The Paw in the Bottle

I

Rain pounded down on the pavements, and water, inches deep, ran in the gutters as Harry Gleb came up the escalator of New Bond Street underground. He paused at the station exit and surveyed the night sky, heavy with sullen black clouds in dismayed disgust.

‘My infernal luck,’ he thought angrily. ‘Not a hope of a taxi. Damn and blast it! I’ll have to walk. The old mare’ll be livid if I’m late.’ He shot his cuff to look at his gold wrist-watch. ‘If this perisher’s right, I’m late already.’

After hesitating for a few minutes, he turned up his coat collar and, still swearing under his breath, set off quickly along the wet, greasy pavement, his head bent against the driving rain.

‘This about rounds off a mucking awful day,’ he told himself as he hurried along, rain dripping from the brim of his hat and splashing against his legs. ‘Cigarette deal falls through, blasted dog comes in fourth, forty quid down the drain, and now this mucking rain.’

From habit he walked in the shadows and avoided the street lights. Half-way down New Bond Street he spotted the faint gleam of steel buttons. Automatically he crossed the road.

‘West End’s lousy with bogies,’ he thought, hunching his broad shoulders as if he expected a heavy hand to fall on them. ‘That fella’s as big and strong as an ox. Doing nothing except making a nuisance of himself. He’d be a lot more useful down a mine.’

He recrossed the road when he had put a hundred yards or so between the policeman and himself and turned down Mayfair Street. After he had walked a few yards, he looked over his shoulder. Satisfied there was no one to see where he was going, he stepped into a doorway next to an antique bookseller’s shop and entered a dimly lit lobby.

A blonde woman in a leather jacket and flannel slacks, an umbrella under her arm, was coming down the stone stairs.

She paused when she saw him and her hard, painted face brightened.

‘Why, hello, chéri, were you coming to see me?’

‘Not on your life,’ Harry said shortly. ‘I’ve a lot better things to waste my money on than you.’ Seeing the bitter twist of her lips, he went on in a kinder tone: ‘And listen, Fan, you might just as well put up the shutters. You won’t find any suckers on the streets to-night. It’s raining like hell, and there’s no one around except the bogies.’

‘There’s you,’ the woman said, and smiled invitingly.

Harry felt sorry for her. He was on friendly terms with most of the tarts in the West End, and he knew Fan was having a thin time. She was getting too old for the game and competition was cut-throat.

‘Sorry, Fan, but I’m busy to-night.’ He shook the rain from his hat, asked: ‘Anyone gone up yet?’

‘Bernstein and that stinker, Theo. The little swine offered me half a dollar.’

Harry hid a grin.

‘Don’t worry about Theo. No one does. He’s got a dirty sense of humour.’

The woman’s eyes gleamed angrily.

‘I’ll fix him one day. I’ve met some dirty rats in my time, but the things that little beast says to me turns my stomach.’

‘The look of him turns mine,’ Harry said carelessly. ‘Well, so long, Fan.’

‘Come and see me when you’ve finished,’ she urged. ‘I’ll give you a good time, Harry. I will — honest.’

Harry suppressed a shudder.

‘One of these days, but not tonight. I’m taking Dana home. Here, get your little paws on this.’ He held out a couple of pound notes. ‘Buy yourself a keepsake.’

‘Thanks, Harry.’ The woman took the money eagerly. ‘You’re a nice boy.’

‘I know I am,’ he returned, grinned, and went on up the stairs. ‘Poor mare,’ he thought. ‘She’s getting fat and old. Give me a good time — ugh!’

At the head of the stairs he paused outside a door on which was the inscription:

He waited a moment, then tip-toed to the banisters and looked into the lobby below. The blonde woman was standing in the doorway, staring up at the falling rain. As he watched, she put up her umbrella and moved into the street. He shook his head, shrugged, and rapped on the door.

A light flashed on inside the room and the shadow of a girl appeared on the frosted panel of the door, a key turned in the lock and the door opened.

‘Hello, it’s me,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Last to arrive as usual.’

‘Come on in, Harry. They’re waiting for you.’

‘Let them wait.’ He pulled the girl to him and kissed her. Her lips felt warm and yielding against his. ‘You’re looking swell. How do you do it, and after last night, too?’

‘Don’t talk about last night.’ She smiled up at him. ‘I had an awful head this morning.’

‘As hard and as beautiful as a diamond,’ he thought, ‘and as expensive.’

‘Come on, Harry, they’re waiting. You know what Mother is.’ She touched his face with slender caressing fingers.

He put his arm round her.

‘What’s she want? I haven’t seen her for weeks, and I’m damned if I want to see her now. Every time I see her there’s trouble.’

‘Don’t be silly, Harry. Do come on, and don’t do that! You’re getting too free with your hands.’

He grinned as he followed her across the small office into an inner room, lit by a desk lamp, its bright beam focused on a white blotting pad on the big desk. The room was full of cigarette smoke and dark shadows.

Mrs. French sat at the desk. Sydney Bernstein and Theo sat facing her. They all looked up as Harry came in.

‘You’re ten minutes late,’ Mrs. French said sharply. She was a bulky woman with a sallow complexion and sharp, bright eyes. She wore jet ear-rings that bobbed and flashed in the lamplight.

‘Couldn’t help it,’ Harry said airily. ‘It’s raining cats and dogs. Hark at it. No taxis. Had to walk.’ He stripped off his overcoat, tossed it on a chair. ‘Hello, Syd, boy; how’s things? Blimey! Is that young Pimples biting his nails in the dark? How are the spots and boils, Theo, my beauty?’

‘Get stuffed,’ Theo snarled from out of the darkness.

Harry laughed good naturedly.

‘What a lovely boy!’ He rested his big hands on the desk and beamed at Mrs. French. ‘Well, here I am; better late than never. What’s cooking?’

‘Yes, let’s get it over, Mother,’ Dana said impatiently. ‘I want to go to bed.’

‘Sit down, Harry.’ Mrs. French waved to a chair near her. ‘It’s time we did another job together.’

Harry sat down.

‘Is it? Well, I don’t know.’ He took out a packet of Players, lit one and tossed the packet to Bernstein. ‘The bogies are getting a bit hot, Ma. Look at the way they picked up Parry last night. The poor mutt hadn’t left the house before they nabbed him. They’re right on their toes just now. That mucker who shot Rawson’s done it. Start shooting coppers and there’s trouble. I don’t know if this is the right time for a job.’

Mrs. French made an impatient gesture.

‘Parry’s a fool. He just wanders around looking for an open window. This is a good job, Harry; a planned job. There’s no risk to it.’

Harry snatched up his cigarettes as Theo’s dirty hand reached for them.

‘No, you don’t!’ he snapped. ‘You buy your own damned fags.’

Theo cursed him under his breath.

‘Shut up!’ Mrs. French barked. ‘I’m talking.’

‘Sorry, Ma; go ahead,’ Harry said with an apologetic grin. ‘What have you got in mind?’

‘How would you like to take a crack at the Wesley furs?’ Harry stiffened. His breath whistled down his nostrils. ‘Hey! Now, wait a minute. Are you trying to get me put away for five years? I’m not all that wet, you know.’

‘That’s what I say,’ Bernstein broke in vehemently. He was a little man with a face as brown and as wrinkled as a monkey’s. His hands were covered with fine black hairs, and hair grew in coarse tufts on his wrists and showed above his shirt collar. ‘Be reasonable. It’s no use running your head against a brick wall. The Wesley furs! It’s madness!’

‘But you’ll take them if we get them?’ Mrs. French asked, her eyes hardening.

He nodded.

‘Yes; but you haven’t a hope of getting them. Why don’t you be reasonable?’

‘Are you serious?’ This from Harry. ‘You know what we’d be up against?’

‘I know.’ Mrs. French tapped ash from her cigarette on to the floor. Her mouth was a hard line. ‘It won’t be easy, but it can be done.’

‘I say not!’ Bernstein said and thumped his small, hairy fist on the desk. ‘Four have tried it. Look what happened to them. It’s too dangerous.’

‘He’s right, you know,’ Harry said, pulling a face. ‘But it would be a sweet job if we could pull it off. Still, I don’t fancy our chances, Ma.’

‘You’re talking like a fool,’ Mrs. French said angrily. ‘You don’t know anything about the job; only what you’ve heard. All right, four fools have tried to get the furs. None of them took the trouble to find out how the safe operates. They didn’t use their brains because they hadn’t any brains to use.’

‘You’re wrong,’ Bernstein said, shifting forward on his chair. ‘Frank took a lot of trouble. He spent four months casing the place, but he was nabbed before he even opened the safe. What do you say to that?’

‘We can learn from the mistakes of others. It means there’s an alarm on the safe that rings if the safe is touched. We’re going to find out about that. That’s the first thing we’re going to do.’

‘And how are we going to do that?’ Harry inquired.

‘Mrs. Wesley wants a maid. She’s tried all the other agencies, and now she’s come to me. I’ve been waiting a long time for this chance.’

‘And we put in a plant?’ Harry looked interested. ‘That’s an idea, Ma. It might even work.’

