The Paw in The Bottle Page 2

  It is to such places that the Service deserters, tired of remaining in their rat-holes, come for a quick coffee and a look round before going to the West End; where the small gangs meet to check the final details of a new haul, and where the filthiest of all the scrapings of London’s gutters—the painted youths in sandals and bright sweaters—cat before beginning their nightly prowl.

  The king among these cafes and restaurants was the Bridge Cafe, owned by Sam Hewart, a dumpy, hard-faced man of indeterminable age. He had taken over the cafe during the height of the London blitz, and had got it cheap. Hewart believed in looking ahead, and he knew sooner or later there would be a need for such a place in such a district : a place for the wide boys to meet, to leave messages that they knew would be delivered, to get information, to be told who was in Town and who wasn’t, and who was paying the best prices at the moment for silk stockings, cigarettes, and even mink coats.

  Six months ago a girl had come to Hewart’s office. Her name was Julie Holland, and she worked at a nearby twopenny library. She had heard, she told him, there was a vacancy on his staff.

  “I could be useful,” she had said quietly. “I’m not fussy what I do.”

  Hewart had been impressed. He liked the way her dark, shiny tresses fell in natural waves each side of her small, rather pale face. He liked her alert grey eyes, and he par-ticularly liked her figure, which, he thought in his loose-minded way, would be sensational without clothes. He couldn’t understand how it was he hadn’t seen her before. If, as she said, she worked in the library he should have seen her. He was annoyed with himself because he hadn’t seen her. It made him feel old. He wouldn’t have missed her five years ago, he told himself. He spent nearly all his waking hours thinking about girls. They dwelt in his mind consciously and subconsciously the way death sometimes dwells in the minds of the timid; although lately he hadn’t been as preoccupied with these thoughts as he used to be, and when he was conscious of this it worried him. It was, he told himself bitterly, a sign of age.

  This girl who now stood before him aroused in him an almost forgotten feeling of desire. She wore a sweater that showed off her breasts and her skirt was tight and short. There was scarcely a line of her body that he couldn’t see. Her lipstick was vivid and put on to make her mouth look square, and her lips had a soft, yielding look that made Hewart feel short of breath.

  He would have been startled and annoyed had he known she had deliberately dressed herself in this way to appeal to his ageing sense of lust. An amiable young spiv had given her the tip that Hewart wanted a smart girl who could keep her mouth shut. Hewart was all right, the spiv had told her, if she didn’t mind being pawed occasionally.

  “He’s getting old,” the spiv had said, with a cynicism that appealed to Julie. “You know what old men are like. It’s all handy-pandy stuff; nothing you couldn’t handle.”

  As for the café . . . well, she didn’t have to be told what some of the cafes were like in that district, and the Bridge Cafe was no exception, but the money Hewart paid was good. That was the point. The money was excellent. “He’ll pay six quid, maybe more, and if you let him pinch your leg occasionally, you might screw him up to seven.”

  Seven pounds a week! At that time such a sum was the pinnacle of Julie’s ambition. She made up her mind to get the job. What did she care if Hewart were tiresome? She was used to that sort of thing by now. Seven pounds a week! It was a fortune.

  Julie was twenty-two years of age. Twenty of these years had been milestones of bitter poverty, of pinching and scraping and making do. Her parents had been miserably poor, her home squalid and dirty, and she had been continually hungry. As long as she could remember she had had a desperate, trapped feeling that life was slipping away from her, and she was missing all the good things that would have been hers had she the money to buy them. It was hunger that formed her character. It was hunger that sharpened her wits, and made her sly and cunning. Hunger and envy; for envy tormented her, making her a morose and unsociable child, and later a shrewd, hard, calculating young woman.

