1951 - But a Short Time to Live (3 page)

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

A
s 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 always 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?"

She dropped her handbag on the table and crossed the room to inspect herself in the mirror above the fireplace.

"Oh, about two years," she said carelessly. "It isn't bad. Well, sit down. I'll get you a drink. What would you like? Gin, whisky, or beer? I'm going to have whisky. Have one with me?"

"Thank you," Harry said, "but can't I get it?"

"If you want to. You'll find the things over there. Are you hungry? I am. I haven't had a thing since breakfast."

"Haven't you?" Harry said. "But, why?"

"Oh, I couldn't be bothered. When you live alone as I do, meals are such a bore. You get the drinks. I won't be a moment."

Harry was surprised to see the number of gin and whisky bottles in the cabinet. There were twenty full bottles of whisky and twelve full bottles of gin, and he whistled under his breath.

"Wherever did you get all this whisky?" he asked, raising his voice as she had gone into another room, leaving the door open.

"Oh, I got it. There's not much I can't get. You can have a couple of bottles if you like."

"No, thank you," Harry said hurriedly. "I seldom drink it." He poured a small whisky into a glass.

"How do you like yours?"

"About two fingers," she called back. "Don't be mean with it. There's some soda at the bottom of the cupboard and I'm bringing the ice."

In a very short time she came back with a tray containing plates of cold chicken, brown bread and butter, lettuce, a Camembert cheese and biscuits.

"Will this be all right?" she asked as she dumped the tray on the settee. "I have some tongue if you'd prefer that."

Harry gaped at the food.

"Why, it's a feast!" he exclaimed. "I can't rob you of this. I can't really."

She stared at him, raising her eyebrows, and when she did that it was extraordinary how hard she looked.

"My dear idiot, what are you yammering about? You're not robbing me. It's here to eat, so eat it."

"But will you be all right tomorrow?"

"All right? Of course I will. What do you mean?"

"Well, I'm eating you out of house and home, aren't I?"

"You talk as if there's no food in the country."

"Well, is there?" Harry asked, and grinned. "I don't find much."

"That's because you don't know where to look for it," she said, and patted the settee. "Sit down and stop acting like a fugitive from a ration book. And for goodness' sake give yourself a better drink than that. That wouldn't drown a fly."

"Oh, it's all right. I'm not used to whisky," Harry said, sitting down. He took a plate of chicken she gave him and rested it on his knee. "You know this is a bit like a dream. Do you usually take compassion on people and feed them like this?"

"No, I don't, but you're rather a special case, aren't you?" and she gave him a quick searching look.

Her remark and look reminded him of the wallet which had gone completely out of his mind.

"Did you really take his wallet?" he asked anxiously.

"Of course I did," she said, and pointed her chin at him, her eyes defiant. "He needed a lesson and he's got it. I know where he lives and I'll send it back tomorrow."

"But it's — it's not my business, of course," Harry said, worried. "If he had fifty pounds in it, wasn't it rather reckless to take it? I mean anyone might think —"

"Might think I meant to keep it?" she asked and laughed. "I suppose they might. Why else do you think I palmed it off on you? I was scared out of my pants when the old fool found it had gone. I didn't think he'd find out until we had parted."

"But why did you do it?" Harry asked, staring at her.

"He was a filthy old man. He thought I was a tart, so I pretended I was, and when he put his wallet on the table I hid it in my bag. He was so tight he forgot all about it. I meant to give it back to him after he had had a shock, then I forgot I had it. Then when he made a scene about it I decided to keep quiet. That's all there's to it. I'll post it back to him tomorrow. I bet he's in a proper old stew now, and serve him right."

Harry didn't like that kind of thing, but he didn't say so. In fact he felt sorry for Wingate.

"Would you like me to take it back tonight and explain?" he asked. "I will if you like."

"Certainly not!" she snapped, and for a moment a cold, angry look came into her eyes, then she forced a laugh. "Don't be such a fuss-pot. He'll get it back, but he's going to sweat first." She held out her empty glass. "Give me another drink and have one yourself. Chicken all right?"

Harry said the chicken was fine, although he had scarcely tasted it, and as he got up he looked at her questioningly.

"Fuss-pot!" she said. "Do you always worry about such little things?"

"Well, no but—"

"Tell me about yourself," she said, interrupting him. "What do you do?"

Harry hesitated. It was no use being ashamed of your job, he thought. If he was going to see her again she would have to know. Now he was beginning to get used to her he had a feeling that perhaps she wouldn't care what he did as she obviously didn't care about his shabby clothes.