‘It will work. If we can get a girl in there who’ll keep her eyes open she might find out how the safe operates. If she does, will you take on the job?’

‘I might.’ Harry scratched his head. He thought of Parry. Only the night before last they had played snooker together. Now Parry was in a cell. A job as big as the Wesley furs would carry a five year stretch. He flinched at the thought. ‘It’ll be some job, Ma. I’d like to know more about it first. Is Theo coming in?’

Theo stopped biting his nails to say, ‘Course I am. I ain’t windy if you are.’

‘One of these days I’m going to flatten those pimples of yours, you little ape,’ Harry said amiably, ‘and I’ll flatten your face with them.’

‘We can’t do anything without the girl,’ Mrs. French broke in. ‘Know anyone who’d do the job, Harry?’

‘Well, I know a lot of girls,’ Harry said, and looked out of the corners of his eyes at Dana. ‘Depends on what kind of girl you want.’

‘I want someone smart and young with good appearance and who wants to pick up some quick money,’ Mrs. French said promptly. ‘I’ll take care of the references.’

Harry tilted back his chair and stared up at the ceiling. ‘Well, there is a girl,’ he said, after a pause. ‘She’s a smart kid. Her name’s Julie Holland. She works for Sam Hewart at the Bridge Café. Syd’s seen her. Think she’d do, Syd?’

Bernstein shrugged. A scowl darkened his wrinkled face.

‘I don’t know. She might, but she’d have to watch her temper. She’s a bad-tempered little bitch.’

Harry laughed.

‘He’s prejudiced, Ma. He pinched her bottom the other night and she caught him a slap in his puss. Laugh! I nearly bust my truss. Don’t listen to him. I think she’d do. She’s got the looks and she’s nobody’s fool. Hewart thinks a lot of her and you know how careful he has to be.’

‘Do the police know her?’ Mrs. French asked.

‘No, nothing like that. She’s kept clear of trouble, but I know she’s after big money. She’s told me a bit about herself. She’s ambitious and fed up with scraping along on a few quid a week. I think she’s reckless enough to take a chance if the money’s good enough.’

‘We can’t tell her anything. It’s too risky. And when the job’s done, we’d have to be sure she keeps her mouth shut. The police will guess it’s an inside job and they’ll pick on her. We’d have to make very sure she won’t talk if things went wrong.’

Theo leaned forward so the light fell on his face.

‘Let him find the bride. I’ll see she doesn’t talk,’ he said.

Theo was a short, stocky youth with long, dark hair that fell in lank, greasy strands over his ears and on to his coat collar. His round, pasty face was inflamed with blackheads and pimples, and his green eyes were close-set and cruel. He wore a shiny blue serge suit, baggy and shapeless, and his wreck of a hat, resting far back on his head, looked like a dead, furry animal that had been left in the gutter. There was something horribly vicious and spiteful in his expression and they looked at him, startled. There was a sudden uneasy tension in the room.

‘No violence,’ Bernstein said quickly. ‘I don’t stand for violence.’

‘Get stuffed,’ Theo said, and withdrew into the darkness again.

‘And that goes for me, too,’ Harry said sharply. ‘You’re a bit too keen on bashing girls, Pimples. One of these days you’ll get a bash yourself, right in your ugly snout.’

‘Cut it out!’ Mrs. French snapped. ‘We must have the girl or we can’t do the job. Does she like you, Harry?’

Harry grinned.

‘Well, she doesn’t exactly hate me. It’s a rum thing, but girls do go soft on me. Don’t ask me why.’ He hastily moved his leg as Dana kicked out at him. ‘Present company excepted, of course,’ he went on, winking. ‘But this kid goes all dewy-eyed when she sees me, if that means anything.’

‘Work on her,’ Mrs. French said. ‘She won’t talk if you handle her right; not if she’s soft on you.’

‘You and your damned women,’ Dana said angrily. ‘Why don’t you grow up?’

‘I’m getting along fine as I am,’ Harry said, patting her hand. ‘They mean nothing to me. You know that.’

‘Why don’t you two go somewhere and have a nice cry together? You make me spew,’ Theo sneered.

‘I’ll bash this fat ape in a moment,’ Harry said wrathfully.

‘Work on this girl, Harry,’ Mrs. French said, scowling at Theo. ‘We can’t do anything until we’ve got her. I’ll want her in about a week. Can you manage it by then?’

‘Now, wait a minute. I didn’t say I was going to do the job. What’s in it for me? It’s got to be convincing or I’m not interested.’

Mrs. French was expecting this. She picked up a pencil and pulled a pad of paper towards her.

‘The furs are insured for thirty thousand. Suppose we say we’ll get seventeen for them?’ She looked inquiringly at Bernstein.

‘It’s no good looking at me,’ Bernstein said sharply. ‘I don’t know what they’re worth until I’ve seen them. But seventeen’s too much, anyway. More like ten if they’re as good as you say they are. But I want to see the stuff before I talk prices.’

‘Then there’s the jewellery,’ Mrs. French went on, deciding to ignore Bernstein. She began scribbling on the paper while the others watched her, ‘Your cut, Harry, shouldn’t be less than eight thousand. It might be more.’

‘Gripes!’ Harry exclaimed, his eyes lighting up. ‘Now you’re talking. For eight thousand...’

‘This is crazy!’ Bernstein cried. His hands fluttered over the desk like two frightened bats. ‘You can’t make such promises. You want me to take the stuff, don’t you? Well then, I make the price. You can’t say they’ll be worth this and that. I must see the stuff first.’

‘If you can’t talk figures, Syd, someone else will,’ Mrs. French said mildly. ‘You’re not the only fence who’d like to handle the Wesley’s furs.’

Theo nudged Bernstein.

‘Stuff that up your vest and see how it fits,’ he said, and laughed.

Rain splashed against the windows and ran in gurgling little rivers in the gutters. The lone policeman, walking down Mayfair Street, snug in his rainproof cape, had no idea that a robbery was being planned within a few yards of him. He wasn’t interested in robberies. He was thinking of the spring cabbages he had planted that afternoon. The rain, he reckoned, would give them a fine start.

II

If you happen to look for them, you will find an odd assortment of cafés, restaurants and clubs that somehow manage to conceal themselves in the jungle of brick, stone and dirty windows along King’s Street, Fulham Palace Road and Hammersmith Bridge Road. You may wonder how such derelict-looking places keep open; who amongst the teeming crowd of shoppers and loafers converging from Hammersmith Broadway are likely to go to such places for a meal. But it is only at night, and in the small hours of the morning, that these particular cafés and restaurants come to life. If you happened to be in the district after eleven o’clock, you would find them crowded with a rather sinister-looking collection of men and women who sit over their tea or coffee talking in low tones, and who glance up suspiciously whenever the door opens and relax when the newcomer is recognized.

It is to such places that the Service deserters, tired of remaining in their rat-holes, come for a quick coffee and a look round before going to the West End; where the small gangs meet to check the final details of a new haul, and where the filthiest of all the scrapings of London’s gutters — the painted youths in sandals and bright sweaters — cat before beginning their nightly prowl.

The king among these cafés and restaurants was the Bridge Cafe, owned by Sam Hewart, a dumpy, hard-faced man of indeterminable age. He had taken over the café during the height of the London blitz, and had got it cheap. Hewart believed in looking ahead, and he knew sooner or later there would be a need for such a place in such a district: a place for the wide boys to meet, to leave messages that they knew would be delivered, to get information, to be told who was in Town and who wasn’t, and who was paying the best prices at the moment for silk stockings, cigarettes, and even mink coats.

Six months ago a girl had come to Hewart’s office. Her name was Julie Holland, and she worked at a nearby twopenny library. She had heard, she told him, there was a vacancy on his staff.

‘I could be useful,’ she had said quietly. ‘I’m not fussy what I do.’

Hewart had been impressed. He liked the way her dark, shiny tresses fell in natural waves each side of her small, rather pale face. He liked her alert grey eyes, and he particularly liked her figure, which, he thought in his loose-minded way, would be sensational without clothes. He couldn’t understand how it was he hadn’t seen her before. If, as she said, she worked in the library he should have seen her. He was annoyed with himself because he hadn’t seen her. It made him feel old. He wouldn’t have missed her five years ago, he told himself. He spent nearly all his waking hours thinking about girls. They dwelt in his mind consciously and subconsciously the way death sometimes dwells in the minds of the timid; although lately he hadn’t been as preoccupied with these thoughts as he used to be, and when he was conscious of this it worried him. It was, he told himself bitterly, a sign of age.

This girl who now stood before him aroused in him an almost forgotten feeling of desire. She wore a sweater that showed off her breasts and her skirt was tight and short. There was scarcely a line of her body that he couldn’t see. Her lipstick was vivid and put on to make her mouth look square, and her lips had a soft, yielding look that made Hewart feel short of breath.

He would have been startled and annoyed had he known she had deliberately dressed herself in this way to appeal to his ageing sense of lust. An amiable young spiv had given her the tip that Hewart wanted a smart girl who could keep her mouth shut. Hewart was all right, the spiv had told her, if she didn’t mind being pawed occasionally.

