1951 - But a Short Time to Live Read online

  For the past forty years, Mooney had struggled unsuccessfully to make his fortune. He had tried most things. He had been a bookmaker, a sailor, a door-to-door salesman, a taxi-driver, a space salesman and a manager of one of Woolworth's stores. He had made money and lost it, made it again and lost it again. One year he was up, and the next he was down. One week he was driving about in a second-hand American car, the next week he was travelling on buses. Things never went right for him for long. He was either in the money or out of it. There seemed no happy medium for Mooney.

  At the moment he was going downhill again. Three years ago he had won five hundred pounds from a football pool promotion, and had opened the Camera Studio in the hope that if someone else did the work, his luck might change. He employed three young fellows — of whom Harry was one — to take people's photographs in the streets, and a young girl, Doris Rogers, to develop and print the films and handle the customers. Mooney limited his own activities to lounging in the shop doorway, imagining he was giving the shop what he called "characterpar Somehow the business had held together for three years. This was a record for Mooney, but he could see the red light now, and he was already wondering what the next move was to be.

  So when Harry asked him for a ten-shilling rise, he just lounged back in his desk chair and laughed bitterly.

  "Have a heart, kid," he said, waving his dead cigar at Harry. "It just can't be done. Business is so lousy it won't be long before I put the shutters up. Look at that lot you brought in yesterday. How many suckers do you think'll come in and buy prints? Not a dozen! I'll tell you something, Harry. This racket's washed up. There are too many at it. Besides, money's tight People haven't got half a dollar to throw away on a photo."

  Harry liked Mooney. In all his dealings with him he had never known him to go back on his word or tell a lie. If he said business was bad and the shop likely to be shut down Harry knew he wasn't just saying it to avoid giving him a rise. The news dismayed him. if Mooney went out of business, Harry would lose his job and six pounds a week, and the thought alarmed him.

  "Then what will you do, Mr. Mooney?" he asked, sitting on the edge of the desk. "How much longer do you think you can carry on?"

  "The thing I like about you, Harry," Mooney said, "is you're unselfish. I can talk to you where I couldn't talk to those other jerks. All they think about is what's in it for them. Now look, kid, how about putting some money into this business? I've talked about it before; but if you want to save your job, now's the time to do something about it. You have a natural eye for a good photograph. You understand the finer points of the racket. If we could set up a portrait studio I'm pretty darned sure we'd hit the jack— pot. This street corner stuffs no use. It's a novelty people can do without. But a good portrait — that's another thing. We could clean up in a big way if only you'd get wise and come in with me. Now look, suppose I give you fifty per cent of the take and five per cent on your capital? How's that, kid? That's fair, isn't it? We could get rid of the other jerks. Doris could stay, but she'd have to take a cut in salary. We could get our overheads down to fifteen quid a week. You should clear that for yourself after a month or so. What do you say?"

  Harry shook his head.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Mooney, but I can't risk my money. It's all I have, and I'm sticking to it. This isn't the district to set up a portrait studio. It's a West End trade; not Soho."

  "That's where you're wrong," Mooney said. "Okay, I know I'm stuck with this lease, but even at that, these spicks around here have got money. They're as human as the rest of us, and they'll want a nice picture of themselves. We could break new ground if only you'd use your head."

  "I'm sorry," Harry repeated firmly, "but I'm not convinced."

  Mooney lifted his shoulders helplessly.

  "Well, all right, kid, it's your dough. But I'm warning you unless something crops up within the next month I'll have to make a change." He hoisted his feet on to the desk and tilted back his chair. "As a matter of fact I might do worse than go into the dyeing and cleaning racket. I know a guy who's looking for extra business in that line. I could use these premises as a clearinghouse and send the stuff to him to handle. But there wouldn't be anything in it for you. I'd have to run the place on my own."

  "That's the way it will have to be then, Mr. Mooney," Harry said, gloomily, "but perhaps it won't come to that."

  Leaving Mooney staring up at the ceiling in what he called his suicidal mood, Harry went into the darkroom to discuss the crisis with Doris Rogers.

