1951 - But a Short Time to Live

by James Hadley Chase

  She promised sullenly, but insisted on keeping the bag.

  "It's not as if I can take it back," she said. "I don't see why I shouldn't use it now I have it."

  Harry's immediate task now was to find lodgings for the coming baby. Evening after evening he tramped the back streets, calling on every house which displayed a ‘Board Residence' sign without success. No one wanted a squawling baby. Some of the landladies he saw were sympathetic. They said they would like to help him, but it wasn't practicable.

  "Visitors don't like the noise of babies," they explained as if he didn't know.

  "Why must you go out and leave me?" Clair asked irritably when he returned, hot and tired from one of these fruitless searches. "It's bad enough to be on my own all day, but then for you to go out . . ."

  Patiently he explained what he had been doing.

  "Why bother?" she said angrily. "You don't think I'm going to keep the brat, do you? I'm not as crazy as that. As soon as I come out of hospital I'm going to dump it on a doorstep."

  Harry was horrified.

  "You can't do a thing like that! It's our child, Clair. You couldn't do it! I won't let you!"

  "Oh, don't give me that mother-love tripe," she said. "Do you think I'm going to feed it? I hate babies! I won't touch it! I'll throw it into the sea!"

  Harry had read somewhere that women went a little queer when they were pregnant, and although Clair's attitude hurt him, he didn't take it seriously. But he did feel the responsibility for the baby's comfort and welfare would largely fall on him, and he redoubled his efforts to find a home for it.

  There was a chap at the shop he was friendly with. His name was Leonard Wilkins; one of those simple, not very brainy fellows, with a moon-round face, sandy hair and a ready smile. He wore a Christian Crusader badge in his coat lapel, and was always trying to persuade Harry to become a Crusader himself.

  "You don't have to go to church or anything like that," he explained to Harry one afternoon when he came into the dark room with the morning's collection of films to be developed. "It's a club really. We try to help each other. It's a bit like being a Mason, only it doesn't cost anything. We're having a meeting tonight if you'd care to come."

  Harry thanked him.

  "I'm afraid I haven't the time," he said, as he stripped the red wrapping from the films. "I'm trying to find accommodation. You see, my wife is having a baby, and it isn't easy to find a place that takes babies. I suppose you don't know of anything?"

  Wilkins reacted to this the way a ferret reacts to the sight of a rabbit.

  "I'll ask the Crusaders," he said. "That's just the kind of thing we do. We'd be awfully glad if you and your wife would come along." His face lit up as he added, "They give you tea and cakes."

  But Harry couldn't imagine Clair at a Christian Crusader's meeting, and he tactfully made excuses.

  "She's not very well. I don't like leaving her. If you can do anything for us I'd be grateful. We want two rooms, and I don't want to pay more than forty-five shillings. If you hear of anything . . ."

  "We'll find you something," Wilkins said confidently, and to Harry's surprise they did. A couple of days later, Wilkins gave him three addresses. "Mrs. Hamilton's the best. I'd go along and see her. She has four children of her own. You know where Castle Street is, don't you?"

  The previous day had been wet and cold, and no films had been brought in to be developed, so Harry asked the manager if he could have the afternoon off.

  "I'm trying to find rooms," he explained. "I've heard of something and don't want to miss it."

  "That's all right. You get off," the manager said. He liked Harry. He liked the way Harry always finished his work before going home. He liked his willingness and his efficiency.

  Mrs. Hamilton's house in Castle Street conformed to the general pattern of back street seaside houses, but it looked clean and neat from the outside. Mrs. Hamilton answered Harry's knock on the door.

  She was accompanied by four small children, who stared up at Harry with intent, curious eyes, and wrestled and punched each other as soon as their curiosity was satisfied. Mrs. Hamilton was a tall, bony woman with lank hair, a distracted expression and large tired eyes. As soon as you saw her you felt she would put up with anything, and when Harry told her he was looking for rooms and his wife was about to have a baby she just nodded dumbly and asked him in.