‘He’s getting old,’ the spiv had said, with a cynicism that appealed to Julie. ‘You know what old men are like. It’s all handy-pandy stuff; nothing you couldn’t handle.’

As for the café... well, she didn’t have to be told what some of the cafés were like in that district, and the Bridge Cafe was no exception, but the money Hewart paid was good. That was the point. The money was excellent. ‘He’ll pay six quid, maybe more, and if you let him pinch your leg occasionally, you might screw him up to seven.’

Seven pounds a week! At that time such a sum was the pinnacle of Julie’s ambition. She made up her mind to get the job. What did she care if Hewart were tiresome? She was used to that sort of thing by now. Seven pounds a week! It was a fortune.

Julie was twenty-two years of age. Twenty of these years had been milestones of bitter poverty, of pinching and scraping and making do. Her parents had been miserably poor, her home squalid and dirty, and she had been continually hungry. As long as she could remember she had had a desperate, trapped feeling that life was slipping away from her, and she was missing all the good things that would have been hers had she the money to buy them. It was hunger that formed her character. It was hunger that sharpened her wits, and made her sly and cunning. Hunger and envy; for envy tormented her, making her a morose and unsociable child, and later a shrewd, hard, calculating young woman.

As soon as she was old enough to discriminate between those who have and those who have not, envy had laid hold of her. She envied people with clean homes, good clothes, cars, and the blind beggar who stood at the corner of her street when people gave him money. She envied the other children at school if they were better dressed than she. She pestered her parents for more to eat, for pocket money, for better clothes until, exasperated by his inability to give her what she wanted, her father flogged her to silence. But the flogging didn’t cure her of envy. She was determined to have the good things of life, and since her parents failed to provide them, she began to help herself. At first she took only small things: a bar of chocolate from a classmate; a bun, sneaked off the baker’s counter; a hair ribbon from her sister; a wooden peg-top from the boy next door. She took with cunning and no one suspected her. But the more she took, the more she wanted, and to celebrate her twelfth birthday she raided the jewellery counter in Woolworth’s. But this time she wasn’t dealing with children, and she was caught.

The magistrate had been lenient. He understood children, and when he had read the report on Julie’s home life, he called her to him. She was too frightened to remember all he said to her, but she did remember the fable of the monkey and the bottle he had selected as the corner stone for his sermon.

‘Have you ever heard how they catch monkeys in Brazil, Julie?’ he had asked, to her surprise. ‘Let me tell you. They put a nut in a bottle, and tie the bottle to a tree. The monkey grasps the nut, but the neck of the bottle is too narrow for the monkey to withdraw its paw and the nut. You would think the monkey would let go of the nut and escape, wouldn’t you? But it never does. It is so greedy it never releases the nut and is always captured. Remember that story, Julie. Greed is a dangerous thing. If you give way to it, sooner or later you will be caught.’

He had sent her home, and she hadn’t stolen again.

But as she grew up her envy of riches increased and her mind was obsessed with the longing for money. When her parents were killed in an air raid and she set up on her own in a dingy bed-sitting-room, the unexpected freedom of supervision led to the discovery of a hitherto unsuspected means to get what she wanted. She learned, now that she could stay out at all hours of the night, that there was something about her that attracted men. She had been vaguely aware of this power for some time, and at first she had resented the way men, at the slightest opportunity, put their hands on her. She was irritated when bus conductors helped her off the bus, when old gentlemen took her arm and insisted on seeing her across the road, or when a heavily-breathing man ran his hand down her leg in a cinema while he pretended to hunt for a dropped article in the darkness. But, after a while, she became used to these attentions, and now she had freedom she wondered if she couldn’t capitalize this power.

The war and the coming of the American troops gave her the opportunity, and she joined the vast army of other young girls who came from the East End to have a good time with the Yanks.

Although only seventeen at that time, Julie quickly acquired a sophistication that distinguished her from the other giggling chits who hung about at street corners ogling the G.I.s as they loafed along Piccadilly. She mixed exclusively with the officer ranks, and her dingy bed-sitting-room scarcely ever saw her at night. Before long she acquired a veneer that a steam hammer couldn’t crack, a wardrobe of flashy clothes, an intimate knowledge of the physical desires of men and fifty pounds in the Post Office Savings Bank. For a time she lived well, but the war ended and the Americans went home. Then followed the lean years, and life became a wangle. She had to wangle to avoid being sent to a factory. She had to wangle to get clothing coupons, food and money. She was lucky to get the job at the twopenny library, although it only paid two pounds ten a week. It was all a wangle now, and she began to realize that those who didn’t take risks these days were in for a thin time. It seemed now that you were either honest and went short or you were dishonest and had a good time. There seemed to be no happy medium. She knew the Bridge Cafe had an unsavoury reputation and was a meeting place of crooks, but the money was good, and that was all that mattered. She was sick of making do on fifty shillings a week.

‘If you work for Hewart you’ll meet all the wide boys,’ the young spiv had told her. ‘Play your cards right and you won’t be short of anything. A girl with your looks should be having fun. You don’t call this library fun, do you?’

Seven pounds a week! That decided her. What did it matter if the café was shady? She could look after herself. If Hewart would have her, she was ready to work for him.

As soon as Hewart saw her he knew she was the right type for the job.

‘There’s two jobs going here,’ he told her. ‘One of them is for the day shift and pays three quid a week. There’s not much to it. A bit of cleaning, preparing sandwiches for the night trade. Not much of a job... but a job.’

‘And the other?’ Julie asked, knowing well enough that the second job was the one she was going to take.

‘Ah,’ and Hewart winked. ‘The other’s a good job. A job for an ambitious girl who can keep her mouth shut. Might suit you.’

‘And what does that pay?’

‘Seven quid a week. You’d look after the cash desk and take messages. It’s night work — from seven to two in the morning. But you’d have to keep your mouth shut, and when I say shut, I mean shut, see?’

‘I don’t talk,’ Julie said steadily.

‘It doesn’t pay to; anyway, not in this neighbourhood. I remember a girl, not much older than you, and as pretty, who heard something that didn’t concern her, and she talked. You know how it is: girls like to talk; second nature to ’em. They found her in a back alley. Made a mess of her looks. No, it doesn’t do to talk.’

‘You don’t scare me,’ Julie said sharply. ‘I wasn’t born yesterday.’

‘That’s right,’ Hewart grinned at her. ‘You’re smart. The moment I saw you I knew you’d do. Now, listen, we give our customers service, see? Taking messages is an important part of the service. You’ll have to be smart about that. Nothing must be written down. You’ll have to pass the messages quick. There may be as many as twenty a night. For instance, you may get a ’phone call for Jack Smith, see? You’ll have to know who he is and whether he’s in the place or not. If he isn’t, you say so and take the message. It’s your job to see Smith gets it as soon as he comes in, and no one else must know about it. You’ll have to be smart all the time. But you can do it. There’re no flies on you.’ Seeing her hesitate, Hewart went on: ‘You won’t know anything, see? What you don’t know about you can’t get into trouble about, can you? This is a chance to pick up a little easy money. Some of the boys will slip you a quid, maybe two, for giving them a message. I’ve seen it done. And listen, I like you. I’ll make it eight quid if you’ll take the job. Can’t be fairer than that, can I? The boys’ll be crazy about you. You’re smart; pretty, too. I know a good thing when I see it. Think: eight beautiful pound notes every Friday. Think of the silk stockings you can buy.’

But Julie wanted to know more about the job before being rushed into it. She said so.

‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ Hewart said. ‘You don’t want to know anything — like me. I just run this place, see? The boys and girls come here. They leave messages; sometimes a parcel or two, and I give ’em food and a little service, but I don’t ask questions. Sometimes the bogies look in. They want to know this and that. I don’t know anything so I can’t tell ’em lies, can I? They may talk to you, but if you don’t know anything what can you tell ’em? That’s what I call being smart.’

‘The police come here?’ Julie asked, startled. ‘I don’t think I’d like that.’

Hewart waved his hand impatiently.

‘You know as well as I do the police poke their noses in everywhere. It’s their job. It doesn’t matter where you work, the police’ll look in sooner or later. Who cares? We’re not doing anything shady: we’re giving service. It’s not our funeral if our customers get up to tricks, is it? And besides, why do you think I’m offering eight quid? The job’s worth fifty bob. I could get dozens of girls for fifty bob: hundreds of ’em. But I’m paying eight quid because the bogies might ask questions. I don’t say they will, but they might; and I know a girl doesn’t like being mixed up with the police. No one does, so I pay a little more.’

Put like that it seemed reasonable enough, and the money, of course, was marvellous. If she let this chance slip through her fingers she might never get another.

‘All right,’ she said, ‘I’ll take it.’

She was surprised how easy the work turned out to be. The café didn’t get busy until after eleven o’clock. Then the regular customers began to drift in and soon the place was full of cigarette smoke and the murmur of voices. It was like having a front row in the stalls, Julie thought. Sitting in the glass-screened cash desk, she didn’t feel she was part of the room, but rather an unseen observer looking through a secret window at an odd, exciting play. Hewart, cigar between his teeth, a big diamond ring flashing on his little finger, had stayed with her on her first night. He kept up a muttered commentary on the people in the room.

