1951 - But a Short Time to Live Page 4

  "Have it your own way," he said. "We won't quarrel about it Where's the wallet?"

  "That's all you think about!" She opened her bag and threw the wallet at him.

  "Darling, couldn't you try to cultivate a few manners?" he asked as he bent to pick it up. "Do you always have to behave like the gutter-bred whore that you are?"

  "Oh, shut up!" she said, and walked over to the cellaret and poured herself out a drink.

  "I'm afraid your new friend has had a disturbing influence on you," Brady said as he counted the five-pound notes he found in the wallet. "Was he very romantic?"

  "Oh, shut up!" she repeated, sitting down.

  "Fifty quid!" He glanced up and showed his gold teeth in a meaningless smile. "That's not bad." He took six of the notes and folding them into a compact packet, stowed them away in his waistcoat pocket.

  The remaining four notes he took over to Clair. "There's a reward for a clever girl."

  She snatched them from him, and pushed them indifferently into her purse.

  "You really are in a sour temper tonight, precious, aren't you?" he said, and patted her face with his fingertips.

  She jerked away.

  "Take your paws off me!" she said. "I'm not in the mood for mauling tonight."

  "Considering your trade, you should always be in the mood," he said, chuckling. "What was the young man's name?"

  "I don't know," she said, not looking at him. "Harry. He didn't say what his other name was."

  "Never mind," Brady said, moving about the room, his hands in his trouser pockets. "We can always find out. I think he said he worked for Mooney's Camera Studio in Link Street, didn't he? I know the place."

  She jumped to her feet and went up to him.

  "What do you mean? What are you planning?" she demanded, catching hold of his arm.

  "Why, surely," he said, smiling down at her. "He has three hundred pounds. It should be fairly simple for you to get that from him, shouldn't it? You're not going to miss a chance like that, are you?"

  "Don't be ridiculous," she said. "I'm not likely to see him again. It's not as if he carried it around with him. He keeps it in the Post Office."

  "It doesn't matter where he keeps it. He'll spend it on you if you give him the chance, and you'll see him again. He'll phone. It's funny how these nice boys always fall for a bitch. They just don't seem able to help themselves."

  Clair clenched her fists, and looked for a moment as if she was going to hit Brady, then she turned away with an angry shrug.

  He pulled her round.

  "Let's forget about him for the moment, precious. I thought it would be nice if we spent an hour together. You mustn't get temperamental with me, Clair. You couldn't get along without me, you know. You mustn't ever forget that."

  She tried to jerk away, but he held her easily.

  "Come along. Let's go into the other room."

  "No!" she said furiously. "I'm not going to! Let me go, you fat swine."

  He gave her a little shake, jerking her head back.

  "Don't be silly, darling," he said, and the colourless eyes hardened. "Let's go into the other room."

  They stared at each other for a long moment, then he released her and took her face in his moist, soft hands.

  "Lovely Clair," he said, and drew her face to him. Shuddering she closed her eyes, letting his lips rest on hers.

  "Imagine I am him," he whispered into her mouth. "All cats are grey in the dark, darling, and it'll be good practice for you."

  He led her unprotesting into the other room.

  chapter five

  A strong smell of codfish on the boil greeted Harry as he opened the front door of No. 24 Lannock Street and groped his way down the dark passage which led to the stairs.

  Somewhere in the basement Mrs. Westerham, his landlady, was mournfully singing an unrecognisable song. It could have been a hymn or a ballad, and pausing to listen, Harry decided it was a hymn. Mrs. Westerham was always singing something.

  "When you live alone," she had once told Harry, "you've either got to talk to yourself or sing. Well, I don't hold with talking to myself. People who talk to themselves are a bit cranky. So I sing."

