"Hallo," he said, leaning an elbow on the counter and simpering at her. "Isn't it quiet? None of the boys have come in yet. A new one came yesterday. He was terribly intense. Wait 'til you see him."
"Give me a whisky and shut up!" Clair said, and turned her back on him.
A girl came out of the Powder Room: a plump blonde with eyes like granite and a mouth like a trap. She waved to Clair and joined her at the bar.
"Hallo, Babs," Clair said indifferently. She offered her cigarette case.
"Hallo, darling," Babs gushed, examining Clair's dress enviously. "What a lovely thing. Suits you too. Every time I see you you have something different. I don't know how you do it." She took a cigarette. "Where's Bobby?"
"He'll be along," Clair said, pushing a ten-shilling note over the counter. "Have a drink?"
"Well, I don't mind. A large whisky, Hippy," she said to the barman. "How nice your hair looks."
"Do you really think so?" Hippy said, stretching up to look in the mirror. "I'm so glad. I had it trimmed yesterday. It's not bad, is it? The beast nipped off a bit too much I think, but they always do unless you watch them."
"Will you shut up and go away?" Clair said.
Hippy served the drink, scowled at Clair and moved down the bar.
"You shouldn't talk like that to him," Babs said. "You'll hurt his feelings."
"I want to," Clair said viciously. "I hate his kind." She handed the whisky to Babs, thinking how awful she looked. How are you? You look a bit tired."
"Oh, I am, darling. I'm an absolute wreck. I don't know what's the matter with me. I get a most awful pain sometimes. It scares me to death."
Clair studied the round, unhealthy little face and grimaced. Babs drank too much, took drugs, was seldom off the streets, and had been leading a rackety life for years. It wasn't to be wondered at that she didn't feel well.
"You should see a doctor."
Babs shook her head.
"I'm scared to," she said, lowering her voice. "I keep thinking it's cancer. I do really. I'd rather have the pain and not know."
"Don't be a fool," Clair said sharply. "It's probably indigestion."
"That's what Teddy says," Babs sighed and looked sentimental. "You know, Clair, darling. I've often wondered why you haven't a regular boy. It makes such a difference. Teddy's an absolute pet. The things he does for me! He always waits up for me, and he has a drink ready and my slippers warming before the fire. I used to be so lonely and get so fed up with myself, but he's changed all that. You ought to get some boy — some nice boy to have around. You ought, really."
"But Teddy's pretty expensive, isn't he?" Clair said, doubtfully.
"Well, darling, the poor lamb must enjoy himself sometimes. Of course he does like the most expensive things, but that's a good fault, isn't it? I mean it shows he has taste?" Babs's dark-ringed eyes grew dreamy. "He's made all the difference to me. You should find a boy, Clair."
"Bobby's enough for me," Clair said curtly.
"Oh, but he doesn't count. A woman should have someone she can look after. No one could look after Bobby. He's got too much money, and he's so independent, and he's a little bit overbearing, isn't he, darling? You don't mind my saying so, do you?"
"I don't mind," Clair said indifferently.
"You want someone like Teddy. Someone who'd be grateful for all you did for him. It makes you feel — well, as if you're doing something worthwhile."
Clair finished her drink. Not so long ago she had told Babs she was a fool to keep Teddy, but now she wasn't so sure. Life was lonely. She hadn't been able to get Harry out of her mind. The more she thought about him, the more she liked him, and wanted to do something for him. What Babs had said was true. To look after a boy like Harry would be worthwhile.
Brady came in and joined Clair at the bar. He gave Babs a quick scowl, "All right, girlie," he said.
"Run along. No use hanging about here. You have a living to earn."
"Oh, leave her alone," Clair said.
"It's all right; I'm going," Babs said, and smiled hopefully at Brady. "You're looking ever so well, Mr. Brady; and so smart."
"Yes," Brady said, and showing his gold-capped teeth. "Just run along."
When Babs had gone, Clair said, "Where did you get to?"
"That chap took my photograph," Brady said, and his fat face darkened. "I had to fix him."
Clair stiffened.
