Adventures of a Black Bag

by A. J. Cronin

  He was a pasty-faced youngster, was Doggy, with a tendency to pimples, a loud empty laugh and a tremendous heartiness of style – instanced by a maddening tendency to slap his intimates upon the back and address each boisterously as “Old Man!”

  “Brandy and splash, old man?” That, indeed, was Doggy’s usual greeting, as he stood knowingly within the parlour of the Elephant and Castle. He wore bright shirts, effulgent cuff-links, and, in season, a racy topcoat with huge pockets and a collar that invariably rose up to Doggy’s protruding ears.

  He affected manly pipes with terrific curvatures, and rattled a heavy stick as he strode along. His knowledge of women was reputed to be encyclopaedic. And once he had kept a bulldog.

  Actually, there was not an ounce of vice in Doggy. He suffered from a rich father, a doting, indulgent mother, and a weak constitution. Add the fatuous desire of the small town masher to be thought the most devilish of rake-hells, and you have Doggy at his worst.

  The pantomime arrived, a number five company from Manchester, which had wandered to these northern wilds in the hope of putting Cinderella over on the natives. But the natives had been less amenable than expected.

  In Paisley, not bouquets but tomatoes had rained on Samuels’ Touring No. 5, and in Greenock there had been a deluge of ripe eggs. So, by the time Levenford was reached, the morale of the mummers was wilting.

  The comedian wore a slightly tarnished look; the chorus had “the jumps”; and Mr. Samuels was secretly considering urgent business which might call him suddenly back to Manchester.

  Two days after the opening night in the Burgh Hall, Finlay met Doggy Lindsay in the High Street.

  “’Lo, old man!” cried Doggy.

  He rather cultivated Finlay as one versed in the occult mysteries of the body. Doggy’s was a simple mind whose libido expressed itself in yearnings for an illustrated anatomy book.

  “’Lo, old man! Seen the panto?”

  “No!” said Finlay. “Is it good?”

  “Good!” Doggy threw back his head and roared with laughter. “My God, it’s awful! It’s rotten, it’s terrible, it’s tripe! But for all that, Finlay, old man, it’s a scream!”

  He roared again with laughter, and taking Finlay’s arm, demanded:

  “Have ye seen Dandini?”

  “No, no! I tell you I haven’t been near the hall.”

  “Ye must see Dandini, Finlay,” protested Doggy, with streaming eyes. “Before God, ye must see Dandini! She’s it, Finlay. The last word in principal boys. An old cab horse in tights. Ye ken what I mean. Saved from the knacker, and never called me mother. Fifty if she’s a day, dances like a ton of bricks, and a voice ye couldn’t hear below a bowl – oh, heaven save me, but the very thought of her puts me in hysterics.”

  He broke off, quite convulsed by merriment; but mastering himself, he dried his eyes and declared:

  “Ye must see her, old man. ’Pon my soul, you must. It’s a treat not to be missed. I’ve front row seats for every night of the show. Come along with me tonight. Peter Weir is coming too, and Jackson of the Advertiser!”

  Finlay looked at Doggy with mixed feelings; sometimes he liked Doggy quite a lot, sometimes he almost loathed him.

  On the tip of his tongue lay a refusal of Doggy’s invitation, but somehow a vague interest, call it curiosity if you wish, got the better of him. He said rather curtly:

  “I might drop in if I have time. Keep a seat for me in any case.” Then, refusing Doggy’s effusive offer of a “ brandy and splash”, he strode off to continue his calls.

  That night Finlay did “drop in”, having first sounded Cameron on the propriety of the act. Cameron, regarding him quizzically, had assented.

  “Away if ye like, and I’ll finish the surgery. Ye’ll be doing no harm if ye keep young Lindsay out of mischief. He’s a brainless loon – but I’ll swear there’s good in him.”

  The pantomime had scarcely begun when Finlay slipped into his seat, yet already the audience, composed chiefly of young apprentices from the yard, was giving it “the bird”.