  Doris was short and plump with a mass of frizzy black hair, a turned-up nose and a smile that made you her friend the moment you saw her. Harry knew little about her, for she never talked about herself.

  She was a tremendous worker, and Mooney imposed on her, paying her badly and shifting as much of his own work on to her plump young shoulders as he could. She never grumbled, never seemed to mind if she had to work late, and didn't appear to have any private life of her own.

  Harry liked her. She was the kind of girl you could be friendly with and confide in without any of the usual complications. He admired her quickness and skill, and her natural talent for spotting a good picture, and he always listened to her opinions with respect.

  As soon as she saw his gloomy expression she knew what the trouble was.

  “Has he been moaning again?" she asked, as she stirred a batch of prints in the hypo bath.

  "Worse than that. He says he's going to shut down next month if things don't get better."

  Doris sniffed scornfully.

  "Well, it's his own fault. He never does anything; never gets any new ideas." She transferred the prints to the washer. "What will you do, Harry?"

  "I don't know. I suppose I could try Quick-Fotos, but they may not want me. I don't know. I wish I did. What will you do?"

  Doris shrugged.

  "Oh, I'll find something," she said cheerfully, and paused in her work to smile at Harry.

  "Something always turns up. Why don't you tell him about that idea of yours — taking photos at night? We've talked about it for months and never done anything about it. Now's the time. I'm sure it would work. You might even screw some more money out of him if you try hard enough. After all, you'd have to work much longer hours."

  "I'd forgotten all about it," Harry said. "I'll have a word with him right away, Doris. If he falls for it I'll make him put me on a percentage basis."

  "That's right," Doris said. "Don't stand any nonsense from him."

  Mooney was still lolling in his chair, feeling sorry for himself, when Harry came in. He gave Harry a bleak look, and asked, "Now what's the trouble? Never have a minute's peace in this place. It's a wonder I'm not worn out."

  "I have an idea, Mr. Mooney, that might be worth trying," Harry said. "I've been thinking about it for some time. Why not switch from day to night photography? Let's give them something new. They might be more interested to have a picture of themselves at night; at least, it's a novelty."

  Mooney saw the possibilities at once, but as he hadn't thought of the idea himself he curbed his enthusiasm. Instead, he closed his eyes and looked gloomier than ever.

  "It's not a bad idea, of course," he said grudgingly, "but there are snags. For one thing you'll need a flashgun, and that costs money. Then there are flashbulbs, and they cost money too. The trouble is I haven't the money to spare."

  "I have a flashgun," Harry said. "I bought it years ago, and seldom use it, and I'll pay for the bulbs."

  Mooney opened his eyes and sat up.

  "What was that again?"

  Harry repeated what he had said.

  "That's fine," Mooney said, then suddenly looked suspicious. "Where's the catch?"

  Harry grinned at him.

  "I want a third of the profits, Mr. Mooney, as well as my salary. You see, it'd mean I'd be working much longer hours, and I'd be supplying the flashgun and bulbs, and it's my idea too. I wouldn't do it unless you gave me a third."

  "Have a heart, kid," Mooney prote
sted. "A third! Look, don't let's quarrel about this. We'll make it a quarter, and you pay for the bulbs. How's that?"

  "A third or nothing. I need the money. It's got to be a third or nothing."

  "Suppose I said nothing?" Mooney said craftily. Where would you be then?"

  "I'd take the idea to Quick-Fotos. They'd jump at it."

  Mooney nearly fell out of his chair.

  "Quick-Fotos?" he bellowed. "They're just a bunch of crooks. What's got into you, Harry? You wouldn't leave me for a cheap-jack firm like that, would you?"

  "There's nothing cheap-jack about them, Mr. Mooney," Harry said firmly. "They're doing first— class work. If you can't see your way to pay me a third, then I'll have to go to them. That's all there's to it."

  Mooney began to bluster, but seeing the determined look in Harry's eyes realised he wouldn't be persuaded, so reluctantly he gave way.

