But a Short Time to Live

I

The fat woman smiled self-consciously at Harry as he gave her the card. It was a pity, he thought, that she had let herself go. Her uncared for hair straggled from under a hat that didn’t suit her, her eyes were heavy and tired, and there was a shine on her face that made you think she had just this moment finished cooking a stodgy, uninteresting meal. But she seemed pleased that Harry had photographed her, and she read the card carefully before putting it in her bag.

“And to think I didn’t see you,” she said as she closed the bag. “I bet I’ll look a proper fright.”

“No, you won’t,” Harry returned. “People always look their best when they don’t know they’re being photographed. It will be ready by tomorrow afternoon. There’s no obligation to buy, only I hope you’ll go along and see it.”

“Oh, I’ll go,” the woman said. “Link Street’s somewhere near the Palace Theatre, isn’t it?”

“That’s right. First turning on the left as you go up Old Compton Street.”

She thanked Harry and gave him a smile. Some of the lost prettiness came back like a transparency you hold up to the light, and as she walked away, she tucked up the strands of hair that escaped from under her hat.

That was the last photograph for the day. Thank goodness for that, Harry thought as he wound off the film, slipped the spool into its metal case and put the case in his pocket. He felt chilly and tired. To be on your feet for four hours at a stretch wasn’t so bad if the sun shone and people were pleased to be photographed, but today heavy clouds had hung over the West End and there had been a cold East wind.

The crowds moving in a steady stream up and down Regent Street weren’t in the mood to be photographed, and some of them had scowled at Harry and his camera, refusing to take his cards, or if they did, threw them away after an indifferent glance. He had taken over a hundred photographs and considered he would be lucky if twenty-five of them found buyers.

He put the camera in its case, slung the case over his shoulder and as always at this time found he had nothing particular to do. He could return to his bed sitting room in Lannock Street, off Sloane Square or return to the studio and listen to Mooney’s moans and groans about how bad business was or he could go to a pub and read the evening paper. He decided to go to a pub. He liked pubs. He liked to get in a corner with a pint of beer and watch and listen. It was surprising what he heard and saw in the West End pubs. He overheard the most extraordinary scraps of conversation, and it amused him to try and place the speakers, to guess what they did for a living, whether they were married, whether they lived as he did in a boarding house or whether they owned their own homes. He found that if he sat long enough, listened hard enough and kept his eyes open wide enough he could learn a lot about the people around him, and he liked to know about people. Besides, there wasn’t much else for him to do: not on six pounds a week with forty shillings of that going out on bed and breakfast.

He paused on the edge of the kerb for the traffic lights to turn red. There was nothing about him to attract attention. He wore a shabby tweed sports coat, a pair of old flannel trousers and a dark blue shirt. He was twenty-four, and had a thickset, strong, broad shouldered figure. His eyes were big and grey and friendly, and his mouth wide and generous. His hair, cut short and inclined to curl, was fair, and his complexion, exposed to all kinds of weather, was the colour of old mahogany. He could have been mistaken for a medical student, and the people whom he photographed often looked at him curiously as if wondering why a young fellow of his stamp hadn’t found himself something better to do than to stand at street corners and take photographs for a living.

When the traffic stopped, he crossed Regent Street and walked slowly up Glasshouse Street where he bought an evening paper. He went on, moving more slowly as he scanned the front page, indifferent to the threats of another war, disinterested in the worsening of the dock strike, held for a moment by a smash and grab raid in Shaftesbury Avenue, and then giving his undivided attention to the latest sensational murder trial which covered two pages of the paper. He was still reading as he pushed open the swing doors of the Duke of Wellington’s public house in Brewer Street. He liked the Duke of Wellington: it had a pleasant homely atmosphere and its beer was good: quite the best beer in London.

He ordered a pint of bitter, pulled up a stool and sat down, still reading. This chap hadn’t a hope, he thought. What jury would believe a yam like that? Why even a kid wouldn’t believe it!

He read to the end, turned to the stop-press to see if there was any more of it, and then reached for his tankard. The beer went down well and he gave a sigh of satisfaction as he savoured its taste and stretched his tired legs.

The bar was crowded; voices blended in one continual sound, punctuated by the shrill bell of the cash register, the banging of tankards on the counter and the continual shuffling of feet.

Harry folded his paper and leaned his shoulders against the wall, tilting back his stool at a precarious angle. He surveyed the crowd hopefully. The usual faces were there. The three men in black homburg hats and overcoats huddled together in a comer, drinking whiskies and whispering. They were there every evening about this time: mystery men. Harry had never been able to pick up one word of their conversation, and had no idea what they did or who they were. The grey-faced man and his perky, shabby wife were sitting at a table close by, drinking port. Harry knew something about them. They were caretakers of a block of offices in Regent Street, and the woman was always trying to cheer the man up. He had an ulcer, and seemed in need of a great deal of cheering up. There was an elderly couple who wrangled good-naturedly about dog racing. There was a heavily built man who bored his two companions with his political theories. There was a young couple who drank brandy and sat in a comer and who never paid any attention to anyone except themselves. The girl was flat chested and plain and held the man’s hand with fierce possessiveness and scarcely said a word while the man talked in low continuous murmur, and kept waving his free hand at her as if he were trying to persuade her to do something against her will.

Harry regarded all these faces without enthusiasm. He thought it was high time he found someone new to interest him. Hopefully he stood on the rungs of his stool and looked over the heads of the crowd before the bar and surveyed the little group of tables against the far wall. And then he saw her: the most attractive-looking girl he had ever seen in his life.

She had a mass of blue-black hair which fell in a heavy wave to her shoulders. She seemed to him to be prettier than any film star, and as bright and glittering as a diamond. She wore no hat. Her sky blue blouse with its high collar looked as immaculate as if she had only this second put it on, while her black full-pleated skirt was neither too short nor too long as if it had made up its mind to strike a compromise between the Old and the New Looks and succeeded uncommonly well.

He stood on the rungs of the stool, gaping at her, thinking how marvellous she was: just the kind of girl he would like to take out if he had plenty of money. He knew a girl with her looks and her way of dressing was certain to cost a packet of money if he did take her out. It would be unthinkable as well as unreasonable to expect her to go to any old restaurant or to travel by bus or go in the three and sixpenny seats at a movie. Obviously only the best of everything would do for her. It would be unreasonable too to expect her to take any interest in a fellow who stood at street comers and took photographs for a living, and Harry sighed.

But what was she doing in a pub like the Duke of Wellington? he wondered. Not that there was anything wrong with the Duke, but after all it wasn’t quite the kind of place — pleasant as it was — in which you’d expect to find a girl who dressed so smartly and was so bright and glittering. Then he saw she was drinking whisky, and that rather shocked him. He looked to see who she was with and received a second shock. Her companion wasn’t the polished Stewart Granger type Harry expected to see, but a short, fat elderly man whose face was the colour of port wine and who was as near being intoxicated as made no difference.

Here, Harry thought, sitting down on his stool again, was a problem worthy of his undivided attention. Who was the man? Who was the girl? Were they related? What were they doing here? And as he began to puzzle how best he could get within earshot of these two and overhear a word or two of their conversation that might supply a clue to these questions someone suddenly lurched violently up against him and upset his tankard of beer.

Startled, Harry turned and found himself face to face with the fat, elderly man he had been thinking about.

“My dear sir,” the fat man said, clutching Harry’s arm. “I offer you my profound apologies. I really am very sorry indeed.”

“That’s all right,” Harry said cheerfully. “Accidents will happen. There was only a drop left, so there’s no harm done.”

“It’s very nice of you to take it like this,” the fat man said, breathing heavily. “But you must allow me to buy you another drink. It’s the least I can do. What will you have?”

“No, it’s all right, thank you,” Harry said hastily. “As a matter of fact I wasn’t going to finish what I was drinking anyway. It’s really all right.”

The fat man looked hurt. He screwed up his bloodshot eyes and peered closely at Harry.

“You mustn’t fob me off you know,” he said. “Can’t go knocking people’s drinks over. I wouldn’t like it if it happened to me. Have a whisky. Nothing like a whisky to cement friendship,” and he thumped on the counter to attract the barman’s attention. “A large Scotch and soda for this gentleman,” he went on as the barman raised his eyebrows at him.

“Well, thanks,” Harry said, and tried to wriggle his arm out of the hot, clutching hand. “You needn’t have bothered. It was an accident. Anyone could have seen that.”

“It wasn’t,” the fat man said, and lowering his voice, went on, “Just between you and me, would you say I’m a little tight?”

Harry hesitated. He didn’t want to hurt the fat man’s feelings, nor did he want him to fly into a rage. You never knew with drunks just what they were going to do.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said cautiously. “Perhaps you’ve had enough. Let’s put it that way.”

The fat man seemed quite pleased as if he had formed this opinion for himself and was glad to learn he hadn’t been exaggerating his condition.

“You’re right,” he said and patted Harry’s arm. “I like a chap who tells the truth when he’s asked. But the trouble is she hasn’t had enough,” and he jerked his head in the direction of the table against the wall. “These modem girls can put it away,” he went on, lowering his voice. “Mind you I had a good few before I met her. Now look here, why don’t you join us? That’ll give me a chance to drop out for a round or so. You wouldn’t mind doing that, would you?”

Harry said he wouldn’t mind at all.

“But she might,” he pointed out “She mightn’t like me to barge in on your party.”

“Don’t you believe it,” the fat man said. “She’s a nice girl. She’ll like you. You bring your whisky and come over. S’matter of fact I’ll be glad of your arm. I’m not as steady as I ought to be.”

Harry picked up his drink and grasped the fat man’s arm.

“How’s that?” he asked, excited at the thought of meeting this girl.

“Very good,” the fat man said and blinked up at him. “My name’s Wingate. Sam Wingate. What’s yours?”

Harry told him.

“Now we know what’s what,” Wingate announced gravely. “Wicks, eh? All right, Wicks, let’s go.”

“Ricks,” Harry said. “Harry Ricks.”

“That’s it — Wicks. Now, come on. Best leg forward. Steady does it. Off we go.”

And they set off on the short but precarious journey from the bar to the table against the wall where the girl was sitting.

II

The girl — her name was Clair Dolan — watched them come with a cold, set expression. She sat still, her legs crossed and one elbow resting on the table, and looked pointedly at the distant bar, dissociating herself from the approaching two.

“This is Mr. Wicks,” Wingate said, sitting down heavily beside her. “The truth is, little girl, I brought him over because he was lonely. If you don’t want him we can always send him away, but I thought you wouldn’t mind. He’s a nice young man, and I was clumsy enough to upset his drink.”

Clair gave Harry one brief glance and looked away again. She didn’t say anything.

Harry stood uneasily before her. Her manner and bored expression made him feel uncomfortable. He wanted to go away, but was afraid Wingate might make a scene.

“I’m afraid I’m intruding...” he began, nervously fingering his tie.

“Bosh!” Wingate said loudly. “Sit down, old chap. I said she’d be pleased to meet you, and so she is; aren’t you, my dear?”

Clair looked fixedly at Harry.

“Of course, I’m delighted,” she said sarcastically. “But I’m sure Mr. Wicks has other things to do than bother with us.”

Harry turned a fiery red.

“The name’s Ricks,” he said, determined at least she should know who he was. “Harry Ricks. I’ll be getting along if you don’t mind. Thank you for the drink,” he went on to Wingate. “I’ll say good-night.”

“You’ll do nothing of the kind!” Wingate said, turning a deeper shade of purple and struggling to his feet. “You haven’t even tasted your drink. What’s up? Don’t you like her? Damn it! You sit down or I’ll lose my temper, damned if I won’t!”

Heads turned and eyes stared at them.

“Oh, sit down and make him shut up!” Clair said furiously, in an undertone. “I don’t want a scene even if you do!”

Harry sat down, feeling hot and embarrassed and immediately Wingate beamed on him, slapping him on the shoulder.

“That’s the way, old boy,” he said, sitting down himself. “You talk to the little girl. I’ve a bit of a headache. Don’t mind me. You keep her amused while I have a little nap.” He rubbed his face with his handkerchief. “S’matter of fact, old boy, I’m a bit under the weather. You look after her while I close my eyes.”

And he did close his eyes, swaying on his chair and looking as if he was going to pass out at any moment.

Clair gave him a disdainful look and turned her back on him, and in doing so faced Harry.

“I’m sorry about this,” Harry said in a low voice. “I didn’t want to come over. I’m sorry to have barged in. I really didn’t mean to.”

She lifted her shoulders in an impatient shrug.

“Oh, it’s all right. If the old fool doesn’t pull himself together in a moment, I’m going,” and she stared at the bar as if it was the only thing in the place that interested her.

In spite of her bored, sulky expression, Harry still thought she was marvellous, and even though she was snubbing him so pointedly, he was pleased to be sitting next to her.

“Can I get you something to drink?” he asked, seeing her glass was empty.

“No, thank you,” she returned, not looking at him. “You don’t have to make conversation, so please don’t try.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Harry said, a little nettled.

They sat in silence for several minutes, while Wingate snored gently and swayed to and fro in his chair.

Harry studied Clair’s face, trying to think how he could break down her bored indifference. It was absurd to sit like this without saying anything to a girl as beautiful as she was. His scrutiny irritated her and she jerked round and frowned at him.

“Must you stare like that?” she demanded. “Haven’t you any manners?”

Harry grinned at her.

“Well, yes,” he said. “I suppose I have. But you’re worth staring at, you know, and there’s not much else to do.”

“Oh, be quiet!” she said angrily, and turned away.

Inspired suddenly by an idea, Harry said softly as if speaking his thoughts aloud, “She walks in beauty like the night, of cloudless chimes and starry skies, and all that’s best of dark and bright, meet in her aspect and her eyes.”

She didn’t move or turn, but after a moment or so, he heard her try to suppress a giggle.

Encouraged, Harry said, “I don’t suppose I’ll ever see you again so perhaps you won’t mind if I say you’re the most beautiful girl I have ever seen.”

She swung round to stare at him.

“I think you’re crazy, and what’s worse, you’re sloppy too.”

But he could see she was looking at him with a little more interest, and the cold, bored expression had gone from her eyes.

“Is it sloppy to say you’re beautiful?” Harry asked. “Anyway, I don’t care if I am; it’s the truth.”

She studied him. He was a species of male which had entirely gone out of her life: a young man without money, with a pleasant, engaging smile, and without that hot intent leer she was used to seeing in a man’s eyes when she met him for the first time. And unlike the other male pests he was shabbily dressed, and this she found quite a novelty after the padded shoulders and flashy ties of the numerous men she knew. She particularly noticed how clear his eyes and skin were and how white his teeth were, and rather surprised at herself, she felt less hostile towards him, and even began to think he was rather nice looking.

“What did you say your name was?” she asked.

“Harry Ricks. What’s yours?”

She frowned at that, not sure if she wanted him to know her name, then said distantly, “I don’t really know if it’s your business, but if you must know it’s Clair Dolan.”

“I knew it would be something like that,” Harry said, determined not to lose an opportunity to soften her towards him. “I once made a study of names. Did you know Clair means bright and illustrious?”

She looked sharply at him.

“Who do you think you’re kidding?”

“But I’m not I have the book at home. I’ll lend it to you if you like.”

“Well, I don’t like,” she said shortly.

There was a pause, then he asked, “Do you come here often?”

She said, no, she didn’t. In fact she had only once been here and that was during the last big blitz on London. So they began to talk about the blitz, and Harry told her he had been an Air Raid Warden before he went into the Army and had been in charge of a shelter not three hundred yards from where they were sitting. That was one of the reasons why he came to the Duke of Wellington. Every night during the blitz he and a fellow warden used to have a beer here before beginning their night’s duty.

“Gets you into the habit,” Harry said, pleased to see she was showing interest in what he was saying. “It’s a friendly place, and it has memories.” He looked at her admiringly. “What did you do in the war?”

“Oh, nothing,” she said, shrugging her shoulders, and remembered how she used to gad about the West End with American officers and drink their whisky and dance with them and struggle with them in taxis, and she giggled. “A girl can’t do anything very important, can she? Besides, I was too young.”

Harry had known some girls who had done a great deal more than he had, and they had been young too. He had known a girl who dropped into France, and had been caught by the Gestapo and shot. But it was unthinkable, of course, that a girl like Clair should be mixed up in looking after people in shelters or to be bossed around in the WRAF or the WRAC or spoil her hands working in a factory. Some girls could do that sort of thing, but not Clair. Harry saw that all right.

Then suddenly a discordant note sounded. Wingate had shaken off his fuzziness and had decided it was time to have another drink. He put his hand in his pocket and discovered his wallet had disappeared. Still feeling dazed, he groped carefully through his other pockets. His movements were so deliberate that both Clair and Harry broke off their conversation to stare at him.

“Have you lost anything?” Harry asked, wishing Wingate would go to sleep again.

Wingate didn’t reply. Instead, he stood up and emptied everything he had in his pockets on to the table. He continued to go through his clothes with growing alarm.

“I’ve been robbed!” he exclaimed violently. “My wallet’s gone!”

The two barmaids and the barman, the grey-faced man and his perky wife and the three mysterious gentlemen in homburg hats all turned to stare at Wingate.

Harry felt the colour rise in his face. He was young enough to be acutely embarrassed by a scene like this, and was also aware the three mysterious men in homburg hats were looking suspiciously at him.

“Robbed!” Wingate repeated in a hard, angry voice, and turning to Harry, pointed an accusing finger at him. “All right, young fellow, a joke’s a joke, but this has gone far enough. Hand it over or I’ll send for the police!”

“Hand what over?” Harry asked, turning crimson.

“My wallet!” Wingate snapped. “Hand it over and I’ll say no more about it. There’s fifty pounds in that wallet and I’m not going to lose it!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Harry said, getting to his feet, confused and embarrassed. “I haven’t taken your wallet!”