‘The bloke over there in the fawn coat is Syd Bernstein,’ his voice droned in Julie’s ears. ‘Remember him. He’s got a big fur store in Gideon Road: expect you’ve seen it. If you ever want a cheap fur go to Syd. He’ll fix you up if you mention my name. The fella he’s talking to is the Duke. They call him that because of his beautiful manners. You watch him. You’ll never catch him drinking out of his saucer. Never mind what he does for a living. The less you know... That’s Pugsey over there. The fella in the grey suit; big dog-racing man. Knows more about doping dogs...’ Hewart caught himself up, cleared his throat: ‘Well, never mind that. He’s Pugsey; just remember who he is and forget the rest. The bloke lighting a cigarette is Goldsack. Now there’s a smart ’un for you. When I met him — couldn’t be more than a couple of years ago — he wasn’t worth thirty bob. That’s straight. Now he can write a cheque for ten thou, and thinks nothing of it. He’s one of the big betting boys.’

Julie got to know Bernstein and Pugsey and the rest. She overheard things. For instance, she overheard a few scattered words from Pugsey as he and the Duke passed her.

‘I won’t split them,’ Pugsey was saying. ‘Twenty-five thousand or nothing. You can handle them all right. What’s worrying you?’

‘That’s a big number for me,’ the Duke returned doubtfully. ‘Most of ’em are Players, you say?’

‘That’s right.’ Pugsey glanced up, caught Julie’s eye, and winked.

‘Twenty-five thousand Players,’ Julie thought. ‘How much would they make out of that deal?’ She saw in the next morning’s newspaper that twenty-five thousand cigarettes had been stolen from a Houndsditch warehouse. It wasn’t difficult to put two and two together.

Life in the café was full of variety and excitement. The telephone kept her busy. The messages she received meant nothing to her. ‘Tell Pugsey greyhound looks good. Got it? Greyhound looks good.’

‘Ask Mr. Goldstack to call me. Boy Blue at twelve.’

‘Message for Mr. Bernstein. Usual time; usual place, C.O.D.’ And so on, code messages that puzzled and intrigued her; that meant money to the men who received them. Pugsey, Goldsack and the others were making themselves rich by these messages because they were wide and in the know. She envied them, although she knew she shouldn’t grumble, for by the end of her third week she was earning twelve pounds a week: eight from Hewart and four from tips.

But the more she earned the more she wanted. Her expenses had gone up. She had taken a small furnished flat in the Fulham Palace Road that cost four pounds a week. She had bought clothes; and she spent money on cinemas and useless junk she picked up in the big stores. It was nice not to work during the day; nice, but lonely. She hadn’t any friends. That was the snag of working a night-shift. You never had the chance of meeting anyone during the day: they were all at work.

She needed male companionship, and sighed for the days when she could have had her pick of escorts by hanging about outside one of the Officers’ Clubs. Going to the cinema on your own wasn’t much fun. She wanted a man who would say nice things to her, buy her presents, and on whom she could bestow favours if she felt so inclined.

The men she met in the café were too busy making money to bother with her. She could have had Hewart easily enough but he was too old. At first he was tiresome, but she quickly learned how to handle him. Enclosed in the glass cash-desk all the evening, he didn’t get much chance of pawing her. The time to watch out was when she arrived and when she left, and she took care to arrive and leave with the other members of the staff. To keep him happy, she allowed him a few liberties, and as the spiv had said, he was easily satisfied. She wanted a companion of her own age, who could share her interests and wouldn’t be pawing her all the time.

She had been working at the café for over three months when Harry Gleb breezed in. She was interested in him the moment she saw him, for Harry had a terrific personality. His wide grin made you want to grin too. His laugh was infectious, his confidence in himself enormous. He was a dashing, colourful figure, and well dressed; his hand-painted tie made Julie gasp. He had a great deal of dark wavy hair, a fine pencil-line moustache, greenish eyes that twinkled with an expression of bawdy good humour. Although he was hard, without scruples, shallow, cocky and selfish, you couldn’t help liking him. He was always smiling, always ready to crack a joke, to lend you a quid, to get a termer on the toss of a coin or drink you under the table. He knew most of the waiters in the swagger West End restaurants by their Christian names. He knew most of the West End tarts, the playboys and the gold diggers, and they liked him. He was a typical London spiv, and he didn’t care who knew it.

He seemed to Julie to be someone right out of a motion picture. Comparing him to other men who frequented the café was like comparing Clark Gable to the fat old man who sat next to her in the underground.

But she was too fly to let him know the impression he had made on her. She was confident of her powers of attraction, and she was sure, sooner or later, he would make the first overtures.

At this time Harry was doing a deal with Syd Bernstein. He didn’t like the Bridge Cafe, nor did he like Hewart, but as Bernstein always went there Harry began going there, too.

He was quick to spot Julie as she sat in the cash-desk, and, as any pretty girl mildly interested him, he took a mild interest in her. It wasn’t until one evening when Julie left the en-closed cash-desk to give a message to the Duke, that Harry had the opportunity of seeing her figure, and immediately he gave a long, low whistle.

‘That’s a nice bit of crackling,’ he said to Bernstein, and jerked his thumb towards Julie. ‘Where did Sam find her?’

Bernstein had no idea, and after he had gone Harry wandered over to the cash-desk and began to flirt with Julie.

She had been waiting patiently for this opportunity, but she didn’t let him see her eagerness. She was cool to him, laughed at his flattery, and snubbed him when he became familiar.

Women were attracted to Harry as pins to a magnet. Julie’s behaviour surprised him. Women were a lot of soppy mares, he had always considered, but they were fun if you had nothing better to do. But this girl was different. He could tell that. She was friendly enough, but there was a jeering expression in her eyes that irritated him. It showed plainly that she knew what he was up to, and was certainly not going to take him seriously. He could be as nice and flattering as he liked, but it wouldn’t get him anywhere.

This attitude intrigued him, as Julie intended it to intrigue him, and he was continually popping in to have a word with her, to bring her a pair of silk stockings or a box of chocolates, and to try to break down the jeering barrier she had erected to keep him at safe limits. He had asked her time and again to go out with him, but Julie refused. She wasn’t going to risk being dropped. She had had a lot of experience with men, and she knew the longer she kept him dangling on a string the more ardent he would be when she did give in.

When Mrs. French asked him if he knew of a girl who’d help them, he immediately thought of Julie. She wanted money, had brains, and was sufficiently reckless to take a chance. But he was a little worried by her persistent refusal to become friendly. Somehow he had to rush her defences, and the best way, he decided, was for her to lose her job at the café before he put the proposition to her. So long as she had a job and some regular money coming in she was independent, and if she had scruples she might turn him down. Harry had a horror of independent women. It was Julie’s independence that kept them apart now. He was sure of that.

The first thing, then, was to get her the sack. But how was he going to do that? He racked his brains to no purpose. She was in solid with Hewart, and there seemed no reason why she should ever leave the café.

‘Well, something will turn up,’ he consoled himself. ‘It always does.’

And it did, but not in quite the way he expected.

III

Two evenings after the meeting in Mrs. French’s office, the telephone on Julie’s desk rang, and a woman’s voice, breathless and urgent, asked: ‘Is Mr. Harry Gleb there, please?’

Julie felt a tingle run up her spine. She hadn’t seen Harry for three days. She was beginning to wonder if she had handled him a little too roughly, and had driven him to some other woman.

‘I’m afraid he isn’t,’ she said, wondering who the woman could be.

‘Are you sure? It’s very urgent. He said he’d be there. Will you please make sure?’

There was a hysterical note in the voice that startled Julie.

Hewart, coming from his office and seeing Julie looking round the café, trying to penetrate the thick screen of tobacco smoke, came over.

‘What’s up?’

‘A woman asking for Mr. Gleb. She sounds worried.’

‘All Gleb’s women are worried,’ Hewart said, and smiled sourly. ‘It’s the natural state of their health, the damn fools. He’s not here.’

‘I’m sorry, but we haven’t seen him tonight,’ Julie said into the mouthpiece.

There was a pause on the line which crackled and hummed, then the woman said, ‘He’ll be in. Will you ask him to call me at once? Take the number, please.’

Julie memorized the number, said she would tell him the moment he came in, and hung up.

Hewart scowled.

‘I wish that fella would keep away from here,’ he growled. ‘He’s no good to anyone.’

A few minutes later Harry breezed in. Julie waved to him.

‘Hello,’ he said, corning over to her, ‘Don’t tell me you’re pleased to see me for once.’

‘There was a phone message for you a few minutes ago. A woman wants you to call her. She says it’s urgent. Riverside 58845.’

His smile faded and his greenish eyes hardened.

‘Can I borrow the blower?’

She liked him like this. He was no longer flippant, and seeing him now she thought he looked hard and dangerous. She watched him dial the number, and noticed his hand was unsteady.

‘Dana?’ No one else in the room except Julie could hear what he was saying. ‘This is Harry. What’s up?’ He listened, and Julie saw his hand tighten on the telephone. ‘How long ago? Right. Keep your chimmy on. All right. No, stop flapping. It’ll be all right. Yeah, yeah; so long.’ He hung up.

