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Authors: James Hadley Chase

1951 - But a Short Time to Live (6 page)

BOOK: 1951 - But a Short Time to Live
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"You talk as if I was going to marry her," Harry said, snapping off the light. He was thankful he hadn't told Ron about Clair's views on married life. "How could I marry a girl like her? She must earn ten times as much as I do."

"I wonder," Ron said, out of the darkness. "I suppose I am over suspicious, but this yam about being a model sounds a little far-fetched to me. I can't see any firm giving a model such expensive gifts — not these days. An M.G. sports car runs into a good many hundreds. Doesn't that sound a bit steep to you?"

It did sound odd to Harry, but he wouldn't have admitted it to save his life.

"Oh, rot!" he said shortly. "How else do you think she got it?"

"Even in these days of austerity there are still a few rich men left who set girls up in flats and give them expensive presents. There are also still a number of girls in the West End who sell themselves and make big money. That seems a far more likely explanation than the one she's given you."

"Oh, I knew you were bound to say that sooner or later,"

Harry said heatedly. "But you're absolutely wrong. There's nothing like that about her at all."

Ron sighed.

"All right, Harry, I'm wrong. I hope I am. But watch out. Don't get in a mess, and if you do, don't be a mug and keep it to yourself. Maybe I could help."

"I don't know what's the matter with you tonight," Harry said crossly, thumping his pillow.

"You're making a cockeyed fuss about nothing. I'm going to sleep. Good-night."

But he remained awake long after Ron had fallen asleep. His mind was in a whirl. He wished now he hadn't told Ron about Clair. He might have known Ron would have been sour about her. Ron was talking a lot of bosh. Clair wasn't like Sheila at all. She wasn't like anyone. She was marvellous; the most wonderful, the most attractive girl in the world. Of course, it was awkward she had so much money. If he was going to see her often — and he was determined he was — then he'd have to do something about getting more money himself. He had been working for Mooney now for three years. It was time he had a rise. He decided to ask Mooney for another ten shillings a week. But that, of course, wouldn't help him much if he was to take Clair out regularly. Ten shillings went nowhere these days. He would have to think of some other means of making money, unless he drew on capital. After all, if he couldn't manage, he could always draw a pound or two from the Post Office. With this thought to comfort him, he went to sleep.

 

 

chapter six

 

A
lf Mooney had once overheard a girl say he reminded her of Adolph Menjou, and he had never forgotten it. Perhaps he was a little like Adolph Menjou. He had the same sad expression, the same heavy bags under his eyes, the same drooping moustache and the same pointed chin.

Because of this resemblance, Mooney habitually wore a soft slouch hat at the back of his head, and a hand-painted American tie which he knotted loosely below the open V of his collar. He seldom wore a coat in the studio, and went around in his shirtsleeves; his waistcoat hanging open and held together by his watch chain. A dead cigar which he kept in the comer of his mouth, and which often made him feel sick, completed the American pose: a pose that fooled no one except Mooney himself.

For the past forty years, Mooney had struggled unsuccessfully to make his fortune. He had tried most things. He had been a bookmaker, a sailor, a door-to-door salesman, a taxi-driver, a space salesman and a manager of one of Woolworth's stores. He had made money and lost it, made it again and lost it again. One year he was up, and the next he was down. One week he was driving about in a second-hand American car, the next week he was travelling on buses. Things never went right for him for long. He was either in the money or out of it. There seemed no happy medium for Mooney.

At the moment he was going downhill again. Three years ago he had won five hundred pounds from a football pool promotion, and had opened the Camera Studio in the hope that if someone else did the work, his luck might change. He employed three young fellows — of whom Harry was one — to take people's photographs in the streets, and a young girl, Doris Rogers, to develop and print the films and handle the customers. Mooney limited his own activities to lounging in the shop doorway, imagining he was giving the shop what he called "character\par Somehow the business had held together for three years. This was a record for Mooney, but he could see the red light now, and he was already wondering what the next move was to be.

So when Harry asked him for a ten-shilling rise, he just lounged back in his desk chair and laughed bitterly.

