But a Short Time to Live

I

The clock hands on the dashboard of the car pointed to five minutes to eight. Rain ran down the windscreen, and the ancient wiper creaked to and fro, pushing the stream of water aside, keeping clear a small arch through which Harry could see the entrance to the prison.

It was a cold, bleak morning, and sodden grey clouds moved sluggishly in the chilly wind.

Harry smoked uneasily, resting his hands on the driving wheel, his eyes intent on the tall, wrought-iron gates that had separated him from Clair for the past nine months. She was due out at eight o’clock. During those long months while she had been serving her sentence, Harry had neither seen nor heard from her.

After she had been sentenced he had spoken to her for a few minutes. Parkins had beckoned to him, and had led him along a passage tiled in white, and which had reminded Harry of the entrance to a public convenience. Clair was in a cell, waiting to be taken to the prison at Aylesbury. She had been quiet and cold and as hard as granite. It had been like saying good-bye to a stranger.

“Don’t ever come to see me,” she said, standing away from him and looking straight at him, “and don’t ever write. I don’t want to be reminded of you. I won’t see you if you come. I won’t read your letters if you write.”

“All right,” Harry said, “but I won’t forget you, Clair.”

She had given a sneering little smile when he said that.

“You’ll forget all right,” she had said.

Then a uniformed policewoman had come in. Clair had given Harry one long, searching look as if she wanted to impress his face on her mind, then she had gone with the policewoman, her head up and her mouth set.

He didn’t write to her or visit her because he knew she had meant what she had said, but she remained as alive in his mind as she had been when he held her in his arms for the first time.

Parkins had said she had been lucky to have got off with a year. She had told them nothing about the gang, admitted she had been stealing for over a year, but refused to incriminate anyone else. She had cleared Harry of suspicion, and since she had been in prison no other cases of pickpocketing had been reported. The gang was lying low.

To Parkins’s angry disappointment there was no evidence to connect Robert Brady with Clair. She admitted he was a friend of hers, but denied he was a member of the gang. Brady had slipped away like a ghost at the first sign of trouble. Parkins told Harry he had left the country and was probably in America.

“I doubt if he’ll show his nose in London for some time,” Parkins had said. “Pity; I would have liked to have hooked him.”

And the tow-headed chap also disappeared.

While Clair was waiting trial Harry had been desperately busy trying to raise money for her defence. She had told him to sell everything she possessed, but he kept some of her clothes and stored them in his room. The car was sold; so was the radiogram and the cocktail cabinet. Her jewellery had been taken by the police and returned to its various owners. There was very little left after they found her guilty: some clothes, a few books, a fountain pen and a handbag. Harry kept these things in his room.

“I’m going to make a home for her,” he told Mooney. “I have nine months to make money in, and I’m going to make it.”

But the partnership didn’t succeed. It was as Harry had suspected. The people of Soho had better things to do with their money than spend it on a photograph.

The enormous enlargement of Alf Mooney failed to attract customers.

“With that face,” Mooney said gloomily, “you’re driving custom away.”

But Harry knew it was a fine study. He knew it proclaimed him as an outstanding photographer, and he was reluctant to take it out of the window. He was back on his beat now, taking photographs in the street. Tom and Joe had gone. Doris had obstinately refused to go, accepting half-wages until they had weathered the depression. Mooney was suicidal, and kept telling Harry to give up and close the shop.

Then came the lucky break that Harry had been praying for. He happened to be in the shop with Mooney one wet afternoon, standing in the doorway, staring up at the lead-coloured skies and wondering when he would be able to get out on the job, when he noticed a well-dressed man pause to look at Mooney’s portrait.

Harry regarded the man enviously. He was immaculately dressed, dark and good looking. His age might have been forty or even fifty. There was an air of confidence about him that told of success, riches and good living. He studied the photograph for some minutes, and then looking up, caught Harry’s anxious eyes.

“Who did that?” he asked.

“I did,” Harry said.

“Have you any more like it?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t. I’ve only just started that kind of work.”

“Would you care to take some portraits for me?” the man asked, and took from his wallet a card. “You may have heard of me if you are at all interested in the theatre.”

Harry took the card. Allan Simpson! The best-known and most successful theatrical producer in London! He felt himself turn hot, then cold with excitement.

“Why, yes, Mr. Simpson. Of course I would.”

“I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” Simpson said. “Come up to the Regent Theatre tomorrow afternoon with your kit, and we’ll try some shots. If you do as well as this we might get together. Would you care to do that?”

That was five months ago, and now Harry worked exclusively for Simpson at a salary of twenty-five pounds a week. It was unbelievable, of course. Even now, as Harry sat in the shabby little Morris he had bought second-hand, he couldn’t believe his good fortune. The work wasn’t arduous. He was responsible for taking all the stills to dress the outside of the theatre, and all the portraits for publicity purposes. When a new show was being produced he was kept busy, but once it was running he had more time on his hands than he cared about. Simpson had made him sign a contract to do no other work except the work Simpson wanted him to do.

