by (epub)
“Mr. Macpherson,” says Julian, “fifty pounds is a lot. And besides it shouldn’t be oak, or last long. It should be strong, but not too strong.”
“What does your brother weigh?” asks Macpherson. “Ten, twelve stone? Because I understand you don’t want him to break through, because that’s an awful mess,” he says, laughing. “And quite apart from that, he might run away and do some more damage. But hell—what do you care? They’ll catch you one day or another, anyway. They’ll lock you up—so what do you care? I wouldn’t spend a penny on your brother. He’s a perfect nuisance. Forty-nine pounds, seventeen shillings, and threepence halfpenny, on second thoughts. We’re not expensive, and we want to please our customers—but remember! cash on delivery.”
“Mr. Macpherson,” says Julian, “you’re talking a lot, and——”
But Macpherson interrupts him. “I’m knowing a lot. Anybody who comes to a firm that really doesn’t exist any more . . . True, we’ve been established since 1810—but to-day is March 15th, 1934. That’s a bit long, sir. Must expect something unexpected. I mean, Macphersons are always in the know.”
“Never mind,” says Julian, “it’s all rubbish.”
“All right,” says Macpherson, “just as you wish.” And his voice changing considerably: “Of course, we hire out vans any time of the day or night—six shillings an hour, petrol and oil paid by the customer. No extras. If you want the box to-morrow there’s an extra charge of ten per cent.” And handing Julian a pen: “Name and address, please.”
Splendid little private office. There are probably several typewriters working in the adjoining room, but only now and then one hears that certain click, which indicates that a certain line in a certain letter or contract has come to a sound end. It’s like a bicycle bell.
But in here there is only one huge desk. Maple. Beautifully finished. A few leather chairs; two telephones; two boxes with cigars; and a very modern desk lamp.
The man at the desk smokes a cigar, looks at the sheet of paper before him, looks up, picks up the telephone receiver, presses a button. “Any news from Mr. Spencer?” And after a pause: “I thought so.”
Now a piano is suddenly heard, and the tune is rather beautiful, obviously written for a jazz band.
The Boss presses the buzzer. A good-looking secretary appears. “Sit down,” says the Boss. “Let’s write another letter to Julian Spencer.” He gets up, and walks up and down while he dictates the following:
“Dear Mr. Spencer,—I am very surprised not to have had an answer to our two letters to you of the 11th and 14th insts. concerning the two following matters:
“(a) The contract submitted by the D.B.C. for two concerts, the first to be on April 3rd, the second on April 18th, to be conducted by you, and at which one of your works will be played.
“(b) The series of concerts at the following towns: Manchester, Glasgow, Liverpool, Edinburgh, and Newcastle. . . .”
There’s a knock at the door, and a familiar face—it is the little face of Mr. Schafitz—peeps in. “Are you busy, Rawlings? I only want to see you for a minute.”
“Glad you came,” says Mr. Rawlings. And to his secretary: “You know what to write, Miss Philips, and don’t forget to remind him he hasn’t acknowledged the two cheques—one for—what was it?”
Whereupon Miss Philips, the living robot, sweet, pretty, and so efficient, says: “One for forty-nine pounds, seventeen shillings and sixpence, and the other for a hundred and ten pounds, ten shillings, and sixpence.”
“That’s right,” says Rawlings, and turning to Schafitz, whose eyes are all mixed up in Miss Philips’s bosom, thigh, leg, and ankle. “You know he doesn’t even bother to acknowledge the receipt of money. You know Spencer?”
Whereupon Schafitz grins knowingly. “Don’t I, don’t I!” And with a mocking gesture: “Genius! But—in practical things . . .”
“Thank you, that’s all,” says Rawlings to Miss Philips, and as she goes out, Schafitz remarks: “Bit of all right you’ve got there.” Smacking his lips.
And Rawlings, “Let’s talk business. Sir Desmond has just . . .”
The two men come up the stairs, and they stop at the first landing. “It’s rather dark,” says the man with the bowler.
“Oh,” says the house-agent, Mr. Morris, from the firm Morris, Green, Beetle, and Higginson, Estate Agents, Valuers, and Surveyors, 37 Little Panton Street. “Oh,” says Mr. Morris, “that’s nothing. There are some lights, but these people didn’t care much for light and cleanliness.”