‘Someone found you out?’ Julie asked, watching him intently.

‘Yes.’ He studied her for a moment. ‘Like to do me a favour?’ He looked quickly over his shoulder, then slipped a small package done up in white tissue paper into her lap. ‘Hang on to this until tomorrow, will you? Keep it out of sight. And if anyone asks you if I’ve given you anything — not a word. O.K.?’

‘I wouldn’t do it for anyone else, but I’ll do it for you,’ Julie said, and smiled.

‘Good kid. How about coming out with me to-morrow? I’ll buy you a lunch.’

‘Not tomorrow. I’m pretty booked up.’ Which wasn’t true. ‘The day after, perhaps. You’ll be in to-morrow night?’

‘You bet. Keep that safe for me. ‘Bye now,’ and he went quickly to the door. As he opened it he came to an abrupt stop and took a step back.

Two men came in: big men in slouch hats and raincoats. With a sudden sinking feeling Julie recognized them. Police! She might have guessed that was why Harry had been so anxious to get rid of the package.

Harry was talking to the two police officers. He was smilingly at ease. The rest of the men and women in the café watched, not moving, silent and effacing. Detective Inspector Dawson, whom Julie knew by sight, jerked his head in the direction of Hewart’s office. Harry shrugged and walked back down the gangway. He passed Julie without looking at her.

The moment they were out of sight the men and women in the café made a quick scramble for the exit. In a few seconds the café was empty.

Frightened, Julie grabbed up her bag and was about to put the package in it when she changed her mind. That was the first place they’d look, she told herself. She glanced quickly round the empty café, then pulled up her skirt and pushed the package down the top of her girdle.

The police officers weren’t in Hewart’s office for long. They came out with Harry, followed by Hewart, who was pale with rage.

The younger police officer walked down the gangway with Harry. They went out together.

Hewart and Dawson stood talking for a few moments, then wandered over to Julie.

Dawson raised his hat. He belonged to the old school and believed politeness paid.

‘Good evening, miss. Do you know that young fellow Gleb?’

She looked at him insolently.

‘I don’t, and even if I did, I don’t see what it has to do with you.’

‘Wasn’t he talking to you just now?’

‘He was buying cigarettes.’

Dawson stared at her until she had to look away.

‘Was he? He didn’t have a packet on him when I searched him. How do you account for that?’

Julie changed colour. That was a slip and a bad one. She didn’t say anything.

‘He didn’t give you anything to look after, did he?’

She felt a cold little shiver run up her spine, but she forced herself to meet his inquiring eyes.

‘He didn’t.’

‘Would you let me examine your bag?’

‘You haven’t any right to look in my bag,’ she flared, ‘but if it’ll satisfy you, you can.’ She pushed the bag towards him, but he didn’t touch it.

‘That’s all right, miss. I won’t bother.’ He glanced at Hewart. ‘Well, so long, Sam. See you again one of these days.’ His eyes travelled around the empty café and he concealed a smile. ‘Sorry to have spoilt your trade. Your customers are a little sensitive it seems.’

‘So long,’ Hewart said, his eyes hard.

Dawson raised his hat to Julie.

‘I don’t know any other fellow who could get a girl into trouble faster than Web,’ he said. ‘There may be others, but I doubt it. Good night.’

When he had gone, Hewart gave Julie an ugly look.

‘What’s the idea?’ he demanded roughly. ‘What the devil are you playing at?’

Julie raised her eyebrows.

‘I don’t know what you mean, I’m sure.’

‘I’ll have a word with you when we’ve shut,’ Hewart said, and walked into his office, slamming the door behind him.

Julie was putting on her hat before the chipped mirror that hung on the store-room wall when Hewart came in. They were now alone in the café; the rest of the staff had gone.

‘What did Gleb give you?’ Hewart demanded, coming to the point with his usual bluntness.

Hewart’s aggressive tone and cold searching eyes warned Julie to be cautious.

‘You heard what I told Dawson, didn’t you?’ she snapped. ‘He didn’t give me anything.’

Hewart said, ‘I heard what you told Dawson all right.’ He came close to her. ‘If you can’t lie better than that you’d better keep your mouth shut. Dawson knew you were up to something. If he didn’t guess Gleb had given you the rings, he knew something was on between you two.’

Rings? Julie felt herself go white under her make-up.

‘I... I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Now, look, kid,’ Hewart said, seeing the frightened expression in her eyes and softening towards her. He was fond of Julie, and didn’t want any trouble with her. ‘So far you’ve been a damned smart girl; but you’re not being smart now. Gleb works outside our circle. We don’t do things for him, and he doesn’t do things for us, see? You didn’t know that. I should have given you the tip. All right, I’m not blaming you, don’t think that. He’s too smooth. No one ever gets anything out of his deals.’

‘I tell you he didn’t give me anything,’ Julie said, her heart beating rapidly. If she once admitted she had received stolen rings from Harry, she would be at Hewart’s mercy. What a fool she had been to have taken the package. She might have guessed it was stolen property. She was furious with herself for being so green.

Hewart studied her. His hatchet face was hardened.

‘Listen, this evening a society woman left three diamond rings worth a thousand quid on her dressing-table for a couple of seconds, no more, and they vanished. A couple of seconds, see? That’s Gleb: split-second timing and specializes in bedrooms. That’s his line. Dawson knows all about him; so do I. He came here directly after the robbery, and it’s my guess the woman who ’phoned tipped him the police were after him and he dumped the loot on to you. That’s another of his pet tricks. Never mind if he gets anyone into trouble so long as he saves his own dirty hide. Now, look, Julie, Gleb is rank poison. I don’t like a fella who brings the cops here. I have no time for him, and I want those rings.’

Julie snatched up her hat and coat and moved quickly to the door, but Hewart stepped in front of her.

‘Now, wait a minute,’ he said, an ugly glint in his eyes.

‘I don’t know anything about the rings. Would you please mind out of the way, Mr. Hewart? I want to go home.’

‘Not just yet. I’m being patient with you, Julie, because I like you. But you’re making a damn fool of yourself over this fella. I don’t miss much that goes on here. I’ve seen you talking to him and putting on airs. You’re trying to hook him, aren’t you? You watch out. Gleb knows all about women; he specializes in them. You leave him alone. You can get plenty of other fellas without taking on a rat like Gleb. He never did any girl any good.’

‘Oh!’ Julie exclaimed furiously. ‘How... how dare you talk to me like that! Get out of my way!’

‘I’m warning you,’ Hewart said, losing patience. ‘You’re not leaving here unless you hand over those rings, and if I have to take ’em from you, you’ll get the sack.’

‘You’re not having them, and I don’t want your rotten job! I can always get another! I’m not scared of you, you old bully!’

Seeing her white, furious little face, her determined attitude and her clenched fists, Hewart was struck with admiration. He burst out laughing.

‘Come on, Julie, don’t be a little fool. You’ve got a lot of nerve, and you and me can get on well together. Hand over those rings, and we’ll forget the whole business.’

‘I tell you I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t the rings, and if I had I wouldn’t give them to you!’ Julie snapped, and darted past him.

Hewart caught hold of her, and holding her wrists in one hand he ran his other hand over her body.

‘How dare you!’ Julie stormed, struggling to break his hold. ‘Let me go or I’ll scream the place down.’

‘Scream away,’ Hewart panted. His face was congested. ‘If the bogies come I’ll tell ’em Gleb gave you the rings and you’ll be for it. Stand still and stop struggling. You’ve got ’em on you — I know.’ His questing fingers felt the little bulge of the package. ‘Ah! Here they are. Now stop fighting. It won’t get you anywhere.’

But Julie struggled and kicked. Her toeless shoes made no impression on Hewart’s thick legs and she couldn’t get her; hands free. As he began to pull up her skirt, she let out squeal of outraged fury.

‘Well, I am surprised at you, Sam,’ Harry said as he pushed’ open the door. ‘You could get six months for half what you’re doing.’

Hewart released Julie as if she had suddenly become red hot. Harry leaned against the doorway, his hat cocked rakishly over one eye, his hands in his pockets, a hard, cynical expression in his eyes.

‘How did you get in here?’ Hewart asked feebly. He was frightened, not liking the look Harry gave him. There was a half-concealed threat in the clenched fists hidden in the pockets.

Julie staggered away from Hewart; her face was white, and her eyes blazing with fury.

‘You rotten swine! How dare you touch me!’ She rounded on Harry. ‘It’s all your fault! Hit him! Did you see what he was doing to me? Hit him! Make him pay for it!’

Harry regarded her with frank admiration. He liked to see a girl in a rage, and Julie’s rage was a real pippin, he thought.

‘Keep your hair on, sweetheart,’ he said with a grin. ‘You wouldn’t want me to hit an old man, now, would you? You come along home with me. He didn’t do you any harm.’

‘I’ll teach him to put his dirty paws on me!’ Julie screamed, and snatched up a four pound jar of honey and threw it at Hewart. The jar caught him in the middle of his chest and sent him reeling back. As she turned for another missile, Harry, gasping with laughter, caught hold of her and bundled her out of the room.