  It was actually a poorish show, but acute nervousness on the part of the performers made it quite atrocious. And there was, of course, Dandini – Dandini, principal boy the second – Dandini, mirror of fashion, echo of the court, dashing satellite of the Prince!

  Finlay looked at his programme; Letty le Brun, she called herself. What a name! And what a woman. She was a big, raddled creature with a wasted figure – a hollow bosomed, gaunt-faced spectre, with splashes of rouge on her cheek-bones and palpable stuffing in her tights.

  She walked without spirit danced in a sort of lethargy. She was not called upon to sing one song. Indeed, when the chorus took up the refrain, she barely moved her lips. Finlay could have sworn she did not sing at all. But her eyes fascinated him – big blue eyes that must once have been beautiful, filled now with a mingled misery and contempt.

  Every time she got the laugh, and it was often, those tragic eyes winced in that set and stoic face. It got worse as the show went on; whistling, catcalls, and finally jeers. Doggy was in ecstasy, squeezing Finlay’s arm, rolling about helplessly in his seat.

  “Isn’t, she a scream? Isn’t she a turn? Isn’t she the funniest thing since grandma?” as though she were some new star, and he the impressario who had discovered her.

  But Finlay did not smile. Deep down in his being, something sickened as at the sight of a soul’s abasement.

  At last, amidst a hurricane of derisive applause, the final curtain fell. And Finlay could have cried out with relief. But Doggy was not finished – not, he assured them by a long, long chop.

  “We’ll go round,” he informed them with a wink, “behind the scenes.”

  Something more subtle, some richer satire was in store for them than the crude spectacle of a fusilade of eggs.

  Finlay made to protest, but they were already on their way – Doggy, Jackson and young Weir. So he followed them along the draughty stone corridors of the Burgh Hall, up a creaky flight of steps, into the dressing-room of Letty le Brun.

  It was a communal undressing-room of course, vaguely partitioned, with torn wallpaper and walls that sweated, but most of the company had already departed – glad enough, no doubt, to scramble to their lodgings while they could.

  But Letty was there, sitting at a littered table, slowly fastening up her dress.

  Closer inspection revealed how ravaged was her figure. She had washed the greasepaint from her face, but two bright spots still stood on her cheek-bones, and there were dark shadows under those big blue eyes.

  She inspected them dumbly.

  “Well, boys,” she said at length, not without a certain dignity, “what do you want?”

  Doggy stepped forward, with a notable pretence of gallantry – oh, he was a card right enough, was Doggy Lindsay!

  “Miss le Brun,” said he, almost simpering, “we’ve come round to compliment you and to ask if you would honour us by coming out to supper?”

  Silence, while behind, young Weir struggled with a guffaw.

  “I can’t come out tonight boys. I’m too tired.”

  “Oh, but Miss le Brun –” insisted Doggy, “a little supper! Surely an actress of your experience wouldn’t be too fatigued.”

  She took them all in with that sad and almost tranquil gaze. She knows he’s guying her, thought Finlay with a pang, and she’s taking it like a queen.

  “I might come tomorrow night, if you cared to ask me.”

  Doggy beamed.

  “Capital! Capital!” he gushed, and he named the time and place. Then, covering the ensuing pause in his customary brilliant style, he flashed his gold cigarette-case at her.

  But she shook her head.

  “Not now, thanks.” Her lips made a little smile. “I’ve got a smoker’s cough.”

  Another rather awkward pause. It was not turning out to be so funny as they expected. But Doggy rallied.

  “Well, Miss le Brun, perhaps we’d better say au revoir. We’ll exp
ect you tomorrow night. And again congratulations on your marvellous performance.

  She smiled again quietly as they went out.

  On the following morning, across the breakfast table, Cameron tossed a note that had just come in, to Finlay.

  “Ay!” he announced dryly. “You’d better take this call, seeing you’re so interested in the theatre.”

  It was a note asking the doctor to call on Letty le Brun at her lodgings.

  So it came about that Finlay went in the forenoon to No. 7 Church Street. He went early, impelled by a strange curiosity and a strange shame.

  Something of this emotion must have showed in his face as he entered the room, for Letty smiled at him – almost reassuringly.