"Have a heart, kid," he said, waving his dead cigar at Harry. "It just can't be done. Business is so lousy it won't be long before I put the shutters up. Look at that lot you brought in yesterday. How many suckers do you think'll come in and buy prints? Not a dozen! I'll tell you something, Harry. This racket's washed up. There are too many at it. Besides, money's tight People haven't got half a dollar to throw away on a photo."

Harry liked Mooney. In all his dealings with him he had never known him to go back on his word or tell a lie. If he said business was bad and the shop likely to be shut down Harry knew he wasn't just saying it to avoid giving him a rise. The news dismayed him. if Mooney went out of business, Harry would lose his job and six pounds a week, and the thought alarmed him.

"Then what will you do, Mr. Mooney?" he asked, sitting on the edge of the desk. "How much longer do you think you can carry on?"

"The thing I like about you, Harry," Mooney said, "is you're unselfish. I can talk to you where I couldn't talk to those other jerks. All they think about is what's in it for them. Now look, kid, how about putting some money into this business? I've talked about it before; but if you want to save your job, now's the time to do something about it. You have a natural eye for a good photograph. You understand the finer points of the racket. If we could set up a portrait studio I'm pretty darned sure we'd hit the jack— pot. This street corner stuffs no use. It's a novelty people can do without. But a good portrait — that's another thing. We could clean up in a big way if only you'd get wise and come in with me. Now look, suppose I give you fifty per cent of the take and five per cent on your capital? How's that, kid? That's fair, isn't it? We could get rid of the other jerks. Doris could stay, but she'd have to take a cut in salary. We could get our overheads down to fifteen quid a week. You should clear that for yourself after a month or so. What do you say?"

Harry shook his head.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Mooney, but I can't risk my money. It's all I have, and I'm sticking to it. This isn't the district to set up a portrait studio. It's a West End trade; not Soho."

"That's where you're wrong," Mooney said. "Okay, I know I'm stuck with this lease, but even at that, these spicks around here have got money. They're as human as the rest of us, and they'll want a nice picture of themselves. We could break new ground if only you'd use your head."

"I'm sorry," Harry repeated firmly, "but I'm not convinced."

Mooney lifted his shoulders helplessly.

"Well, all right, kid, it's your dough. But I'm warning you unless something crops up within the next month I'll have to make a change." He hoisted his feet on to the desk and tilted back his chair. "As a matter of fact I might do worse than go into the dyeing and cleaning racket. I know a guy who's looking for extra business in that line. I could use these premises as a clearinghouse and send the stuff to him to handle. But there wouldn't be anything in it for you. I'd have to run the place on my own."

"That's the way it will have to be then, Mr. Mooney," Harry said, gloomily, "but perhaps it won't come to that."

Leaving Mooney staring up at the ceiling in what he called his suicidal mood, Harry went into the darkroom to discuss the crisis with Doris Rogers.

Doris was short and plump with a mass of frizzy black hair, a turned-up nose and a smile that made you her friend the moment you saw her. Harry knew little about her, for she never talked about herself.

She was a tremendous worker, and Mooney imposed on her, paying her badly and shifting as much of his own work on to her plump young shoulders as he could. She never grumbled, never seemed to mind if she had to work late, and didn't appear to have any private life of her own.

Harry liked her. She was the kind of girl you could be friendly with and confide in without any of the usual complications. He admired her quickness and skill, and her natural talent for spotting a good picture, and he always listened to her opinions with respect.

As soon as she saw his gloomy expression she knew what the trouble was.

“Has he been moaning again?" she asked, as she stirred a batch of prints in the hypo bath.

"Worse than that. He says he's going to shut down next month if things don't get better."

Doris sniffed scornfully.

"Well, it's his own fault. He never does anything; never gets any new ideas." She transferred the prints to the washer. "What will you do, Harry?"

"I don't know. I suppose I could try Quick-Fotos, but they may not want me. I don't know. I wish I did. What will you do?"

Doris shrugged.

"Oh, I'll find something," she said cheerfully, and paused in her work to smile at Harry.

"Something always turns up. Why don't you tell him about that idea of yours — taking photos at night? We've talked about it for months and never done anything about it. Now's the time. I'm sure it would work. You might even screw some more money out of him if you try hard enough. After all, you'd have to work much longer hours."

