1951 - But a Short Time to Live Read online

  Harry said he was, and followed the inspector from the room.

  Although it was after two o'clock, Mrs. Westerham lurked in the front room. She popped out as soon as she heard footsteps, and turned pale when she saw Harry coming down the stairs with the inspector.

  "He's not taking you away?" she gasped, clutching Harry's arm.

  "It's all right," Harry said. "Ron's met with an accident. I'm just helping the police. I'll tell you about it when I get bade."

  He shook his arm free, forced a smile and hurriedly followed the inspector out of the house.

  "I believe she thought you were arresting me," he said as he climbed into the car and sat beside Parkins.

  Parkins grunted, and told the uniformed driver to go to Athens Street and to be quick about it. It was surprising how quickly they got there. The roads were practically deserted, although as they rushed along Piccadilly there were still a few street prowlers to be seen, and looking out of the window, Parkins snorted at the sight of them.

  "Those are the fellows who give us so much trouble," he said. "They hang about the West End looking for a girl, and when they find one and she picks their pockets, they come squealing to us. If they'd only keep out of the West End they wouldn't lose their money — the damned fools!"

  And suddenly Harry felt a cold prickle run up his spine. He remembered Sam Wingate. He had picked up Clair and had lost his wallet! Could Clair . . . but that was impossible! His mind jumped to Brady and to the tow-headed chap. Ron had been after information about the gang, and had been silenced by the tow-headed chap. He suddenly wanted to be sick. Was Clair tied up with this gang? She had passed the wallet to him. He remembered Ron had said that was their method. He refused to believe it, pushing it out of his mind. It was a coincidence. It must be! But he would have to warn her. She must never give way to such a dangerous, stupid impulse again. She might have been hauled to Vine Street. The car slid to a standstill in Dean Street and Parkins got out.

  "We'll walk the rest of the way. It's down here. Now keep your eyes open. There are about a dozen crates here. See if you can recognise the name."

  Athens Street was a narrow, dimly lit thoroughfare, lined on either side with shops, cafes and public houses. One or two loafers stood under the street lamps, but at the sight of Parkins's burly form they melted into the darkness.

  Harry walked down the street, peering at the darkened shop facias. He noticed at the far end of the street a big American car standing outside a building. As they approached he saw a sign hanging over the door, and he caught hold of Parkins's arm.

  "That's it!" he said excitedly. "The Red Circle cafe. I remember now."

  "Sure?"

  "Positive."

  "All right. Now you hop back to the car and wait for me. I'm going inside."

  "Can't I go with you?"

  "Not with that scar you can't," Parkins said shortly. "You keep out of sight. That'd properly give the game away."

  Harry stood on the edge of the kerb and watched Parkins walk towards the cafe, wanting to follow him, but realising what Parkins had said made sense.

  As the inspector drew near the cafe, the door suddenly opened and four girls came tumbling out.

  The quiet of the night was disturbed by their loud laughter and high-pitched voices.

  One of them, a dark girl in a fur coat, was screaming with laughter, and staggered slightly as she moved across the pavement, hanging on to another girl's arm. The four of them behaved as if they were drunk. They went laughing and pushing each other towards the car.

  A man got out of the car and opened the rear door. Harry recognised him at once — Robert Brady!

  Even in the dim light of the distant street lamp, Harry was sure he was Brady. The arrogant air, the tilt of the homburg hat and the big, powerful shoulders were unmistakable. With a sudden sinking heart, Harry looked again at the girl in the fur coat. It was Clair.

  Brady had taken hold of Clair's arm and had given her a rough little shake. She fell against him, still laughing, while the other girls bundled into the car.

  Parkins had slowed down and was watching the scene. Brady seemed aware of him. He said something to Clair, and her high-pitched laugh suddenly stopped. She looked over her shoulder at Parkins, and then hurriedly scrambled into the car.

  Brady followed her, and slammed the car door. The engine roared and the car moved swiftly away.

  chapter fourteen

  The next morning Harry was late at the studio. He found Mooney sitting at his desk in the front room laboriously going through the accounts.