The barman appeared from behind the counter. He came over and planted himself before Wingate, a heavy scowl on his blunt-featured face.

“Now then,” he said, “what’s all this in aid of? What are you complaining about?”

Wingate welcomed his appearance. He felt ill and dizzy and the loss of the wallet was a disaster. He pointed a trembling finger at Harry.

“That young man has stolen my wallet. Make him hand it over.”

The barman eyed Harry’s confused face suspiciously.

“All right, son, don’t let’s ’ave any trouble. And it over and be sharp about it.”

“But I haven’t got it!” Harry declared. “He’s drunk. You can see that, can’t you?”

“And that’s all the thanks I get,” Wingate wailed. “I befriend this young man and he robs me and says I’m drunk. Call a policeman.”

“All right, all right,” the barman said hastily. “We don’t want any trouble. The three of you — just step this way. We’ll soon see who’s who and what’s what. Come on. Just step this way.”

And he seized Harry’s arm in one hand and Wingate’s arm in the other, and jerking his head at Clair, conducted them to a room at the back of the bar where the manager received them with a set smile which threatened to disappear at the first sign of unpleasantness.

“Gent ’ere says this ’un’s pinched ’is wallet,” the barman said, jerking his head at Wingate and his thumb at Harry.

The manager rose from behind his desk. His smile fairly jumped off his face.

“And who’s this?” he asked, looking at Clair.

“The gent’s friend,” the barman explained, and gave Clair an admiring glance.

The manager also seemed taken with her. He pushed a chair forward and invited her to sit down.

“Right-ho, Bob,” he said to the barman when Clair was seated, “just stand by the door while I sort this out.”

When Bob had taken up his position before the door, the manager asked Wingate what he had to say for himself.

“My wallet’s gone,” Wingate said. He was pale and shaken. “I spoke to this chap who is a complete stranger to me, and a moment or so later I found my wallet gone. It contained fifty pounds.”

The manager stared hard at Harry who had now recovered from his embarrassment and was getting angry. The manager liked the look of Harry. It seemed unlikely that he was a pickpocket. He just didn’t look the type, and the manager decided to treat him cautiously. He had seen him often enough in the bar and wasn’t going to lose a regular customer if he could help it. He had never seen Wingate before and noticed he was scarcely sober, and that sort of thing was bad for business. So he asked Harry in a mild voice what he had to say.

“I don’t know anything about his wallet,” Harry declared, growing red in the face again. “And I can prove it!”

Before anyone could stop him he emptied the contents of his pockets on the desk in exactly the same way as Wingate had but a minute or so ago piled his possessions on the table in the bar. The manager, the barman, Wingate and Clair looked at the articles which lay on the desk with interest: they were a miscellaneous lot. There was a packet of ‘You’ve Just Been Photographed’ cards, three metal cases containing films, a handkerchief, a penknife, a half-eaten bun, some crumbs from the other half that had been eaten, three half-crowns and a piece of string.

The manager peered at the collection, shook his head doubtfully, looked at Wingate and asked him if he was satisfied.

Wingate turned even paler, licked his dry lips and then suddenly turned and pointed an accusing finger at Clair.

“Then she’s got it!” he exclaimed. “It’s either one or the other. I... I picked her up in Regent Street. I’ve never seen her before. It was her idea we should come here and he was waiting for her. That’s it! They’re working together. He took my wallet and passed it to her.”

Clair rose to her feet. She looked surprised and inclined to laugh. She walked up to Harry and stood by his side, facing Wingate.

“So we’re working together, are we?” she said. “Well, that’s funny, considering you knocked his drink over and introduced him to me. Can’t you think of a better yam than that?”

“Now, steady on,” the manager broke in, frowning at Wingate. “You can’t go accusing everyone like this. You just said this young man had it. Well, he hasn’t You’d better be careful.”

Wingate thumped the desk.

“I want my wallet. If he hasn’t got it, then she has!”

“If you don’t watch out,” Clair said, smiling at the manager, “he’ll be saying you took it next. Oh well, I may as well set his mind at rest,” and in spite of the manager’s growl of protest, she opened her handbag and dumped its contents on the table side by side with the articles that had come out of Harry’s pockets.

Now it was Harry’s turn to peer with interest. There was a gold powder compact and cigarette case combined, a gold cigarette lighter, a fountain pen and cheque book, several pound notes and a lot of silver, some letters, a comb, handkerchief, a lipstick in a gold holder and a number of keys on a ring.

There was a long and heavy silence, then Clair said brightly, “I’ll take my clothes off if it’ll satisfy him. I only want him to be happy.”

The manager went red and the barman lost his scowl and looked hopeful.

“That won’t be necessary at all,” the manager said hastily. “It’s quite all right, Miss. There’s obviously been some misunderstanding.” He turned on Wingate and went on in a cold, unfriendly tone, “When did you last use your wallet?”

Wingate sat down heavily. He looked old and feeble and very stupid.

“I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

“Did you take it from your pocket while you were in the bar?” the manager asked. “Now come, sir. Think carefully. Did you pay for your drinks with the change in your pocket or did you pay with a note?”

Wingate admitted he hadn’t taken a note from his wallet while he was in the bar.

“Then you could quite easily have dropped the wallet or had it stolen before you came in here,” the manager said, pleased with his reasoning.

While this was going on Harry began to put his possessions back into his pocket and Clair joined him and began to put hers back into her bag.

“That’s a nice case,” Harry said as she picked up the gold cigarette case.

“Oh, it’s all right,” she said and smiled at him. “Have one?” and she offered him a cigarette.

Harry took the cigarette and she lit it for him, and as she did so she looked right into his eyes.

“Excuse me,” the manager said sharply, “when you two have quite done I’d like to get on with ray work.”

Harry started and looked blankly at the manager. He had been so carried away that he had forgotten where he was.

“I’m so sorry,” Clair said, smiling. “Well, I suppose we can go now or does he still want to send for the police?”

“Of course you can go,” the manager said. “And I hope you’ll both accept my apologies. I don’t like this sort of thing to happen in my house, and I hope you will both continue to come here. You’ll be very welcome.”

“Thank you,” Clair said.

Wingate, who was listening with a dazed expression on his face, made an effort to pull himself together.

“Now listen, little girl...” he began feebly, but Clair ignored him.

She turned to Harry. “Well, let’s go. He thinks we’re working together so let’s keep up the illusion,” and to Harry’s surprise, she linked her arm through his and made for the door.

The barman opened it for them with a flourish and winked at Harry as they went past.

Wingate called feebly, “Hey! Don’t go away. I want to apologise...”

But they didn’t look back and went on through the bar and into the street. Then they paused and looked at each other. Harry hated to think in a few seconds they would part, and he would probably never see her again.

“I’m awfully sorry that happened,” he said, putting his hands in his pockets and kicking the edge of the kerb. “It was really my fault. I shouldn’t have barged in.”

“That’s all right,” she said, and he was suddenly aware of a change in her. She wasn’t smiling, and she even seemed a little bored with him. “The old fool was drunk. We’d better be going before he comes out. I don’t want to see him again.”

“No,” Harry said awkwardly. “Well, then I suppose I’d better say good-bye.”

Still unsmiling, her eyes expressionless, she stepped closer and offered her hand.

“Good-bye,” she said abruptly.

Harry took her hand, and as he did so she appeared to stumble, and she caught hold of his coat to steady herself, and he felt a little tug at his hip pocket. He stepped back and something fell on the pavement at his feet. Clair bent swiftly, snatched it up and put it with one lightning movement into her bag. But Harry had seen it: a worn, bulky leather wallet.

They stood looking at each other.

“That... that came out of my pocket,” Harry said.

“Did it?” she said, and continued to look steadily at him.

“So you did take it,” Harry said. “You put it in my pocket before you showed them your bag.”

She bit her lips, looked uneasily at the swing doors of the Duke of Wellington, and then at him.

“Yes, I did,” she said suddenly. “I took it to teach him a lesson. I’m going to give it back to him. You don’t think I’m a thief, do you?”

Harry was so shocked he didn’t know what to think, but he said, “Why, no, I don’t think that. But... well, hang it, you shouldn’t have taken it. There’s fifty pounds in it—”

“I know I shouldn’t have,” she said, and again looked uneasily at the swing doors. “Look, let’s walk on, shall we? I’ll tell you why I took it as we go along.”

“But you’ve got to give it back to him,” Harry said, not moving. “You can’t go off with his fifty pounds.”

“I can’t give it back to him when he’s drunk,” she said impatiently. “You can see that, can’t you? He’ll give me in charge.” She suddenly linked her arm through his. “I know his address. I’ll send it back to him. Come on back to my place. We can talk about it there.”

“Your place?” he said, surprised.

She smiled up at him.

“Why not? It’s not far. Don’t you want to come?”

“Well, yes,” Harry said, falling into step beside her. “But are you sure we should leave him without his money?”

“I’ll send it back tomorrow,” she said, and again looked uneasily at the swing doors of the Duke of Wellington. “Let’s go to my place, and I’ll tell you how it happened.”

He went with her down Glasshouse Street towards Piccadilly.

III

As they made their way through the crowds along Piccadilly, she kept up a flow of conversation — that took Harry’s mind away from Wingate and his wallet. She walked quickly, holding on to his arm and hurrying him along. If Harry had had a chance to think he would have realised she was trying to get away from the Duke of Wellington as fast as she could without actually running, but she didn’t give him the chance. Nor did she give him the chance to ask about the wallet.

“Where do you live?” she asked, tossing back her thick wavy hair from her face and looking up at him as if she was really interested in what he was going to say.

“I have a bed-sitter in Lannock Street. It’s a turning off Sloane Square,” Harry told her.

“I have a flat off Long Acre. You’ll like it.” She gave him a swift smile. “Have you got a girl friend?”

“A... what?” Harry gaped at her.

“A girlfriend. Someone to go around with.”

“Well, no, I haven’t. Of course I know a few girls, but I haven’t a regular one.”

“I should have thought you would. What was that you said about me: something about she walks in beauty...”

“Yes. She walks in beauty like the night, of cloudless chimes and starry skies, and all that’s best of dark and bright, meet in her aspect and her eyes. It’s fine, isn’t it?”

“I bet you’ve said that to dozens of girls.”

“I haven’t. It’s a thing I learned at school, and I only remembered it again when I saw you. It fits you, somehow.”

“Does it? You’re a funny boy, aren’t you?” She touched the small camera hanging from the strap on his shoulder. “Do you take photographs?”

“Yes.” Harry felt himself grow hot, wondering what she would think of him if she knew what he did for a living.

“It’s a very small camera, isn’t it? Is it a Leica?”

He said it was.

“A friend of mine had a Leica. He was always pestering me to pose for him in the nude. Have you ever taken nudes?”

Harry shook his head.

“I can’t get anyone to pose for me,” he said, and grinned.

“Well, girls aren’t mugs these days,” she said. “One thing leads to another, doesn’t it?”

“Not necessarily.”

“Perhaps not, but a girl can’t be too careful.” She paused to open her bag. “This is it. I have a flat above the shop.”

They had stopped outside a tailor’s shop, and Harry glanced at the window display. Looking at the various suits displayed on the immaculate dummies made him suddenly aware of his own shabbiness.

“I’m afraid I’m in my working clothes,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind.”

She found a key and opened a door by the entrance to the tailor’s shop.

“Don’t be a dope,” she said shortly. “I couldn’t care less what you wear. Come in. It’s just at the top of the stairs.”

He followed her up the stairs, and couldn’t help noticing what slim, neat legs she had as she moved from stair to stair. And as if she could read his thoughts, she glanced over her shoulder and made a face at him.

“Like them?” she asked. “Most men do.”

Harry was so surprised that he blushed.

“They’re wonderful. What are you — a thought reader?”

“I just happen to know men. Whenever I walk up stairs with a man behind me I know he’s trying to see further than he should. It’s not my mind, you know. It’s really what he’s doing.”

She paused outside a door and, using the same key, opened it and entered a large airy room which was Harry’s idea of the acme of luxury. It was furnished with taste and comfort: the big armchairs, the settee and the divan were all built to give the greatest possible ease. They were covered with fawn corduroy material, offset with scarlet piping. There was a big table in the bay window, a radiogram, an elaborate cocktail cabinet, several prints of Van Gogh’s country scenes on the walls and a large fireplace where a bright fire was burning.

“This is nice!” Harry exclaimed, looking round. “Have you been here long?”

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

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

“Thank you,” Harry said, “but can’t I get it?”

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

“Haven’t you?” Harry said. “But, why?”

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

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

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

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

“No, thank you,” Harry said hurriedly. “I seldom drink it.” He poured a small whisky into a glass. “How do you like yours?”

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

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

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

Harry gaped at the food.

“Why, it’s a feast!” he exclaimed. “I can’t rob you of this. I can’t really.”

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

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

“But will you be all right tomorrow?”

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

“Well, I’m eating you out of house and home, aren’t I?”

“You talk as if there’s no food in the country.”

“Well, is there?” Harry asked, and grinned. “I don’t find much.”

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

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

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

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

“Did you really take his wallet?” he asked anxiously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, no but—”

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

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

“I work for Mooney’s Camera Studio in Link Street,” he told her, pouring out a drink. “I stand at the street corners in the West End and take people’s photographs.” He purposely made it sound as bad as he could and watched her as he said it but her expression didn’t change.

“Is it fun?” she asked.

“Well, it’s all right. Of course it’s not much, but one of these days I hope to set up on my own.”

“I shouldn’t have thought there was much in it. Is it worth doing?” she asked just as if you could pick and choose a job, and choose one that made a lot of money.

“Well, yes.” Again Harry hesitated, then plunged on, “I make six quid a week to be exact.”

“No wonder you don’t drink whisky.”

They sat in silence for a minute or so. She was staring into the fire, and there was a little frown on her face.

“Isn’t there anything better you can do?” she asked suddenly. “I mean something where you can earn more money?”

Harry was surprised at the interest she seemed to be showing in his affairs.

“Well, I don’t know,” he said. “The trouble is I don’t know much about anything except photography. I’m not ready yet to set up on my own. I took a couple of pictures while I was in the Army in Italy and sent them in for a competition run by a Sunday newspaper and I won the first prize. That encouraged me and I went in for other competitions. During the past three years I’ve collected three hundred pounds in prize money.”

Clair gave him a look of surprised interest.

“That’s good. You must be clever at it.”

Harry smiled.

“Oh, I don’t know. More luck than anything else. I seem to strike on the right picture. Anyway, my boss, Mooney, wants me to put the money into his business. He says he’ll make me a partner and put me in charge of the portrait side of the business. We haven’t gone in for taking studio portraits, and Mooney wants to, but he knows nothing about it, and wants me to equip the studio and run it.”

“That’s a good idea, isn’t it? Why don’t you do it?”

“It’s not as easy as it sounds,” Harry said, stretching out his long legs towards the fire. He had never felt so comfortable or so happy in his life. He had forgotten about Wingate’s wallet and couldn’t believe he wasn’t going to wake up suddenly and find himself in his cheerless bed-sitter in Lannock Street. “You see, I’m not convinced it would be a good idea to open a studio in Link Street. It’s not much of a district, and I don’t think we’d get the right kind of trade. Mooney swears we would, but I’m not sure about it. Then you see I’ve been awfully hard up. I lost my parents when I was fifteen and have had to look after myself ever since. It’s a pretty nice feeling to have three hundred pounds in the Post Office. I feel if anything went wrong, if I got ill, if I lost my job, I’d have something to fall back on. And besides, I have to think of my old age.”

Clair gaped at him.

“Old age? That’s ridiculous! Why, you’re only a kid. You have years and years before you need worry about your old age. And you might win other prizes. I’ve never heard such rot.”

Harry looked doubtful.

“Oh, I know. Mooney keeps telling me that. But I can’t help being cautious. That’s the way I’m made. One of these days I might do something about it, but I’m not going to do anything in a hurry. I believe in saving as much as I can. Don’t you?”

“Me?” Clair laughed scornfully. “Good Lord, no! I’ve never saved a farthing. The past is gone — forget it! The future hasn’t arrived — to hell with it! The present’s here — use it. It’s a short life and a merry one. That’s my philosophy. I have a good time while I can.”

“Well, I suppose that’s all right,” Harry said, thinking it was far from being all right. “Girls are a bit different. They get married; so it doesn’t matter so much.”

“You’re really the most old-fashioned boy I’ve ever met,” Clair said as she put the plates on a tray.

“I shan’t get married. That’s the last thing I want to do. The idea of having to run a home and darn a man’s socks and cook and be at his beck and call doesn’t appeal to me. And children! No, thank you!”

Harry’s face fell. She was right, of course, he thought. It was impossible to imagine her washing dishes and standing in queues and pushing a pram. And yet, Harry felt, it was a pity in a way. He supposed she might be right. He was old-fashioned. He liked to think a woman’s place was in the home doing just those things she didn’t want to do. But then why was he feeling like this? If she was the marrying kind he wouldn’t be sitting in this marvellous room, enjoying her company and having the best evening he could remember.

“Finish your drink and have another,” she said. “And pass the cigarettes. They’re on the table.”

“I won’t have another drink, thank you,” Harry said, getting the cigarettes. He handed her the box and lit her cigarette.

“Can I help you wash up?” he went on, nodding at the plates on the tray.

“My goodness!” she exclaimed. “You’re the first man who’s ever offered to do that. It’s all right. I have a woman who comes in every morning. She’ll take care of it.” She handed him her glass. “Well, if you won’t, I will.”

While he was mixing another drink, she asked, “Tell me about your place. Did you say it was in Lannock Street?”

“Yes. It’s not bad. Not like this, of course.” Harry gave her the drink and sat down again. “I share the room with another chap. By splitting the cost we get a big room.”