  “Don’t look so worried,” she said with less than her usual impassiveness. “I wanted you to come. I found out about you when you’d gone. You were the only one who wasn’t trying to make game of me.”

  She was in bed, surrounded by a few things obviously her own – a photograph in an embossed silver frame, a crystal bottle of Florida water, a little travelling French clock that was now sadly battered but had once been good.

  There was, indeed, a queer fastidiousness about the common room which she alone could have imparted to it. Finlay felt this deeply, and in his voice was a singular constraint as he asked her what he could do for her.

  She motioned him to sit down, and for a moment lay back upon the pillow before she answered:

  “I want you to tell me how long I’ve got to live.”

  His face was a study. It might even have amused her. For she smiled faintly before going on.

  “I’ve got consumption – sorry, I suppose you’d prefer me to say tuberculosis. I’d like you to listen to my lungs and tell me just how long I’ve got to put up with it.”

  He could have cursed himself for his stupidity. He had been blind not to see it. Everything was there – the hectic flush, emaciation, the quickened breathing – everything.

  Now there was no mystery in that strange pathetic lassitude of her performance on the night before. He rose hurriedly, and without a word took his stethoscope. He spent a long time examining her chest, though there was little need for lengthy auscultation, the lesions were so gross.

  Her right lung was completely gone, the left riddled by active foci of the disease. When he had done he was silent.

  “Go on,” she encouraged him. “Don’t be afraid to tell me.”

  At last, with great confusion, he said:

  “You’ve got perhaps six months.”

  “You’re being kind,” she said studying his face. “You really mean six weeks.”

  He did not answer. A great wave of pity swept over him. He gazed at her, trying to reconstruct that haggard face. She was not really old; illness, not years, had aged her. Her eyes were really extremely beautiful; she must once have been a lovely woman – manifestly a woman of taste. And now, mincing grotesquely in the tenth-rate pantomime, the butt of every provincial boor!

  Despite himself, his thoughts came clumsily into words.

  “You’ll not bother about that supper tonight. Clearly you’re not fit to go.”

  “Oh, but I’m going! It’s a long time since. I’ve had a supper invitation. It’s likely to be longer before I have another.”

  “But don’t you see –” he broke in.

  “I see,” she answered. “But if they like, let them have their little joke. That’s what life is – just a little joke.”

  She lay staring away through the window.

  Then, as if recollecting herself, she took her purse from under the pillow and asked to know his fee.

  Finlay coloured violently; her circumstances were so obvious. But there was tact in him, for all his rawness. He had the breeding to name the fee – it was not large – and he took it from her silently.

  As he went out, she said: “I shall see you tonight. I hope.”

  All that day he couldn’t get her out of his mind.

  He found himself longing for the evening to come. He wanted to see her again, to help her if he could, to solve the baffling enigma she presented. Yet, in a sense, he dreaded the evening too. He feared to see her hurt by Doggy’s insufferable ridicule.

  Eleven o’clock came at last, the hour fixed for the supper party. The place was a little restaurant which had recently been opened in Church Street by a man named William Scott, a decent enough spot, frequented chiefly by commercial travellers, and known to Levenford inhabitants – perhaps because of a certain refinement in napery and glass – as the Swank.

  Of course, the Swank was closed long before eleven, but Doggy, who knew everybody and everything, had induced Scott to set out a real good supper before a blazing fire in the smaller room.

  It was, in fact, a very pleasant room with a good carpet and a piano – that was wheeled to a larger hall for dances – standing in the corner by the red plush curtains.

  Finlay was early, but it wasn’t very long before the others arrived, Doggy bursting in first with an air of great consequence, as if to announce that he escorted Royalty.

  “Dandini,” he cried with a flourish. “ Here comes Dandini!”

  Jackson and young Weir had evidently been primed to take their cue from Doggy, for with exaggerated deference they made way for Letty as she came up to the fire.

  She was dressed very plainly in a dark blue dress, and, perhaps because she had rested all the afternoon, she looked better, certainly less haggard about the face.

  They sat in to supper, straight away; some excellent tomato soup, followed by a cold chicken and a fine jellied tongue.