  "All right, kid, if that's how you feel about it. You can have a third. But who's turned you into a businessman? What do you want money for?"

  "Who doesn't want money?" Harry said, turning red.

  Mooney studied him for a moment, and then exclaimed: "Suffering cats! You're not thinking of getting married, are you? Is that why you want the money. Some dame, eh?"

  Harry edged towards the door.

  "We don't have to go into that, Mr. Mooney. I'll go home now and get the flashgun. May as well make a start tonight."

  "All right, kid. When you're through come along and tell me how you've got on. I'll stay here until ten-thirty. Don't be later than that'

  "All right," Harry said and made for the door, "Oh, Harry . . ." Mooney said. Harry paused in the doorway. "Yes, Mr. Mooney?"

  "What's she like, kid? Pretty, huh? Have you made her yet?" And Mooney closed one eye and leered.

  "I don't know what you're talking about," Harry said indignantly, and almost ran out of the office.

  Mooney tilted back his chair and began to sing in a loud, unmusical voice: "Love is the sweetest thing."

  chapter seven

  The night turned out to be moonlight and dry. There was a chilly wind blowing, but Harry didn't mind about that. The important thing was that it was dry. He had chosen Leicester Square for his work, and now, at ten o'clock with only three flashbulbs left, he knew the idea was a success.

  He had taken over fifty pictures, and was confident he wouldn't have more than five per cent failures. He had been careful to pick his subjects, and in every case he had had no trouble when he handed out his card. The novelty of the flashlight seemed to appeal to the crowd. Perhaps it was because so many film stars had been photographed in Leicester Square that the boys and girls Harry took imagined they had suddenly become celebrities overnight. Harry was sure that had something to do with it.

  "This'll please Mooney," Harry thought as he turned the film winder on and screwed in another flashbulb. "Two more, and then I'll pack up."

  In a few more minutes the crowds would be coming out of the cinemas, and there'd be no point in trying to get any more photographs with so many people about. And besides, Harry felt chilly. He had been standing against a lamppost opposite the Warner Cinema for the past two and a half hours. It was cold work, and he wouldn't be sorry to get home.

  He looked towards the London Hippodrome. There weren't many people about now. In the distance, coming from Long Acre, he caught sight of a man and woman. He watched them, holding the camera in readiness, and then as they passed under the bright lights of the Hippodrome, he recognised the girl: it was Clair!

  It was extraordinary how, at the sight of her, his blood seemed to rush through his veins, and his heart began to pound.

  For a second or so he hesitated, not sure whether he wanted her to see him or not. But what did it matter? he thought. She knows what I do, and what have I to be ashamed of? Besides, it would be a wonderful opportunity to have a photograph of her.

  They were only a few yards away now. She was walking by the man's side, her light coat slung over her shoulders, the empty sleeves flapping in the wind.

  Harry had scarcely time to notice the man, except he seemed tall and bulky. He swung up his camera. Clair appeared in the camera sight. She was looking right at him. He couldn't see her expression, but he had the impression from the sudden tilting of her chin and a slight falter in her stride that she was aware she was about to be photographed, then he pressed the combined shutter release and flashgun.

  He had a lightning glimpse of her face in the brilliant white flash. She was looking right at him; then, smiling, he offered her his card.

  She walked by him, looking sharply away, brushing past his hand and knocking the card out of his fingers. She went on, not looking back, as if she had never met him before; as if he was a complete stranger.

  He looked blankly after her.

  A hand touched his arm. He turned quickly to find the tall, bulky man at his side.

  Harry took an immediate dislike to the pink, fat face and the hard little eyes.

  "I don't think I like this," Brady said softly. "What exactly do you think you're doing?"

  Harry bent quickly, picked up the card and offered it to Brady.

  "Sorry if I startled you," he said, wondering who this fat spiv was. "You've just been photographed — you and the young lady. If you care to call tomorrow at that address, the prints will be ready. There's no obligation to buy."