“Who’s the other chap?” Clair asked, surprised she was asking these questions: surprised at her own interest.

“His name’s Ron Fisher,” Harry told her. “He writes articles and things. At the moment he’s working on a series of articles on London nightlife for a Sunday paper. He’d make quite a bit of money only he sends most of it to his wife. They’re separated.”

“There you are, and you talk about married life,” Clair said, and grimaced. “That’s what generally happens. Not for me! I prefer to be free to do what I like.”

“What do you do if it’s not being rude?” Harry asked; then added hastily as he saw her frown, “But perhaps I shouldn’t ask.”

“I don’t mind,” she said, not looking at him. “I’m a model. It’s a pretty good job and it pays well.”

“What do you have to do then?” Harry asked, interested.

“Oh, you know, I’m on all the big agencies’ lists. Whenever they want a girl to advertise anything, they send for me. The money’s good, and the things I pick up are even better. I did a whisky advertisement last month, and they gave me a couple of dozen bottles as well as a fee. Last year I did a series of pictures advertising the M.G. sports car, and instead of a fee I asked for a car and got it. That radiogram over there was given to me as part fees. It’s a good racket to be in, and the work isn’t hard.”

Harry thought this was marvellous, and said so. When he had come into the room he had wondered how she managed to live at such a standard, and had been a little uneasy about it.

“I bet you thought I was a tart,” Clair said, smiling at him. “I saw the look on your face when you saw all this. You did, didn’t you?”

“I wish you wouldn’t talk like that,” Harry said. “I didn’t. I spend a lot of time in the West End, and I know a tart when I see one. They’re unmistakable. I don’t like to hear you say that even if you are joking.”

“Don’t you want to know how I ran into Wingate?” she asked. “Now, admit you’re curious.”

“Well, I suppose I am,” Harry said. “But that doesn’t mean I expect you to tell me.”

“I was feeling lonely,” she said, and leaned forward to poke the fire. “I hadn’t anything to do and this place got on my nerves and I wanted to do something reckless. Do you ever want a violent and complete change? I don’t suppose you do, but sometimes I feel I want to do something crazy — to take my clothes off and swim in the fountain in Trafalgar Square or smash a shop window or knock a policeman’s helmet off. You don’t ever feel like that, do you?”

“Well, no,” Harry said, startled. “I can’t say I do.”

“I can’t imagine you would,” she said and laughed. “I was walking along Piccadilly looking for trouble and Wingate turned up. He followed me all over the place and finally propositioned me. I thought it would be fun to lead him on, but he was so damned crude and horrible I lost my temper and decided to teach him a lesson. There, now you know all about it.”

“I shouldn’t have thought a girl like you would ever be lonely,” Harry said seriously. “You must have hundreds of friends.”

“I suppose I have,” she said. “But sometimes friends are a damned bore.” She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. “My goodness! Look at the time! I have a date in half an hour and I haven’t changed.” She jumped to her feet and smiled at him. “You don’t mind if I turn you out now? I’m sorry. It’s been fun, hasn’t it?”

Harry stood up.

“I think it’s extraordinary nice of you to have given me such a grand evening,” he said. “I’ve enjoyed it. And thank you for the meal and... and your company.”

She made him a little bow.

“I liked it too,” she said, and moved to the door.

“I wonder if I’ll see you again,” Harry said hopefully as he followed her. “I don’t suppose you have much time to spare, but if you ever feel like going to the movies and would like me to take you...”

She laughed as she opened the door.

“I’ll remember. You can always find me here. Give me a ring sometime. I’m in the book.”

This was too vague to satisfy Harry.

“I suppose we couldn’t fix up something for next week?” he asked, standing in the doorway and looking hopefully at her.

She shook her head.

“Not next week. I’m booked up. You ring me sometime. I won’t forget you.”

“All right,” Harry said, and took a slow, reluctant step into the passage. “It’s been a wonderful evening, and thanks a lot.”

She held out her hand, smiling.

“Good-bye. I must fly now. And don’t fuss, will you?”

He took her hand.

“No,” he said. “Well, good-bye.”

As he still didn’t move, she gave him a bright smile and closed the door in his face.

IV

“What an extraordinary boy,” Clair thought, leaning against the door, her hand still on the door-knob as she listened to the sound of Harry’s footfalls as he ran down the stairs. “But he’s nice. A bit soft, of course, but nice.”

She walks in beauty like the night...

No one had ever said anything like that to her before, and no man she had ever invited to her flat had left without at least trying to kiss her.

She frowned, and moved over to the table where she had left her bag. She picked it up, still thinking about him. She wondered if he would telephone, and if he did whether she should go out with him or not. A boy like that could make life complicated. But what a change from the other men she knew! She couldn’t ever remember spending an hour alone with a man without being pawed. And he was good looking too. She wondered what he would look like in a good suit, and immediately felt a surprising urge to buy him one: to give him a complete outfit.

“I’m getting as bad as Babs,” she thought, resting her hips on the edge of the table and staring at her reflection in the mirror over the fireplace. “She buys Teddy his clothes, gives him pocket money, and takes him out. Of course Teddy’s a stinking little rat. There’s no comparison between him and Harry. The trouble would be to persuade Harry to accept anything. But it might be fun to try.”

Her thoughts were abruptly interrupted by her bedroom door opening. She stiffened and pushed away from the table. A tall, fat man, smoking a cigarette, appeared in the open doorway. His face was pink and smooth shaven. His hair was ash blond and grew in two heavy wings, brushed carefully above his ears. His eyes were pale blue, almost colourless, shrewd, hard and steady. He wore a light grey suit that had cost him fifty guineas, a white silk shirt, a yellow tie ornament with horses’ heads in dark brown, and reversed calf shoes.

His name was Robert Brady.

“Hallo, darling,” he said, and smiled, showing a mouthful of gold-capped teeth. “How very pensive you look.”

“Have you been in there all the time?” she demanded, her face hardening.

He nodded.

“All the time, precious, with my ear glued to the keyhole.” He dug his finger into his right ear and grinned. “Keyholes are beastly draughty things,” he complained, sitting down before the fire. “Did you have to bring him here?”

“I was nearly caught,” she said shortly. “If you were listening you must have heard all about it. I had to be nice to him or he might have been difficult.”

“It didn’t seem such an unpleasant task,” he said. “Did you have to give him chicken? I was going to eat that myself.”

“Oh, shut up!” Clair said crossly. “How did you get in here?”

“With a key,” Brady said. “You know, one of those metal gadgets that lock and unlock doors. Didn’t you know I had a key?”

“No, I didn’t!” Clair said. “Give it to me at once! I’m not going to have you in and out just whenever you like.”

“After all it’s my flat,” Brady said mildly. “I’m entitled to come in and out, precious.”

“If you don’t give me that key I’ll have the lock changed,” Clair said furiously. “And as long as I’m here, this is not your flat.”

Brady studied her; his fat, pink face expressionless. Then, because he had two duplicates of the key, he dipped a fat finger and thumb into his waistcoat pocket and produced the key.

“Have it your own way,” he said. “We won’t quarrel about it. Where’s the wallet?”

“That’s all you think about!” She opened her bag and threw the wallet at him.

“Darling, couldn’t you try to cultivate a few manners?” he asked as he bent to pick it up. “Do you always have to behave like the gutter-bred whore that you are?”

“Oh, shut up!” she said, and walked over to the cellaret and poured herself out a drink.

“I’m afraid your new friend has had a disturbing influence on you,” Brady said as he counted the five-pound notes he found in the wallet. “Was he very romantic?”

“Oh, shut up!” she repeated, sitting down.

“Fifty quid!” He glanced up and showed his gold teeth in a meaningless smile. “That’s not bad.” He took six of the notes and folding them into a compact packet, stowed them away in his waistcoat pocket. The remaining four notes he took over to Clair. “There’s a reward for a clever girl.”

She snatched them from him, and pushed them indifferently into her purse.

“You really are in a sour temper tonight, precious, aren’t you?” he said, and patted her face with his fingertips.

She jerked away.

“Take your paws off me!” she said. “I’m not in the mood for mauling tonight.”

“Considering your trade, you should always be in the mood,” he said, chuckling. “What was the young man’s name?”

“I don’t know,” she said, not looking at him. “Harry. He didn’t say what his other name was.”

“Never mind,” Brady said, moving about the room, his hands in his trouser pockets. “We can always find out. I think he said he worked for Mooney’s Camera Studio in Link Street, didn’t he? I know the place.”

She jumped to her feet and went up to him.

“What do you mean? What are you planning?” she demanded, catching hold of his arm.

“Why, surely,” he said, smiling down at her. “He has three hundred pounds. It should be fairly simple for you to get that from him, shouldn’t it? You’re not going to miss a chance like that, are you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “I’m not likely to see him again. It’s not as if he carried it around with him. He keeps it in the Post Office.”

“It doesn’t matter where he keeps it. He’ll spend it on you if you give him the chance, and you’ll see him again. He’ll phone. It’s funny how these nice boys always fall for a bitch. They just don’t seem able to help themselves.”

Clair clenched her fists, and looked for a moment as if she was going to hit Brady, then she turned away with an angry shrug.

He pulled her round.

“Let’s forget about him for the moment, precious. I thought it would be nice if we spent an hour together. You mustn’t get temperamental with me, Clair. You couldn’t get along without me, you know. You mustn’t ever forget that.”

She tried to jerk away, but he held her easily.

“Come along. Let’s go into the other room.”

“No!” she said furiously. “I’m not going to! Let me go, you fat swine.”

He gave her a little shake, jerking her head back.

“Don’t be silly, darling,” he said, and the colourless eyes hardened. “Let’s go into the other room.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, then he released her and took her face in his moist, soft hands.

“Lovely Clair,” he said, and drew her face to him. Shuddering she closed her eyes, letting his lips rest on hers.

“Imagine I am him,” he whispered into her mouth. “All cats are grey in the dark, darling, and it’ll be good practice for you.”

He led her unprotesting into the other room.

V

A strong smell of codfish on the boil greeted Harry as he opened the front door of No. 24 Lannock Street and groped his way down the dark passage which led to the stairs.

Somewhere in the basement Mrs. Westerham, his landlady, was mournfully singing an unrecognisable song. It could have been a hymn or a ballad, and pausing to listen, Harry decided it was a hymn. Mrs. Westerham was always singing something.

“When you live alone,” she had once told Harry, “you’ve either got to talk to yourself or sing. Well, I don’t hold with talking to myself. People who talk to themselves are a bit cranky. So I sing.”

Listening, Harry felt sorry for her, and as he mounted the stairs it occurred to him that he never felt lonely, and because he hadn’t ever thought of this before it surprised him. He spent a lot of time on his own, but he was never conscious of being alone or wanting company. There was so much going on that interested him. That, he supposed, was the answer to loneliness. If you could interest yourself in other people, if you could be entertained by hanging out of a window, watching people go by and wondering what they did and who they were, if you could sit in a pub and listen, if you could lie in bed and wonder about things like what the young couple in the pub who drank brandy found to talk about, and who the three mysterious men in black homburgs were, you hadn’t much time to feel lonely. It was a good thing, he decided, to be interested in people. He wouldn’t care to get like Mrs. Westerham. It couldn’t be much fun to sing hymns all day, and he wondered if he ought to go down and have a word with her. She liked him to visit her. Only the trouble was once he was there it was so difficult to get away.

The sound of Ron’s typewriter decided him. He felt in need of male company tonight. Only another male would understand how he was feeling. He felt somehow Mrs. Westerham wouldn’t approve of Clair.

He found the air in the big room he shared with Ron heavy with tobacco smoke. Ron always forgot to open a window, and there he was now, seated at the rickety bamboo table, his coat off, his pipe smoking furiously as he hammered away at his typewriter; the floor around him was littered with sheets of paper in a fog that proclaimed he had been at it for hours.

He waved his hand at Harry and said, “Shan’t be a tic; just finishing,” and continued to hammer away with a speed and dexterity that Harry never ceased to admire.

Harry opened the window a few inches at the top and bottom, put his camera away, pulled up an easy chair to the spluttering gas stove and sat down.

He was suddenly conscious of the drab shabbiness of the room. Its only redeeming feature was its size, but comparing it to Clair’s flat, Harry thought sadly that it was little short of a slum.

The walls needed repapering, the carpet was worn, the two armchairs were long past their prime. The vast marble topped washstand with its two floral bowls and jugs gave the room a Victorian atmosphere that made Harry think of hansom cabs and mutton-chop whiskers. How unlike Clair’s sophisticated luxury flat, he thought, and wondered how much she paid to live in a place like that.

He had no idea a model made so much money. Thinking of her gold cigarette case and lighter he wondered if those were also gifts from satisfied advertisers. And a car! It just showed you, he thought, how little you know about what goes on in other businesses.

Ron suddenly pushed the table away and got to his feet.

“Done!” he exclaimed, running his fingers through his untidy hair. “Phew! I’ve been working like a dog all the afternoon. Well, that’s that. I’ve had enough for tonight. I’ll correct the blessed thing tomorrow.”

Ron Fisher was a tall, lanky, shock-headed fellow of about thirty-four or five. His face was long and thin, his eyes dark, his chin square and determined. People who met him for the first time jumped to the conclusion that he was irritable and unfriendly for he had a bitter, cynical tongue, and no patience with people who bored him.

Harry and he had met at a demobilisation centre, and while waiting their turn, had struck up a conversation that had led them to joining forces as they came out of the centre, civilians again. Ron had a large room he was willing to share. He had taken a fancy to Harry as Harry had taken a fancy to him. Ron was anxious to economise, and suggested Harry might like to split the rent of the room and take over the spare bed. They had been together now for nearly four years.

“Have you had supper?” Ron asked as he gathered up his papers.

“You bet,” Harry said, stretching out his legs and grinning up at the ceiling. “Haven’t you?”

Ron looked up sharply and regarded Harry with a puzzled frown.

“And why are you looking so damned smug? Fallen in love or something?”

“What’s that?” Harry demanded, sitting bolt upright and turning a fiery red. “Fallen in — what!”

“Oh, my stars!” Ron exploded, staring at him. “Don’t tell me that’s what’s happened? Come on; get it off your chest. It’s a girl, isn’t it?”

“Well, in a way,” Harry said, piqued that Ron should have arrived at the truth so quickly.

Ron put the pile of papers on the table, picked the table up and carried it to a far corner. Then he went to a cupboard, opened it and surveyed the contents with a scowl of disgust.

“The cupboard’s practically bare,” he said. “Well, I’m not going out so I’ll have to make do with what’s here.” He carried a loaf, butter, cheese and a bottle of beer to the armchair opposite Harry’s and sat down.

“Sure you have eaten?” he asked, taking out his penknife and sawing off a hunk of bread.

“Yes, thank you,” Harry said a little stiffly. He thought Ron at least might have asked more particulars about the girl. “As a matter of fact I had a pretty good dinner.” He stared up at the ceiling and waited hopefully, but as Ron didn’t say anything, he went on, “chicken, lettuce, Camembert cheese with whisky to wash it down.”

“That’s fine,” Ron said with his mouth full. “Observe me, I’m eating oysters with a grilled dover sole to follow.” He poured the beer into a tooth glass and drank half of it with a grimace. “Can’t think what they put in this stuff. It gets worse every week.”

“I’m not joking,” Harry said, thumping the arm of his chair. “I went to this girl’s flat, and that’s what she gave me.”

Ron frowned and put down the tumbler.

“What are you babbling about? What girl?”

“The girl I met,” Harry said. “Her name’s Clair Dolan. She has a flat near Long Acre.”

“Has she? Well, that’s very nice and central for her. How did you meet her?”

“I know it sounds a bit odd,” Harry said, fumbling for his cigarettes, “but she really is a nice girl. She’s lovely too. Honest: talk about glamour! She’s just like a film star. I wish you could have seen her.”

Ron gave a low groan.

“For goodness’ sake!” he exclaimed. “Spare me the details. I asked you how you met her. That’s all I want to know.”

Harry grinned and told him how he had gone to the Duke of Wellington, how Wingate had upset his drink, how he had been introduced to Clair. But he didn’t tell him about the wallet. Even now the wallet worried him. He was quite sure that Clair was all right, but he did think she had been foolish to have taken it. He didn’t want Ron to know about it. Ron was so cynical. He would probably have said the girl was a thief. So he left out the wallet and said after they had had a few drinks, Wingate had had to go off somewhere and Clair had invited him to her place for supper. Once he had got over the dangerous ground, he went into the fullest details, describing the flat and what Clair did for a living, how she looked, what she said and what he had said. It was nearly ten-thirty by the time he had finished.

Ron had long ago finished his supper, and was smoking a pipe now, his legs stretched out before him, a thoughtful expression on his long, thin, face. He didn’t interrupt Harry all the time he was talking, and Harry was so enthusiastic about Clair that he didn’t notice how quiet Ron had become.

“Well, that’s that,” he concluded, lighting yet another cigarette. “She said I could ring her up. Of course I’m going to. I’m going to see if I can take her out next week. She did say she was booked up, but there’s no harm in trying.”

Ron sank lower in his chair and stared at Harry from over his knees.

“I don’t want to be a wet blanket, Harry,” he said quietly, “but watch your step with this young woman. One can so easily come a cropper, especially when you’re young and inexperienced. I know that sounds damned pompous, but it happens to be true. So be careful.”

Harry stared at him.

“Be careful of what?”

“Of her,” Ron said, yawned, stretched and got to his feet. “Well, I’m going to turn in. I’ve got a long day before me tomorrow, and I can do with some sleep. How about it, Harry?”

“I’m ready,” Harry said, frowning. “Look, Ron, if you could see her, you’d know at once she was all right.”