"I'd forgotten all about it," Harry said. "I'll have a word with him right away, Doris. If he falls for it I'll make him put me on a percentage basis."

"That's right," Doris said. "Don't stand any nonsense from him."

Mooney was still lolling in his chair, feeling sorry for himself, when Harry came in. He gave Harry a bleak look, and asked, "Now what's the trouble? Never have a minute's peace in this place. It's a wonder I'm not worn out."

"I have an idea, Mr. Mooney, that might be worth trying," Harry said. "I've been thinking about it for some time. Why not switch from day to night photography? Let's give them something new. They might be more interested to have a picture of themselves at night; at least, it's a novelty."

Mooney saw the possibilities at once, but as he hadn't thought of the idea himself he curbed his enthusiasm. Instead, he closed his eyes and looked gloomier than ever.

"It's not a bad idea, of course," he said grudgingly, "but there are snags. For one thing you'll need a flashgun, and that costs money. Then there are flashbulbs, and they cost money too. The trouble is I haven't the money to spare."

"I have a flashgun," Harry said. "I bought it years ago, and seldom use it, and I'll pay for the bulbs."

Mooney opened his eyes and sat up.

"What was that again?"

Harry repeated what he had said.

"That's fine," Mooney said, then suddenly looked suspicious. "Where's the catch?"

Harry grinned at him.

"I want a third of the profits, Mr. Mooney, as well as my salary. You see, it'd mean I'd be working much longer hours, and I'd be supplying the flashgun and bulbs, and it's my idea too. I wouldn't do it unless you gave me a third."

"Have a heart, kid," Mooney protested. "A third! Look, don't let's quarrel about this. We'll make it a quarter, and you pay for the bulbs. How's that?"

"A third or nothing. I need the money. It's got to be a third or nothing."

"Suppose I said nothing?" Mooney said craftily. Where would you be then?"

"I'd take the idea to Quick-Fotos. They'd jump at it."

Mooney nearly fell out of his chair.

"Quick-Fotos?" he bellowed. "They're just a bunch of crooks. What's got into you, Harry? You wouldn't leave me for a cheap-jack firm like that, would you?"

"There's nothing cheap-jack about them, Mr. Mooney," Harry said firmly. "They're doing first— class work. If you can't see your way to pay me a third, then I'll have to go to them. That's all there's to it."

Mooney began to bluster, but seeing the determined look in Harry's eyes realised he wouldn't be persuaded, so reluctantly he gave way.

"All right, kid, if that's how you feel about it. You can have a third. But who's turned you into a businessman? What do you want money for?"

"Who doesn't want money?" Harry said, turning red.

Mooney studied him for a moment, and then exclaimed: "Suffering cats! You're not thinking of getting married, are you? Is that why you want the money. Some dame, eh?"

Harry edged towards the door.

"We don't have to go into that, Mr. Mooney. I'll go home now and get the flashgun. May as well make a start tonight."

"All right, kid. When you're through come along and tell me how you've got on. I'll stay here until ten-thirty. Don't be later than that'

"All right," Harry said and made for the door, "Oh, Harry . . ." Mooney said. Harry paused in the doorway. "Yes, Mr. Mooney?"

"What's she like, kid? Pretty, huh? Have you made her yet?" And Mooney closed one eye and leered.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Harry said indignantly, and almost ran out of the office.

Mooney tilted back his chair and began to sing in a loud, unmusical voice: "Love is the sweetest thing."

 

 

chapter seven

 

T
he night turned out to be moonlight and dry. There was a chilly wind blowing, but Harry didn't mind about that. The important thing was that it was dry. He had chosen Leicester Square for his work, and now, at ten o'clock with only three flashbulbs left, he knew the idea was a success.

He had taken over fifty pictures, and was confident he wouldn't have more than five per cent failures. He had been careful to pick his subjects, and in every case he had had no trouble when he handed out his card. The novelty of the flashlight seemed to appeal to the crowd. Perhaps it was because so many film stars had been photographed in Leicester Square that the boys and girls Harry took imagined they had suddenly become celebrities overnight. Harry was sure that had something to do with it.

BOOK: 1951 - But a Short Time to Live
13.36Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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