‘Lock yourself in, Sam!’ he shouted. ‘I can’t hold her for long, and she’s after your blood!’

The door hastily slammed and the key turned.

Julie, panting with rage, wrenched free and hammered on the door.

‘Let me in, you dirty old goat! I haven’t finished with you yet. I’ll kill you for this!’

‘You get out!’ Hewart shouted through the door panels. ‘You’re sacked, see? I don’t want to see you again. You hop it or I’ll call the police.’

‘I’ll give you in charge!’ Julie screamed back. ‘I’ll have you up for assault, you—! You won’t get away with this! Don’t you think you will!’

‘Come on, Julie,’ Harry said persuasively, but he kept at a safe distance. ‘Leave the old geezer alone. You’ve given him a fright, and he won’t try that on again.’

She turned on him.

‘You’ve lost me my job!’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s all very well for you to stand there grinning. What am I going to do now?’

Harry was thinking, ‘I said something would turn up, and it has. It couldn’t have worked out better.’

‘What are you going to do about it?’ Julie demanded, calming down. She suddenly realized what it would mean not to work at the café again. To find another job worth twelve pounds a week would be impossible. ‘Oh! Damn you! I wish I’d never seen you. I wish I hadn’t helped you.’

‘Now don’t get excited. Come on. We’ll talk this over. I have a car outside. I’ll take you home.’

She went with him because she didn’t know what else to do. If she had been alone she would have gone back to Hewart and apologized. But Harry pushed her along, his hand on her elbow. He had got her away from Hewart, and he had no intention of letting her get back again.

‘Don’t you worry,’ he said, pausing beside a big Chrysler car, parked under a street light. Julie noticed it had ‘Hackney Carriage’ number plates. ‘In you get. Where do you live?’ keep the car on the road without the cops asking me where I get the petrol from.’

‘Is this your car?’ she asked, startled.

‘Course it is. The plates don’t mean anything except I can.’

She looked at the long, glittering bonnet and the big head-lights.

‘If he can afford to run a car like this,’ she thought, ‘maybe he has money. He must have. I’ll see what I can get out of him.’

‘Wake up, dreamy. Where do you live?’ he asked, and pushed her into the car.

‘Fulham Palace Road,’ she said, settling herself on the broad, comfortable seat.

‘What have you got — rooms?’ He got in beside her, and trod on the starter.

‘It’s a self-contained flat.’

‘Share it with anyone?’

‘No. You want to know a lot, don’t you?’

‘A proper Nosey Parker I am,’ he returned with a laugh, and drove rapidly through the deserted streets. Neither of them said anything until they stopped outside her flat, then he said, ‘This it? Right. Let’s go in. I could do with a cup of tea.’

‘You’re not coming in and you’re not having any tea,’ Julie snapped. ‘And if you want those rings back you’ll have to pay for them.’

He twisted round to look at her. He was smiling, but his eyes had hardened.

‘But I want to talk to you. We can’t talk here. Now, be nice and invite me in.’

‘I’m not in the habit of inviting men into my flat at this hour. I want fifty pounds for the rings. You won’t get them until you give me the money.’

He whistled softly under his breath.

‘Have a heart, kid. Fifty quid! Why, the damn things aren’t worth that.’

‘They’re worth a thousand, and you know it. Bring the money to-morrow morning or I’ll sell them.’ She jerked open the car door, ran up the steps, opened the door before he could move.

‘Hey Julie!’ he shouted.

‘Tomorrow morning or you won’t see them again,’ she said triumphantly, and slammed the door.

IV

Harry waited long enough to see a light flash up in a room on the ground floor then, smiling to himself, he started the car and drove rapidly down the street. He hadn’t far to go. He knew the district well, and knew there was an all-night garage close by. He left the car there and walked back to Julie’s flat.

For some minutes he stood outside, looking up and down the street. It was after three o’clock in the morning and only a stray cat attracted his attention. Then, moving with confident ease, he swung himself over the iron railings guarding the basement of the house, caught hold of a stack pipe and climbed on to Julie’s window-sill. He pushed up the window and stepped into the room and closed the window. He had moved with extraordinary speed and quietness. The whole manoeuvre did not take more than a few seconds.

He pushed aside the curtain. The room in which he found himself was large and shabbily furnished and without much comfort. There was a lamp by the bed that cast a pink glow over the harsh colour of the wallpaper and furnishings.

Across the room was a door that stood half open. The sound of running water told him it was the bathroom. He could hear Julie humming to herself as she prepared for bed, and he grinned to himself. He took off his hat and coat, sat down in an arm-chair and lit a cigarette.

After a few minutes Julie came into the bedroom. She had on a pair of emerald-green pyjamas that set off her figure admirably, and her hair was loose to her shoulders. She came to an abrupt standstill when she saw him sitting there, and turned white, then red.

‘Hello, remember me?’ he said casually. ‘Get into bed, Julie. I want to talk to you.’

She looked wildly round the room, her eyes went to the dressing-table, and she made a quick dash. But Harry was there first. He picked up the two diamond rings she had half-concealed under her handbag as she reached him.

‘Put them down!’ she whispered furiously.

Instead he slipped them into his pocket.

‘Sorry, kid, they’re too important to fool with,’ he said gently. ‘I want to talk to you. Don’t get angry. Let’s be matey, Julie. Get me a cup of tea and let’s talk.’

‘You devil!’ she exclaimed furiously. ‘I did all that for you and now you’re not going to pay me. You rotten stinker!’

‘Who said I wasn’t going to pay you? You want a job, don’t you? Well, I’ve got a damned good one for you. Honest, I’m not fooling.’

‘What kind of job?’

‘Get me some tea and take that scowl off your face,’ he said.

‘Go on, Julie, I can’t talk until I’ve had some tea.’

‘You’re the limit, Harry,’ she said, weakening. ‘Well, I suppose I’ll have to make you tea. I won’t be long.’

He finished his cigarette while she made the tea.

‘It’s just the way you handle ’em,’ he told himself. ‘I reckon I handled her beautifully. In a little while I’ll have her just where I want her.’

She returned to the bedroom, set the tray on the table and poured out the tea.

‘What about this job?’ she demanded, as she handed him a cup. ‘And don’t forget you owe me fifty pounds.’

‘What did Sam pay you?’

‘Twelve pounds a week.’

He whistled softly.

‘You won’t get that again in a hurry unless...’ He paused, went on: ‘You wouldn’t have to be too fussy what you did, Julie, and there may be risks.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Just that. How long have you been with Sam?’

‘Oh, six months.’

‘And before that?’

‘In a twopenny library.’

‘And before that?’

‘I worked in a factory,’ Julie said, frowning at the memory.

‘So you’ve only been in the money for six months?’

‘Yes, and I’m not going to get out of it if I can help it.’ Her eyes hardened. ‘Until now I’ve never had any fun. Do you think you could find me anything good?’

‘I know I can.’

‘Well, what?’

He sipped his tea while he studied her.

‘I don’t believe you have a job for me at all,’ she said, seeing him hesitate. ‘You’re just leading me up the garden path. If you are... you’ll be sorry! There’s nothing to stop me seeing Dawson and telling him about those rings, is there?’

Harry nearly dropped his cup. A threat like that wasn’t funny, even if she were bluffing, and he didn’t think she was.

‘Now wait a minute, Julie. You be careful what you’re saying. There’s a word for a girl who squeals to the police and it’s an ugly one.’

‘Words don’t hurt me,’ Julie retorted, tossing her head. ‘What about this job?’

‘One of the big money-making jobs at the moment is being a lady’s maid,’ he began cautiously. ‘A friend of mine runs a domestic agency. She has a vacancy and could fix you up.’

Julie stiffened, and stared at him.

‘Are you suggesting I’m to become a servant?’ she asked.

‘Now, do relax, Julie. You’re forever getting on your hind legs. You don’t care how you earn money so long as it’s big money, do you? What’s wrong in being a maid? After all, you worked in a café. You’re not all that proud, are you? This is a good job. You’ll live in a luxury flat, have time off, good food and money...’

‘But a maid...’ She got up and began to pace up and down. Harry watched her pyjama’d figure, aware that his mind was wandering from business. ‘No, I really can’t. Hewart paid me twelve pounds a week. I can’t live on less and I’m not going to. A maid doesn’t get anything like that.’

‘This one does,’ Harry said with a grin. ‘This one is special. What do you say to fifteen quid a week and a fifty pound bonus at the end of the job?’

‘But no one would pay that,’ she exclaimed, turning to stare at him.

‘Now look, don’t be inquisitive.’ There was a slight edge to his voice. ‘I want you to make a little easy money and not to know too much about the way you’re making it. Are you smart enough to understand that?’

‘Oh, I see.’ She was instantly suspicious. ‘It’s some kind of racket.’

‘Sort of, but if you don’t know what it’s all about then you won’t get into trouble, will you?’

‘The same old argument,’ she thought, a little wearily. ‘He’s right, of course. Hewart used it. See nothing, know nothing and you’ll be all right. Well, it’s worked up to now.’