  "How very interesting," Brady said, and showed his gold-capped teeth. "I have a mind to call a policeman. You hawkers are a damned pest. You shouldn't be allowed on the streets."

  Harry felt the blood rise in his face.

  "You needn't have the photograph if you don't want it," he said, trying to control the anger in his voice. "Most people like to be photographed."

  "But I'm not most people, my funny little man," Brady said, ignoring the fact that Harry was an inch or so taller than he. He tore up the card. "If you ever bother me again I'll give you in charge."

  Before Harry could think of a suitable retort, Brady had walked away, his black square-shouldered overcoat open and flapping in the wind, his hands in his trouser pockets, his homburg hat tilted rakishly over one eye. He disappeared up a side street, leading to Lisle Street, leaving Harry, hot and furious, staring after him.

  The incident spoilt Harry's evening. Why had Clair cut him like that? Perhaps she hadn't recognised him. Surely she wouldn't have walked past him without a word if she had recognised him?

  Who was this fat spiv who looked as if he was made of money and someone in the black market? Could he be one of Clair's advertising clients? Somehow Harry couldn't believe that.

  Angrily he wound off the film and put it in his pocket. Well, anyway he had a picture of Clair now.

  That was something.

  The crowds were beginning to pour out of the five cinemas around Leicester Square, and Harry decided to go to the studio and then get off home.

  He, too, turned up the side street, leading to Lisle Street, wondering if he would be lucky enough to catch sight of Clair again; but apart from a couple of middle-aged women standing at the corner who called out to him, Lisle Street was deserted. He continued up Wardour Street, turned down a narrow side street that would bring him to Old Compton Street.

  He had only walked a few yards down this dark little street when someone whistled softly behind him. He looked around, peering into the darkness.

  A squat, thickset man came quickly out of the darkness. As he passed under a dim street lamp, Harry saw he was hatless and had a mass of tow-coloured hair. He appeared to be wearing a black suit and a dark shirt. Except for the dim blur of white that was his face, the rest of him was almost as dark as the night.

  "Did you want me?" Harry asked, thinking probably he had lost his way and wanted to ask Harry where he was.

  The man came to a standstill a few feet from Harry. The light from the street lamp reflected on his extraordinary mop of hair, but the rest of his face was in shadows.

  "Were you the fella who was taki
ng photographs just now?" he asked. He had a faint lisp, and his voice was low-pitched and nasal.

  "Why, yes," Harry said, surprised. "Was there something . . . ?"

  He broke off as the man stepped closer, instinctively feeling that he was up to no good. A fist shot out of the darkness towards him and he ducked, twisting to one side, knowing with a sudden pang of fear that the blow was merely a feint to get him out of position. He tried desperately hard to jump clear, but he was already off balance, and he only succeeded in stumbling back and in his endeavour to regain his balance he slipped off the kerb and fell on one knee.

  Something hit him on the side of his head. A vivid streak of light blinded him, and then he seemed to be falling into thick, suffocating darkness.

  chapter eight

  Clair had recognised Harry. She had spotted him too late to steer Brady away from him, and her heart sank when Harry let off his flashgun. She knew Brady would be furious. She had walked past Harry, pretending she didn't recognise him because she was anxious Brady shouldn't know who he was.

  She had made up her mind that Brady was not going to get his hands on Harry's three hundred pounds, and somehow or other she was determined to keep them apart.

  She didn't look back when Brady stopped to speak to Harry. She knew if she showed any interest or annoyance Brady would immediately guess who Harry was, so she kept on, hating to walk away, uneasy and alarmed as to what Brady was saying.

  She walked up Lisle Street to the Tamiami Club, paused for a moment to look over her shoulder, and then climbed the stairs to the club. She wanted to go back to see what Brady was doing, but restrained herself. She hoped he wasn't being too beastly to Harry, and wondered how she should explain him away to Harry when next they met.

  The bar was deserted. The white-coated barman moved along the horseshoe shaped bar towards her and raised plucked eyebrows at her. His thin, white face was disinterested, and his eyes, under mascara-coated eyelashes, were jaded.