"What do you mean? Why?"
"There are times, precious, when you don't always use your brains," Brady said patiently. "How would it look to have a photograph of us together in some shop window for every copper in London to see? Would you like that?"
"What did you do to him?" Clair asked, turning cold.
"I tipped Ben to take care of him. Ben has the film by now. It's all right. Ben just tapped him."
Clair's empty glass slipped out of her fingers and smashed on the floor.
Brady looked searchingly at her, and then laughed.
"Why, of course, your new boyfriend! Well, well, I should have thought of that. It's all right, darling, there's no need to get excited. Ben only tapped him." He reached out and patted her cheek with moist, soft fingers. "You are excited, aren't you?"
"No!" Clair said violently, "and don't do that, damn you!"
chapter nine
Mooney dozed in his chair. His feet rested on his desk, and there was a strained, worried expression on his face. He was dreaming, and whenever Mooney had dreams they were always concerned with his own personal problems.
The sharp sound of knocking on the outer door woke him, and he sat up, blinked round the tiny office, still only half awake, and not sure if he had heard anything.
The knocking was repeated, and he lowered his feet to the floor.
"That'll be Harry," he thought, yawning. He moved to the door. Well, now we'll see if his idea's any good. Shouldn't be surprised if it was. That boy's no fool."
When he opened the shop door he was startled to find a policeman standing on the step.
"Mr. Mooney?" the policeman asked.
"That's me," Mooney said respectfully. He was always respectful to policemen. "What's up?"
"Young fella named Harry Ricks work for you?"
Mooney groaned.
"Don't tell me he's been pinched. I haven't got the dough to bail him out if that's what you want."
"He's been hurt," the policeman said. "You're wanted at the station."
Mooney changed colour: in sentimental moments he regarded Harry as a son.
"Hurt?" he repeated. "Is he bad?"
"No, he's not bad; a bit shaken up, you know," the policeman returned. He was big and mooned faced with a fresh complexion and sandy hair, and had a quiet, mournful manner; the kind of manner, Mooney thought, feeling a little sick, that would do credit to an undertaker. "He wants to go home, and said you'd look after him."
"Of course I'll look after him," Mooney said. He was surprised how upset he felt. "Here, wait a second while I get my coat and lock up."
He ran back to the office. His knees felt wobbly and his hands shook.
"The trouble with me is I'm getting old," he thought as he struggled into his coat. "Getting worked up like a blasted old woman. But it's a shock. I like that boy. I wish I'd got a bottle of something here. I could do with a nip."
He pulled open his desk drawer, but the whisky bottle he found under a pile of papers was empty, and had been empty for the past year. He sighed, turned off the light, returned to the shop, closed and locked the door.
"I'm ready," he said. "What happened to him?"
"Got knocked on the head," the policeman said. "I found him lying in the street just up the way. He wouldn't go to the hospital so we fixed him up at the station."
"Knocked on the head?" Mooney repeated blankly. "You mean someone hit him?"
"That's right,"
"Who was it?" Mooney demanded. "I hope you caught him."
"I didn't catch anyone," the policeman returned. "The inspector's ta
lking to Ricks now."
Mooney suddenly stopped and clutched at the policeman's arm.
"Don't tell me his camera's pinched? Cost me forty quid before the war, and I couldn't get another for three times that amount."
"I don't know anything about a camera," the policeman said, freeing his arm. "If you'll step out, we'll get there all the sooner."
Although Mooney didn't feel like stepping out, he did his best to move along briskly. He felt suddenly depressed and deflated.
"When a chap reaches my age and can't have a drink when he wants one," he thought gloomily, "the writing's on the wall. It's no use, Mooney, old kid, you've had it. Fifty-six and can't spring to a bottle of Scotch. You've had it all right. If there's ever a man heading for the workhouse, it's you."
He was feeling very low by the time they reached the police station. He had now come to the conclusion that he was not only a failure, but that Harry wouldn't be able to work again, and the camera had been stolen.