‘All you have to do is to work at a certain place for a month or so,’ Harry went on. ‘You’ll get three quid a week and all found. I’ll arrange for you to get twelve quid in addition, and at the end of the job a fifty-quid bonus. What’s more I’ll give you a tenner now if you’ll close with the deal.’

‘But, Harry, I’d like to think about it...’

‘All right, tell me to-morrow. Sleep on it. Fifteen quid week and a fifty-pound bonus. That’s not to be sneezed at.’

‘You’re not pulling my leg, are you?’ she asked, suddenly suspicious again. ‘You could walk out of here and leave me flat. I wasn’t born yesterday. I might never see you again. And then what should I do?’

He levered himself out of his chair, went over to sit beside her on the bed.

‘I’ll tell you a secret,’ he said, and pulled her to him. Whispering in her ear, he said, ‘I’m not going to leave you to-night.’

She pulled away and jumped to her feet.

‘Oh, no! I’m not having any of that. I’m not that easy. No, you get out. I’ll chance seeing you again.’

He laughed at her.

‘You don’t know your own mind, do you? First I’m to stay, then I’m to go. Well, I’m going to make up your mind for you.’

She made a hasty grab at her dressing-gown, but he caught her in his arms.

‘No!’ she whispered, struggling. ‘Stop it, Harry! You mustn’t!’

His mouth came down on hers. For a moment she continued to struggle, then her arms went round his neck.

‘Damn you!’ she said against his mouth, and then, ‘Hold me tighter.’

V

The morning sunlight came through the dowdy chintz curtains. A milkman shouted angrily to his horse and then set down his bottles with a penetrating clatter. Further up the road the postman rapped sharply on a door.

Julie stirred, stretched, yawned. Through the half-open bathroom door came the sound of running water. She moved her legs under the sheet and sighed contentedly.

‘Got all you want, Harry?’ she called sleepily.

‘I’ll want some tea in a moment. Aren’t you out of bed yet?’

‘I’m just getting up,’ Julie said, turned over and pulled the blanket up to her chin.

‘I bet.’ Harry came to the door. He had a towel round his middle and she thought he looked like a boxer. He was muscular, hard and tanned. ‘Come on out before I throw you out.’

‘I’m coming,’ Julie yawned, threw off the bedclothes. ‘It’s not nine yet.’

‘I’ve got a lot to do this morning,’ Harry said, and disappeared into the bathroom.

She went into the kitchen and put on the kettle.

‘It’s a funny thing,’ she thought, ‘but it seems as if he’s always been here; as if this has always been part of my life. But I do wish he wouldn’t be so evasive.’

They had talked during the night, and Julie had tried to find out something about his everyday life, what he thought, what he did with himself, but she came up against a flippant barrier that turned anything serious into a joke.

Harry was dressed when she returned with the tea.

‘Harry... those rings. I’ve been worrying. You can’t get away with that kind of thing for long. You know that.’

He took the cup of tea she gave him and laughed.

‘For goodness’ sake don’t start worrying about me. You worry about yourself if you have to worry at all.’

‘But I do worry about you.’

‘Now look; I have only a few years on this earth — another forty with luck,’ he said. ‘What’s forty years? Nothing, and then — the worms, the dark and the cold. All right then, I’m going to enjoy myself while I can. I can’t do that without money. Money’s power; it’s fun, food and drink, cigarettes and love. Money’s a motor car, petrol, clothes and shoes. It’s a night out at the White City dog track; it’s a game of poker and a seat at the theatre. It’s everything you can think of. I’ve tried working for a living, but it didn’t come off. I’ve been in the war. I’ve done my little bit, and now I’m going to have a good time. I don’t care how I get hold of money so long as I get it. I help myself. That’s all there’s to it.’

‘But what’s the good of it all if you spend ten years in jail?’ Julie demanded, hoping he could give her a satisfactory answer, since his philosophy matched hers.

‘You have to be smart. I’ve kept out of jail for three years and I’m keeping out of it.’

‘If it hadn’t been for me you would have been in jail by now,’ she reminded him.

‘Don’t you believe it. There’s always someone around. You’d be surprised. If you hadn’t taken those rings I’d’ve got rid of them some other way. It’s happened before.’

This annoyed and hurt Julie. She wanted to think she had saved him from prison at a considerable risk to herself.

‘And do you always make love to the woman who’s helped you? Is that your idea of a reward?’ she asked tartly.

‘You’re a funny kid.’ He laughed at her. ‘I’m fussy who I make love to. You’ll find that out one of these days.’

She had never suffered from jealousy before, but now the thought of any other woman knowing him as intimately as she did tormented her.

‘Harry... who’s that woman, Dana, who rang you?’

‘My mother,’ he said promptly, stretched out his legs. ‘She’s a wonderful old thing: lavender and old lace, or is it arsenic? Anyway, you’d love her.’

‘I’m not going to be treated like this,’ Julie exclaimed, stamping her feet. ‘You’ve got to stop this silly pose with me. Who is she? I want to know.’

He pulled a face, then laughed again.

‘Don’t bully me, Julie. She’s just a girl I know. Nothing to get excited about. She isn’t half as pretty as you, and she means nothing to me.’

‘How did she know the police were looking for you?’

‘She’s clairvoyant. Saw old Dawson in the tea leaves.’

‘Are you going to stop playing the fool and tell me or aren’t you?’ Julie demanded, thoroughly angry now.

‘Mind your own business,’ he said, and smiled at her, but she was quick to see the sudden hard look in his eyes.

There was a long pause while they looked at each other. Julie’s eyes were the first to give ground. She could see it was useless to press him and she decided to change her tactics.

‘All right, don’t tell me if you want to make a mystery of it,’ she said, trying to sound indifferent. ‘Have some more tea?’

He handed her his cup, lit another cigarette and yawned. ‘I’ll have to be off in a moment,’ he said, glancing at his watch.

She felt uneasy again. He could walk out of her flat and she might never see him again.

‘Where do you live, Harry?’ she asked, as she poured out the tea.

‘Ten Downing Street. I have a little flat on the top floor. It’s pretty cosy because I share the Prime Minister’s butler.’

It was no use, she decided, alarmed and angry. Under his flippant pose was a mercurial character that refused to be pinned down. She mustn’t be too possessive. Later, perhaps, when they knew each other better, she might gain his confidence.

She said lightly: ‘Are you ever serious?’

‘What do I want to be serious for? Eat, drink and make money and love for to-morrow the worms will have you. I haven’t time to be serious. Having fun is a full-time job.’

‘So I’m not even to know where you live?’ (‘The woman’s living with him,’ she thought. ‘That’s why he won’t tell me.’)

‘At times you positively shine, Julie.’

‘All right, be mysterious,’ she said crossly, and turned away.

‘The less you know about me the better,’ he returned, and picked up his coat. ‘Well, I’m off. How about that job, Julie?’

‘Well, all right,’ she said reluctantly. ‘I suppose I’d better do it. All I have to do is to be a maid; nothing else?’

He grinned.

‘That’s all. Of course, you’ll keep your eyes open.’

She knew at once then that she was to be the inside plant for a robbery. For a moment she hesitated, and Harry, seeing her hesitate, took out two five-pound notes.

‘I promised you something in advance. Here, put those in your pocket.’

She hesitated no longer. What she didn’t know about she couldn’t get into trouble about. She could look after herself. She took the money.

‘What do I do?’

‘Here.’ He handed her a card. ‘Go to this address. Ask for Mrs. French and tell her I sent you. She knows all about it and will tell you what to do. O.K.?’

‘And there’s no risk? I mean I shan’t get into trouble?’

‘Not a chance,’ he returned breezily. ‘All you have to do is to act like a maid. Simple, isn’t it?’

‘And keep my eyes open,’ she said, watching him.

He grinned.

‘That’s the idea. Well, so long, Julie.’

‘When am I going to see you again?’

‘Soon. I’ve got a lot of things on at the moment. I’ll get in touch with you.’

‘Just like a man. Get what you want, then cool off,’ Julie said angrily.

He pulled her to him and kissed her.

‘If you want me urgently give Mrs. French a message. I’ll be out of Town for a day or so, but she’ll know where she can get in touch with me. All right?’

She looked up at him.

‘It’ll have to be.’

He kissed her, gave her a little hug, and left her. She went to the window and watched him walk quickly down the street.

‘Planning a robbery,’ she thought. ‘And I’m to find out the details. Well, the money’s all right. If I don’t have anything to do with the actual robbery I can’t get into trouble.’ She looked at the two five-pound notes and smiled. ‘The money’s fine.’

VI

Julie found Mrs. French’s Domestic Agency was over an antique bookseller’s shop in Mayfair Street. She went into the dimly lit lobby. The bookseller’s door was on her right, in front of her was a flight of stone stairs, and under the stairs was the lift.

A blonde woman, holding a Pekinese dog under her arm, stood in the doorway. She looked at Julie without interest, then shifted her heavily shaded eyes back to the street. A man paused in his stride, looked at her, saw Julie and continued on his way. The blonde woman didn’t care. The man had already twice passed the doorway. Obviously he was the type who took time to make up his mind. He would be back again.