“Oh, quite,” says the man with the bowler.
“That, of course, will all be put in order by the former tenant. Mr. Spencer wants to get rid of it as quickly as possible, and he told me he doesn’t mind——”
The prospective tenant interrupts him: “Now, how many rooms? This is the first floor, I take it. You have the keys, haven’t you?”
“Right,” says Morris, “but I think there’s somebody in.” And he knocks at the door.
Julian, standing in his shirt sleeves before a few open boxes, ties, shirts, handkerchiefs, and socks all over the place:
“Come in! Who is it?”
The door is opened. “You don’t mind, Mr. Spencer?” asks Morris. “The gentleman only wants to see——”
“Oh, Mr. Julian Spencer,” says the customer, taking his bowler hat off gracefully, “it’s a great pleasure to meet you. My wife and I always go to the D.B.C. concerts.” And quite concerned: “I’m sorry to come at such an inconvenient time.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” says Julian, “that’s all right.”
Mr. Morris, who doesn’t want to lose any time, says quickly: “Now this is the living-room. Of course, it will all look different when it’s painted and the floor done up. Now here’s a bedroom—it’s not too small for two people. You don’t want to look at the kitchen?”
“Oh,” says the man with the bowler, “yes, that’s just what interests me.” And turning to Julian, who hasn’t paid any attention to the conversation, and is still very busy packing: “You know, Mr. Spencer, cooking is a hobby of mine, and besides, I’m always interested to know how great people live. What they eat, where they sleep. But,” he says, raising his finger, “I’m never interested in personal matters. Married, unmarried, children, no children—huh! that leaves me cold. But what they eat—ah, that’s different. And”—peeping into the kitchen—“you like kidneys—I can smell them. And”—sniffing again—“liver. And what delicious tripe!”
The agent wants to get on with the job, so he says: “Now let’s go upstairs. Although there isn’t much to see.”
“Ah?” says the customer, “nothing to see? I am surprised. Musicians and poets usually keep all the things dear to their hearts somewhere up in the attic. Don’t want to get rid of them—don’t I know it? Usually they live up there——”
“It’s cheaper, too,” says the agent, rather annoyed.
“Let’s go and see,” says the man, rubbing his hands. And benevolently: “You don’t mind, Mr. Spencer?”
“No, of course not,” says Julian.
They both disappear through the open door. Julian suddenly looks up, realises what they’re doing. “Stop!” he shouts, and he runs after them, shouting: “Wait! Don’t go up there! There’s nothing up there. It’s all locked.”
But the estate agent is quite determined to show the gentleman round the attic. “Don’t get excited, Mr. Spencer,” he says, very annoyed. “I have a key—you needn’t bother about yours. To every door there is a key, and I”—laughing—“happen to have one which unlocks every door.” And quite mysteriously: “It’s a master key! Quite unique,” he adds quietly.
“Now,” says the client, who sees that Julian is terribly excited, “if Mr. Spencer doesn’t want to let us look around in his inner sanctum—oh, I quite understand. Let’s go down again.”
Julian is relieved. “Thank you,” he says. “You know—it’s all upside down. If you come to-morrow afternoon again it’ll be all cleared out. I have two m
en coming. . . .”
“To remove the corpse?” asks the agent, smiling.
“Ha-ha!” laughs Julian.
And the future tenant: “He’s quite right. In these houses down here one hears of queer things happening. Ugh! I get the creeps only to think of them.” And to Julian confidingly: “I have very bad nerves. It’s the War and the wind. Which remind me—I think I know a friend of yours, Mr. Spencer, intimately. He told me a lot about you—you know Mr. Catfish, don’t you? And, fancy, we have the same tailor—I can’t think of his name—it’s something. Oh, I have it—Plumridge—Jonathan Plumridge—that’s right. Sixty Shilling Tailors.”
“I don’t know either of them,” says Julian, with forced indifference.
“Fancy—that you shouldn’t—remember—me. Of course, I had a different face then. Excuse me,” he says, reaching into his pocket, and turning his back to Julian, and slowly, word by word: “That—will—remind—you—easily—comfortably—so . . .” And when he turns round—of course, it’s Jonathan Plumridge, cigarette in his mouth, bowler hat, and let’s hope he won’t start his little song as he used to. You remember, don’t you?