  As soon as she was old enough to discriminate between those who have and those who have not, envy had laid hold of her. She envied people with clean homes, good clothes, cars, and the blind beggar who stood at the corner of her street when people gave him money. She envied the other children at school if they were better dressed than she. She pestered her parents for more to eat, for pocket money, for better clothes until, exasperated by his inability to give her what she wanted, her father flogged her to silence. But the flogging didn’t cure her of envy. She was determined to have the good things of life, and since her parents failed to provide them, she began to help herself. At first she took only small things : a bar of chocolate from a classmate; a bun, sneaked oft the baker’s counter; a hair ribbon from her sister; a wooden peg-top from the boy next door. She took with cunning and no one suspected her. But the more she took, the more she wanted, and to celebrate her twelfth birthday she raided the jewellery counter in Woolworth’s. But this time she wasn’t dealing with children, and she was caught.

  The magistrate had been lenient. He understood children, and when he had read the report on Julie’s home life, he called her to him. She was too frightened to remember all he said to her, but she did remember the fable of the monkey and the bottle he had selected as the corner stone for his sermon.

  “Have you ever heard how they catch monkeys in Brazil, Julie?” he had asked, to her surprise. “Let me tell you. They put a nut in a bottle, and tie the bottle to a tree. The monkey grasps the nut, but the neck of the bottle is too narrow for the monkey to withdraw its paw and the nut. You would think the monkey would let go of the nut and escape, wouldn’t you? But it never does. It is so greedy it never releases the nut and is always captured. Remember that story, Julie. Greed is a dangerous thing. If you give way to it, sooner or later you will be caught.”

  He had sent her home, and she hadn’t stolen again.

  But as she grew up her envy of riches increased and her mind was obsessed with the longing for money. When her parents were killed in an air raid and she set up on her own in a dingy bed-sitting-room, the unexpected freedom of supervision led to the discovery of a hitherto unsuspected means to get what she wanted. She learned, now that she could stay out at all hours of the night, that there was something about her that attracted men. She had been vaguely aware of this power for some time, and at first she had resented the way men, at the slightest opportunity, put their hands on her. She was irritated when bus conductors helped her off the bus, when old gentlemen took her arm and insisted on seeing her across the road, or when a heavily-breathing man ran his hand down her leg in a cinema while he pretended to hunt for a dropped article in the darkness. But, after a while, she became used to these attentions, and now she had freedom she wondered if she couldn’t capitalize this power.

  The war and the coming of the American troops gave her the opportunity, and she joined the vast army of other young girls who came from the East End to have a good time with the Yanks.

  Although only seventeen at that time, Julie quickly acquired a sophistication that distinguished her from the other giggling chits who hung about at street corners ogling the G.I.s as they loafed along Piccadilly. She mixed exclusively with the officer ranks, and her dingy bed-sitting-room scarcely ever saw her at night. Before long she acquired a veneer that a steam hammer couldn’t crack, a wardrobe of flashy clothes, an intimate knowledge of the physical desires of men and fifty pounds in the Post Office Savings Bank. For a time she lived well, but the war ended and the Americans went home. Then followed the lean years, and life became a wangle. She had to wangle to avoid being sent to a factory. She had to wangle to get clothing coupons, food and money. She was lucky to get the job at the twopenny library, although it only paid two pounds ten a week.

  It was all a wangle now, and she began to realize that those who didn’t take risks these days were in for a thin time. It seemed now that you were either honest and went
short or you were dishonest and had a good time. There seemed to be no happy medium. She knew the Bridge Cafe had an unsavoury reputation and was a meeting place of crooks, but the money was good, and that was all that mattered. She was sick of making do on fifty shillings a week.

  “If you work for Hewart you’ll meet all the wide boys,” the young spiv had told her. “Play your cards right and you won’t be short of anything. A girl with your looks should be having fun. You don’t call this library fun, do you?”

  Seven pounds a week ! That decided her. What did it matter if the cafe was shady? She could look after herself. If Hewart would have her, she was ready to work for him.

  As soon as Hewart saw her he knew she was the right type for the job.

  “There’s two jobs going here,” he told her. “One of them is for the day shift and pays three quid a week. There’s not much to it. A bit of cleaning, preparing sandwiches for the night trade. Not much of a job . . . but a job.”

  “And the other?” Julie asked, knowing well enough that the second job was the one she was going to take.