Julie entered the lobby, glanced back at the blonde woman and wrinkled her nose. She would never come to that, she told herself.

As she looked round she became aware of a tall, bony man peering at her through the glass panel of the door leading to the bookseller’s shop. He stood very still, his head on one side and surveyed her with intent eyes. He was old and dried up, and his thick, white hair needed a trim. His scrutiny made her feel uncomfortable and she hurriedly ran up the stairs, knowing he would stare at her legs until she was out of sight.

A door marked ‘Mrs. French. Domestic Agency. Enquiries.’ faced her at the head of the stairs; she pushed it open, entered a small, well-furnished room, full of flowers and sunshine.

A girl was typing by the window. She was smart, polished and sophisticated. Her auburn hair was done in an elaborate up-sweep with not a hair out of place. Her white linen dress with its smart red buttons and belt fitted her without a wrinkle. She looked as if she had been taken carefully from a box lined with cellophane and placed with equal care on her chair not a moment before. Julie regarded her with envious interest.

The girl glanced up, her scarlet nails still flashing over the typewriter’s keys. Seeing Julie, she stopped typing and with an irritable frown pushed back her chair and came over to the counter that divided the room.

She had the easy, graceful carriage of a mannequin and she was tall. She made Julie feel shabby and somehow a little cheap, and that immediately put Julie on the offensive.

‘Did you want anything?’ the girl asked abruptly and eyed Julie with scarcely concealed contempt. She had a low, husky voice that seemed familiar to Julie.

‘Mr. Gleb told me to ask for Mrs. French,’ she said awkwardly.

‘Oh, I see.’ The girl’s mouth tightened. ‘You’re Julie Holland, I suppose? Well, sit down. You’ll have to wait. My mother’s busy at the moment,’ and she turned and went back to her typing.

Feeling snubbed and hating the girl, Julie sat down. There followed a long wait. The only sound in the office was the whirr of the typewriter and the sharp ping of the bell at the end of each line. She studied the girl. ‘They must pay well here.’ she thought, ‘that frock has a marvellous cut, and she’s wearing nylons, too. I’d like a frock like that. I’d look much nicer than she does.’

The girl got up suddenly, swept up a number of papers from her desk, and went into the inner office. After another wait, she came out, jerked her head at Julie.

‘Go in. She’s free now.’

Mrs. French sat at a big desk near the window. She wore unrelieved black and, seeing her, like an unwanted relative at a funeral, Julie was startled. Long jet ear-rings swung backwards and forwards whenever she moved her head. She had none of her daughter’s prettiness, but there was a marked resemblance about the determined mouth and chin.

She seemed to know all about Julie and came to the point with startling suddenness.

‘Gleb’s told me about you. The job’s simple enough if you use your brains. You don’t look a fool.’ And as Julie continued to stand before her desk, she waved impatiently to a chair. ‘Sit down, sit down.’ Her voice was deep and harsh. ‘You will go this afternoon to 97, Park Way. Do you know where the Albert Hall is? Well, Park Way is just by it. You can’t miss it. It’s big and ugly enough. Your new employer will be Mrs. Howard Wesley. You are to be her personal maid. You’ll have to look after her things, tidy up when she’s finished dressing, answer the door, serve cocktails, arrange flowers and take telephone messages. It’s an easy job as far as the work’s concerned. The permanent staff of the building does all the rest of the work and the meals are sent up from the restaurant. Mrs. Wesley will pay you three pounds a week and all found. You’re to come here every Saturday afternoon for your additional pay. Do you understand all that?’

Julie said, ‘Yes.’

There was something about Mrs. French that made her uneasy: a feeling you have in the dark when you hear a sudden, mysterious sound and you think something horrible is going to jump out on you.

‘Your uniform is over there — in that parcel,’ Mrs. French went on, and touched her ear-rings. They seemed to give her a secret satisfaction for she smiled. ‘If it doesn’t fit you, alter it, but I think it’ll be all right. For goodness’ sake don’t look shoddy. Mrs. Wesley has high standards. And here are your references.’ She pushed two envelopes across the desk. ‘Study them. Mrs. Wesley isn’t likely to be too particular, but you never know. One of them is from a doctor and the other a clergyman. I’ve been to a lot of trouble to get them and they cost me money, so don’t lose them.’

‘Thank you,’ Julie said, bewildered. She put the two envelopes in her bag.

‘Well, you know what you have to do,’ Mrs. French went on. ‘I’d better tell you something about the Wesleys. You’ll find out about them quick enough, but you may as well be on your guard. Howard Wesley, the husband, is the senior partner of Wesley-Benton, the aircraft designers. The factory is near Northolt airfield. Wesley goes there every day. You may have read about him. He’s blind: won the V.C. bringing in a burning bomber. He saved the crew or something like that. I forget the details. Anyway, he’s enormously rich — and blind.’ She picked up a pencil and began to draw neat little circles on the blotting paper. ‘Mrs. Wesley, before her marriage, was Blanche Turrell, the musical comedy actress,’ she went on. ‘You’ve probably seen her. Most people have. She drinks like a camel. That’s why she’s given up stage work. Wesley’s always been crazy about her, but she doesn’t give two hoots for anyone but herself. She married Wesley for his money and leads him a hell of a life, so I hear. Her temper’s vicious, her nature’s mean and she has the morals of an alley cat.’ She thought for a moment, added, ‘Oh, yes, she’s a first-class bitch as well.’

‘I see,’ Julie said, startled.

‘You’ll have trouble with her,’ Mrs. French went on. ‘Your work is easy enough, but your dealings with Mrs. Wesley won’t be. That’s why we’re paying you good money. You’ll earn it, all right; don’t think you’re in for a soft job.’ She stared at Julie, a satisfied expression in her eyes. ‘As far as I know she hasn’t kept a maid longer than three weeks, but it is part of your job to stick it out until I tell you. If you quit before we’re ready you’ll lose the fifty pounds. Understand?’

‘Before you’re ready for what?’ Julie asked sharply.

‘You’ll be told when we want you to know,’ Mrs. French said. ‘Your immediate job is to get established at Park Way. You’re satisfied with the money we’re paying you, aren’t you?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Julie said. ‘The money’s all right.’

‘Be satisfied then, and don’t ask questions.’ Mrs. French opened a drawer, took out a cash box and counted out twelve one-pound notes. ‘Take this. Come in next Saturday and there’ll he another twelve pounds for you. You play along with us and we’ll look after you, but step out of turn and you’ll regret it.’ She eyed Julie, went on in her rasping voice. ‘Now get off and take that muck off your face. You’re supposed to be a servant, not a movie star.’

‘Yes,’ Julie said, hating her. She put the money in her bag.

‘And watch your temper. You’ll need all your control when Mrs. Wesley starts on you. When she’s drunk, she’s rotten; remember that. You can’t be too careful.’

‘I see,’ Julie said.

‘Right, get off now, and tell Dana I want her as you go out.’

Julie was picking up the parcel containing her uniform when Mrs. French said this and nearly dropped the parcel. Dana! So this was the girl who had telephoned Harry and had warned him the police were looking for him. She remembered what Harry had said about her: She isn’t as pretty as you, so you don’t have to worry about her. Wasn’t she? She had everything: poise, prettiness, clothes and immaculate neatness. ‘How could he lie like that?’ she thought, furious and dismayed. ‘He tried to make out she meant nothing to him. A girl like that...’

‘What are you waiting for?’ Mrs. French demanded. ‘You know what to do, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ Julie said, and went into the outer office.

Dana was speaking into the telephone, her back turned to Julie.

‘She’s in there now,’ she was saying. ‘Yes, she looks all right as far as she goes—’ She looked over her shoulder, saw Julie and stopped speaking.

‘Mrs. French wants you,’ Julie said, aware that her voice was shaky. She went out of the office, closed the door and stood listening.

She heard Dana’s voice clearly through the glass panel of the door.

‘Just this moment gone,’ she was saying. ‘A bit of a slut I’d say, but if she does the job... what’s that? Well, I’m not so sure. Oh, of course, they all want money. That’s all they think about. All right. Let’s talk about it tonight.’

Who was she talking to? Julie wondered, her face burning. Not Harry. No, she wouldn’t believe Harry would stand for her being called a slut. She wanted to rush into the office and slap Dana’s face. Then a sudden feeling that she was being watched made her turn. Mrs. French was standing in the doorway that led from her office into the passage. The sunlight coming through the landing window caught the jet ear-rings and made them sparkle. Mrs. French didn’t move nor speak. She looked coldly menacing, like a waxworks in the Chamber of Horrors. Julie forgot her anger, backed to the head of the stairs.

‘I wasn’t listening,’ she said breathlessly.

Mrs. French continued to regard her with stony eyes. The ear-rings continued to flash in the sunlight.

Julie turned and ran down the stairs. Just round the bend of the staircase she nearly collided with the blonde woman who was coming up the stairs. The man, whom Julie had seen in the street, was following her. He didn’t look at Julie, but stared at the stairs, red faced.

In the lobby the thin, bony man stared at her through the glass panel of the bookseller’s door. He was still watching her as she ran down the stone steps into the heat and bustle of Mayfair Street.