"No more bright ideas," he thought as he mounted the steps and followed the policeman's broad back down a passage. "This settles it. I shouldn't have let Harry work at night. I might have known some drunk would have got annoyed and hit him. Not everyone wants to have a flashlight let off in their faces. I ought to have thought of that."
He was shown into a large office. Two plain-clothes officers were standing by an empty fireplace, smoking, and Harry was sitting in a chair.
"Jeepers, kid," Mooney said, going to him. "How are you? What did they do to you?"
Harry gave him a wan grin. There was a broad strip of sticking plaster across his forehead, and he looked shaky and white.
"It's all right, Mr. Mooney. It's not half as bad as these chaps are trying to make out."
One of the plain-clothes officers, a fat, good-natured looking man in a shapeless tweed suit came over.
"He said he wanted you so we sent a constable round for you," he said to Mooney. "He's had a nasty crack on the head. By rights he should be in hospital." He looked at Harry and frowned at him.
"You can thank your stars you have a head like a flint stone, my lad," he went on. "Otherwise there'd have been a lot more damage."
Harry touched his forehead and winced.
"There's been quite enough damage already, thank you," he said. "If it's all the same to you I'd like to go home now."
"We'll run you home in a few minutes," the plain-clothes officer said. There's a cup of tea coming. You don't want to be in too much of a hurry." He turned to Mooney. "I'm Inspector Parkins. Sergeant Dawson, over there," he waved to the other officer. "Sit down, Mr. Mooney. You don't look over grand yourself."
Mooney sat down, and because he suddenly found himself momentarily the centre of interest, he passed a hand wearily across his face and endeavoured to look on the point of collapse.
"As a matter of fact, I feel pretty bad," he said. "It's been a great shock. I don't suppose you have a little brandy?"
Parkins smiled.
"I might find you some whisky, unless you'd rather have a cup of tea," and seeing Mooney's expression, he laughed and produced a bottle of Scotch from a cupboard. "Always handy in case of illness," he said and winked. He gave Mooney a good stiff drink. "There you are, Mr. Mooney. That'll set you up."
Mooney took the drink gratefully. And to think he had always sneered at the police! He'd never do that again. "Damned good chaps," he thought, and drank half the whisky at a gulp.
"That's a lot better," he said. "I wanted that badly."
Just then a constable brought in three huge mugs of tea, and put them on the table.
"Now you get outside this, my lad, and you'll be right as ninepence," Parkins said, putting a mug within Harry's reach. "Have a cigarette if you fancy it."
Harry accepted the cigarette, and although his head ached, he enjoyed the novelty of being entertained by a police inspector.
“Harry," Mooney said, "did you lose the camera?"
"No, I've still got it, but I lost the roll of film."
Mooney heaved a sigh of relief.
"That doesn't matter. It was the camera I was worrying about."
"All right, Mr. Mooney," Parkins said. "I just want a word with our young friend, then he can get off home. Mr. Ricks," he went on to Harry, "if you feel like it, perhaps you'll try to help us. This fella who hit you. You say he was short, thickset and had a mop of tow-coloured hair. You didn't see his face. Is that right?"
"That's right," Harry said, sipping his tea.
"Can you give us any more details. How was he dressed?"
"Well, I couldn't see much. It was too dark. He seemed to be in a dark suit, and he wore a dark blue or black shirt. Oh, yes, I remember now, he had a sort of lisp when he spoke, and he talked through his nose."
Parkins looked at Dawson who shook his head.
"Well, he's a new one to us, but we're anxious to catch him," Parkins said, turning back to Harry.
"He's been doing quite a lot of bashing lately. He uses a bicycle chain. When you get that plaster off you'll see the marks. We've had three or four people in here recently with the same marks on their faces. In their case it's been robbery, but somehow I don't think it was robbery in your case. I think you took his photograph, probably without knowing it, and he knocked you out to get the film."
"Oh, no," Harry said. "I'm positive I didn't take his photograph. That mop of hair is unmistakable. I never saw him all the evening until he attacked me."
Parkins stirred his tea with a penholder and stared down at the blotter on his desk.
"You're sure of that?"
"Absolutely."