  “Ah,” and Hewart winked. “The other’s a good job. A job for an ambitious girl who can keep her mouth shut. Might suit you.”

  “And what does that pay?”

  “Seven quid a week. You’d look after the cash desk and take messages. It’s night work—from seven to two in the morning. But you’d have to keep your mouth shut, and when I say shut, I mean shut, see?”

  “I don’t talk,” Julie said steadily.

  “It doesn’t pay to; anyway, not in this neighbourhood. I remember a girl, not much older than you, and as pretty, who heard something that didn’t concern her, and she talked. You know how it is : girls like to talk; second nature to ‘em. They found her in a back alley. Made a mess of her looks. No, it doesn’t do to talk.”

  “You don’t scare me,” Julie said sharply. “I wasn’t born yesterday.”

  “That’s right,” Hewart grinned at her. “You’re smart. The moment I saw you I knew you’d do. Now, listen, we give our customers service, see? Taking messages is an important part of the service. You’ll have to be smart about that. Nothing must be written down. You’ll have to pass the messages quick. There may be as many as twenty a night. For instance, you may get a “phone call for Jack Smith, see? You’ll have to know who he is and whether he’s in the place or not. If he isn’t, you say so and take the message. It’s your job to see Smith gets it as soon as he comes in, and no one else must know about it. You’ll have to be smart all the time. But you can do it. There’re no flies on you.” Seeing her hesitate, Hewart went on : “You won’t know anything, see? What you don’t know about you can’t get into trouble about, can you? This is a chance to pick up a little easy money. Some of the boys will slip you a quid, maybe two, for giving them a message. I’ve seen it done. And listen, I like you. I’ll make it eight quid if you’ll take the job. Can’t be fairer than that, can I? The boys’ll be crazy about you. You’re smart; pretty, too. I know a good thing when I see it. Think : eight beautiful pound notes every Friday. Think of the silk stockings you can buy.”

  But Julie wanted to know more about the job before being rushed into it. She said so.

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” Hewart said. “You don’t want to know anything—like me. I just run this place, see? The boys and girls come here. They leave messages; sometimes a parcel or two, and I give ‘em food and a little service, but I don’t ask questions. Sometimes the bogies look in. They want to know this and that. I don’t know anything so I can’t tell ‘em lies, can I? They may talk to you, but if you don’t know anything what can you tell ‘em? That’s what I call being smart.”

  “The police come here?” Julie asked, startled. “I don’t think I’d like that.”

  Hewart waved his hand impatiently.

  “You know as well as I do the police poke their noses in everywhere. It’s their job. It doesn’t matter where you work, the police’ll look in sooner or later. Who cares? We’re not doing anything shady : we’re giving service. It’s not our funeral if our customers get up to tricks, is it? And besides, why do you think I’m offering eight quid? The job’s worth fifty bob. I could get dozens of girls for fifty bob : hundreds of ‘em. But I’m paying eight quid because the bogies might ask questions. I don’t say they will, but they might; and I know a girl doesn’t like being mixed up with the police. No one does, so I pay a little more.”

  Put like that it seemed reasonable enough, and the money, of course, was marvellous. If she let this chance slip through her fingers she might never get another.

  “All right,” she said, “I’ll take it.”

  She was surprised how easy the work turned out to be. The café didn’t get busy until after eleven o’clock. Then the regular customers began to drift in and soon the place was full of cigarette smoke and the murmur of voices. It was like having a front row in the stalls, Julie thought. Sitting in the glass-screened cash desk, she didn’t feel she was part of the room, but rather an unseen observer looking through a secret window at an odd, exciting play. Hewart, cigar between his teeth, a big diamond ring flashing on his little finger, had stayed with her on her first night. He kept up a muttered commentary on the people in the room.