  Listening, Harry felt sorry for her, and as he mounted the stairs it occurred to him that he never felt lonely, and because he hadn't ever thought of this before it surprised him. He spent a lot of time on his own, but he was never conscious of being alone or wanting company. There was so much going on that interested him. That, he supposed, was the answer to loneliness. If you could interest yourself in other people, if you could be entertained by hanging out of a window, watching people go by and wondering what they did and who they were, if you could sit in a pub and listen, if you could lie in bed and wonder about things like what the young couple in the pub who drank brandy found to talk about, and who the three mysterious men in black homburgs were, you hadn't much time to feel lonely. It was a good thing, he decided, to be interested in people. He wouldn't care to get like Mrs. Westerham. It couldn't be much fun to sing hymns all day, and he wondered if he ought to go down and have a word with her. She liked him to visit her. Only the trouble was once he was there it was so difficult to get away.

  The sound of Ron's typewriter decided him. He felt in need of male company tonight. Only another male would understand how he was feeling. He felt somehow Mrs. Westerham wouldn't approve of Clair.

  He found the air in the big room he shared with Ron heavy with tobacco smoke. Ron always forgot to open a window, and there he was now, seated at the rickety bamboo table, his coat off, his pipe smoking furiously as he hammered away at his typewriter; the floor around him was littered with sheets of paper in a fog that proclaimed he had been at it for hours.

  He waved his hand at Harry and said, "Shan't be a tic; just finishing," and continued to hammer away with a speed and dexterity that Harry never ceased to admire.

  Harry opened the window a few inches at the top and bottom, put his camera away, pulled up an easy chair to the spluttering gas stove and sat down.

  He was suddenly conscious of the drab shabbiness of the room. Its only redeeming feature was its size, but comparing it to Clair's flat, Harry thought sadly that it was little short of a slum.

  The walls needed repapering, the carpet was worn, the two armchairs were long past their prime.

  The vast marble topped washstand with its two floral bowls and jugs gave the room a Victorian atmosphere that made Harry think of hansom cabs and mutton-chop whiskers. How unlike Clair's sophisticated luxury flat, he thought, and wondered how much she paid to live in a place like that.

  He had no idea a model made so much money. Thinking of her gold cigarette case and lighter he wondered if those were also gifts from satisfied advertisers. And a car! It just showed you, he thought, how little you know about what goes on in other businesses.

  Ron suddenly pushed the table away and got to his feet.

  "Done!" he exclaimed, running his fingers through his untidy hair. "Phew! I've been working like a dog all the afternoon. Well, that's that. I've had enough for tonight. I'll correct the blessed thing tomorrow."

  Ron Fisher was a tall, lanky, shock-headed fellow of about thirty-four or five. His face was long and thin, his eyes dark, his chin square and determined. People who met him for the first time jumped to the conclusion that he was irritable and unfriendly for he had a bitter, cynical tongue, and no patience with people who bored him.

  Harry and he had met at a demobilisation centre, and while waiting their turn, had struck up a conversation that had led them to joining forces as they came out of the centre, civilians again. Ron had a large room he was willing to share. He had taken a fancy to Harry as Harry had taken a fancy to him. Ron was anxious to economise, and suggested Harry might like to split the rent of the room and take over the spare bed. They had been together now for nearly four years.

  "Have you had supper?" Ron asked as he gathered up his papers.

  "You bet," Harry said, stretching out his legs a
nd grinning up at the ceiling. "Haven't you?"

  Ron looked up sharply and regarded Harry with a puzzled frown.

  "And why are you looking so damned smug? Fallen in love or something?"

  "What's that?" Harry demanded, sitting bolt upright and turning a fiery red. "Fallen in — what!"

  "Oh, my stars!" Ron exploded, staring at him. "Don't tell me that's what's happened? Come on; get it off your chest. It's a girl, isn't it?"

  "Well, in a way," Harry said, piqued that Ron should have arrived at the truth so quickly.

  Ron put the pile of papers on the table, picked the table up and carried it to a far corner. Then he went to a cupboard, opened it and surveyed the contents with a scowl of disgust.

  "The cupboard's practically bare," he said. "Well, I'm not going out so I'll have to make do with what's here." He carried a loaf, butter, cheese and a bottle of beer to the armchair opposite Harry's and sat down.

  "Sure you have eaten?" he asked, taking out his penknife and sawing off a hunk of bread.