Because it was due to Mooney’s portrait that his luck had changed, Harry offered Mooney the job as his assistant, and persuaded Simpson to pay Mooney five pounds a week which Harry made up to ten out of his own pocket. Mooney grudgingly accepted the offer. His job was to carry the equipment, set up the fights under Harry’s directions, keep people from making a noise while Harry worked, and make himself generally useful which he seldom did. Doris processed the films, made the enlargements and mounted them. Harry paid her five pounds a week out of his own pocket Even at that, he was now earning fifteen pounds a week which was more than double what he had ever earned.

Out of what was left to him after income tax had been deducted he managed to save a few pounds a week. He remained with Mrs. Westerham, and his only extravagance was to buy the second-hand Morris from a bankrupt firm in Soho and which he got for ninety pounds, not perhaps such a bargain as it seemed for as it turned out, it was more luck than skill that kept the engine running.

However, it got Harry to the Regent Theatre when he had to work late, and somehow it had brought him all the way from Sloane Square to this country road just outside Aylesbury to bring Clair back in triumph.

She had said he would forget her, but he hadn’t. His love for her had grown more solid and had taken deeper roots during her absence. He had thought about her a great deal. He had wondered about her.

She had deceived him and lied to him; she was a thief. These things he forgave. She was in love with him; of that he was sure. It was because she loved him and wanted to keep him that she had lied to him. Would she still be in love with him? That worried him more than her past. Would she be glad he was here to meet her or would she be angry and ashamed?

He had talked to Mooney about meeting her. Mooney liked her. That she was a thief didn’t disturb him. That she gave herself away to the police because she wanted to keep Harry out of their hands pleased him.

“A girl who can do that’s all right,” he had said to Harry. “Go and meet her. If she doesn’t like it now, she’ll remember it later. A girl likes attention.”

So here he was on a bleak, wet morning, sitting in the wheezy, broken-down Morris waiting for his love. The minutes dragged by. Eight o’clock came; the clock hands moved on slowly to five past. Then there was a sudden rattle of iron against iron and one of the big gates swung inwards. Clair came out into the wet, lonely road.

She came out as she had gone in, her head high, her mouth set. She was wearing the smart coat and skirt she had worn when she had come to sit for her portrait. She carried her smart little hat in her hand. A wardress appeared, said something to her and patted her arm. Clair paid no attention. She began to walk quickly towards Aylesbury and towards the waiting car.

Harry’s heart was beating so rapidly that he felt suffocated. He couldn’t move, but watched the trim figure coming towards him in a kind of emotional stupor, and it was only when she was within a few yards of the car that he pulled himself together, opened the door and scrambled out.

She stopped short at the sight of him, and they looked at each other.

“Hallo, Clair,” Harry said huskily. He had an absurd feeling he was going to cry.

“Hallo, Harry,” she said, her face hard and expressionless. “What brings you here?”

He paused close to her, longing to take her in his arms while she looked past him down the long and empty road.

“Didn’t you expect me, Clair? I’ve come to take you home.”

“I have no home,” she said in a cold, flat voice.

“Don’t let’s stand out in the rain; you’ll get wet,” Harry said, trying hard to speak normally. “Let’s get in. I bet you could do with a cigarette.”

Although her face remained hard, he saw her lips begin to tremble, and she put her hand to her mouth.

“I don’t think I’ll get in. It’s all right. You don’t have to bother. I... I’d just as soon walk.”

He put his hand on her arm, and at his touch, her face suddenly twitched and she looked hastily away, but she allowed him to lead her to the car and help her in. He ran round to the other side, slipped under the steering wheel. “Here, have a cigarette,” he said, dropping a packet of Players and a box of matches into her lap. “I’ll start the car. It usually takes hours.”

While he was coaxing life into the engine, he looked straight ahead, feeling her trembling against him. She ignored the carton of cigarettes that lay in her lap, and out of the corner of his eye he could see her fists clench tightly, and then suddenly she gave a harsh sob that seemed to be wrenched from her in spite of her efforts to control it.

Still not looking at her, Harry reached out and took her hand and she held on to it desperately. Then she began to cry.

“It’s all right, darling,” he said, putting his arm round her shoulders and pulling her to him. “I’m here. I love you. It’s all going to be all right. Oh, Clair, my darling... my darling...”

II

As luck would have it Mrs. Westerham had a vacant room opposite Harry’s room, and Harry had rented it for a couple of weeks. He, Mooney and Doris had spent their spare time making it “nice” as Doris called it. They had rearranged the furniture, put up new curtains, bought a coverlet for the divan and arranged flowers on the window-sill.

