1951 - But a Short Time to Live (7 page)

"This'll please Mooney," Harry thought as he turned the film winder on and screwed in another flashbulb. "Two more, and then I'll pack up."

In a few more minutes the crowds would be coming out of the cinemas, and there'd be no point in trying to get any more photographs with so many people about. And besides, Harry felt chilly. He had been standing against a lamppost opposite the Warner Cinema for the past two and a half hours. It was cold work, and he wouldn't be sorry to get home.

He looked towards the London Hippodrome. There weren't many people about now. In the distance, coming from Long Acre, he caught sight of a man and woman. He watched them, holding the camera in readiness, and then as they passed under the bright lights of the Hippodrome, he recognised the girl: it was Clair!

It was extraordinary how, at the sight of her, his blood seemed to rush through his veins, and his heart began to pound.

For a second or so he hesitated, not sure whether he wanted her to see him or not. But what did it matter? he thought. She knows what I do, and what have I to be ashamed of? Besides, it would be a wonderful opportunity to have a photograph of her.

They were only a few yards away now. She was walking by the man's side, her light coat slung over her shoulders, the empty sleeves flapping in the wind.

Harry had scarcely time to notice the man, except he seemed tall and bulky. He swung up his camera. Clair appeared in the camera sight. She was looking right at him. He couldn't see her expression, but he had the impression from the sudden tilting of her chin and a slight falter in her stride that she was aware she was about to be photographed, then he pressed the combined shutter release and flashgun.

He had a lightning glimpse of her face in the brilliant white flash. She was looking right at him; then, smiling, he offered her his card.

She walked by him, looking sharply away, brushing past his hand and knocking the card out of his fingers. She went on, not looking back, as if she had never met him before; as if he was a complete stranger.

He looked blankly after her.

A hand touched his arm. He turned quickly to find the tall, bulky man at his side.

Harry took an immediate dislike to the pink, fat face and the hard little eyes.

"I don't think I like this," Brady said softly. "What exactly do you think you're doing?"

Harry bent quickly, picked up the card and offered it to Brady.

"Sorry if I startled you," he said, wondering who this fat spiv was. "You've just been photographed — you and the young lady. If you care to call tomorrow at that address, the prints will be ready. There's no obligation to buy."

"How very interesting," Brady said, and showed his gold-capped teeth. "I have a mind to call a policeman. You hawkers are a damned pest. You shouldn't be allowed on the streets."

Harry felt the blood rise in his face.

"You needn't have the photograph if you don't want it," he said, trying to control the anger in his voice. "Most people like to be photographed."

"But I'm not most people, my funny little man," Brady said, ignoring the fact that Harry was an inch or so taller than he. He tore up the card. "If you ever bother me again I'll give you in charge."

Before Harry could think of a suitable retort, Brady had walked away, his black square-shouldered overcoat open and flapping in the wind, his hands in his trouser pockets, his homburg hat tilted rakishly over one eye. He disappeared up a side street, leading to Lisle Street, leaving Harry, hot and furious, staring after him.

The incident spoilt Harry's evening. Why had Clair cut him like that? Perhaps she hadn't recognised him. Surely she wouldn't have walked past him without a word if she had recognised him?

Who was this fat spiv who looked as if he was made of money and someone in the black market? Could he be one of Clair's advertising clients? Somehow Harry couldn't believe that.

Angrily he wound off the film and put it in his pocket. Well, anyway he had a picture of Clair now.

That was something.

The crowds were beginning to pour out of the five cinemas around Leicester Square, and Harry decided to go to the studio and then get off home.

He, too, turned up the side street, leading to Lisle Street, wondering if he would be lucky enough to catch sight of Clair again; but apart from a couple of middle-aged women standing at the corner who called out to him, Lisle Street was deserted. He continued up Wardour Street, turned down a narrow side street that would bring him to Old Compton Street.

He had only walked a few yards down this dark little street when someone whistled softly behind him. He looked around, peering into the darkness.

A squat, thickset man came quickly out of the darkness. As he passed under a dim street lamp, Harry saw he was hatless and had a mass of tow-coloured hair. He appeared to be wearing a black suit and a dark shirt. Except for the dim blur of white that was his face, the rest of him was almost as dark as the night.

"Did you want me?" Harry asked, thinking probably he had lost his way and wanted to ask Harry where he was.

The man came to a standstill a few feet from Harry. The light from the street lamp reflected on his extraordinary mop of hair, but the rest of his face was in shadows.

"Were you the fella who was taking photographs just now?" he asked. He had a faint lisp, and his voice was low-pitched and nasal.

"Why, yes," Harry said, surprised. "Was there something . . . ?"

He broke off as the man stepped closer, instinctively feeling that he was up to no good. A fist shot out of the darkness towards him and he ducked, twisting to one side, knowing with a sudden pang of fear that the blow was merely a feint to get him out of position. He tried desperately hard to jump clear, but he was already off balance, and he only succeeded in stumbling back and in his endeavour to regain his balance he slipped off the kerb and fell on one knee.

Something hit him on the side of his head. A vivid streak of light blinded him, and then he seemed to be falling into thick, suffocating darkness.

chapter eight

C
lair had recognised Harry. She had spotted him too late to steer Brady away from him, and her heart sank when Harry let off his flashgun. She knew Brady would be furious. She had walked past Harry, pretending she didn't recognise him because she was anxious Brady shouldn't know who he was.

She had made up her mind that Brady was not going to get his hands on Harry's three hundred pounds, and somehow or other she was determined to keep them apart.

She didn't look back when Brady stopped to speak to Harry. She knew if she showed any interest or annoyance Brady would immediately guess who Harry was, so she kept on, hating to walk away, uneasy and alarmed as to what Brady was saying.

She walked up Lisle Street to the Tamiami Club, paused for a moment to look over her shoulder, and then climbed the stairs to the club. She wanted to go back to see what Brady was doing, but restrained herself. She hoped he wasn't being too beastly to Harry, and wondered how she should explain him away to Harry when next they met.

The bar was deserted. The white-coated barman moved along the horseshoe shaped bar towards her and raised plucked eyebrows at her. His thin, white face was disinterested, and his eyes, under mascara-coated eyelashes, were jaded.

"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

M
ooney 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."