“Really?” Ron said, as he began to undress. “I judge a girl by her actions, not by her looks. It seems a little odd that a girl who lives entirely on her own should invite a strange young man to supper with her after knowing him for only half an hour.”

“Now you’re talking rot,” Harry said heatedly. “She took me back to...” He broke off hastily, realising he couldn’t tell Ron just why she had taken him back to her flat. “She was lonely,” he went on a little lamely. “There was nothing wrong about it.”

Ron sat on the bed, kicked off his shoes and pulled off his socks.

“I like you, Harry,” he said, without looking up. “You’re a nice, clean kid, and I like to think that’s the way you’ll always be. I don’t want you to get mixed up with glamour girls: they always spell trouble sooner or later. I know. I thought I was being smart when I married Sheila. She was a glamour girl. Her idea of a good time was getting tight, dancing, going to the movies four times a week, and doing as little work as she could. She was cute and pretty, and I thought she would settle down, but she didn’t. They never do.” He pulled on his pyjamas and rolled into bed. “There are some girls, Harry, who are no good. They’re no good to themselves, and they’re no good to anyone else. Their values and outlook are all wrong. They want the fun without the responsibility, and that kind of outlook doesn’t work. At least, it works for them, but not for the poor mug who marries them or goes around with them. Be careful of this girl. Make sure she isn’t another Sheila. Maybe she isn’t, but watch out.”

Harry pulled the bedclothes up to his chin and scowled up at the ceiling.

“You’re talking through your hat, Ron,” he said. “Clair isn’t like Sheila at all. I spent the whole evening with her, and it didn’t cost roe a penny. You never spent an evening with Sheila without it costing you a packet, now did you?”

“That’s true,” Ron said sadly. “Well, all right, let’s see what happens; but watch your step.”

“The trouble with you is you’re a damned cynic,” Harry said. “You’re always crabbing about women. Just because you had a thin time with Sheila you think every girl is the same. Well, they’re not, thank goodness.”

“Ask her views about marriage,” Ron said. “That’ll give you an indication of her character. From the start I mended my own socks, got the meals, washed up, did the housework while Sheila sat around and let me do it. Find out if your girl’s keen on keeping a home or if she wants children when she’s married. I’ll bet a bob she doesn’t want any of that. That type of girl never does, and the sad thing about it is the mug who goes around with her thinks it wouldn’t be right for her to spoil her pretty hands or the shape of her pretty figure by having children. Anyway, ask her and see.”

“You talk as if I was going to marry her,” Harry said, snapping off the light. He was thankful he hadn’t told Ron about Clair’s views on married life. “How could I marry a girl like her? She must earn ten times as much as I do.”

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

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

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

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

“Oh, I knew you were bound to say that sooner or later,” Harry said heatedly. “But you’re absolutely wrong. There’s nothing like that about her at all.”

Ron sighed.

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

“I don’t know what’s the matter with you tonight,” Harry said crossly, thumping his pillow. “You’re making a cockeyed fuss about nothing. I’m going to sleep. Good-night.”

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

I

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

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

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

At the moment he was going downhill again. Three years ago he had won five hundred pounds from a football pool promotion, and had opened the Camera Studio in the hope that if someone else did the work, his luck might change. He employed three young fellows — of whom Harry was one — to take people’s photographs in the streets, and a young girl, Doris Rogers, to develop and print the films and handle the customers. Mooney limited his own activities to lounging in the shop doorway, imagining he was giving the shop what he called ‘character’.

Somehow the business had held together for three years. This was a record for Mooney, but he could see the red light now, and he was already wondering what the next move was to be.

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

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

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

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

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

Harry shook his head.

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

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

“I’m sorry,” Harry repeated firmly, “but I’m not convinced.”

Mooney lifted his shoulders helplessly.

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

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

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

Doris was short and plump with a mass of frizzy black hair, a turned-up nose and a smile that made you her friend the moment you saw her. Harry knew little about her, for she never talked about herself. She was a tremendous worker, and Mooney imposed on her, paying her badly and shifting as much of his own work on to her plump young shoulders as he could. She never grumbled, never seemed to mind if she had to work late, and didn’t appear to have any private life of her own.

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

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

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

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

Doris sniffed scornfully.

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

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

Doris shrugged.

“Oh, I’ll find something,” she said cheerfully, and paused in her work to smile at Harry. “Something always turns up. Why don’t you tell him about that idea of yours — taking photos at night? We’ve talked about it for months and never done anything about it. Now’s the time. I’m sure it would work. You might even screw some more money out of him if you try hard enough. After all, you’d have to work much longer hours.”

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

“That’s right,” Doris said. “Don’t stand any nonsense from him.”

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

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

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

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

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

Mooney opened his eyes and sat up.

“What was that again?”

Harry repeated what he had said.

“That’s fine,” Mooney said, then suddenly looked suspicious. “Where’s the catch?”

Harry grinned at him.

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

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

“A third or nothing. I need the money. It’s got to be a third or nothing.”

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

“I’d take the idea to Quick-Fotos. They’d jump at it.”

Mooney nearly fell out of his chair.

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

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

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

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

“Who doesn’t want money?” Harry said, turning red.

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

Harry edged towards the door.

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

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

“All right,” Harry said and made for the door.

“Oh, Harry...” Mooney said.

Harry paused in the doorway.

“Yes, Mr. Mooney?”

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

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

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

II

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

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

“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.

III

Clair 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 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!”

IV

Mooney 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.”

“Of course I’ll look after him,” Mooney said. He was surprised how upset he felt. “Here, wait a second while I get my coat and lock up.”

He ran back to the office. His knees felt wobbly and his hands shook.

“The trouble with me is I’m getting old,” he thought as he struggled into his coat. “Getting worked up like a blasted old woman. But it’s a shock. I like that boy. I wish I’d got a bottle of something here. I could do with a nip.”

He pulled open his desk drawer, but the whisky bottle he found under a pile of papers was empty, and had been empty for the past year. He sighed, turned off the light, returned to the shop, closed and locked the door.

“I’m ready,” he said. “What happened to him?”

“Got knocked on the head,” the policeman said. “I found him lying in the street just up the way. He wouldn’t go to the hospital so we fixed him up at the station.”

“Knocked on the head?” Mooney repeated blankly. “You mean someone hit him?”

“That’s right,”

“Who was it?” Mooney demanded. “I hope you caught him.”

“I didn’t catch anyone,” the policeman returned. “The inspector’s talking to Ricks now.”

Mooney suddenly stopped and clutched at the policeman’s arm.

“Don’t tell me his camera’s pinched? Cost me forty quid before the war, and I couldn’t get another for three times that amount.”

“I don’t know anything about a camera,” the policeman said, freeing his arm. “If you’ll step out, we’ll get there all the sooner.”

Although Mooney didn’t feel like stepping out, he did his best to move along briskly. He felt suddenly depressed and deflated.

“When a chap reaches my age and can’t have a drink when he wants one,” he thought gloomily, “the writing’s on the wall. It’s no use, Mooney, old kid, you’ve had it. Fifty-six and can’t spring to a bottle of Scotch. You’ve had it all right. If there’s ever a man heading for the workhouse, it’s you.”

He was feeling very low by the time they reached the police station. He had now come to the conclusion that he was not only a failure, but that Harry wouldn’t be able to work again, and the camera had been stolen.

“No more bright ideas,” he thought as he mounted the steps and followed the policeman’s broad back down a passage. “This settles it. I shouldn’t have let Harry work at night. I might have known some drunk would have got annoyed and hit him. Not everyone wants to have a flashlight let off in their faces. I ought to have thought of that.”

He was shown into a large office. Two plain-clothes officers were standing by an empty fireplace, smoking, and Harry was sitting in a chair.

“Jeepers, kid,” Mooney said, going to him. “How are you? What did they do to you?”

Harry gave him a wan grin. There was a broad strip of sticking plaster across his forehead, and he looked shaky and white.

“It’s all right, Mr. Mooney. It’s not half as bad as these chaps are trying to make out.”

One of the plain-clothes officers, a fat, good-natured looking man in a shapeless tweed suit came over.

“He said he wanted you so we sent a constable round for you,” he said to Mooney. “He’s had a nasty crack on the head. By rights he should be in hospital.” He looked at Harry and frowned at him. “You can thank your stars you have a head like a flint stone, my lad,” he went on. “Otherwise there’d have been a lot more damage.”

Harry touched his forehead and winced.

“There’s been quite enough damage already, thank you,” he said. “If it’s all the same to you I’d like to go home now.”

“We’ll run you home in a few minutes,” the plain-clothes officer said. “There’s a cup of tea coming. You don’t want to be in too much of a hurry.” He turned to Mooney. “I’m Inspector Parkins. Sergeant Dawson, over there,” he waved to the other officer. “Sit down, Mr. Mooney. You don’t look over grand yourself.”

Mooney sat down, and because he suddenly found himself momentarily the centre of interest, he passed a hand wearily across his face and endeavoured to look on the point of collapse.

“As a matter of fact, I feel pretty bad,” he said. “It’s been a great shock. I don’t suppose you have a little brandy?”

Parkins smiled.

“I might find you some whisky, unless you’d rather have a cup of tea,” and seeing Mooney’s expression, he laughed and produced a bottle of Scotch from a cupboard. “Always handy in case of illness,” he said and winked. He gave Mooney a good stiff drink. “There you are, Mr. Mooney. That’ll set you up.”

Mooney took the drink gratefully. And to think he had always sneered at the police! He’d never do that again. “Damned good chaps,” he thought, and drank half the whisky at a gulp.

“That’s a lot better,” he said. “I wanted that badly.”

Just then a constable brought in three huge mugs of tea, and put them on the table.

“Now you get outside this, my lad, and you’ll be right as ninepence,” Parkins said, putting a mug within Harry’s reach. “Have a cigarette if you fancy it.”

Harry accepted the cigarette, and although his head ached, he enjoyed the novelty of being entertained by a police inspector.

“Harry,” Mooney said, “did you lose the camera?”

“No, I’ve still got it, but I lost the roll of film.”

Mooney heaved a sigh of relief.

“That doesn’t matter. It was the camera I was worrying about.”

“All right, Mr. Mooney,” Parkins said. “I just want a word with our young friend, then he can get off home. Mr. Ricks,” he went on to Harry, “if you feel like it, perhaps you’ll try to help us. This fella who hit you. You say he was short, thickset and had a mop of tow-coloured hair. You didn’t see his face. Is that right?”

“That’s right,” Harry said, sipping his tea.

“Can you give us any more details. How was he dressed?”

“Well, I couldn’t see much. It was too dark. He seemed to be in a dark suit, and he wore a dark blue or black shirt. Oh, yes, I remember now, he had a sort of lisp when he spoke, and he talked through his nose.”

Parkins looked at Dawson who shook his head.

“Well, he’s a new one to us, but we’re anxious to catch him,” Parkins said, turning back to Harry. “He’s been doing quite a lot of bashing lately. He uses a bicycle chain. When you get that plaster off you’ll see the marks. We’ve had three or four people in here recently with the same marks on their faces. In their case it’s been robbery, but somehow I don’t think it was robbery in your case. I think you took his photograph, probably without knowing it, and he knocked you out to get the film.”

“Oh, no,” Harry said. “I’m positive I didn’t take his photograph. That mop of hair is unmistakable. I never saw him all the evening until he attacked me.”

Parkins stirred his tea with a pen holder and stared down at the blotter on his desk.

“You’re sure of that?”

“Absolutely.”

“Well, he wanted that roll of film for some reason or other. Perhaps you took someone he’s working with. Do you remember anyone objecting to being photographed?”

Well, of course, Harry did. The bulky figure of Clair’s companion loomed up in his mind. But he wasn’t going to get Clair mixed up with the police. That’s the last thing he intended to do.

“No,” he said, and unable to meet Parkins’s steady stare, looked away. “No one objected.”

“Don’t rush at it,” Parkins said quietly. “There’s plenty of time. Just think about it for a few minutes.”

“There’s nothing to think about,” Harry said curtly. “No one objected.”

There was a pause, then Parkins lifted his massive shoulders.

“Well, that’s that then,” he said. “A pity. This fella’s dangerous, Mr. Ricks. We want to catch him.”

“Well, I’m not stopping you,” Harry said, and because he had told a lie and his head ached, he was angry with the inspector and himself.

Parkins looked at him for a long, uncomfortable moment.

“Think it over,” he said. “You may remember later on, and if you do I hope you’ll let me know. This chap’s dangerous. One of these nights if he goes on as he’s been going on, he’ll hit someone who has a thin skull, and then there’ll be trouble. Any little clue might lead us to him. You’re still quite sure no one objected?”

Harry felt his face redden.

“Yes, I’m sure,” he said. “But if I think of anyone I’ll let you know.”

Parkins rose to his feet.

“All right Well, I don’t suppose a good night’s rest will do you any harm. There’s a car outside to take you home. Mr. Mooney will go with you. Do you think you would recognise this tow-headed chap again?”

“Oh, yes,” Harry said grimly. “I’d know him anywhere.”

“Well, that’s something. If you do see him again, call a policeman. Don’t try anything heroic yourself.”

“All right,” Harry said, and got unsteadily to his feet.

Mooney took his arm.

“I’m right with you, kid,” he said. “Take it easy and lean on me.”

When they had gone, Parkins stared thoughtfully at Dawson.

“I think it’d pay us to keep an eye on that young fellow,” he said. “He knows more about this than he says. Now, I wonder what made him lie like that? Put Jenkins on to him for the next few days. I think it might be interesting to find out who his friends are.”

V

Although Harry made out he wasn’t badly hurt, he did feel shaky, and the shock made him restless and nervous. He was quite pleased to spend a day in bed, and when Mooney told him to take the rest of the week off, and not to come to the studio until Monday, he didn’t need any persuading.

Mrs. Westerham volunteered to provide him with meals, and Ron moved his typewriter to a friend’s office in Fleet Street.

“You rest and sleep,” he said to Harry. “I won’t disturb you. After a couple of days you’ll be as fit as a flea again.”

But Harry didn’t feel like sleeping. He was worried about Clair. Was it possible, he kept asking himself, that her companion of last night had had anything to do with the tow-headed chap? Had he told the tow-headed chap to get the film from Harry? If so, why?

Harry had said nothing to Ron about Brady. He felt that until he had asked Clair for an explanation, the less he told anyone the better. It occurred to him that as Clair had cut him last night, she might not want to see him again, and that thought sent his temperature up.

Mrs. Westerham was continually popping in and out. She was a tall, bony woman, as thin as a bean stick, with a mass of greying hair done up like a cottage loaf on the top of her head. Harry liked her, but he didn’t feel in the mood to listen to her endless gossip, so most times when she came in he pretended to be asleep.

“What would you like for lunch, Mr. Ricks?” she asked, slipping into the room without warning.

“I’ve a nice bit of cod or you could have an omelet; only those Polish eggs are very doubtful. There’s nothing else I can offer you.”

“The cod sounds all right,” Harry said doubtfully. “That’ll do fine. I’m so sorry to be such a nuisance.”

“Don’t you worry,” Mrs. Westerham said. “You rest and get well. You might ’ave been killed. That’s what Mr. Mooney said.”

The morning seemed endless, and when, just before noon, Harry heard the front door bell ring, he wondered hopefully, if Mooney or Doris had come to see him. He wanted company, and perhaps a little sympathy, but company before anything.

Someone was coming up the stairs. A tap sounded on the door, and he called “Come in,” half-expecting Mrs. Westerham.

The door opened and Clair entered: Clair, radiant in a smartly cut coat, hatless, her hair caught back with green ribbon, looking very young and bright, and ladened with parcels.

“Hallo,” she said, and shut the door with her foot.

Harry felt himself turn red, then white, then red again; too surprised to utter a word.

“How’s the head?” Clair asked. She dumped her parcels on the bamboo table, and seeing how confused he was, walked across the room to take a quick look at herself in the fly-blown mirror to give him time to recover. Then she turned and smiled at him.

“Well, say something,” she said. “Don’t gape at me as if I were a ghost. You’ll make me think I shouldn’t have come.”

“You startled me out of my wits,” Harry said, his pulse leaping and jumping. “What on earth are you doing here? How did you know where to find me?”

She came over to the bed, and stood close to him, looking down at him.

“Aren’t you pleased to see me?”

“Oh yes,” Harry said. “Of course I am. Only you’re the last person I expected to see — and I was thinking about you too. It is wonderful of you to have come.”

“How are you?”

“I’m all right,” Harry said, conscious that his pyjamas were old and faded, and the room looked horribly drab. “I’ve a bit of a headache, of course. How did you know?”

“It’s in the paper. As soon as I saw it I thought I’d come and see you. I rang up the studio, and Mr. Mooney gave me your address. He asked me if I was your girlfriend, and said he had heard a lot about me.”

“He’s an awful liar,” Harry said hastily. “You mustn’t believe a word he says.”

“Well, I told him I was your girl. I didn’t think he’d give me your address otherwise. Do you mind?”

“Mind?” Harry said. “No, I don’t mind. I don’t mind a bit.”

“And I told the old lady who let me in I was your sister. I didn’t think she would let me come up unless I said that,” Clair said, and giggled.

“I bet she didn’t believe you,” Harry said, grinning. “You know this is marvellous. What made you come?”

She took off her coat and dropped it on a chair.

“Oh, I hadn’t anything better to do, and I thought you might like something to eat. You didn’t sound as if you got much when last we met. I told the old lady I was going to give you lunch. She seemed quite relieved. I’ve even brought you a bottle of whisky if you feel like a drink.”

“But, look, Clair — I suppose I may call you Clair?”

She smiled.

“You may. But look — what?”

Harry struggled to sit up.

“This is crazy. Why, we only met the other night...”