  “The bloke over there in the fawn coat is Syd Bernstein,” his voice droned in Julie’s ears. “Remember him. He’s got a big fur store in Gideon Road : expect you’ve seen it. If you ever want a cheap fur go to Syd. He’ll fix you up if you mention my name. The fella he’s talking to is the Duke. They call him that because of his beautiful manners. You watch him. You’ll never catch him drinking out of his saucer. Never mind what he does for a living. The less you know . . . That’s Pugsey over there. The fella in the grey suit; big dog-racing man. Knows more about doping dogs . . .” Hewart caught himself up, cleared his throat : “Well, never mind that. He’s Pugsey; just remember who he is and forget the rest. The bloke lighting a cigarette is Goldsack. Now there’s a smart “un for you. When I met him—couldn’t be more than a couple of years ago—he wasn’t worth thirty bob. That’s straight. Now he can write a cheque for ten thou, and thinks nothing of it. He’s one of the big betting boys.”

  Julie got to know Bernstein and Pugsey and the rest. She overheard things. For instance, she overheard a few scattered words from Pugsey as he and the Duke passed her.

  “I won’t split them,” Pugsey was saying. “Twenty-five thousand or nothing. You can handle them all right. What’s worrying you?”

  “That’s a big number for me,” the Duke returned doubtfully. “Most of ‘em are Players, you say?”

  “That’s right.” Pugsey glanced up, caught Julie’s eye, and winked.

  “Twenty-five thousand Players,” Julie thought. “How much would they make out of that deal?” She saw in the next morning’s newspaper that twenty-five thousand cigarettes had been stolen from a Houndsditch warehouse. It wasn’t difficult to put two and two together.

  Life in the cafe was full of variety and excitement. The telephone kept her busy. The messages she received meant nothing to her. “Tell Pugsey greyhound looks good. Got it? Greyhound looks good.”

  “Ask Mr. Goldstack to call me. Boy Blue at twelve.”

  “Message for Mr. Bernstein. Usual time; usual place, C.O.D.” And so on, code messages that puzzled and intrigued her; that meant money to the men who received them. Pugsey, Goldsack and the others were making themselves rich by these messages because they were wide and in the know. She envied them, although she knew she shouldn’t grumble, for by the end of her third week she was earning twelve pounds a week: eight from Hewart and four from tips.

  But the more she earned the more she wanted. Her expenses had gone up. She had taken a small furnished flat in the Fulham Palace Road that cost four pounds a week. She had bought clothes; and she spent money on cinemas and useless junk she picked up in the big stores. It was nice not to work during the day; nice, but lonely. She hadn’t any friends. That was the snag of working a nigh
t-shift. You never had the chance of meeting anyone during the day: they were all at work.

  She needed male companionship, and sighed for the days when she could have had her pick of escorts by hanging about outside one of the Officers’ Clubs. Going to the cinema on your own wasn’t much fun. She wanted a man who would say nice things to her, buy her presents, and on whom she could bestow favours if she felt so inclined.

  The men she met in the café were too busy making money to bother with her. She could have had Hewart easily enough but he was too old. At first he was tiresome, but she quickly learned how to handle him. Enclosed in the glass cash-desk all the evening, he didn’t get much chance of pawing her. The time to watch out was when she arrived and when she left, and she took care to arrive and leave with the other members of the staff. To keep him happy, she allowed him a few liberties, and as the spiv had said, he was easily satisfied. She wanted a companion of her own age, who could share her interests and wouldn’t be pawing her all the time.

  She had been working at the cafe for over three months when Harry Gleb breezed in. She was interested in him the moment she saw him, for Harry had a terrific personality. His wide grin made you want to grin too. His laugh was in-fectious, his confidence in himself enormous. He was a dashing, colourful figure, and well dressed; his hand-painted tie made Julie gasp. He had a great deal of dark wavy hair, a fine pencil-line moustache, greenish eyes that twinkled with an expression of bawdy good humour. Although he was hard, without scruples, shallow, cocky and selfish, you couldn’t help liking him. He was always smiling, always ready to crack a joke, to lend you a quid, to get a termer on the toss of a coin or drink you under the table. He knew most of the waiters in the swagger West End restaurants by their Christian names. He knew most of the West End tarts, the playboys and the gold diggers, and they liked him. He was a typical London spiv, and he didn’t care who knew it.