfect nude study."

  She caught up a wrap and covered her nakedness.

  "Not to put in a shop window, thank you! I can see the queues now."

  And at five-thirty in the morning with all the lights in the bedroom ablaze, Harry witnessed a mannequin parade. He lay in bed while Clair brought out dress after dress and frock after frock, putting on one after the other and parading before him.

  He finally chose a frock that would photograph well: a flimsy, floral-patterned dress that reached to her heels, and a big straw picture hat that enhanced her beauty.

  It was arranged she should come to the studio at five and change there. Harry was relieved to see she was as excited as he was, and seemed to have forgotten about Inspector Parkins and Brady.

  Mooney arrived at the studio just after nine and found Harry surrounded with trailing wires and lights.

  "What are you up to?" Mooney asked, standing in the doorway.

  "I have a model who's going to pose for a portrait," Harry told him. "We'll make a big enlargement and put it in the window. I think it'll attract trade."

  "Is this the girl friend?"

  "That's right. She's coming this afternoon about five."

  "I wish I'd known," Mooney said gloomily. "I would have put on a clean shirt." He went to inspect himself in the mirror. "I could do with a shave too."

  "You don't have to worry," Harry said, hiding a grin. "She doesn't care for old men. It's the young men she likes."

  Mooney jerked round, then seeing Harry's grin, grinned too.

  "Don't be too cocky, my lad," he said. "It's the old 'uns who know all the tricks."

  "Suppose you sit on that stool for a moment? I want to arrange my lighting and I need a model."

  "What's Doris doing that she can't help you?" Mooney demanded, always reluctant to make himself useful.

  "Doris is developing yesterday's films. I'm not asking you to do much. All you have to do is to sit on that stool."

  Mooney grinned slyly.

  "Go ahead," he said airily, and sat down. "Don't say I'm not co-operative. But I object on principle. This is no job for a senior partner."

  Harry ignored this, and busied himself with his lights. He took some time getting just the effect he wanted, and Mooney began to fidget.

  "If you're going to take this long over every photo," he complained, "we'll never get anywhere."

  "But don't you understand? This is going to be the portrait," Harry said, pulling a spot light a few inches closer. "Once I have set up the lights all I have to do is to log them and I have the lighting scheme for good and all."

  Mooney groaned.

  "Well, all right, but these damned lights are blinding me."

  When at last Harry was satisfied and had plotted his lights, he still wouldn't let Mooney leave his seat.

  "I've got t
o get the exposures right now," he said. "I'll run off half a dozen films and get Doris to develop them."

  "What I have to do in a good cause," Mooney grumbled. "I suppose you want me to look pleasant?"

  "I couldn't care less how you look," Harry said. "All I'm interested in is getting the exposure right. You can make faces if you like."

  "In that case I'll have a look at the four-thirty runners," Mooney said, reaching for the midday paper. "Just buck up, that's all I ask."

  Harry fired off six films, slightly altering the exposures of each and making a note of them.

  "Right-ho," he said. "That's all. We'll leave the lights for Clair. I'll get Doris to develop these right away."

  "Is that all the thanks I get?" Mooney asked and crawled away to his desk in the shop and sank down with a grunt of exhaustion. It had been the hardest day's work he'd done in months.

  Immediately after lunch Harry went into the dark room to examine the prints Doris had made. He found her examining them as she moved them about in the hypo bath. She glanced up and smiled at him.

  "You've got something here, Harry," She said. "This is a wonderful portrait."

  Harry came round the table and stood by her side.

  "It's the exposure I'm interested in. Which do you think is the best one?"

  "This." She fished out a limp print with a wooden paddle and laid it on the drying board. "The exposure's good, but the composition is absolutely first class."

  Harry studied the print and was startled. She was right. It was the best portrait he had ever taken.

  Because Mooney had been so bored, not caring whether Harry photographed him or not, he had come alive in the photograph in a most extraordinary way. Here was a man, disillusioned, bored, sad, fed-up, going broke, worried sick and miserable. The expression, the drop of the head, the limp, hanging tie, the battered hat, resting on the back of his head, the open waistcoat, the dead cigar built up a character that was as intriguing as it was natural. "Why, it's terrific!" Harry exclaimed. "It's an absolute winner! And to think I wasn't even thinking about Mooney. We can't go wrong on this." He stood away from the print to examine it more critically. "We must use it. Now look, this is what we'll do. We'll make a twenty-four by thirty-six enlargement on a soft Gauveluxe paper, mounted on board and I'll get a bead frame for it. We'll call it 'This Year of Grace' and we'll put it in the window. Not a word to Mr. Mooney. Have we any of that Gauveluxe paper or shall I have to get some?"