"What did you say your name was?" she asked.
"Harry Ricks. What's yours?"
She frowned at that, not sure if she wanted him to know her name, then said distantly, "I don't really know if it's your business, but if you must know it's Clair Dolan."
"I knew it would be something like that," Harry said, determined not to lose an opportunity to soften her towards him. "I once made a study of names. Did you know Clair means bright and illustrious?"
She looked sharply at him.
"Who do you think you're kidding?"
"But I'm not I have the book at home. I'll lend it to you if you like."
"Well, I don't like," she said shortly.
There was a pause, then he asked, "Do you come here often?"
She said, no, she didn't. In fact she had only once been here and that was during the last big blitz on London. So they began to talk about the blitz, and Harry told her he had been an Air Raid Warden before he went into the Army and had been in charge of a shelter not three hundred yards from where they were sitting. That was one of the reasons why he came to the Duke of Wellington. Every night during the blitz he and a fellow warden used to have a beer here before beginning their night's duty.
"Gets you into the habit," Harry said, pleased to see she was showing interest in what he was saying. "It's a friendly place, and it has memories." He looked at her admiringly. "What did you do in the war?"
"Oh, nothing," she said, shrugging her shoulders, and remembered how she used to gad about the West End with American officers and drink their whisky and dance with them and struggle with them in taxis, and she giggled. "A girl can't do anything very important, can she? Besides, I was too young."
Harry had known some girls who had done a great deal more than he had, and they had been young too. He had known a girl who dropped into France, and had been caught by the Gestapo and shot. But it was unthinkable, of course, that a girl like Clair should be mixed up in looking after people in shelters or to be bossed around in the WRAF or the WRAC or spoil her hands working in a factory. Some girls could do that sort of thing, but not Clair. Harry saw that all right.
Then suddenly a discordant note sounded. Wingate had shaken off his fuzziness and had decided it was time to have another drink. He put his hand in his pocket and discovered his wallet had disappeared.
Still feeling dazed, he groped carefully through his other pockets. His movements were so deliberate that both Clair and Harry broke off their conversation to stare at him.
"Have you lost anything?" Harry asked, wishing Wingate would go to sleep again.
Wingate didn't reply. Instead, he stood up and emptied everything he had in his pockets on to the table. He continued to go through his clothes with growing alarm.
"I've been robbed!" he exclaimed violently. "My wallet's gone!"
The two barmaids and the barman, the grey-faced man and his perky wife and the three mysterious gentlemen in homburg hats all turned to stare at Wingate.
Harry felt the colour rise in his face. He was young enough to be acutely embarrassed by a scene like this, and was also aware the three mysterious men in homburg hats were looking suspiciously at him.
"Robbed!" Wingate repeated in a hard, angry voice, and turning to Harry, pointed an accusing finger at him. "All right, young fellow, a joke's a joke, but this has gone far enough. Hand it over or I'll send for the police!"
"Hand what over?" Harry asked, turning crimson.
"My wallet!" Wingate snapped. "Hand it over and I'll say no more about it. There's fifty pounds in that wallet and I'm not going to lose it!"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Harry said, getting to his feet, confused and embarrassed. "I haven't taken your wallet!"
The barman appeared from behind the counter. He came over and planted himself before Wingate, a heavy scowl on his blunt-featured face.
"Now then," he said, "what's all this in aid of? What are you complaining about?"
Wingate welcomed his appearance. He felt ill and dizzy and the loss of the wallet was a disaster. He pointed a trembling finger at Harry.
"That young man has stolen my wallet. Make him hand it over."
The barman eyed Harry's confused face suspiciously.
"All right, son, don't let's 'ave any trouble. “ And it over and be sharp about it."
"But I haven't got it!" Harry declared. "He's drunk. You can see that, can't you?"
"And that's all the thanks I get," Wingate wailed. "I befriend this young man and he robs me and says I'm drunk. Call a policeman."