  "Hey!" Mooney said, looking up. "What's the idea? You're late. Just because you're a partner . . ."

  He broke off, seeing Harry's pale, worried face. "What's up, kid?"

  "It's Ron. He had an accident last night," and Harry told Mooney what had happened.

  Mooney liked Ron who had often called in when he was in Soho for a chat, and he was shocked at the news.

  "Have you had a word with the hospital?"

  Harry nodded.

  "I rang them on my way here. There's no news. He's still on the danger list, and they don't expect him to regain consciousness for a week or so," he said, sitting on the edge of the desk. He fingered the scar across his forehead, frowning. "It's an awful thing. Poor old Ron. Inspector Parkins thinks it's something to do with this pickpocket gang."

  "You keep clear of it, Harry," Mooney said, pulling at his moustache. "You don't want another bang on the head."

  "I must see Mrs. Fisher. I'm on my way now, but thought I'd drop off and tell you the news. Look, here's the sketch plan of the studio. Would you get an electrician to put the plugs where I've marked them on the plan? The chap next door will do it. I may not be able to get back here until after lunch."

  "You're not going to neglect the business?" Mooney asked, alarmed. "I'm relying on you, Harry. I've always been a damned Jonah, and if you're going to leave it to me —"

  "I must see Ron's wife. But I'll be here after lunch. I'd better get off now."

  Mooney looked searchingly at him.

  "Is there anything else on your mind, kid?"

  “This is enough, isn't it?" Harry said shortly. "You'll probably be busy this morning. Those night cards will be coming in. You'll have to explain the roll was destroyed or something. See if you can book anyone for a portrait when they do come in. The electrician should be through by tomorrow. You can make appointments for Thursday. I'll be ready then."

  Leaving Mooney to look after the studio, Harry caught a bus to Charing Cross, and took a ticket at the Underground station for Walham Green. He had found Sheila's address in a notebook of Ron's. In the notebook was a record of payments Ron had been making his wife. He had been paying her six pounds a week. Harry wondered how she would manage now this source of income had dried up. He was pretty certain that Ron hadn't saved any money.

  During the journey, his mind darted from Ron to Sheila, from the studio to Clair. He was afraid to think too much about Clair. What he had seen the previous night had shocked him. What in the world had Clair been doing with those three other girls and Brady at that time of night?

  Parkins had seen her, although he had said nothing to Harry about her. Parkins hadn't discovered anything at the cafe. The owner and the waiters declared they knew nothing about a man with tow-coloured hair, nor did they remember seeing Ron Fisher there.

  Harry was still worrying about Clair when he arrived at Sheila's house in a side street near Walham Green station. It was a dark, grey stone house, with dirty, untidy lace curtains at the windows.

  As Harry mounted the steps, he was aware that he was being inspected by a sharp-featured woman who was shaking a doormat from the next door porch.

  "You'll have to ring 'arder than that," she said scornfully as Harry pressed the bell. "She don't get up 'til 'eaven knows when."

  Harry muttered his thanks, and rang again.

  After nearly a five minutes' wait, and having rung two or three times, the front door sudd
enly jerked open, and a girl in a soiled pink dressing gown stood glaring at him.

  "I'm sorry to disturb you," Harry said, feeling hot and embarrassed. "Are you Mrs. Fisher?"

  "What if I am?" the girl demanded in a shrill, hard voice. "What a time to call! You got me out of bed!"

  "I'm very sorry," Harry said. "I'm Harry Ricks, Ron's friend."

  "Oh!" The hard little face with its painted eyebrows and smeared lipstick broke into a smile, and when she smiled she looked much younger and prettier, and Harry could understand why Ron had fallen in love with her. I've heard about you. You'd better come in."

  He followed her down a passage into a back room.

  "It's in a mess, but I don't suppose you care," she said, going over to an armchair and sitting down.

  She yawned, and ran her fingers through her ruffled, blonde hair.

  The room was in a mess. There were saucers full of cigarette butts and ash dotted all over the room.