“You mean you don’t want me?” she asked, and her eyes hardened. “Do you want me to go?”

“Of course I don’t. I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful. But I’m... well, I’m just bowled over. Can’t you see? That a girl like you should bother to come here... it’s fantastic.”

“Is it? Then let’s not talk about it. I’m here. Stop looking like a startled ghost and tell me about your head. Does it hurt very much?”

“A bit, but it’s all the better for seeing you.”

She sat on the bed and began to open her parcels.

“Who did it, Harry?”

“I don’t know. I wish I did. He was after a roll of film I had taken,” and he told her about his idea of night photography, of his success and how the tow-headed man had attacked him.

“Nothing else was stolen except the film. The police think I must have taken someone’s picture who didn’t want it taken.”

“You... you went to the police?” Clair said, still busy with her parcels.

“They found me and took me to the station. The inspector said perhaps I had photographed someone working with this chap, and he asked me if anyone had objected to having their photo taken.” He was watching her closely now, but her expression didn’t change. She seemed intent on unpacking plates and knives and forks from the picnic basket she had brought with her.

“Did anyone?” she asked casually, unwrapping slices of smoked salmon and laying them on two plates.

“I told the inspector no one had, but it wasn’t true.”

“That looks tempting, doesn’t it?” she said, showing him the smoked salmon, then frowned and turned to stare at him. “What was that? What wasn’t true?”

“That no one had objected: someone did.”

She looked searchingly at him, and then caught her breath sharply.

“Oh, Harry, what a fool I am! It was you who took my photo last night? What must you be thinking of me? I didn’t recognise you. Honestly, I didn’t. It was you, wasn’t it?”

“Well, yes,” Harry said awkwardly.

“I’m so sorry. I... I saw some man pointing a camera at me. I didn’t particularly notice him and it was dark. I didn’t think you worked at night. Then the flashlight went off and blinded me. It startled me too. Oh, Harry, I am so terribly sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Harry said, smiling. “I was a bit fed up at the time, of course. I thought you had cut me.”

“I’d never do that,” Clair said, and put her hand on his. “You must believe me, Harry.”

“Of course I do.” He hesitated, and then went on, “Your friend didn’t like what happened. In fact, he was pretty rotten about it.”

Clair laughed uneasily.

“Who — Robert? Oh, you don’t have to worry about him. He’s always like that. Was that why you didn’t tell the police the whole story?”

“It was in a way. I thought they might start asking questions, and I didn’t want to drag you into it.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered,” she said, and drew the bamboo table to the bed. “I assure you he had nothing to do with it.”

“I didn’t think he had,” Harry said, not entirely convinced. “But you know what the police are. Who is he, Clair, or shouldn’t I ask?”

“Oh, he’s my boss,” she said carelessly. “Come on, let’s eat.”

“Your boss?” Harry said, taking the plate of smoked salmon she handed to him.

“That’s right. My agent His name’s Robert Brady.”

“Did he say anything about me?”

“Oh, no,” Clair returned. “I had a feeling he might make a scene so I just walked on. He’s always making scenes. He’s even horrid to me sometimes.”

“Is he?” Harry said indignantly. “Well, if I ever run into him again...”

“You mustn’t. You’re not to have anything to do with him. I don’t want him to know anything about you. If he knew I was seeing you he’d be beastly about it I get a lot of work through him so you won’t make things difficult for me, will you?”

“Does he mean anything to you?”

“Not a thing! I think he’s a fat, conceited ape. But he happens to be my boss so I have to be careful.”

“But he has no right to interfere with your private life,” Harry pointed out. “Even if he is your boss.”

“He thinks he has. Up to now it hasn’t mattered. But now you’ve come along — well, I’ll have to be careful.”

This was so unexpected that Harry stared at her.

“Do you really mean that?”

“Mean what?”

“What you said about me coming along.”

She smiled at him.

“Well, haven’t you come along?” She leaned forward and hooked her finger into his pyjama coat pocket. “If you want to see me, then I want to see you.”

Harry pushed his plate away, and slipped his arms round her. Then he was kissing her, holding her to him, feeling her trembling, her mouth hungrily against his.

VI

For the next three mornings, Clair came to see Harry, bringing food, cigarettes, magazines and flowers. Although Harry protested that he couldn’t accept her gifts, she overrode his objections. He was an invalid, she said, and it was the recognised thing for visitors to spoil invalids. If he was going to be stupid about it, she would stay away.

In the few hours they spent together during those three days, a link was forged between them that would have taken any other couple months to achieve. Once she was sure Harry reciprocated her love, she made no attempt to hide her feelings for him, and he was bewildered and dominated by her possessiveness.

By Saturday he had completely recovered, and except for a scar across his forehead, none the worse for his experience.

Before he returned to work, Clair said, he must have a day in the country, and she promised to call for him in her car on Sunday.

Ron had heard all about Clair’s visits, but had not seen her. When she called for Harry on the Sunday morning, Ron was still in bed, but as soon as Harry had left the room to go down to her, he jumped out of bed and watched Harry greet her on the doorstep. She looked particularly lovely and young in a white sweater and bottle green slacks, and Ron saw at once why Harry was so infatuated with her.

“A girl with those looks,” he thought, watching Harry get in the emerald green sports car, “could twist any man round her finger. Anyway, they look happy enough. I hope it lasts.”

Harry had never had the opportunity to learn to drive a car, and was impressed by the speed at which Clair drove. She whisked him through Sloane Square, out to Hammersmith to Shepherd’s Bush and on to Western Avenue in no time.

After forty minutes of fast driving, she pulled up in a narrow country lane, surrounded by woods and high grassy hills, as quiet and as lonely as if they were the only two people left in the world.

“Let’s park here,” she said, getting out of the car. “We can go over that stile and have lunch in the wood. Then after lunch we can walk up that hill and look at the view. From there you can see nearly all the Home Counties.”

They climbed the stile, and after walking through the quiet shady wood, they came upon a clearing surrounded by bluebells.

“How’s this?” she asked, flopping down on the grass and smiling up at him. “Let’s eat I’m starving.”

Later, when they had finished lunch, and Clair was repacking the basket, Harry said, “You know, Clair, I can’t believe it. I keep thinking there must be a catch somewhere.”

“Now, what?” she asked, glancing up and frowning.

“It beats me what you see in me,” he said. “What have I to offer you, Clair? There must be hundreds of men you could have fallen in love with. Why did you pick on me?”

“Darling, you’ve said that so often,” She returned, patting his hand. “Can’t you believe I find you different from other men? Don’t ever change, Harry. Always be as you are now. And let me do things for you.”

“But that’s the trouble,” Harry said, worried. “You do too much for me. I want to do things for you too. I’ve been thinking. I’ll have to get a better job.”

“But why?” She looked sharply at him.

“Because I can’t give you the things you are used to on six pounds a week. And I want to give them to you.”

“But I don’t want them from you!” Clair exclaimed. “Don’t you understand that I have everything I want? Even if I hadn’t I could find dozens of men who’d give me money and presents and a good time. But I don’t want anything of that. I’m sick and tired of men who want to give me things!” She rested her head on his shoulder. “Now, look, Harry, you’ve got to be sensible. For a start, it’s no good thinking we’re going to get married. I’ve told you how I feel about that. I must have my freedom. I know this sounds hard, but it’s the only way we can really be happy together. I love you. I’m all yours. But I can’t give up my present life. I can’t run a home for you. If I could, I would, but I know myself too well. It’d last about a month; but it wouldn’t last longer. I couldn’t stand it. You don’t know me as I really am. I don’t want you to, and you soon would if we lived continuously together.”

“But, Clair...” Harry began, sitting up.

“It’s no use. You’ve either to accept me on my terms or we mustn’t meet again.”

“But I love you! I want to marry you. Not at once, of course, but when I have a new job, and I’m earning more money. I want to provide for you and look after you. If two people love each other...”

“It won’t work, darling,” she said, her eyes hard. “I have my work to do, and I’m not giving that up. If you knew what a struggle I’ve had to be independent you wouldn’t expect me to give it up. If something went wrong, I couldn’t start all over again. I just couldn’t. You must accept me as I am or not at all. And you must get marriage out of your mind. Let’s meet wherever we can, Harry. Let’s find happiness and have fun together. Don’t worry about money. You won’t need money with me. We can go for a ride in the car or stay at the flat. I don’t want to be taken out or given things. I promise you, darling. I won’t cost you a penny. All I want is you, to be around when I’m lonely, to talk to, to rely on. And, Harry, it won’t be one-sided. I’m all yours to take and to have whenever you want.”

Harry looked at her in despair.

“But it’s all wrong. It’s not natural. If two people love each other, there can be only one way to live. This... this idea of yours is wrong. It has no foundation.”

“Nor have I,” she said with a sudden bitterness that startled him. “It’s no good, Harry. You must accept me as I am or we must forget about each other. I don’t want to do that, but you can’t make me something I’m not. You never will be able to.” She jumped to her feet “Come on, let’s snap out of this. Let’s go to the top of the hill.”

Harry caught hold of her.

“Do you really love me, Clair?”

“You know I do. Be patient with me, Harry. Let me have my own way in this.”

“All right,” Harry said, and kissed her. “I suppose I’m lucky to have this much. I’ll be patient But I want it to be permanent I’m scared of losing you.”

“You’re far more likely to lose me if we’re tied together,” she said. “Now, do snap out of it, Harry. It’s no good going on and on...”

“You’re not afraid to marry me because of this agent of yours?” Harry asked abruptly.

She looked away, but not before he saw an odd expression in her eyes.

“I’m not afraid. That’s not the word,” she said curtly. “But it wouldn’t help. I wouldn’t get any more jobs if I married you. And I can’t live on air. Robert rather looks on me as his own property. I let him kid himself. It doesn’t hurt me. Now, don’t look like that He doesn’t mean a thing to me. Honestly, Harry, he doesn’t.”

That rather spoilt the day, although Harry tried hard not to let it. At least, he told himself as they climbed the hill, she was honest with him. She had concealed nothing. But how he loathed this Robert Brady. What right had he to regard Clair as his property?

In spite of what Clair had said Harry was still determined to marry her.

The thing to do, he told himself, was to get down to the job of making money. It was time he pulled himself together. It was time he stopped messing about at street corners for six pounds a week. Perhaps, after all, it would be an idea to open a portrait studio. Worked properly it might make money, and then he could go to Clair and offer her what she wanted and she’d marry him. It would take time, but in the meanwhile he could go on seeing her, go on gradually breaking down her objections, and do what he could to keep her away from Brady.

They had tea in a field that sloped gently away towards the main road to London, and sat watching the cars moving towards London as the crowds began their return home.

The cars looked like toys from where they were sitting, and they were both conscious how completely alone they were.

“Happy, Harry?” Clair asked, suddenly.

“Yes. I’ve had a wonderful afternoon; only it’s gone too quickly. Would you like to go to the movies when we get back? We could have supper at a place I know in Soho.”

She shook her head.

“No, I don’t want to go to the movies, nor do I want supper out. I have lots of food at the flat. We’ll go back in a little whale, and you can talk to me while I iron some dresses. That’s what we’ll do.”

“But are you sure you wouldn’t like to go to the movies?” Harry asked, disappointed. He had the lover’s urge to do something in return for the outing she had arranged.

“I hate going to the cinema on Sundays. It’s so crowded, and you have to queue. No, let’s go to the flat, and you can keep me company.”

“All right. We needn’t go yet, need we? It’s only just after five. Or would you rather go?”

“No, I want to stay; and Harry...”

He looked at her, and there was something he saw in her eyes that sent his heart pounding.

She pulled him down beside her, holding his face in her hands while she kissed him.

“Now, Harry! I don’t want to wait. We mustn’t ever wait for anything,” she said fiercely, and her hands slid under his coat and moved down the muscles of his back, and her lips parted against his.

I

Alf Mooney scarcely believed his ears when Harry told him he had changed his mind, and if Mooney was still willing, he would go into partnership with him.

During the few days Harry had been away from the shop, business had been so bad that Mooney was doubtful if he would have enough money to pay wages on the following Friday. He had discovered it was Harry who kept the shop going, and that the other two photographers didn’t earn their keep.

And now, just when he had decided the only thing to do was to shut down the business and cut his losses, here was Harry offering new capital. Mooney very nearly threw his hat in the air.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said, Mr. Mooney,” Harry told him, “and I think perhaps, after all, I might make a go of it.”

Mooney struggled out of his chair and clasped Harry’s hand, his eyes bright with emotion.

“Call me Alf, kid,” he said feverishly. “Make a go of it? Of course you will! Why, damn it! If I had one I’d give you a cigar!”

If Mooney hadn’t been so excited he might have noticed quite a change in Harry since he had been away. He looked a little older, more solid, less vague, and there was a determined look in his usually placid brown eyes.

“Please don’t get too worked up about this,” Harry said. “You may not agree to my terms.”

“Worked up?” Mooney said, trembling from head to foot “I’m not worked up.” He mopped his face with his handkerchief. “Damn it! This is the best bit of news I’ve had in weeks.” Then he shot Harry a suspicious look. “Terms? What terms?”

“I’ve been thinking pretty hard about what you said,” Harry returned, “and if I’m allowed to do it my way I’ll put down a hundred pounds. I’m not putting down any more.”

Mooney was so hungry for money he would have accepted half that sum, but for the sake of his reputation and from habit he began to quibble.

“A hundred pounds? But that’s chicken feed, kid. If you want to go big, you’ve got to think big. Now, come on! Make it two-fifty, and have a splash. Damn it! The camera will cost sixty; even if we’re lucky to find one.”

“The camera’s not going to cost us a penny,” Harry said firmly. “We’ll use the Leica we’re using now. All we want is a good enlarger for thirty pounds, and the lights won’t cost us much more than twenty. We can use this office for the studio. The alterations will cost about another twenty. That’ll leave us thirty pounds for art paper, frames, mounts and running expenses.”

Mooney sat down heavily. He had the look of a man who has found a snake in his bed.

“A pretty narrow margin, kid,” he said, pushing his hat to the back of his head and scratching his forehead. “What’s that about using my office for the studio?”

“Where else can it go?” Harry asked, sitting on the edge of the desk. He had spent a sleepless night planning the studio, and had kept Ron awake until the small hours, arguing whether or not to sink his capital in Mooney’s business. Ron had been against the idea, but Harry, thinking of Clair, had finally talked him into agreeing. “Doris wants the back room for developing and finishing. I’ll have to help her and I’ll need a desk in there. We want the outer office as a waiting room and to make appointments. We’ll have to put up a partition to make a dressing room. This will have to do for the studio. It’s only just right for size as it is.”

“What do I do then? Sit in the street?” Mooney asked, blankly.

“Well, I thought you’d be in the outer office, making appointments and persuading the customers to have a whole plate instead of a half plate, and getting out the accounts.”

“Why, damn it! That’s Doris’s job!”

“Doris is going to be busy. If she isn’t, then she’ll have to go. We haven’t any room for seat warmers, Mr. Mooney.”

“What’s that?” Mooney demanded, sitting bolt upright. “Are you calling me a seat warmer?”

Harry grinned at him.

“I’m just saying that everyone will have to pull their weight That’s all.”

“That’s all, eh?” Mooney said bitterly. “Now look here, before you start giving orders let’s see the colour of your money. You’re not a partner yet, you know.”

“I’m buying the equipment,” Harry said quietly. “And I shall pay the bills for the alterations. It’s not going to be a question of seeing my money, but seeing the results of my money. Of course, if you don’t want to go ahead on those terms, then we won’t say anything more about it. I’m still not at all convinced it will work.”

Mooney opened and shut his mouth, then pulled at his long thin nose and scratched his forehead. He realised he had caught a Tartar, and there was not much he could do about it.

“We’ll have to have some working capital, Harry,” he said, keeping his voice mild with an effort “I haven’t enough to pay the wages on Friday.”

“I’ll pay them,” Harry said. “It’s agreed I take fifty per cent of the profit, and you pay me five per cent on my capital?”

This was too much for Mooney.

“Hey! Wait a minute!” he exclaimed, starting out of his chair. “Those were my terms if you put up three hundred, hut I’ll be damned if you stick me like that if you’re only putting up a paltry hundred!”

“It’s not the case of sticking you,” Harry said. “It’s business. If two partners go into business together, both of them usually put up an equal share of capital. I could ask for seventy-five per cent of the profits as I’m putting in all the new capital.”

Mooney clutched at his hat with both hands and wrenched it off his head.

“You... you young robber!” he bawled. “What about the goodwill and the lease? What about the blasted furniture and the cameras? They’re worth hundreds!”

“Well, all right, Mr. Mooney, but I thought you said just now you couldn’t pay the wages?”

Mooney flung his hat on the floor and kicked it.

“It’s that girl!” he cried, thumping the desk. “She’s put you up to this! I can smell it a mile off. Before you met her you were a nice, decent kid, now you’re nothing but a man-eating shark!”

“She doesn’t know anything about it,” Harry said, and grinned. “The fact is I’m sick of being short of money. I want to get married.”

Mooney retrieved his hat and began to brush it sadly.

“I knew it! Getting married, eh? Well, it’s your funeral. But it’s a nice thing I have to be your pall-bearer. Okay, kid, the floor’s all yours. I’ll accept your terms and I’ll get out of the office. I’m too old and worn out to fight you, Harry. I don’t mind telling you I’m hurt. I never thought I’d live to see the day I’d be kicked around by you. Never. You’ve taken advantage of an old, broken man.”

“Even that little act won’t persuade me to change my mind,” Harry said quietly. “It’s pure corn, and you know it.”

Mooney gaped at him, struggled with his feelings, and then grinned.

“Well, damn it,” he said, “I wouldn’t have believed it possible. Say, let’s meet this girl of yours. If she can do this to you, maybe she can do something for me.”