  As soon as the front door had closed behind him, the four children started into a bedlam of sound, and this continued all the time Harry was in the house. They seemed to be endowed with an inspired talent for making a sustained and continuous uproar. One of them hammered a tin tray. Another ran up and down the stairs rattling the banister with a stick. The remaining two punched each other and screamed. It was only by raising his voice to a shout that Harry could make himself heard.

  Yes, Mrs. Hamilton had two rooms. No, she didn't mind babies. She waved a vague hand at the quartet of sound. She had babies of her own. She thought two pounds a week would be fair. She would give them fish suppers for that, but she couldn't undertake a midday meal.

  With the four children following them, they went up the stairs to the top floor. The rooms were small but clean. One of the windows overlooked the sea front. At least the view was better than the one at No. 43 Fairfield Road, but Harry's heart sank at the noise of the children. He couldn't imagine Clair standing it for long.

  He said he had two more places to see and would let Mrs. Hamilton know one way or the other that evening. He was glad to get into the sunshine again.

  But the other two places had been let so it was Mrs. Hamilton's or nothing. The decision was too difficult to make without consulting Clair, so Harry caught a bus to Fairfield Road, arriving there just after four o'clock, three hours before his usual time.

  To his disappointment Clair was out. The two rooms hadn't been swept or dusted and the bed was still unmade. While waiting for her he straightened the rooms, cleaned them and made the bed. As he put Clair's nightdress in the wardrobe he caught sight of something tucked away behind one of her dresses.

  He pulled it out and examined the feather-weight mackintosh with a sinking heart. It was new and expensive looking, and he was sure Clair hadn't bought it. So she was still at it! With a cold set face he searched through her drawers and the cupboard. The loot he discovered turned him sick. From the amount of articles he found he guessed she must have been systematically pilfering for a long time. Several empty and worn looking wallets he discovered hidden under the mattress told him she had also been picking pockets.

  He was standing motionless by the bed on which he had thrown the various articles he had found when Clair came into the room. She moved slowly and heavily, and her face looked white and puffy. She was big with the child now, and she looked tired and depressed. Looking at her he suddenly realised that she wasn't pretty anymore. In some extraordinary way her features had coarsened, and she looked what she was: a drab without a background.

  She started violently when she saw him, looked at the bed, then back to him.

  They stared at each other for a long moment of time.

  "Spying again?" she said, through clenched teeth. "What a dirty little Gestapo you are!"

  Harry didn't say anything. He turned away and went over to the window, leaning his forehead against the dusty pane.

  He heard the bed creak as she sat down.

  "I shouldn't have said that," she said. "I'm sorry."

  "It's all right," Harry said flatly. "I was just going out. I'll be back about seven."

  "Don't go," she said quickly. "I — I can explain all this. It happened before you found the handbag. I haven't done it since. I swear it!"

  Of course she was lying. Harry could tell that by her over-emphatic tone.

  "It's all right," he said wearily, and went past her into the other room.

  She came to the bedroom door.

  "You believe me, don't you?" she said.

  "No, I don't believe you," he returned, without looking at
her. "But it's all right. There's nothing either of us can do about it now," and still not looking at her he opened the door and went down the stairs to the street below.

  It was just after seven when he returned. She was sitting by the window; her face flushed and her eyes bright. He knew that look by now, and what it meant. The bottle of gin, thrust half out of sight under her chair was getting a familiar sight

  Neither of them spoke, and he began to prepare supper, while she remained at the window, smoking.

  He was conscious of the danger: in spite of his warnings he was now certain that when she needed anything she would steal it. Something was lacking in her make-up. The only solution was for him either to make enough money to give her what she wanted or to leave her. He knew he could never earn enough to satisfy her demands nor could he leave her in her present condition. He felt trapped. It was like trying to save someone bent on suicide.

  chapter thirty

  The reconciliation late that night revealed to him that the link that held him to her was weakening.