“Never lie,” says Plumridge. “Never lie. It doesn’t do any good. Much better to admit everything. I just dropped in to see how you’re getting along. And don’t you let him escape you. Clear out as quickly as possible. But don’t ever lie. Not to me. After all, I am your friend.”
Whereupon Mr. Morris, from Morris, Green, Beetle, and Higginson, starts singing: “The Sixty Shilling Tailors never let you down. The Sixty Shilling Tailors . . .”
“Shut up!” says Plumridge, and to Julian: “I’m glad, Mr. Spencer, that you are moving. I like the house, and you really never felt very well in it. We shouldn’t annoy Mr. Spencer any more. No thank you, I don’t want to see the attic. I can imagine what it looks like.” And to Julian: “It’s an ordinary attic, Mr. Spencer, isn’t it? Let’s go, Mr. Morris, I shall take it.” And to Julian: “You certainly don’t take care of yourself, Mr. Spencer. You look pale. I would see a doctor and take a holiday. A good, long holiday.”
“Quite,” says Julian, still shivering. “Close the door,” he says, “when you leave. Bang it! Do you hear me? Bang it!”
And the voice of the Estate Agent, who is already downstairs: “Certainly, Mr. Spencer.”
Believe it or not, he wears a top-hat and a fur coat, and the sleeves are too short. And grey spats, light grey spats, and a cane. And he walks slowly—very self-assured—and smiling, arm in arm with Viva to—that’s right—to a registry office. A few passers-by look at him, quite startled, because it’s strange that a man of Sullivan Kraut’s build and appearance should be dressed like this, if he doesn’t have to do it.
Viva is rather humble, and very quiet, as she was never married before. But it doesn’t matter, Kraut will do everything, you may rest assured.
At the stairs of the registry office he stops, takes his hat off, wipes his forehead heavily, and, turning to Viva with an intense look: “My darling—you’ve thought it all out? You know, this is a definite step.” And quite sentimental: “I don’t want to press the point too much, but it’s for life.”
And she, almost in tears: “Sully, I have——” sniff—whereupon Sully is overcome by emotion, too, and he sniffs himself, but three tones louder, and more major.
“Good,” he says, blowing his nose. “Now let’s go and do it thoroughly. Come on, my darling.”
And they disappear up the stairs.
Two little boys watch the scene as they play Tip-and-run this lovely, almost spring-like morning. They giggle stupidly. “Not ’arf a toff!”
“He’ll be up her way to-night!” sings the other one lewdly, wiping his nose on the back of his dirty hand.
“. . . and last thing at night I have a double brandy and a piece of Stilton. Believe me, Herbert, it does wonders. . . .”
“Does it really? Ha-ha! That last thing you told me to take . . . hmm . . . it certainly did the trick!” And the two colonels disappear down the street.
Sunshine, chimes, twelve o’clock, and the pubs will be open in a minute or so. Roast joints will be cut, and thousands of families will have brussels sprouts and roast potatoes—plus the joint, of course, as usual. All over London. All over England. Some traitor might secretly indulge in cold lobster, but this is of no consequence whatsoever.
The staircase leading to Spencer’s drawing-room, dark and sinister as ever. . . . Silence. Suddenly the door is opened and closed again. Four men—brothers, to judge from the similarity of their faces and features—are coming up the stairs. In black. Dimly shining top-hats. Mufflers, black gloves. Carrying a coffin on their shoulders. No, it’s not a coffin, but it looks like it. It’s Macpherson’s box. Six foot by one and a half. The price: forty-nine pounds, seventeen shillings, and threepence halfpenny. The first man on the right counts like a conductor or the leader of a quartet: “One, two, three!” And the four men burst into:
“Spring has come overnight,
Lovely spring has come. . . .”
“But it’s still bloody cold,” quickly remarks the one on the right, in a very prosaic, dusty, common voice.
“Soft the ground will soon become.”
“But the pipes are still frozen.” That voice again.
“Dig a hole nice and deep,
Lay the body down to sleep.”
“But let it rot.”