“I tell you she doesn’t know a thing about it,” Harry said, sliding off the desk. “Well, if you agree, I thought we might go along to a solicitor’s, and get it fixed up; then I’ll get the equipment. If we work fast we might make a start in a couple of days.”

“Solicitors?” Mooney repeated, his eyes growing round. “We don’t want to waste money on solicitors’ fees, kid. You and me can trust each other, can’t we?”

“If we’re going to do this properly, we must have it down in black and white. It’s not that I don’t trust you, and I hope you trust me, but I want a partnership deed, and I intend to have one.”

Mooney put on his hat and got slowly to his feet.

“I don’t know what’s got into you. What have you been doing over the week-end?”

“Oh, nothing special,” Harry said. “Shall we go?”

Mooney put on his coat.

“Perhaps I’d better persuade some thug to knock me over the head,” he said gloomily. “It might do me a bit of good.” He brightened up suddenly. “How about lending me a quid, kid? Now we’re partners we ought to help each other. I’m a little short right now.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Mooney,” Harry said, “But I’m short too. I have a lot to do with my money.”

Mooney shook his fist at the ceiling.

“Women!” he exploded. “It’s always the same! When a mug gets mixed up with a woman, he’s ruined, and everyone suffers. Come on then, feed me to your sharks,” and he stamped out of the office.

II

Tired but satisfied, Harry returned to Lannock Street a few minutes after seven o’clock. He was not so triumphant as he might have been as Clair had told him she was working that evening and couldn’t see him. She seemed to be in a hurry to get off, and the telephone conversation which Harry had hoped would be a long one was all too short. But at least she had promised to see him the next day, and had invited him to her flat.

As he groped his way up the dark stairs and through the inevitable smell of boiling cod, he hoped Ron would be in. The new partnership called for a mild celebration.

Ron was in, but was preparing to go out. He was putting on his trench coat as Harry entered the room.

“Are you going out?” Harry asked, disappointed.

“Hallo,” Ron said, turning. “Yes, I’m just off. How did you get on?”

“It’s all fixed,” Harry said, sitting on the arm of a chair. “Mooney and Ricks: a sign writer’s putting the name on the shop front now.”

“Good show,” Ron said, smiling. “I bet old Mooney’s feeling a bit depressed. Did you make him toe the line?”

“Had my way in everything. I say, must you go out? I thought we might celebrate.”

“Celebrate with your girlfriend or is she going out too?”

“She’s working.”

“She keeps odd hours. I didn’t think models worked as late as this. Well, I’m sorry. I’m meeting a man who I hope will give me some information. But I don’t have to meet him until nine. Why not come over to the local and have supper with me?”

This suited Harry, and together they went down the stairs and into the street. As they walked to the pub at the comer, he told Ron how he had negotiated the partnership.

“I’ve been rushing about like a lunatic ever since. It’s all going fine. I’ve found a grand enlarger, and I managed to pick up a small fighting unit that’ll give me the results I want. Mooney and I have been fixing up the studio. Now he’s recovered from the shock, he’s almost as keen as I am.”

They pushed into the crowded pub and struggled towards the snack bar. There were fewer people in there, and they managed to find two stools at the far end of the counter.

“I must say this girl’s made you pull up your socks,” Ron said as he sat down. “I was getting worried about you, Harry. You seemed to be in a rut.”

“I was. You see, Ron, I hope to marry her. I just had to do something about earning more money. I can’t marry her unless I can give her the things she’s used to.”

“That’s the wrong way to begin a marriage,” Ron said, shaking his head. “If two people love each other—”

“Oh, I know,” Harry broke in, frowning. “But that’s not the way it’s done these days.”

Ron began to argue, then changed his mind.

“Have it your own way, Harry,” he said. “But watch out.”

He rapped on the counter to attract the barman’s attention and ordered a plate of corned beef and pickles.

“What are you having?”

Harry said he would have the same, and ordered two pints of beer.

“Well, here’s luck,” Ron said, when the beer arrived. “Here’s to Mooney and Ricks: may they make a fortune!”

“What are you doing tonight?” Harry asked as they began their meal. “Did you say you were working?”

“That’s right. I think I’m on to something interesting: something that’ll make a good article for my series,” Ron said with his mouth full. “I don’t suppose you know, but there’s a gang working the West End, picking pockets. It’s been at it now for the past year, and the police haven’t been able to catch any of them. Believe it or not, twenty to thirty people lose something of value every night in the West End. No one quite knows how the system works. I was talking to your pal Inspector Parkins about it, and he thinks they work in pairs. His idea is that girls are doing the actual stealing, and pass the stuff to an accomplice. Several girls have been taken to the police station and charged by men who have picked them up, but the missing articles are never found on them, and of course the charge doesn’t stick.

“I’ve been nosing around for some time trying to get the inside dope on this gang, and I think I’ve found a chap who’s willing to talk. I’m meeting him tonight at the Red Circle café in Athens Street.”

But Harry was too preoccupied with his partnership plans to be interested in pickpockets, and he didn’t pay much attention to what Ron was saying. At the back of his mind he was wondering if he should tell Clair what he had done or whether to wait and see if the partnership proved successful or not He decided to wait.

After they had finished their meal they parted, Ron going off to the West End, and Harry reluctantly returning to Lannock Street.

He spent an hour or so making rough sketches of the studio, plotting his lights, marking on the sketch plan where he would need new switches and plugs. He would get an electrician to tackle the job first thing in the morning. If only he could persuade some famous actress to sit for him, he thought, as he undressed; someone like Anna Neagle or Gertrude Lawrence. With a photograph like that in the window he was sure business would roll in.

As he lay in bed, racking his brains how to solve this problem, it suddenly occurred to him that a portrait of Clair might do as well. He knew just how he would fight her, and could see the effect in his mind as clearly as if he had already taken the photograph. He decided he would talk to her about it the next night.

With so much on his mind he didn’t get off to sleep until past midnight, and then it seemed to him he had slept only for a few minutes when he woke with a start at the sound of someone knocking at the door.

Sleepily he groped for the light switch and turned it on. He looked at his watch: it was after half past one. The double knock sounded again, and then the door opened.

Harry scrambled out of bed and grabbed up his dressing gown as Mrs. Westerham, also in a dressing gown, looking very odd with two plaits hanging over her shoulders, and her eyes big and alarmed, entered the room. Behind her loomed a man in a trench coat and homburg hat.

“What’s up?” Harry asked, startled, then he recognized Inspector Parkins, and his heart gave a lurch of alarm.

“Right-ho,” Parkins said to Mrs. Westerham. “You get back to bed. Sorry to have disturbed you. And sorry to have disturbed you too, Mr. Ricks.”

Harry sat on the edge of his bed, gaping at Parkins as he gently but firmly shepherded Mrs. Westerham from the room.

“Well, young man,” Parkins said, coming over and standing before Harry. “I have a bit of bad news for you. Your friend Ronald Fisher’s had an accident.”

“Ron?” Harry exclaimed, starting up. “What’s happened?”

Parkins pulled up a chair and sat down, facing Harry.

“Same thing that happened to you. We picked him up in Dean Street about an hour ago. He’s been bashed across the head with a bicycle chain.”

There was a long silence. Parkins sat still, watching Harry, his big, fleshy face expressionless.

“Is he badly hurt?” Harry asked at last.

“’Fraid he is. You remember I told you one of these days this basher would hit someone with a thin skull — well, he’s done it.”

Harry looked at the inspector in horror.

“He’s... he’s not dead, is he?”

“No, he’s not dead, but he’s in a very bad shape. I’ve just come from the hospital. He’s as bad as he can be.”

“Can I see him?”

“Oh, no. I don’t think anyone will be able to see him for a long time. The end of the chain caught him at the back of his neck. The damage may result in paralysis. It’s too early to say yet, but if he lives it looks as if he mightn’t be much use for years.”

Harry sat still. He felt sick.

“I didn’t appreciate him,” he thought. “He and I have been around together for years. We’ve had good times together, but we did take each other for granted. And now — well, I shall miss him. It’s going to be awfully flat and dull without him. Poor devil! And it might have happened to me! That swine I To have done that to Ron. But, why? Why did he do it?”

“Has he any relations?” Parkins asked, breaking into Harry’s thoughts. “I came here because this address was in his wallet, but if he has a wife or relations I’ll have to send someone to break the news.”

“He has a wife,” Harry said. “Perhaps I’d better see her.”

“Just as you like. She’ll have to be told. I’ll send an officer if you’d prefer it.”

Harry shook his head.

“No, I’d better go. I expect I’ll find the address somewhere amongst his papers. Then his editor will have to be told. The paper ought to do something for him.”

“Well, all right, now that’s settled, let’s have a little talk,” Parkins said. “It looks as if the chap who hit you, hit your friend. Any idea why?”

“No. I was wondering myself.”

“What was Fisher doing in Soho at twelve o’clock at night?”

“I can tell you that. He was after information. He said he was meeting a man who could tell him something about this pickpocket gang.”

“That’s right.” Parkins looked interested. “I was talking to him last week about the business. He wanted to do an article about it, and came to me for information but I hadn’t much to give him except the bare facts. Who was this fellow he was meeting?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Well, where was he meeting him?”

“Some café in Soho. He did mention the name, but I... I can’t remember it. You see, I wasn’t really interested, and I didn’t listen very attentively. It was a café in Athens Street I think he said.”

“You must remember,” Parkins said curtly. “Now look here, Rides, you haven’t been too helpful about this business nor about your own accident. You haven’t told me all you know. Someone did object to being photographed that night, didn’t they?”

“Well, yes,” Harry said, changing colour. “But he had nothing to do with this business.”

“How do you know?”

“I know who he is. He’s an advertising man.”

“What’s his name?”

“Robert Brady,” Harry said sullenly, wondering if Clair would be furious with him for giving her boss’s name to the police.

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

Harry hesitated, then said, “Well, he was with a girl I know. I didn’t want her dragged into it.”

“Who’s she?”

“My fiancée. I’m sorry, but I’m not giving you her name. She has nothing to do with this business; nor has Brady.”

“Your fiancée, eh?” Parkins gave him a long, searching stare. “You know Brady?”

“I don’t exactly know him. He’s my fiancée’s agent. He doesn’t like his photograph taken.”

To Harry’s relief, Parkins seemed to lose interest in Brady.

“Let’s get back to the café,” he said, resting his big hands on his knees. “I want the name of it. Now come on; think.”

Harry thought, but couldn’t remember what Ron had told him.

“I’m sorry, but it’s no use. It’s gone out of my mind.”

Parkins looked at his watch. It was ten minutes past two.

“All right. Suppose you hop into your clothes and come to Athens Street,” he said. “We’ll walk down both sides of the street and see if you spot the place. I have a car outside. We’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

“What, now?”

“Yes, now,” Parkins said curtly.

“Well, all right,” Harry said, and began to dress hurriedly.

Parkins lit a cigarette and rested back in the chair.

“Fisher was a good lad. He came to me for help a number of times, and I liked him. I’m willing to bet he found out something about this gang, and they’ve silenced him. The Doc says he may not recover consciousness for weeks, so it’s no use waiting for his statement I’ll have to move fast if I’m going to catch this chap.”

“Do you think the fella who hit me has anything to do with the gang?” Harry asked, struggling into his coat.

“I should say he’s one of the ring leaders. That’s why I’m anxious to find out why he stole that roll of film off you. I think it’s likely you took one of the gang’s photographs. Maybe they were working in the background, and you didn’t see them. It was something like that. Are you ready?”

Harry said he was, and followed the inspector from the room.

Although it was after two o’clock, Mrs. Westerham lurked in the front room. She popped out as soon as she heard footsteps, and turned pale when she saw Harry coming down the stairs with the inspector.

“He’s not taking you away?” she gasped, clutching Harry’s arm.

“It’s all right,” Harry said. “Ron’s met with an accident. I’m just helping the police. I’ll tell you about it when I get bade.”

He shook his arm free, forced a smile and hurriedly followed the inspector out of the house.

“I believe she thought you were arresting me,” he said as he climbed into the car and sat beside Parkins.

Parkins grunted, and told the uniformed driver to go to Athens Street and to be quick about it. It was surprising how quickly they got there. The roads were practically deserted, although as they rushed along Piccadilly there were still a few street prowlers to be seen, and looking out of the window, Parkins snorted at the sight of them.

“Those are the fellows who give us so much trouble,” he said. “They hang about the West End looking for a girl, and when they find one and she picks their pockets, they come squealing to us. If they’d only keep out of the West End they wouldn’t lose their money — the damned fools!”

And suddenly Harry felt a cold prickle run up his spine. He remembered Sam Wingate. He had picked up Clair and had lost his wallet! Could Clair... but that was impossible! His mind jumped to Brady and to the tow-headed chap. Ron had been after information about the gang, and had been silenced by the tow-headed chap. He suddenly wanted to be sick. Was Clair tied up with this gang? She had passed the wallet to him. He remembered Ron had said that was their method. He refused to believe it, pushing it out of his mind. It was a coincidence. It must be! But he would have to warn her. She must never give way to such a dangerous, stupid impulse again. She might have been hauled to Vine Street.

The car slid to a standstill in Dean Street and Parkins got out.

“We’ll walk the rest of the way. It’s down here. Now keep your eyes open. There are about a dozen crates here. See if you can recognise the name.”

Athens Street was a narrow, dimly lit thoroughfare, lined on either side with shops, cafés and public houses. One or two loafers stood under the street lamps, but at the sight of Parkins’s burly form they melted into the darkness.

Harry walked down the street, peering at the darkened shop facias. He noticed at the far end of the street a big American car standing outside a building. As they approached he saw a sign hanging over the door, and he caught hold of Parkins’s arm.

“That’s it!” he said excitedly. “The Red Circle café. I remember now.”

“Sure?”

“Positive.”

“All right. Now you hop back to the car and wait for me. I’m going inside.”

“Can’t I go with you?”

“Not with that scar you can’t,” Parkins said shortly. “You keep out of sight. That’d properly give the game away.”

Harry stood on the edge of the kerb and watched Parkins walk towards the café, wanting to follow him, but realising what Parkins had said made sense.

As the inspector drew near the café, the door suddenly opened and four girls came tumbling out.

The quiet of the night was disturbed by their loud laughter and high-pitched voices.

One of them, a dark girl in a fur coat, was screaming with laughter, and staggered slightly as she moved across the pavement, hanging on to another girl’s arm. The four of them behaved as if they were drunk. They went laughing and pushing each other towards the car.

A man got out of the car and opened the rear door. Harry recognised him at once — Robert Brady! Even in the dim light of the distant street lamp, Harry was sure he was Brady. The arrogant air, the tilt of the homburg hat and the big, powerful shoulders were unmistakable. With a sudden sinking heart, Harry looked again at the girl in the fur coat. It was Clair.

Brady had taken hold of Clair’s arm and had given her a rough little shake. She fell against him, still laughing, while the other girls bundled into the car.

Parkins had slowed down and was watching the scene. Brady seemed aware of him. He said something to Clair, and her high-pitched laugh suddenly stopped. She looked over her shoulder at Parkins, and then hurriedly scrambled into the car.

Brady followed her, and slammed the car door. The engine roared and the car moved swiftly away.

III

The next morning Harry was late at the studio. He found Mooney sitting at his desk in the front room laboriously going through the accounts.

“Hey!” Mooney said, looking up. “What’s the idea? You’re late. Just because you’re a partner...”

He broke off, seeing Harry’s pale, worried face. “What’s up, kid?”

“It’s Ron. He had an accident last night,” and Harry told Mooney what had happened.

Mooney liked Ron who had often called in when he was in Soho for a chat, and he was shocked at the news.

“Have you had a word with the hospital?”

Harry nodded.

“I rang them on my way here. There’s no news. He’s still on the danger list, and they don’t expect him to regain consciousness for a week or so,” he said, sitting on the edge of the desk. He fingered the scar across his forehead, frowning. “It’s an awful thing. Poor old Ron. Inspector Parkins thinks it’s something to do with this pickpocket gang.”

“You keep clear of it, Harry,” Mooney said, pulling at his moustache. “You don’t want another bang on the head.”

“I must see Mrs. Fisher. I’m on my way now, but thought I’d drop off and tell you the news. Look, here’s the sketch plan of the studio. Would you get an electrician to put the plugs where I’ve marked them on the plan? The chap next door will do it. I may not be able to get back here until after lunch.”

“You’re not going to neglect the business?” Mooney asked, alarmed. “I’m relying on you, Harry. I’ve always been a damned Jonah, and if you’re going to leave it to me—”

“I must see Ron’s wife. But I’ll be here after lunch. I’d better get off now.”

Mooney looked searchingly at him.

“Is there anything else on your mind, kid?”

“This is enough, isn’t it?” Harry said shortly. “You’ll probably be busy this morning. Those night cards will be coming in. You’ll have to explain the roll was destroyed or something. See if you can book anyone for a portrait when they do come in. The electrician should be through by tomorrow. You can make appointments for Thursday. I’ll be ready then.”

Leaving Mooney to look after the studio, Harry caught a bus to Charing Cross, and took a ticket at the Underground station for Walham Green. He had found Sheila’s address in a notebook of Ron’s. In the notebook was a record of payments Ron had been making his wife. He had been paying her six pounds a week. Harry wondered how she would manage now this source of income had dried up. He was pretty certain that Ron hadn’t saved any money.

During the journey, his mind darted from Ron to Sheila, from the studio to Clair. He was afraid to think too much about Clair. What he had seen the previous night had shocked him. What in the world had Clair been doing with those three other girls and Brady at that time of night?

Parkins had seen her, although he had said nothing to Harry about her. Parkins hadn’t discovered anything at the café. The owner and the waiters declared they knew nothing about a man with tow-coloured hair, nor did they remember seeing Ron Fisher there.