"Well, he wanted that roll of film for some reason or other. Perhaps you took someone he's working with. Do you remember anyone objecting to being photographed?"
Well, of course, Harry did. The bulky figure of Clair's companion loomed up in his mind. But he wasn't going to get Clair mixed up with the police. That's the last thing he intended to do.
"No," he said, and unable to meet Parkins's steady stare, looked away. "No one objected."
"Don't rush at it," Parkins said quietly. "There's plenty of time. Just think about it for a few minutes."
"There's nothing to think about," Harry said curtly. "No one objected."
There was a pause, then Parkins lifted his massive shoulders.
"Well, that's that then," he said. "A pity. This fella's dangerous, Mr. Ricks. We want to catch him."
"Well, I'm not stopping you," Harry said, and because he had told a lie and his head ached, he was angry with the inspector and himself.
Parkins looked at him for a long, uncomfortable moment
"Think it over," he said. "You may remember later on, and if you do I hope you'll let me know. This chap's dangerous. One of these nights if he goes on as he's been going on, he'll hit someone who has a thin skull, and then there'll be trouble. Any little clue might lead us to him. You're still quite sure no one objected?"
Harry felt his face redden.
"Yes, I'm sure," he said. "But if I think of anyone I'll let you know."
Parkins rose to his feet
"All right Well, I don't suppose a good night's rest will do you any harm. There's a car outside to take you home. Mr. Mooney will go with you. Do you think you would recognise this tow-headed chap again?"
"Oh, yes," Harry said grimly. "I'd know him anywhere."
"Well, that's something. If you do see him again, call a policeman. Don't try anything heroic yourself."
"All right," Harry said, and got unsteadily to his feet,
Mooney took his arm.
"I'm right with you, kid," he said. "Take it easy and lean on me."
When they had gone, Parkins stared thoughtfully at Dawson.
"I think it'd pay us to keep an eye on that young fellow," he said. "He knows more about this than he says. Now, I wonder what made him lie like that? Put Jenkins on to him for the next few days. I think it might be interesting to find out who his friends are."
chapt
er ten
Although Harry made out he wasn't badly hurt, he did feel shaky, and the shock made him restless and nervous. He was quite pleased to spend a day in bed, and when Mooney told him to take the rest of the week off, and not to come to the studio until Monday, he didn't need any persuading.
Mrs. Westerham volunteered to provide him with meals, and Ron moved his typewriter to a friend's office in Fleet Street
"You rest and sleep," he said to Harry. "I won't disturb you. After a couple of days you'll be as fit as a flea again."
But Harry didn't feel like sleeping. He was worried about Clair. Was it possible, he kept asking himself, that her companion of last night had had anything to do with the tow-headed chap? Had he told the tow-headed chap to get the film from Harry? If so, why?
Harry had said nothing to Ron about Brady. He felt that until he had asked Clair for an explanation, the less he told anyone the better. It occurred to him that as Clair had cut him last night, she might not want to see him again, and that thought sent his temperature up.
Mrs. Westerham was continually popping in and out. She was a tall, bony woman, as thin as a bean stick, with a mass of greying hair done up like a cottage loaf on the top of her head. Harry liked her, but he didn't feel in the mood to listen to her endless gossip, so most times when she came in he pretended to be asleep.
"What would you like for lunch, Mr. Ricks?" she asked, slipping into the room without warning.
"I've a nice bit of cod or you could have an omelet; only those Polish eggs are very doubtful. There's nothing else I can offer you."
"The cod sounds all right," Harry said doubtfully. "That'll do fine. I'm so sorry to be such a nuisance."
"Don't you worry," Mrs. Westerham said. "You rest and get well. You might "ave been killed. That's what Mr. Mooney said."
The morning seemed endless, and when, just before noon, Harry heard the front door bell ring, he wondered hopefully, if Mooney or Doris had come to see him. He wanted company, and perhaps a little sympathy, but company before anything,
Someone was coming up the stairs. A tap sounded on the door, and he called "Come in," half-expecting Mrs. Westerham.
1951 - But a Short Time to Live Page 6