  Then Doggy, with a knowing air, popped the cork from a bottle of champagne and creamed Letty’s glass magnificently.

  “You drink champagne, of course?” he queried, with a wink at Weir.

  She must have seen the wink but she ignored it. She replied simply:

  “I used to like Veuve Cliquot. But I haven’t tasted it for a very long time.”

  “Come, come, Miss le Brun,” remarked Doggy. “You can’t mean that. You pantomime stars do yourselves pretty well, I imagine.”

  With complete equanimity, she answered:

  “No! We have perfectly atrocious food on tour. I haven’t had a decent meal for weeks. That’s why it’s such a treat for me to have this.” She drank a little champagne.

  “It’s very good.”

  “Aha, Miss le Brun,” mocked Doggy. “It’s well seen you’re a connoisseur. You’ve been to many a supper party in your day. Come on, now! Tell us about all these mid-night suppers you’ve been treated to.”

  She looked dreamily into the fire; stretched out her hand as though to capture something of its warmth.

  “Yes, I’ve been taken out to supper. To Romano’s many times, and Gatti’s, too, and the Café Royal.”

  Doggy grinned. It was getting good at last; she was rising to the bait. In a minute he’d have her making speeches on the table.

  With a leer he filled up her glass.

  “That was when you performed in London?”

  “Yes – in London.”

  “Naturally you’ve played in – well – bigger pantomimes than this, Miss le Brun. An artiste of your genius –”

  Finlay gritted his teeth at Doggy’s rudeness, but before he could interfere she shook her head.

  “No! This is my first attempt at pantomime,” – she shot a glance at Finlay – “and my last.”

  “Grand opera was perhaps your speciality?” suggested Doggy insiduously.

  This time she nodded her head quietly.

  “Yes. Grand opera.”

  It was too much, oh, too much. Grand opera! They collapsed. Young Weir let out a guffaw, even the stolid Jackson sniggered. But Doggy choked back his laughter, for fear it should spoil the fun.

  “Excuse them, Miss le Brun; a little champagne has gone the wrong way, I imagine. You were talking about opera, Miss le Brun – grand opera, Miss le Brun.”

  She looked at him with those sad and t
ranquil eyes.

  “You ought to stop calling me that silly name. It’s only part of the pantomime. My real name is Grey – Letty Grey – a common name in Australia, where I come from, but it’s the name I sang under.”

  A curious little silence followed.

  Then Jackson, who prided himself on his press memory, and carried the histories of celebrities in his head, let out a long, derisive whistle.

  “Letty Grey! You’re not trying to make out that you’re the Letty Grey!”

  “Don’t believe me if you don’t wish to.”

  “But Letty Grey was famous. She came over from Australia to sing at Covent Garden. She sang ‘ Isolde’, ‘Aida’, ‘La Boheme’. She had a triumph in ‘ Madame Butterfly’. Ten years ago Letty Grey was the toast of London.”

  “And now she’s here.”

  Jackson stared at her incredulously.

  “I don’t believe you,” he declared bluntly. “ Letty Grey could sing. But you cannot sing for toffee.”

  She emptied her glass. The champagne whizzing through her head had set an unaccustomed sparkle in her eyes, and her cheeks were deeply flushed.

  “You’ve never heard me sing,” and there was a strange scorn in her tone. “I haven’t sung for years.”

  She looked again at Finlay.

  “He could tell you why. But I’ve a mind to sing now. Yes, I believe I will sing now. I’ll sing to the gentlemen to pay for my supper.”

  Now she was like a queen talking to a group of country bumpkins.

  Doggy and Weir watched her with their mouths agape as she rose and walked over to the piano.

  She opened the piano and let her fingers fall upon the keys. She paused – a long, dramatic pause. Then, throwing back her head, she filled her chest deeply and began to sing. She sang in German – one of Schubert’s lieder. Her voice, uncertain for a moment, like an instrument long unused, swelled up in the little room with a purity that was divine.

  Up, up, up went the voice, lifting them with it, thrilling the very air with its celestial harmony.