  "Yes, thank you," Harry said a little stiffly. He thought Ron at least might have asked more particulars about the girl. "As a matter of fact I had a pretty good dinner." He stared up at the ceiling and waited hopefully, but as Ron didn't say anything, he went on, "chicken, lettuce, Camembert cheese with whisky to wash it down."

  "That's fine," Ron said with his mouth full. "Observe me, I'm eating oysters with a grilled dover sole to follow." He poured the beer into a tooth glass and drank half of it with a grimace. "Can't think what they put in this stuff. It gets worse every week."

  "I'm not joking," Harry said, thumping the arm of his chair. "I went to this girl's flat, and that's what she gave me."

  Ron frowned and put down the tumbler.

  "What are you babbling about? What girl?"

  "The girl I met," Harry said. "Her name's Clair Dolan. She has a flat near Long Acre."

  "Has she? Well, that's very nice and central for her. How did you meet her?"

  "I know it sounds a bit odd," Harry said, fumbling for his cigarettes, "but she really is a nice girl. She's lovely too. Honest: talk about glamour! She's just like a film star. I wish you could have seen her."

  Ron gave a low groan.

  "For goodness' sake!" he exclaimed. "Spare me the details. I asked you how you met her. That's all I want to know."

  Harry grinned and told him how he had gone to the Duke of Wellington, how Wingate had upset his drink, how he had been introduced to Clair. But he didn't tell him about the wallet. Even now the wallet worried him. He was quite sure that Clair was all right, but he did think she had been foolish to have taken it. He didn't want Ron to know about it. Ron was so cynical. He would probably have said the girl was a thief. So he left out the wallet and said after they had had a few drinks, Wingate had had to go off somewhere and Clair had invited him to her place for supper. Once he had got over the dangerous ground, he went into the fullest details, describing the flat and what Clair did for a living, how she looked, what she said and what he had said. It was nearly ten-thirty by the time he had finished.

  Ron had long ago finished his supper, and was smoking a pipe now, his legs stretched out before him, a thoughtful expression on his long, thin, face. He didn't interrupt Harry all the time he was talking, and Harry was so enthusiastic about Clair that he didn't notice how quiet Ron had become.

  "Well, that's that," he concluded, lighting yet another cigarette. "She said I could ring her up. Of course I'm going to. I'm going to see if I can take her out next week. She did say she was booked up, but there's no harm in trying."

  Ron sank lower in his chair and stared at Harry from over his knees.

  "I don't want to be a wet blanket, Harry," he said quietly, "but watch your step with this young woman. One can so easily come a cropper, especially when you're young and inexperienced. I know that sounds damned pompous, but it happens to be true. So be careful."

  Harry stared at him.

  "Be careful of what?"

  "Of her," Ron said, yawned, stretched and got to his feet. "Well, I'm going to turn in. I've got a long day before me tomorrow, and I can do with some sleep. How about it, Harry?"

  "I'm ready," Harry said, frowning. "Look, Ron, if you could see her, you'd know at once she was all right."

  "Really?" Ron said, as he began to undress. "I judge a girl by her actions, not by her looks. It seems a little odd that a girl who lives entirely on her own should invite a strange young man to supper with her after knowing him for only half an hour."

  "Now you're talking rot," Harry said heatedly. "She took me back to . . ." He broke off hastily, realising he couldn't tell Ron just why she had taken him back to her flat. "She was lonely," he went on a little lamely. "There was nothing wrong about it."

  Ron sat on the bed, kicked off his shoes and pulled off his socks.

  "I like you, Harry," he said, without looking up. "You're a nice, clean kid, and I like to think that's the way you'll always be. I don't want you to get mixed up with glamour girls: they always spell trouble sooner or later. I know. I thought I was being smart when I married Sheila. She was a glamour girl. Her idea of a good time was getting tight, dancing, going to the movies four times a week, and doing as little work as she could. She was cute and pretty, and I thought she would settle down, but she didn't. They never do." He pulled on his pyjamas and rolled into bed. "There are some girls, Harry, who are no good. They're no good to themselves, and they're no good to anyone else. Their values and outlook are all wrong. They want the fun without the responsibility, and that kind of outlook doesn't work. At least, it works for them, but not for the poor mug who marries them or goes around with them. Be careful of this girl. Make sure she isn't another Sheila. Maybe she isn't, but watch out."