"All right, all right," the barman said hastily. "We don't want any trouble. The three of you — just step this way. We'll soon see who's who and what's what. Come on. Just step this way."
And he seized Harry's arm in one hand and Wingate's arm in the other, and jerking his head at Clair, conducted them to a room at the back of the bar where the manager received them with a set smile which threatened to disappear at the first sign of unpleasantness.
"Gent ‘ere says this ‘un's pinched ‘is wallet," the barman said, jerking his head at Wingate and his thumb at Harry.
The manager rose from behind his desk. His smile fairly jumped off his face.
"And who's this?" he asked, looking at Clair.
"The gent's friend," the barman explained, and gave Clair an admiring glance.
The manager also seemed taken with her. He pushed a chair forward and invited her to sit down.
"Right-ho, Bob," he said to the barman when Clair was seated, "just stand by the door while I sort this out."
When Bob had taken up his position before the door, the manager asked Wingate what he had to say for himself.
"My wallet's gone," Wingate said. He was pale and shaken. "I spoke to this chap who is a complete stranger to me, and a moment or so later I found my wallet gone. It contained fifty pounds."
The manager stared hard at Harry who had now recovered from his embarrassment and was getting angry. The manager liked the look of Harry. It seemed unlikely that he was a pickpocket. He just didn't look the type, and the manager decided to treat him cautiously. He had seen him often enough in the bar and wasn't going to lose a regular customer if he could help it. He had never seen Wingate before and noticed he was scarcely sober, and that sort of thing was bad for business. So he asked Harry in a mild voice what he had to say.
"I don't know anything about his wallet," Harry declared, growing red in the face again. "And I can prove it!"
Before anyone could stop him he emptied the contents of his pockets on the desk in exactly the same way as Wingate had but a minute or so ago piled his possessions on the table in the bar. The manager, the barman, Wingate and Clair looked at the articles which lay on the desk with interest: they were a miscellaneous lot. There was a packet of ‘You've Just Been Photographed' cards, three metal cases containing films, a handkerchief, a penknife, a half-eaten bun, some crumbs from the other half that had been eaten, three half-crowns and a piece of string.
The manager peered at the collection, shook his head doubtfully, looked at Wingate and asked him if he was satisfied.
Wingate turned even paler, licked his dry lips and then suddenly turned and pointed an accusing finger at Clair.
"Then she's got it!" he exclaimed. "It's either one or the other. I — I picked her up in Regent Street. I've never seen her before. It was her idea we should come here and he was waiting for her. That's it! They're working together. He took my wallet and passed it to her."
Clair rose to her feet. She looked surprised and inclined to laugh. She walked up to Harry and stood by his side, facing Wingate.
"So we're working together, are we?" she said. "Well, that's funny, considering you knocked his drink over and introduced him to me. Can't you think of a better yam than that?"
"Now, steady on," the manager broke in, frowning at Wingate. "You can't go accusing everyone like this. You just said this young man had it. Well, he hasn't You'd better be careful."
Wingate
thumped the desk.
"I want my wallet. If he hasn't got it, then she has!"
"If you don't watch out," Clair said, smiling at the manager, "he'll be saying you took it next. Oh well, I may as well set his mind at rest," and in spite of the manager's growl of protest, she opened her handbag and dumped its contents on the table side by side with the articles that had come out of Harry's pockets.
Now it was Harry's turn to peer with interest. There was a gold powder compact and cigarette case combined, a gold cigarette lighter, a fountain pen and chequebook, several pound notes and a lot of silver, some letters, a comb, handkerchief, a lipstick in a gold holder and a number of keys on a ring.
There was a long and heavy silence, then Clair said brightly, "I'll take my clothes off if it'll satisfy him. I only want him to be happy."
The manager went red and the barman lost his scowl and looked hopeful.