  Dirty glasses, a couple of empty bottles of gin and a half-empty bottle of whisky stood on the table. Silk stockings and underwear lay scattered over the floor. A dirty suspender belt was under the table. Dust lay over everything, and the empty fireplace was choked with a fall of soot. On the floor by a gramophone was a pile of records, some of them broken.

  "Had a party last night," she explained, rubbing her eyes. "I feel like death this morning."

  Harry looked around the room for a chair to sit in, but the only other armchair was so smothered with cigarette ash he decided to stand.

  "I'm afraid I have bad news for you," he said, hoping the disgust he felt for her didn't show on his face.

  "Oh?" She looked sharply at him. "What?"

  "Ron's met with an accident."

  The doll-like face hardened.

  "You mean — he's dead?"

  Harry was shocked to see no sign of consternation on the hard little face, only a look of inquiry and suspicion.

  "No, he's not dead," he said quietly, "but he is very bad. It may be weeks before he even regains consciousness."

  "Oh." She got up and poured a stiff whisky into a dirty glass. "Have some?" she asked, glancing at him.

  "No, thank you."

  "Was he run over or something?"

  "No. Someone hit him over the head with a bicycle chain."

  She drank some of the whisky, gave a sudden giggle, and spluttered over her drink.

  "That's rich! He was so respectable too. What did they do that for?"

  "I don't know," Harry said, suddenly furious with her. "Does it matter to you?"

  She looked at him, surprised, pouted and sat down again.

  "I suppose not. What's going to happen to my money?"

  "I don't know, and I don't care," Harry said. "He's in Charing Cross hospital if you want to see him, but it's no good going for several weeks yet."

  "Oh, I don't want to see him," she said, shrugging. "It's all very well for you to say you don't care about my money, but something's got to be done. I can't live on air. When do you think he'll start work again?"

  "Not for a long time," Harry said. "He's very ill. I don't want to frighten you, but he may die."

  She grimaced.

  "Oh, hell! That's just like Ron. You needn't look so shocked. It isn't as if we meant anything to each other. We've been separated for four years now — thank God! Only the money did come in handy."

  She slipped her hand inside her dressing gown to scratch. "Oh, well, I dare say I'll manage. If he pops off it'll let me out of a hole. I want to get married again."

  Harry stared at her, disgusted.

  "I should have thought you would have had a little feeling for him. After all he is your husband."

  She gaped at him as if she couldn't believe her ears, then burst out laughing.

  "That's rich! Why, he means no more to me than you do. What's he ever done for me?" Then a shrewd, calculating expression came into her eyes, and she smiled at Harry. "I tell you what," she said, "I'm damned hard up at the moment. I don't suppose you could lend me a fiver?"

  Harry felt the colour rush to his face.

  "I'm afraid I can't," he said. "I'm hard up myself."

  She got out of the chair and sidled over to him.

  "Well, a couple of quid then. I wouldn't mind giving you a good time. I like you. Come on, be a sport. I'm a sport too. Let's go into the other room and have fun."

  Harry backed away, feeling sick.

  "I'm sorry . . ."

  She stared at him.

  "Don't be a fool," she said. "Ron won't know. Make it a quid, then."

  She was between him and the door, but pushing her roughly aside Harry crossed the room and jerked the door open.

  "I'm sorry," he repeated.

  "Then tell him to hurry up and get well," she said angrily. "If he doesn't send me some money soon I'll take him to court. He can't walk out and leave me without a thing. You tell him that. I'll give him a month, and if he hasn't sent me anything by then I'll give him something to think about."

  Harry was so disgusted and angry that he wait out of the room without a word. As he reached the front door, she shouted after him, "And don't give yourself airs, you little twerp. You're nobody from the look of you. Just like all his wet friends . . ."

  He hastily shut the door behind him and ran down the steps into the street.

  "What a ghastly woman!" he thought as he walked quickly towards the Underground station. No wonder poor Ron had been so bitter about women. He wouldn't have believed such women existed.