  He could see that her love for him was gradually being pushed into the background by her preoccupation with herself, her discomfort and the bleak outlook. of her future. His love for her was being smothered by the sick fear that through her own wanton stupidity she would attract the attention of the police to them.

  The following morning, on the way to work, he looked at the newspaper with a feeling of dread. It was difficult to read the paper in the crowded bus, impossible to open it, and he had to wait until he got out at Whiterock before he could turn to the centre page, and then he nearly missed it so insignificant was the paragraph. It was headed:

  PARK LANE MURDER

  Inspector Claud Parkins of C Division, Scotland Yard said today that a new elite had come into the hands of the police which he thought might lead to an early arrest.

  Clair and Harry Ricks, wanted for questioning, have not so far been traced, and it is thought the new clue may lead to their whereabouts.

  Harry stood by the bus stop for some minutes. Was this a trick to start them on the run again or had Parkins learned where they were? That was the thing to decide. Should they make a bolt for it or should they stick it out in the hope that it was a false report? His legs felt weak, and his heart hammered against his side, giving him a feeling of breathlessness. He didn't know whether to catch a bus home or go on to work. Suppose they were already at Fairfield Road?

  A man standing nearby looked sharply at him.

  "Are you all right, mate?" he asked, and there was a kindly expression of concern on his face.

  "Feeling a bit faint or something?"

  Harry shook his head.

  "It's all right," he managed to say. "Touch of the sun I expect. I'm all right, thank you."

  Somehow he forced himself to cross the road and walk the few yards to Mason's shop. Wilkins and the manager had just arrived.

  "Did you get the rooms, Kent?" the manager asked as he wrestled with the padlock.

  "Yes, thank you," Harry said.

  "You don't look well," Wilkins said, staring at him. "I say, Mr. Bertram, doesn't he look white?"

  "Got a bit of a headache," Harry said, and pushed into the shop. "It's nothing," and he went up the stairs to the darkroom.

  He'd have to pull himself together, he thought as he entered the stuffy, badly ventilated little room.

  Should he say he wasn't well and ask to go home? He couldn't leave Clair on her own in danger like this.

  But fear of unemployment was even stronger than the fear of the police. He had already had an afternoon off. If he asked to go home now perhaps the manager might think he was slacking and get rid of him. To lose his job and be without money were to him things as terrifying as death.

  Before he could reach a decision, Mr. Bertram came into the darkroom and put a bundle of films on the table.

  "Get cracking on those, Kent," he said. "We had a rush of business when you were away yesterday. They'll be in for them tonight."

  Harry waited until he had gone, turned off the light and turned on the red safety lamp. He began stripping off the film wrapping. Perhaps he could slip up to Clair in his lunch hour. But supposing, while he wasted time here in the dark room, the police went to Fairfield Road? He forced himself to begin to develop the films. If it were a false alarm, and through panic he lost his job, they would be in an awful mess, he thought He had been unable to save a penny. He had nothing except the money he would receive tomorrow night when Mr. Bertram paid the wages. He would have to wait They couldn't bolt without money.

  The morning passed in a nightmare of sick apprehension. More films kept arriving, and Harry, distracted, worked furiously.

  A few minutes to half past twelve when he was ready to go to lunch Mr. Bertram popped his head round the door.

  "I'll get you to cut your lunch hour," he said. "You won't mind, will you? There's a mass of stuff coming in. I'll send Wilkins up to give you a hand."

  Harry began to protest that he had something very important to do in his lunch hour, but there was a testy, irritable note in Mr. Bertram's voice and he was afraid to refuse his request.

  Wilkins came up after an hour or so and worked on the printing machine.

  "Just our luck," he said with his bright smile that showed he was only grumbling for the sake of grumbling and didn't really mean it. "The sun's shining, and everyone seems to be using their cameras. Mr. B. only let me have half an hour for lunch."

  Harry grunted. He would much sooner have been alone.