"That won't be necessary at all," the manager said hastily. "It's quite all right, Miss. There's obviously been some misunderstanding." He turned on Wingate and went on in a cold, unfriendly tone, "When did you last use your wallet?"
Wingate sat down heavily. He looked old and feeble and very stupid.
"I don't know. I can't remember."
"Did you take it from your pocket while you were in the bar?" the manager asked. "Now come, sir. Think carefully. Did you pay for your drinks with the change in your pocket or did you pay with a note?"
Wingate admitted he hadn't taken a note from his wallet while he was in the bar.
"Then you could quite easily have dropped the wallet or had it stolen before you came in here," the manager said, pleased with his reasoning.
While this was going on Harry began to put his possessions back into his pocket and Clair joined him and began to put hers back into her bag.
"That's a nice case," Harry said as she picked up the gold cigarette case.
"Oh, it's all right," she said and smiled at him. Have one?" and she offered him a cigarette.
Harry took the cigarette and she lit it for him, and as she did so she looked right into his eyes.
"Excuse me," the manager said sharply, "when you two have quite done I'd like to get on with ray work."
Harry started and looked blankly at the manager. He had been so carried away that he had forgotten where he was.
"I'm so sorry," Clair said, smiling. "Well, I suppose we can go now or does he still want to send for the police?"
"Of course you can go," the manager said. "And I hope you'll both accept my apologies. I don't like this sort of thing to happen in my house, and I hope you will both continue to come here. You'll be very welcome."
"Thank you," Clair said.
Wingate, who was listening with a dazed expression on his face, made an effort to pull himself together.
"Now listen, little girl . . ." he began feebly, but Clair ignored him.
She turned to Harry. "Well, let's go. He thinks we're working together so let's keep up the illusion," and to Harry's surprise, she linked her arm through his and made for the door.
The barman opened it for them with a flourish and winked at Harry as they went past Wingate called feebly, "Hey! Don't go away. I want to apologise . . ."
But they didn't look back and went on through the bar and into the street. Then they paused and looked at each other. Harry hated to think in a few seconds they would part, and he would probably never see her again.
"I'm awfully sorry that happened," he said, putting his hands in his pockets and kicking the edge of the kerb. "It was really my fault. I shouldn't have barged in."
"That's all right," she said, and he was suddenly aware of a change in her. She wasn't smiling, and she even seemed a little bored with him. "The old fool was drunk. We'd better be going before he comes out. I don't want to see him again."
"No," Harry said awkwardly. "Well, then I suppose I'd better say good-bye."
Still unsmiling, her eyes expressionless, she stepped closer and offered her hand.
"Good-bye," she said abruptly.
Harry took her hand, and as he did so she appeared to stumble, and she caught hold of his coat to steady herself, and he felt a little tug at his hip pocket. He stepped back and something fell on the pavement at his feet. Clair bent swiftly, snatched it up and put it with one lightning movement into her bag. But Harry had seen it: a worn, bulky leather wallet.
They stood looking at each other.
"That — that came out of my pocket," Harry said.
"Did it?" she said, and continued to look steadily at him.
"So you did take it," Harry said. "You put it in my pocket before you showed them your bag."
She bit her lips, looked uneasily at the swing doors of the Duke of Wellington, and then at him.
"Yes, I did," she said suddenly. "I took it to teach him a lesson. I'm going to give it back to him. You don't think I'm a thief, do you?"
Harry was so shocked he didn't know what to think, but he said, "Why, no, I don't think that. But — well, hang it, you shouldn't have taken it. There's fifty pounds in it —"
"I know I shouldn't have," she said, and again looked uneasily at the swing doors. "Look, let's walk on, shall we? I'll tell you why I took it as we go along."
"But you've got to give it back to him," Harry said, not moving. "You can't go off with his fifty pounds."
"I can't give it back to him when he's drunk," she said impatiently. "You can see that, can't you? He'll give me in charge." She suddenly linked her arm through his. "I know his address. I'll send it back to him. Come on back to my place. We can talk about it there."