  Harry pulled the bedclothes up to his chin and scowled up at the ceiling.

  "You're talking through your hat, Ron," he said. "Clair isn't like Sheila at all. I spent the whole evening with her, and it didn't cost roe a penny. You never spent an evening with Sheila without it costing you a packet, now did you?"

  "That's true," Ron said sadly. "Well, all right, let's see what happens; but watch your step."

  "The trouble with you is you're a damned cynic," Harry said. "You're always crabbing about women. Just because you had a thin time with Sheila you think every girl is the same. Well, they're not, thank goodness."

  "Ask her her views about marriage," Ron said. "That'll give you an indication of her character. From the start I mended my own socks, got the meals, washed up, did the housework while Sheila sat around and let me do it. Find out if your girl's keen on keeping a home or if she wants children when she's married. I'll bet a bob she doesn't want any of that. That type of girl never does, and the sad thing about it is the mug who goes around with her thinks it wouldn't be right for her to spoil her pretty hands or the shape of her pretty figure by having children. Anyway, ask her and see."

  "You talk as if I was going to marry her," Harry said, snapping off the light. He was thankful he hadn't told Ron about Clair's views on married life. "How could I marry a girl like her? She must earn ten times as much as I do."

  "I wonder," Ron said, out of the darkness. "I suppose I am over suspicious, but this yam about being a model sounds a little far-fetched to me. I can't see any firm giving a model such expensive gifts — not these days. An M.G. sports car runs into a good many hundreds. Doesn't that sound a bit steep to you?"

  It did sound odd to Harry, but he wouldn't have admitted it to save his life.

  "Oh, rot!" he said shortly. "How else do you think she got it?"

  "Even in these days of austerity there are still a few rich men left who set girls up in flats and give them expensive presents. There are also still a number of girls in the West End who sell themselves and make big money. That seems a far more likely explanation than the one she's given you."

  "Oh, I knew you were bound to say that sooner or later,"

  Harry said heatedly. "But you're absolutely wron
g. There's nothing like that about her at all."

  Ron sighed.

  "All right, Harry, I'm wrong. I hope I am. But watch out. Don't get in a mess, and if you do, don't be a mug and keep it to yourself. Maybe I could help."

  "I don't know what's the matter with you tonight," Harry said crossly, thumping his pillow.

  "You're making a cockeyed fuss about nothing. I'm going to sleep. Good-night."

  But he remained awake long after Ron had fallen asleep. His mind was in a whirl. He wished now he hadn't told Ron about Clair. He might have known Ron would have been sour about her. Ron was talking a lot of bosh. Clair wasn't like Sheila at all. She wasn't like anyone. She was marvellous; the most wonderful, the most attractive girl in the world. Of course, it was awkward she had so much money. If he was going to see her often — and he was determined he was — then he'd have to do something about getting more money himself. He had been working for Mooney now for three years. It was time he had a rise. He decided to ask Mooney for another ten shillings a week. But that, of course, wouldn't help him much if he was to take Clair out regularly. Ten shillings went nowhere these days. He would have to think of some other means of making money, unless he drew on capital. After all, if he couldn't manage, he could always draw a pound or two from the Post Office. With this thought to comfort him, he went to sleep.

  chapter six

  Alf Mooney had once overheard a girl say he reminded her of Adolph Menjou, and he had never forgotten it. Perhaps he was a little like Adolph Menjou. He had the same sad expression, the same heavy bags under his eyes, the same drooping moustache and the same pointed chin.

  Because of this resemblance, Mooney habitually wore a soft slouch hat at the back of his head, and a hand-painted American tie which he knotted loosely below the open V of his collar. He seldom wore a coat in the studio, and went around in his shirtsleeves; his waistcoat hanging open and held together by his watch chain. A dead cigar which he kept in the comer of his mouth, and which often made him feel sick, completed the American pose: a pose that fooled no one except Mooney himself.