  Wilkins chattered away about the Crusaders, and again tried to persuade Harry to join. Then as he slid a batch of prints into the developing tank he said, "I say, I forgot to tell you. An odd thing happened to me last night. A detective stopped and questioned me."

  Harry stiffened and nearly dropped the bottle of developer he was holding.

  "A big chap," Wilkins continued, obviously pleased with the experience. "He asked to see my identity card. Then he wanted to know where I worked and what my job was. It's a funny thing, but he seemed to prick up his ears when I said I was in the photographic trade. He wanted to know who else worked in the shop."

  "Did you tell him?" Harry asked, fear clutching at his heart. He was thankful they were working in the light of the ruby lamp otherwise he was sure Wilkins would have seen the fear on his face.

  "Certainly not," Wilkins returned. "I didn't think it was my business to do that. I told him if he wanted to know about the shop he would have to see the manager."

  "I see," Harry said, restraining an impulse to rush out of the darkroom and get on a bus to Fairfield Road.

  "I suppose they're looking for someone," Wilkins said smugly. "I once read a book about the methods of Scotland Yard. It's marvellous how they work. I wouldn't rest a minute if they were after me."

  The afternoon seemed interminable to Harry. His one thought was to get home before anything happened. He scarcely listened to Wilkins's quiet chatter.

  It was towards closing time he heard what he had been waiting to hear.

  "That's Mr. Bertram calling you, isn't it?" Wilkins asked.

  "Yes."

  Harry wiped his hands slowly on a towel, aware that his mouth had gone dry. Should he make a bolt for it? But there was no way out except through the shop.

  "Kent! I want you a moment," Mr. Bertram was calling from the bottom of the stairs.

  "Coming, sir," Harry said.

  With hands that trembled he reached for his coat and put it on. If it was the police, and they arrested him, what was going to happen to Clair? If only he could reach her by telephone and warn her. But it would be hopeless. Once the police had a description of her from Mrs. Bates, she couldn't hope to escape.

  "Mind how you go out," Wilkins said. "I have prints in the tank."

  Harry edged out of the room and moved on to the landing, overlooking the shop. His heart gave a lurch when he saw the big man with Mr. Bertram. He had policeman written all over him.

  "Hurry
up, Kent," Mr. Bertram said sharply. He was obviously flustered.

  "Yes, sir," Harry said, and came down the stairs. There was still a chance, he told himself, if he kept his head. One false move now and Clair would be the one to suffer. For her sake he had to keep hold on himself.

  The detective's vast bulk blocked the doorway. No chance of making a bolt for it.

  "This is a police officer," Mr. Bertram said with a wan smile. "He's making a check. Will you show him your identity card?"

  Harry felt the quiet, shrewd eyes of the detective examining his face. He took out his wallet and handed his identity card to him.

  "Thanks, Mr. Kent," the detective said. "Sorry to trouble you." Seconds ticked by while he looked at the card. Harry wondered if he could hear the thudding of his heart. "This your address?" the detective asked.

  "Yes."

  "Been in Hastings long?"

  "About six months."

  "And you lived at 23 Sinclair Road, West Ham, before that?" the detective went on, looking at the card.

  Harry turned cold. It would be only a matter of hours now. The time it would take for the detective to check the address in West Ham.

  "That's right," he said steadily.

  "Where did you work there?"

  "Jacksons, the chemist in the High Street," Harry said, surprised the way the words came without effort or thought.

  "Are you married, Mr. Kent?"

  "Yes."

  "Kent is expecting a baby," Mr. Bertram said, smiling. He was a family man himself.

  A look of surprise came into the detective's eyes; just a momentary flicker, but Harry saw it "Your wife here too?"

  "Of course," Harry said. "If you don't mind, what's all this in aid of?"

  The detective's face relaxed into a smile.

  "Looking for a chap," he said, and handed Harry his identity card. "That's all right. Sorry to have bothered you. This fellow's a photographer. We've been asked to check all photographic equipment shops."

  "Have you tried Westways?" Mr. Bertram asked, always eager to be helpful. "They're in Robertson Street."