'Your place?" he said, surprised.
She smiled up at him.
"Why not? It's not far. Don't you want to come?"
"Well, yes," Harry said, falling into step beside her. "But are you sure we should leave him without his money?"
"I'll send it back tomorrow," she said, and again looked uneasily at the swing doors of the Duke of Wellington. "Let's go to my place, and I'll tell you how it happened."
He went with her down Glasshouse Street towards Piccadilly.
chapter three
As they made their way through the crowds along Piccadilly, she kept up a flow of conversation — that took Harry's mind away from Wingate and his wallet. She walked quickly, holding on to his arm and hurrying him along. If Harry had had a chance to think he would have realised she was trying to get away from the Duke of Wellington as fast as she could without actually running, but she didn't give him the chance. Nor did she give him the chance to ask about the wallet.
"Where do you live?" she asked, tossing back her thick wavy hair from her face and looking up at him as if she was really interested in what he was going to say.
"I have a bed-sitter in Lannock Street. It's a turning off Sloane Square," Harry told her.
"I have a flat off Long Acre. You'll like it." She gave him a swift smile. "Have you got a girl friend?"
"A — what?" Harry gaped at her.
"A girlfriend. Someone to go around with."
"Well, no, I haven't. Of course I know a few girls, but I haven't a regular one."
"I should have thought you would. What was that you said about me: something about she walks in beauty . . ."
"Yes. She walks in beauty like the night, of cloudless chimes and starry skies, and all that's best of dark and bright, meet in her aspect and her eyes. It's fine, isn't it?"
"I bet you've said that to dozens of girls."
"I haven't. It's a thing I learned at school, and I only remembered it again when I saw you. It fits you, somehow."
"Does it? You're a funny boy, aren't you?" She touched the small camera hanging from the strap on his shoulder. "Do you take photographs?"
"Yes." Harry felt himself grow hot, wondering what she would think of him if she knew what he did for a living.
"It's a very small camera, isn't it? Is it a Leica?"
He said it was.
"A friend of mine had a Leica. He was al
ways pestering me to pose for him in the nude. Have you ever taken nudes?"
Harry shook his head.
"I can't get anyone to pose for me," he said, and grinned.
"Well, girls aren't mugs these days," she said. "One thing leads to another, doesn't it?"
"Not necessarily."
"Perhaps not, but a girl can't be too careful." She paused to open her bag. "This is it. I have a flat above the shop."
They had stopped outside a tailor's shop, and Harry glanced at the window display. Looking at the various suits displayed on the immaculate dummies made him suddenly aware of his own shabbiness.
"I'm afraid I'm in my working clothes," he said. "I hope you don't mind."
She found a key and opened a door by the entrance to the tailor's shop.
"Don't be a dope," she said shortly. "I couldn't care less what you wear. Come in. It's just at the top of the stairs."
He followed her up the stairs, and couldn't help noticing what slim, neat legs she had as she moved from stair to stair. And as if she could read his thoughts, she glanced over her shoulder and made a face at him.
"Like them?" she asked. "Most men do."
Harry was so surprised that he blushed.
"They're wonderful. What are you — a thought reader?"
"I just happen to know men. Whenever I walk up stairs with a man behind me I know he's trying to see further than he should. It's not my mind, you know. It's really what he's doing."
She paused outside a door and, using the same key, opened it and entered a large airy room which was Harry's idea of the acme of luxury. It was furnished with taste and comfort: the big armchairs, the settee and the divan were all built to give the greatest possible ease. They were covered with fawn corduroy material, offset with scarlet piping. There was a big table in the bay window, a radiogram, an elaborate cocktail cabinet, several prints of Van Gogh's country scenes on the walls and a large fireplace where a bright fire was burning.
"This is nice!" Harry exclaimed, looking round. "Have you been here long?"
1951 - But a Short Time to Live Page 2