Harry was still worrying about Clair when he arrived at Sheila’s house in a side street near Walham Green station. It was a dark, grey stone house, with dirty, untidy lace curtains at the windows.

As Harry mounted the steps, he was aware that he was being inspected by a sharp-featured woman who was shaking a doormat from the next door porch.

“You’ll have to ring ’arder than that,” she said scornfully as Harry pressed the bell. “She don’t get up ’til ’eaven knows when.”

Harry muttered his thanks, and rang again.

After nearly a five minutes’ wait, and having rung two or three times, the front door suddenly jerked open, and a girl in a soiled pink dressing gown stood glaring at him.

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” Harry said, feeling hot and embarrassed. “Are you Mrs. Fisher?”

“What if I am?” the girl demanded in a shrill, hard voice. “What a time to call! You got me out of bed!”

“I’m very sorry,” Harry said. “I’m Harry Ricks, Ron’s friend.”

“Oh!” The hard little face with its painted eyebrows and smeared lipstick broke into a smile, and when she smiled she looked much younger and prettier, and Harry could understand why Ron had fallen in love with her. “I’ve heard about you. You’d better come in.”

He followed her down a passage into a back room.

“It’s in a mess, but I don’t suppose you care,” she said, going over to an armchair and sitting down. She yawned, and ran her fingers through her ruffled, blonde hair.

The room was in a mess. There were saucers full of cigarette butts and ash dotted all over the room. Dirty glasses, a couple of empty bottles of gin and a half-empty bottle of whisky stood on the table. Silk stockings and underwear lay scattered over the floor. A dirty suspender belt was under the table. Dust lay over everything, and the empty fireplace was choked with a fall of soot. On the floor by a gramophone was a pile of records, some of them broken.

“Had a party last night,” she explained, rubbing her eyes. “I feel like death this morning.”

Harry looked around the room for a chair to sit in, but the only other armchair was so smothered with cigarette ash he decided to stand.

“I’m afraid I have bad news for you,” he said, hoping the disgust he felt for her didn’t show on his face.

“Oh?” She looked sharply at him. “What?”

“Ron’s met with an accident.”

The doll-like face hardened.

“You mean — he’s dead?”

Harry was shocked to see no sign of consternation on the hard little face, only a look of inquiry and suspicion.

“No, he’s not dead,” he said quietly, “but he is very bad. It may be weeks before he even regains consciousness.”

“Oh.” She got up and poured a stiff whisky into a dirty glass. “Have some?” she asked, glancing at him.

“No, thank you.”

“Was he run over or something?”

“No. Someone hit him over the head with a bicycle chain.”

She drank some of the whisky, gave a sudden giggle, and spluttered over her drink.

“That’s rich! He was so respectable too. What did they do that for?”

“I don’t know,” Harry said, suddenly furious with her. “Does it matter to you?”

She looked at him, surprised, pouted and sat down again.

“I suppose not. What’s going to happen to my money?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care,” Harry said. “He’s in Charing Cross hospital if you want to see him, but it’s no good going for several weeks yet.”

“Oh, I don’t want to see him,” she said, shrugging. “It’s all very well for you to say you don’t care about my money, but something’s got to be done. I can’t live on air. When do you think he’ll start work again?”

“Not for a long time,” Harry said. “He’s very ill. I don’t want to frighten you, but he may die.”

She grimaced.

“Oh, hell! That’s just like Ron. You needn’t look so shocked. It isn’t as if we meant anything to each other. We’ve been separated for four years now — thank God! Only the money did come in handy.” She slipped her hand inside her dressing gown to scratch. “Oh, well, I dare say I’ll manage. If he pops off it’ll let me out of a hole. I want to get married again.”

Harry stared at her, disgusted.

“I should have thought you would have had a little feeling for him. After all he is your husband.”

She gaped at him as if she couldn’t believe her ears, then burst out laughing.

“That’s rich! Why, he means no more to me than you do. What’s he ever done for me?” Then a shrewd, calculating expression came into her eyes, and she smiled at Harry. “I tell you what,” she said, “I’m damned hard up at the moment. I don’t suppose you could lend me a fiver?”

Harry felt the colour rush to his face.

“I’m afraid I can’t,” he said. “I’m hard up myself.”

She got out of the chair and sidled over to him.

“Well, a couple of quid then. I wouldn’t mind giving you a good time. I like you. Come on, be a sport. I’m a sport too. Let’s go into the other room and have fun.”

Harry backed away, feeling sick.

“I’m sorry...”

She stared at him.

“Don’t be a fool,” she said. “Ron won’t know. Make it a quid, then.”

She was between him and the door, but pushing her roughly aside Harry crossed the room and jerked the door open.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated.

“Then tell him to hurry up and get well,” she said angrily. “If he doesn’t send me some money soon I’ll take him to court. He can’t walk out and leave me without a thing. You tell him that. I’ll give him a month, and if he hasn’t sent me anything by then I’ll give him something to think about.”

Harry was so disgusted and angry that he wait out of the room without a word. As he reached the front door, she shouted after him, “And don’t give yourself airs, you little twerp. You’re nobody from the look of you. Just like all his wet friends...”

He hastily shut the door behind him and ran down the steps into the street.

“What a ghastly woman!” he thought as he walked quickly towards the Underground station. No wonder poor Ron had been so bitter about women. He wouldn’t have believed such women existed.

He paused outside a telephone box, hesitated, then entered and dialled Clair’s number.

There was a long pause as the bell rang, and just when he had decided she was out, he heard a click on the line and Clair’s voice.

“Hallo? Who is it?”

There was a sharp note in her voice that startled him.

“This is Harry.”

A pause, then she said, “Oh, hallo, Harry. Darling, you woke me up.”

“Did I?” Harry looked at his wrist watch. It was nearly noon. “Well, I’m sorry. I thought you would be up by now.”

He heard her yawn, and for a moment the vision of Sheila’s crumpled, painted face came to his mind.

“I went to a party last night,” she said. “It was hectic. I have a hangover you could lean against.”

“I’m sorry. Will it be all right if I come tonight? Will you be feeling like it?”

“Of course, darling. I’ll be fine then. Come about eight.”

“Yes.” A sudden feeling of tenderness came over him. “It seems ages since I’ve seen you, Clair—”

“I know. Well, come and see me at eight. I’m going back to sleep now.” She yawned again. “I feel ghastly. Good-bye, darling,” and the line went dead.

Harry came out into the sunshine and stood thinking. He was suddenly depressed. Every time his mind dwelt on Clair he saw, instead of her, the yawning, untidy, blowsy Sheila.

He gave a grimace of disgust and wait down the steps to the trains.

IV

But there was nothing about Clair to remind Harry of Sheila when she opened the front door of her flat that night. She was very spruce and wide awake, and looked attractive in a pair of black slacks and magenta coloured sweater.

“Hallo, darling,” she said, taking his arm and leading him into the big luxurious room which was as neat and clean as Sheila’s room had been untidy and dirty. “Oh, what a long time it seems since Sunday, doesn’t it?” She slipped her arms round his neck and kissed him, her lips soft and yielding against his. “Have you missed me?”

Harry held her to him.

“Yes, I missed you,” he said, thinking how beautiful she was. “I’ve thought so much about you. Sunday was the most wonderful day I’ve ever known.”

She smiled up at him.

“Well, I don’t have to go out tonight. So you can stay as long as you like. If you want to you can stay the night.”

Harry immediately forgot about Ron, Inspector Parkins and the Red Circle café, and when she pushed him into an armchair and sat on his lap, her face against his, nothing mattered except his hunger for her.

But later, when she was preparing supper, he came to the kitchen door, ready to talk to her. Before he could begin, she looked at him, smiling, and said, “Oh, Harry, I have something for you. I clean forgot about it. It’s over there in that drawer. No, not that one... that one.”

He opened the drawer and found a small parcel done up in tissue paper.

“Is this for me? What is it?”

“Open it and see.”

He unwrapped the paper and inside found three neckties. He had never seen such ties: ties that must have cost the earth, he thought, startled.

“Why, Clair! You can’t mean these for me?”

“Of course they’re for you. Like them?”

“They’re marvellous. But, Clair, they must have cost an awful lot of money. I don’t know if I should accept them.”

“Don’t be silly.” She came over to him and stood by his side. “They didn’t cost me anything. I used to work for the makers, and I thought you could use a few decent ties so I wrote to them and asked them to send me some samples. They sent these. Are you sure you like them? I know how fussy men are about ties.”

“Do you mean firms give their stuff away like this?” Harry asked, bewildered.

“Well, not all of them, of course. A lot of them do, especially if the advertising manager has an eye for a pretty girl.”

“Oh, that’s how it’s done, is it?” Harry said. “Anyway, I think they’re marvellous, and I can’t thank you enough. I’m going to put one on right away.”

They spent some minutes choosing the one he was to wear, then when he had adjusted the knot in the mirror, he turned for her approval.

“You do look smart,” she said. “You know, Harry, you’re quite good looking. I’d like to give you a suit. I think I could get you one from another firm I’ve worked for. Would you like me to try?”

“A suit?” Harry said blankly. “It’s nice of you, Clair, but I couldn’t accept a suit from you.” He moved uneasily, shifting from one foot to the other. “It’s time I gave you something. Up to now you’ve done all the giving.”

“What does it matter?”

“Oh, but it does.”

“But look, darling, let’s be sensible. You need a good suit. If I can get you one why not have it? It’s not as if it’ll cost me anything.”

“No, I’m sorry,” Harry said firmly. “I can’t accept any more presents.”

She sat on the arm of a chair and studied him thoughtfully.

“Why not?”

“Well, it’s not done,” Harry said, reddening. “Men don’t accept presents from girls. You know it’s not done.”

“Who says so?” Clair asked sharply. “Don’t be so conventional, Harry. Who cares what’s done and what isn’t done? And besides, I love you. I want to make you happy. It so happens I have more money than you. I have more useful friends than you. Why shouldn’t you share with me? Why shouldn’t I have some pleasure? I want to give you what you need.”

“But can’t you see, Clair, it’d make me feel like a gigolo. I know these things don’t cost you anything, but that’s not the point. It’s not as if I can give you anything in return.”

Colour swept into her face and her eyes hardened.

“What a narrow mind you have!” she said impatiently. “All right, if that’s how you feel about it, don’t take anything from me. I’m not going to beg you to. And don’t come here if you feel like a gigolo. You’ll be saying I’m keeping you next.” She got up and went into the kitchen, her back stiff with anger.

Harry looked after her in dismay. He hadn’t expected her to fly off like this, and the thought he might lose her frightened him. He followed her into the kitchen.

“Clair... please...”

She swung round and he was startled to see tears in her eyes.

“I’m sorry, Clair. Please don’t be unhappy.”

He went to her, but she pushed him away and turned her back on him, and began preparing a salad, bending over the sink so her dark tresses hid her face.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Harry said miserably.

“It’s all right,” she said in a curt, hard voice. “Forget it. I was just being soft. Look, the tray’s over there. Will you lay the table?”

He turned her.

“I love you, Clair. I didn’t mean to hurt you, and I’ll do anything you wish.”

“That’s what you say.” She tried to pull away, but he held her, and suddenly she put her arms round his neck. “Oh, Harry! I love you so.” The desperate urgency in her voice startled him. “I want to do things for you. I’ve never been able to help anyone before. I’ve never wanted to.”

“And I want to do things for you too. And I will when I get some money.”

She pushed away from him so she could see him.

“I keep telling you, Harry: I don’t want your money. I want you. If only you’d get that idea into your dear, silly head. I have everything I want except you. Can’t you forget your pride? That’s all it is. We can have a lovely time together if you’ll only share things with me. What does it matter who has the money so long as one of us has it? Can’t you see that? What does it matter?”

“It matters to me. I want to be the one to give you things.”

“But how can you until you earn more money?” she asked, impatience creeping into her voice again. “When you have enough money I’ll share it with you. I won’t be too proud to take your presents. Harry, please let me help you for the time being, and when you begin to make more money — as I’m sure you will — then you can do all the paying.”

As Harry began to protest, she interrupted him sharply.

“If you can’t do this for me, then I don’t believe you love me!”

“Of course I do,” Harry said helplessly. “Well, all right, but it won’t be for long. I’m making plans to do something better. All right, I’ll share things with you.” He kissed her. “I won’t make a fuss if you want me to have things, but don’t overdo it, will you?”

“Do you mean that?” she asked, brightening. “Honest?”

“Yes; honest.”

“Then I have a surprise for you.”

She ran out of the kitchen and into her bedroom.

It’s quite fantastic, Harry thought. If only Ron could know about this. He always said women took and never gave. In spite of his reluctance to accept presents from Clair, he couldn’t help being elated. She had taken the trouble to write for those ties, and she wanted him to share everything with her. That must mean she loved him.

She returned with another small parcel done up in tissue paper.

“I was going to give you this on your birthday, but I’m not going to wait. I want you to have it now. It used to belong to my father.”

She stripped off the tissue paper and put a gold cigarette case in his hand. He nearly dropped it with surprise. It was the most fascinating and beautiful thing he had seen.

“Open it,” she said, watching him.

He thumbed the catch and the case opened. Inside was an inscription: For Harry: all my love: Clair.

He looked at her, his eyes shining.

“What can I say?” He turned the case over in his hand. “It’s a beauty, and of course, something I’ve always wanted. But honestly, darling, if it belonged to your father, should you part with it?”

“I want you to have it. Take care of it, Harry, and think of me every time you use it.”

He caught her in his arms.

“I can’t thank you enough, and I don’t know what to say,” and he kissed her.

“So long as you’re happy I don’t care what happens,” she said. “You will always love me, won’t you, Harry? You won’t get tired of me and leave me?”

He lifted her and held her, looking down at her.

“I’ll love you whatever happens, and for always,” he said, and carried her across the room.

“But, Harry... supper’s ready,” she said, as he pushed open the bedroom door and carried her in.

“Hang supper,” Harry said, and kicked the door shut behind them.

V

The grey light of dawn filtered through the half-drawn curtains, and Harry stirred and opened his eyes. He lay for some moments, looking at Clair by his side, and as if she felt him watching her, she moved closer to him and murmured sleepily, “It’s early, isn’t it?”

“About five.” He slid his arm round her. “Clair, are you too sleepy to talk? There’s something I want to tell you. I should have told you last night.”

She opened her eyes and smiled up at him.

“Go ahead. I’m not sleepy. What is it?”

“You remember my friend, Ron? The chap I share my room with? He was knocked on the head the night before last.”

He felt her stiffen against him.

“Is he badly hurt?”

“Yes. It was the same chap who hit me. The police asked me a lot of questions.” He hesitated, then plunged on. “I told them about Brady.”

She lifted her head from the pillow and looked at him. In the dim light her face was hard and set.

“You told them about Robert? But, why? What’s he to do with it?”

“You remember when I was hurt? I told you they wanted to know if anyone objected to being photographed, and I said no. Inspector Parkins had an idea I wasn’t telling the truth, and when Ron was hurt, he asked me again. I was rattled, and told him.”

“Did you tell him I was with Robert?”

“I wouldn’t give him your name. I said you... you were my fiancée, and he seemed to think that was all right,” Harry said wretchedly. He felt she had suddenly withdrawn from him, although she still lay in his arms.

“What did they say about Robert?”

“Parkins lost interest in him when I told him he was an advertising agent and your boss.”

“You talked a lot, didn’t you?”

“I hope I didn’t say too much. You see, Clair, there’s a gang of pickpockets working the West End, and Ron was trying to get information about them for an article. He got a tip to go to the Red Circle café, in Soho. The police think that’s where he was attacked.”

She sat up abruptly and pulled away from him, reaching out for a packet of cigarettes on her bedside table. She lit a cigarette and flopped back on the pillow, but she was away from him now.

“Why tell me all this? I couldn’t be less interested,” she said curtly.

“Parkins and I went to Athens Street last night. He wanted me to point out the café. We arrived there about two o’clock, and you and some other girls were coming out. Brady was there too.”

In the half-light the red glowing tip of her cigarette burned brightly.

“Well, what about it?”

“That’s all,” Harry said, wishing he hadn’t started this. “I thought I’d tell you.”

“Did you point me out to your policeman friend?”

“Of course not. He had left me and was going into the café. I... I don’t think he even noticed you.”

“I couldn’t care less if he did.”

There was a long awkward pause.

“I’ve been worrying about you,” Harry said. “The police think girls are responsible for these robberies. They hang about the West End and pick up well-to-do men, then rob them and pass the stuff to an accomplice.”

She stubbed out her cigarette.

“I can’t see why you should tell me all this, and why I should worry you. What exactly are you driving at?”

Harry sat up in bed and tried to take her hand, but she jerked away from him.

“Surely, Clair, you can see why. You haven’t forgotten Wingate, have you? Don’t you see this gang works in the same way. If Wingate had given you in charge, as he might well have done, the police would have thought you belonged to the gang. You took his wallet and passed it to me. That’s how they work.”

“Oh, I didn’t think of that,” she said. “You don’t think I’m a thief, do you, Harry?”

“Of course not! But you must never do anything like that again. And, Clair, tell me the truth: is Brady anything to do with this chap who attacked me and Ron?”

“What on earth are you talking about?” she said. “Why should he be?”

“Well, don’t you see, Brady objected to being photographed, and five minutes after the film is stolen. It kind of hooks up.”

“Oh, rot!” she said angrily. “Really, Harry, how can you suggest such a thing? Of course, Robert’s nothing to do with it. For goodness’ sake don’t go telling the police that. I’ll lose my job if he finds out you’ve been gossiping about him.”

“Of course I won’t,” Harry said. “I won’t mention him again. Don’t look cross, Clair.”