And in loud unison:
“But we don’t care and we won’t weep!
Allelu . . . ia!
But the voice doesn’t give up: “Cash on Delivery.”
“Ha! Ha! Ha!”
And they all burst into mirthless, gigantic laughter. But stop at once when they see Julian, Mr. Julian Spencer, who has been watching the scene, leaning against the door of the living-room. He doesn’t seem to feel very well, because he is swaying, and everything he sees is in a haze.
“The box you ordered,” says the burly-looking man in shirt-sleeves. “Come on, boys, let’s put it down——” And, wiping perspiration from his forehead: “It’s certainly heavy, sir.” Taking out of his pocket a bill: “Here’s the bill.”
And Julian reaches into his pocket and gives him quite a lot of crumpled up notes.
The man counts them, licking his finger first. “That’s right,” he says, but Julian is gone, just disappeared into the living-room. The man looks at his mates, shakes his head. It’s all too much, and very strange, but anyway, there’s an extra pound tip, so they all shrug their shoulders and smile, and go down the stairs.
Silence. And the staircase.
First a few chords. Then the beginning of a beautiful melody. And then silence again. And Julian without his coat comes out of the living-room, stands on the landing, looks down towards the entrance door. Good. The men are gone. And quickly he rushes upstairs, opens the door to the attic.
The voice of the Brother: “At last, Julian! Brother Julian!”
And a sharp: “Get back,” from Julian.
Julian settles down comfortably in a chair, and he doesn’t seem as nervous as usual, up in the attic. Quite comfortable, and at ease, he seems to be at the moment.
“Yes,” he says, “we thought it all out, and as Mother wants to see you, as I told you last night . . . you see, she can’t come back . . . she doesn’t feel well . . . the stairs . . . and so I thought I’d take you out to her . . . to stay with her . . . stay with Mother. It’s quite a long journey, and Mother doesn’t want anybody to see you, so I thought . . .”—laughingly—“ha-ha! the best thing to do—put you in a box! I shall put some holes in this box, so that you can breathe, so that the . . . water——”
And the Brother quickly—this beast has been listening attentively: “Water?”
“Who said water? Air, so that you can breathe. It’s a long journey.”
And the Brother, thinking: “Box . . . holes . . . so that I can breathe.”
“What’s the matter with you?” says Julian. “It’s all very
simple, isn’t it?”
“And when do we start?” asks the Brother.
“To-morrow.”
“I’m so happy, Brother Julian!”
And Spencer: “You should be, you should be very happy. Just think—Mother—to get away from here . . .”
And the Brother, very much concerned: “You’ll go . . . with us?”
“Of course I shall,” says Julian.
“You are so good to me, Brother Julian. Because, lately, I have been feeling so queer. It’s the warmth.” And, after a pause: “And Viva is going with us, isn’t she?”
“What!” exclaims Julian. “Viva going? No, no! She isn’t going with us!”
“Oh, she must,” says the Brother. “I wouldn’t like to miss her voice, Brother Julian, and I’ve never even seen her. And that’s why she must come with us, so that she will be near us always. Quite near.”
Julian jumps up from the chair. “Stop it! What do you know about her? You’ve never seen her. Why always this ‘Viva, Viva’?”
And the Brother, very naïvely: “Don’t be angry, my Brother, Brother Julian. It’s just that I can’t sleep any more, as I think, dream, think all the time of her—of Viva.” And happy and confident as a child: “And I know you will show her to me. And she will stroke me with her hands, slowly, over my head, and over my body”—and ecstatically—“all over, with her beautiful hands. . . .”
“Stop it!” shouts Julian. “Do you hear me? Stop it!”
But the Brother doesn’t pay any attention and on he goes: “With her beautiful hands, and they are so different from Mother’s hands. Soft and white. Shimmering. Her lovely skin. . . . Oh, Julian. . . .”
“Stop it! Shut up! I shall hit you—stab you with a knife!”
And the Brother: “I shall feel her near me, quite close to me. . . .”
“Stop it!”
“All over me, and I shall move. . . .”
“For God’s sake, shut up!” and again, shouting, “Shut up!”
“I’m your Brother, and I’m just like you, Brother Julian . . . you see?” And the animal turns round, rolling over on his back.