  He paused outside a telephone box, hesitated, then entered and dialled Clair's number.

  There was a long pause as the bell rang, and just when he had decided she was out, he heard a click on the line and Clair's voice.

  "Hallo? Who is it?"

  There was a sharp note in her voice that startled him.

  "This is Harry."

  A pause, then she said, "Oh, hallo, Harry. Darling, you woke me up."

  "Did I?" Harry looked at his wrist watch. It was nearly noon. "Well, I'm sorry. I thought you would be up by now."

  He heard her yawn, and for a moment the vision of Sheila's crumpled, painted face came to his mind.

  "I went to a party last night," she said. "It was hectic. I have a hangover you could lean against."

  "I'm sorry. Will it be all right if I come tonight? Will you be feeling like it?"

  "Of course, darling. I'll be fine then. Come about eight."

  "Yes." A sudden feeling of tenderness came over him. "It seems ages since I've seen you, Clair —"

  "I know. Well, come and see me at eight. I'm going back to sleep now." She yawned again. "I feel ghastly. Good-bye, darling," and the line went dead.

  Harry came out into the sunshine and stood thinking. He was suddenly depressed. Every time his mind dwelt on Clair he saw, instead of her, the yawning, untidy, blowsy Sheila.

  He gave a grimace of disgust and wait down the steps to the trains.

  chapter fifteen

  But there was nothing about Clair to remind Harry of Sheila when she opened the front door of her flat that night. She was very spruce and wide awake, and looked attractive in a pair of black slacks and magenta coloured sweater.

  "Hallo, darling," she said, taking his arm and leading him into the big luxurious room which was as neat and clean as Sheila's room had been untidy and dirty. "Oh, what a long time it seems since Sunday, doesn't it?" She slipped her arms round his neck and kissed him, her lips soft and yielding against his.

  “Have you missed me?"

  Harry held her to him.

  "Yes, I missed you," he said, thinking how beautiful she was. "I've thought so much about you. Sunday was the most wonderful day I've ever known."

  She smiled up at him.

  "Well, I don't have to go out tonight. So you can stay as long as you like. If you want to you can stay the night.”

  Harry immediately forgot about Ron, Inspector Parkins and the Red Circle cafe, and when she pushed him into an ar
mchair and sat on his lap, her face against his, nothing mattered except his hunger for her.

  But later, when she was preparing supper, he came to the kitchen door, ready to talk to her. Before he could begin, she looked at him, smiling, and said, "Oh, Harry, I have something for you. I clean forgot about it. It's over there in that drawer. No, not that one . . . that one."

  He opened the drawer and found a small parcel done up in tissue paper.

  "Is this for me? What is it?"

  "Open it and see."

  He unwrapped the paper and inside found three neckties. He had never seen such ties: ties that must have cost the earth, he thought, startled.

  "Why, Clair! You can't mean these for me?"

  "Of course they're for you. Like them?"

  "They're marvellous. But, Clair, they must have cost an awful lot of money. I don't know if I should accept them."

  "Don't be silly." She came over to him and stood by his side. They didn't cost me anything. I used to work for the makers, and I thought you could use a few decent ties so I wrote to them and asked them to send me some samples. They sent these. Are you sure you like them? I know how fussy men are about ties."

  "Do you mean firms give their stuff away like this?" Harry asked, bewildered.

  "Well, not all of them, of course. A lot of them do, especially if the advertising manager has an eye for a pretty girl."

  "Oh, that's how it's done, is it?" Harry said. "Anyway, I think they're marvellous, and I can't thank you enough. I'm going to put one on right away."

  They spent some minutes choosing the one he was to wear, then when he had adjusted the knot in the mirror, he turned for her approval.

  "You do look smart," she said. "You know, Harry, you're quite good looking. I'd like to give you a suit. I think I could get you one from another firm I've worked for. Would you like me to try?"

  "A suit?" Harry said blankly. "It's nice of you, Clair, but I couldn't accept a suit from you." He moved uneasily, shifting from one foot to the other. "It's time I gave you something. Up to now you've done all the giving."