“It’s enough to make anyone cross.” She forced a laugh. “You had me rattled for a moment. Robert would be livid if he knew you had given his name to the police. You’re sure they’re not going to question him?”

“I don’t think so. Why should they?”

“Are you seeing the inspector again?”

“I hope not, but I don’t know.”

“Well, if you do, be careful what you tell him about me, won’t you. I don’t want the police to come here. Promise me you’ll never give them this address?”

“Of course I promise,” Harry said, bewildered. “I won’t even give them your name. But it’s all right, Clair, I’m sure they’re no longer interested in either you or Brady.”

“I don’t trust policemen. They’re so damned suspicious. If they knew I was living alone here they might watch me. I know what they are. They pick on girls like me.”

“But, surely, Clair—”

“But they do!” she exclaimed irritably. “I know more about this than you do. If they found out you spent the night here they’d tell my landlord and he might throw me out.”

“I don’t see why.”

“You can’t be too careful if you live in the West End. They’d probably try to make out that this was a brothel.”

“Well, of course I won’t say a word.”

She suddenly moved into his arms again.

“Dear Harry. You’re not worrying any more, are you?”

He said he wasn’t, although he felt uneasy and not entirely satisfied, but thought it best to change the subject and asked her if she would sit for a portrait.

“I want to try my hand at portrait work again,” he explained, “and if I could make a good study of you and put it in the window it might encourage trade. Would you mind, Clair?”

“No. I’d love to help you.” She seemed glad he had changed the subject. “Do you mean you’re putting money into the business after all?”

“I’m putting in a hundred pounds to equip the studio. I didn’t mean to tell you. I wanted it to be a surprise. Mooney and I are partners now. It’s a gamble, but I think it’ll come off. If you would sit for me I know it would help.”

“When shall I come, and what would you like me to wear?”

“I won’t be ready until this afternoon. I want to be sure of my lighting, and I don’t want to keep you hanging about I’ll get Mooney to be your stand-in. Let’s have lunch together, and then we’ll go on to the studio.”

“I can’t lunch. I have a business date. I can get along about five. Will that do? What would you like me to wear — a bathing dress?”

Harry laughed.

“Oh, no. I want to take the kind of picture anyone seeing it would say ‘That’s how I want to be photographed.’ It has to be just theatrical enough to be glamorous, but no more than that. I’ll try a head and shoulders study, I think. If you have a picture hat and a summer dress; that’d be fine.”

“I’ll show you,” she said, and scrambled out of bed.

“Wouldn’t I love to take a picture of you like that,” Harry said, looking at her with shining eyes.

“You’d make a perfect nude study.”

She caught up a wrap and covered her nakedness.

“Not to put in a shop window, thank you! I can see the queues now.”

And at five-thirty in the morning with all the lights in the bedroom ablaze, Harry witnessed a mannequin parade. He lay in bed while Clair brought out dress after dress and frock after frock, putting on one after the other and parading before him.

He finally chose a frock that would photograph well: a flimsy, floral-patterned dress that reached to her heels, and a big straw picture hat that enhanced her beauty.

It was arranged she should come to the studio at five and change there. Harry was relieved to see she was as excited as he was, and seemed to have forgotten about Inspector Parkins and Brady.

Mooney arrived at the studio just after nine and found Harry surrounded with trailing wires and lights.

“What are you up to?” Mooney asked, standing in the doorway.

“I have a model who’s going to pose for a portrait,” Harry told him. “We’ll make a big enlargement and put it in the window. I think it’ll attract trade.”

“Is this the girl friend?”

“That’s right. She’s coming this afternoon about five.”

“I wish I’d known,” Mooney said gloomily. “I would have put on a clean shirt.” He went to inspect himself in the mirror. “I could do with a shave too.”

“You don’t have to worry,” Harry said, hiding a grin. “She doesn’t care for old men. It’s the young men she likes.”

Mooney jerked round, then seeing Harry’s grin, grinned too.

“Don’t be too cocky, my lad,” he said. “It’s the old ’uns who know all the tricks.”

“Suppose you sit on that stool for a moment? I want to arrange my lighting and I need a model.”

“What’s Doris doing that she can’t help you?” Mooney demanded, always reluctant to make himself useful.

“Doris is developing yesterday’s films. I’m not asking you to do much. All you have to do is to sit on that stool.”

Mooney grinned slyly.

“Go ahead,” he said airily, and sat down. “Don’t say I’m not co-operative. But I object on principle. This is no job for a senior partner.”

Harry ignored this, and busied himself with his lights. He took some time getting just the effect he wanted, and Mooney began to fidget.

“If you’re going to take this long over every photo,” he complained, “we’ll never get anywhere.”

“But don’t you understand? This is going to be the portrait,” Harry said, pulling a spot light a few inches closer. “Once I have set up the lights all I have to do is to log them and I have the lighting scheme for good and all.”

Mooney groaned.

“Well, all right, but these damned lights are blinding me.”

When at last Harry was satisfied and had plotted his lights, he still wouldn’t let Mooney leave his seat.

“I’ve got to get the exposures right now,” he said. “I’ll run off half a dozen films and get Doris to develop them.”

“What I have to do in a good cause,” Mooney grumbled. “I suppose you want me to look pleasant?”

“I couldn’t care less how you look,” Harry said. “All I’m interested in is getting the exposure right. You can make faces if you like.”

“In that case I’ll have a look at the four-thirty runners,” Mooney said, reaching for the midday paper. “Just buck up, that’s all I ask.”

Harry fired off six films, slightly altering the exposures of each and making a note of them.

“Right-ho,” he said. “That’s all. We’ll leave the lights for Clair. I’ll get Doris to develop these right away.”

“Is that all the thanks I get?” Mooney asked and crawled away to his desk in the shop and sank down with a grunt of exhaustion. It had been the hardest day’s work he’d done in months.

Immediately after lunch Harry went into the dark room to examine the prints Doris had made. He found her examining them as she moved them about in the hypo bath. She glanced up and smiled at him.

“You’ve got something here, Harry,” She said. “This is a wonderful portrait.”

Harry came round the table and stood by her side.

“It’s the exposure I’m interested in. Which do you think is the best one?”

“This.” She fished out a limp print with a wooden paddle and laid it on the drying board. “The exposure’s good, but the composition is absolutely first class.”

Harry studied the print and was startled. She was right. It was the best portrait he had ever taken. Because Mooney had been so bored, not caring whether Harry photographed him or not, he had come alive in the photograph in a most extraordinary way. Here was a man, disillusioned, bored, sad, fed-up, going broke, worried sick and miserable. The expression, the drop of the head, the limp, hanging tie, the battered hat, resting on the back of his head, the open waistcoat, the dead cigar built up a character that was as intriguing as it was natural. “Why, it’s terrific!” Harry exclaimed. “It’s an absolute winner! And to think I wasn’t even thinking about Mooney. We can’t go wrong on this.” He stood away from the print to examine it more critically. “We must use it. Now look, this is what we’ll do. We’ll make a twenty-four by thirty-six enlargement on a soft Gauveluxe paper, mounted on board and I’ll get a bead frame for it. We’ll call it ‘This Year of Grace’ and we’ll put it in the window. Not a word to Mr. Mooney. Have we any of that Gauveluxe paper or shall I have to get some?”

“We have three sheets they sent in as samples,” Doris said, who knew her stock. “Shall I work on it right away?”

“Rather,” Harry said excitedly. “Scrap the rest of them. When you’ve got it in the enlarger, call me. We must get the exposure exactly right. I don’t want to waste a sheet that size.”

“I’ll make a strip test,” Doris said. “It’ll be all right.”

Harry knew he could leave the enlargement safely to her, and he returned to the office where Mooney was dozing.

“All right?” Mooney asked, opening one eye.

“Yes,” Harry said with elaborate indifference. “Doris is taking care of it.” He sat on the edge of the desk, took out his gold cigarette case and lit a cigarette.

Mooney’s eyes snapped open.

“Hey!” he exclaimed, sitting up so violently he nearly upset his chair. “That’s gold! Where the heck did you get that from?”

Harry put the case back into his hip pocket.

“Oh, a present,” he said airily.

Mooney blinked at him, then relaxed back in his chair.

“Did she give it to you?”

“If you must know; she did.”

“And very nice too.” Mooney produced his gold watch and dangled it on its chain. “A girl once gave this to me. Must be thirty years ago.” He examined the watch affectionately. “Rum animals — women. Not many of them give presents, but when they do, they’re usually good ones. Look after that, kid. It’ll be your turn to pawn it when we run out of money. It’s time my watch had a rest.”

“I’ll never pawn it,” Harry declared sharply.

“Never’s a long time,” Mooney returned, settling down and closing his eyes. “I hope this portrait stunt works. Business is getting lousier every minute. Those two punks don’t bring in a quarter of what they should. I shouldn’t be surprised if they spent most of the day in a pub.”

“Well, why don’t you go out and check on them? Tom works in Oxford Street and Joe in the Strand. It wouldn’t take you long.”

“What — me?” Mooney said, horrified.

VI

While Clair was changing in the partitioned off cubicle, Mooney came into the studio where Harry was making last-minute adjustments to the lights.

“Now, she’s what I call a remarkable girl,” he said, propping himself up against the doorway. “What she sees in a young hobble-de-hoy like you defeats me.” He shook his head, genuinely puzzled. “I think I’ve made an impression on her,” he went on as Harry took no notice of him. “You mightn’t believe it, but when I was your age, girls flocked round me. I had a way with me. Call it technique if you like. Why, damn it, I believe I could cut you out even now if I tried.”

“Then you’d better not,” Harry said, grinning. He stood up and dusted his trouser knees. “Still, I’m pleased you approve. I think she’s coming now.”

Clair entered the studio, swinging her big picture hat and smiling.

“Will I do?” she asked, posing for the two men.

“You look lovely,” Harry said enthusiastically, while Mooney blew her a kiss. “Will you sit here?”

He looked at Mooney. “Did you say you were going to keep an eye on the shop?”

“That’s right,” Mooney said bitterly. “Kick an old man around.” He gave Clair a sly wink. “If you ever feel in need of a change my dear, call on me. Old wine is reputed to be better and more satisfying than young.”

Clair giggled.

“I’ll remember,” she said, and when he had gone, she went on, “He’s quite a pet, isn’t he? But I bet he doesn’t do much work.”

“He doesn’t,” Harry said, leading her to the stool tinder the lights. “Now, I’ll leave this to you. You’ve much more experience than I have. Let’s try a lot of poses. I have a camera full of film, and we’ll run off the lot. Now, what do you suggest?”

She sat down and folded her hands in her lap.

“Oh, I’ll leave it to you,” she said, and he had a sudden idea she was nervous. “You know what you want. I always do as I’m told.”

“I bet you don’t,” Harry said, smiling. He stepped away from her and looked at her critically. It was extraordinary, but she looked both awkward and camera conscious, just like any young girl about to be photographed. “Relax, darling,” he went on. “You’re actually looking shy.”

“Am I?” She didn’t seem to like this, and her eyes shifted away from him.

“Look over my shoulder,” he said, surprised he should have to tell her what to do. The effect was strained and unnatural. A prickle of apprehension ran up his spine as he looked at her. What was the matter with her? he wondered, puzzled. “Well, I’ll try that,” he went on, hoping that when he began work she might catch his mood and relax. He released the shutter and wound on the film. “Now let’s have one with your hat on. Imagine you’re coming up the road.”

“How do I do that, for goodness’ sake?” she asked, putting on her hat and inspecting herself in the mirror.

“Look expectant, darling. You know the kind of thing.”

“Like this?”

“Oh, no,” Harry thought, “not like that at all.”

“Not bad,” he said, worried now. “But don’t look quite so happy.”

“If I was expecting you I would look happy,” she returned, and her voice sounded cross.

“Yes, I suppose so. But I wanted to get the idea of uncertainty. You’re hoping to see me, but you’re not sure I’m coming.”

She contorted her features and peered at the opposite wall as if she was short-sighted.

“How’s this?”

“Yes, that’ll do,” Harry said, his heart sinking. “I’ll take that Hold it.”

And so it went on. Harry tried every pose he could think of without success, and it gradually began to dawn on him that she had never posed before in her life. She had every amateur trick without one professional mannerism. She was camera-conscious, awkward, and her attempts to follow his instructions were embarrassing.

In the past, Harry had attended a school of photography and had photographed professional models. He knew something about the art of posing. It was obvious that Clair had no talent in this direction, and the discovery frightened him.

“I say, darling, will you be much longer?” she asked, plaintively. “These lights are giving me a headache.”

“Let’s have a rest,” Harry said, his face shiny with perspiration. He turned off the arc lights and came over to offer her a cigarette.

“But surely you have taken enough by now?” she asked, and he caught an impatient note in her voice. “It’s after six and I’ve a date at seven-thirty.”

“Oh. Aren’t I seeing you tonight?”

She patted his hand.

“Not tonight, Harry. I promised a girlfriend dinner at the flat. I’d ask you along too, only she’s a frightful bore, and besides, she wants to gossip.”

“All right,” Harry said, feeling depressed and worried. “How about tomorrow night?”

“Of course. I’ll tell you what we’ll do. Come round about six, and if it’s fine we’ll drive out to Richmond and look at the river. Would you like that?”

“Yes,” Harry said, his mind in a whirl. “If she wasn’t a model, then what was she?” he asked himself. “How in the world did she manage to live on such a scale unless—”

A tap sounded on the door and Mooney came in. Harry was so worried he welcomed the diversion.

“That copper’s outside,” Mooney said, closing the door. “He wants a word with you. I told him you were busy, but he says he’ll wait.”

“What does he want?” Harry said, frowning. “Well, I suppose I’d better see him. Will you excuse me, Clair?”

Looking at her he was startled to see she had lost colour and had risen to her feet, her eyes alarmed.

“Don’t let him know I’m here,” she said in a whisper. “I don’t want to meet him.”

She was so obviously perturbed that both Harry and Mooney stared at her in surprise.

“It’s all right,” Harry said, feeling it was far from all right “He’ll be gone by the time you’ve changed.” He stubbed out his cigarette, forced a smile and with a growing feeling of uneasiness, went into the office. Mooney followed him.

Inspector Parkins, still wearing his baggy tweed suit, was examining the big frame of street photographs.

“Hallo, Mr. Ricks,” he said, glancing round. “These are interesting. It might pay me to look in from time to time and go through your pictures. I’ve spotted a couple of old customers just in this little lot.”

“You wanted me?” Harry said. “I’m rather busy, Inspector. Is it important?”

Parkins lifted his busy eyebrows. There was a bland look in his eyes that Harry didn’t like.

“Well, no, it’s not important. I was passing so I looked in. You haven’t seen our tow-headed friend again?”

“If I had I should have told you,” Harry said shortly. He was anxious to be rid of the inspector.

“Yes, I suppose you would.” Parkins seemed in no hurry to go. “By the way, when we went along to the Red Circle café the other night, there was a fella outside with a big American car. He was joined by four drunken tarts if you remember.”

Harry went scarlet.

“They weren’t tarts!” he said angrily, and then caught himself up. “At least, they didn’t look like that to me.”

Parkins eyed his angry flushed face with mild interest.

“Didn’t they? Well, you surprise me.” He felt in his pockets and took out a carton of cigarettes. He opened it, found it empty and tossed it in the near-by wastepaper basket. “I thought they were tarts. They behaved like tarts, but maybe I was mistaken. Even a police officer makes a mistake now and then,” and he laughed. “You wouldn’t have a cigarette on you, would you?”

Impatiently Harry took out his gold case, opened it and offered it. Parkins took the case out of his hand, and as he selected a cigarette with deliberate care, he said, “Was that fella with the car Brady?”

Harry felt himself change colour.

“I don’t think so. I... I really didn’t notice.”

“Didn’t you? That’s a pity. I was under the impression he might have been Brady.” Parkins closed the case and turned it over in his hand while he examined it with a look of bland interest. “Nice case this. New?”

“Yes,” Harry said shortly, and held out his hand for it.

“Where did you get it from?”

“That’s not your business,” Harry said, angrily. “May I have it, please?”

Parkins opened the case and read the inscription.

“What’s this girl’s other name?”

“Now, look here,” Harry exploded, “this has gone far enough. Please give it to me.”

“So you think it’s gone far enough?” Parkins said and smiled. “Well, so do I. This case was stolen last week. Did you know that?”

“Stolen?” Harry said, and suddenly felt sick. “It wasn’t! You — you’re making a mistake.”

“Oh, no I’m not,” Parkins said. “We have a complete description of it, even down to the small scratch on the back. A young gentleman up from the country ran into a nice-looking girl in Piccadilly a few nights ago. He bought her some drinks, and thought he was set for a riotous evening, but she disappeared and his cigarette case went with her.” He dropped the case into his pocket “Unlike many young men he did the sensible thing. He came to me. I have a description of the girl, and I’m looking for her.” He suddenly pointed a finger at Harry. “She slipped the case to you, didn’t she?”

“I don’t know what you mean!” Harry said, the truth dawning on him. Here then was the explanation. His first suspicions were correct. She was working with this gang! The discovery horrified him, but even now, he was determined to protect her if he could.

“Oh, yes, you do,” Parkins said, suddenly losing his bland air. “I’ve been watching you ever since you lied about Brady. We’re on to him, too. He’s another of them. You’re sleeping with this woman, aren’t you? You’re the fella she passes the stuff to. We know all about you, Ricks. She’s keeping you, too.”

“That’s a damned lie!” Clair said from the doorway. She came into the office like a furious little hurricane, pushed Harry aside and faced Parkins. “You keep your dirty mouth shut! I took the case! I gave it to him as a present! He didn’t know it was stolen! He doesn’t know anything about anything! Leave him out of this! Do you hear? Leave him out of this!”