As Harry pushed open the door and led Clair into the room he thought at least it looked clean, comfortable and bright It couldn’t compare to the luxurious room in the Long Acre flat, but it did somehow look homely and inviting even though the carpet was worn and the wallpaper was past its prime.

“This is only until we get something better,” Harry said. “The bed’s comfortable, anyway. I’ve tried it.”

Clair scarcely looked at the room. She dropped her hat and bag listlessly on to the bed and wandered over to the window. All the way back to London, they had said little to each other. She had looked through the windscreen, her eyes hungry for the sight of people, traffic, the houses and streets from which she had been locked away for nine months.

Harry hadn’t attempted to make conversation. He was content to sit at her side, to glance at her occasionally, and take her as quickly as the ancient Morris could go to Lannock Street.

“I’ll leave you for a moment,” he said, watching her. “You’ll want to tidy up. When you’re ready, will you come into my room? It’s right opposite. I’ll have some coffee ready.”

She didn’t turn.

“All right,” she said.

Harry went into his room and half closed the door, took off his raincoat and hung it in the cupboard. He lit a cigarette, moved to the. window and stared down into the rain-swept street It was now half past nine, and he felt as if he had been up for hours.

Of course she was bound to feel strange, he thought. He must be patient, but if only she had come to him, let him comfort her instead of being so hard and distant.

He waited for more than half an hour, then worried, crept over to his door and listened. There was no sound from Clair’s room. He crossed the passage and looked round the half-open door. She still stood by the window as he had left her, motionless, her head resting on her arm. But there was a sag to her shoulders and a weariness about the way she stood that tugged at his heart.

He went to her, turned and pulled her to him.

“Darling Clair,” he said. “It’s all right now. Come and sit down. You look so tired.” He sat in an armchair and pulled her on to his knees. She lay limply against him, her hands in her lap, her head against his shoulder. They sat like that for some time, neither of them saying anything, and as the minutes passed, he felt her relaxing against him.

“I thought you were certain to forget me,” she said suddenly. “I couldn’t believe it when I saw you get out of the car. It’s the loveliest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

He slid his hands over hers.

“You didn’t forget me, why should I forget you?”

She lifted her shoulders.

“Who else had I to think about? And there was so much to take your attention away from me.”

“Well, I didn’t forget,” Harry said happily. “I’ve been counting the days. In my room there’s a calendar with every day marked off since you went away.”

She pushed away from him, sat up and looked at him. Her eyes searched his face.

“Still the same old Harry. You haven’t changed. You’re still nice and kind and different. I worried myself sick you’d’ve changed, but you haven’t.”

He was looking at her. Well, she had changed. There was a hardness in her eyes that worried him. She looked older, not quite so pretty, and there were lines each side of her mouth that gave her a cynical, bitter expression.

“Go on, say it,” she said. “I know I’ve changed, but so would you if you’d been kept in a cage like an animal for nine months.”

“It’ll all come right, darling,” he said, taking her face in his hands. “Only try not to be too bitter about it. I can guess what it must have been like, but it’s over, and you’ve got to try to forget it. You will, won’t you?”

She kissed him, and at the touch of her lips, he felt a wave of tenderness and desire run through him, and he caught her to him, kissing her, hoping to arouse in her the same urgent longing that gripped him. But she pushed him away, got off his lap and wandered over to the window.

“Not yet, Harry,” she said. “Be patient with me. I feel cold and hard inside. Be patient with me.”

For a few seconds he sat trembling, disappointed, then he got to his feet.

“Sorry, Clair, of course. There’s lots of time.”

She swung round on her heels to look at him.

“I don’t know what I should have done without my thoughts of you,” she said. “Later, Harry, I promise. Just give me time to get over all this.”

“Of course, Clair... Let me make you some coffee. Come into my room. It’s bigger than this, and there’s a better view. I was wondering if you would like it instead of this one. Come in and see it.”

She linked her arm through his, looked up at him and for a moment he caught a glimpse of the old Clair.

They went into his room, and while he heated coffee she wandered around looking at his things.

“Who’s that?” she asked suddenly, standing before a photograph. “He looks nice.”

“Ron — Ron Fisher,” Harry said, pouring the coffee into cups.

“Oh.” She turned away, her face hardening. After a moment’s silence, she went on, “What happened to him?”

“He’s in a home in Brighton,” Harry said. “The newspaper he worked for is looking after him.”

“A home?” She looked at Harry, then away. “Isn’t he all right now?”

“He won’t ever be quite well,” Harry said quietly. “Here, sit down and try this. You do have sugar?”

“They didn’t catch the man who did it?” She took the cup of coffee and sat down. There was a cold, impersonal look on her white face.

“No.”

“I suppose you want to know if I had anything to do with him?”

“No, I don’t. I don’t want to know anything about the past, Clair.”

She stirred the coffee, her mouth pursed, a frown creasing her forehead.

“Tell me about yourself, Harry,” she said promptly. “What have you been doing?”

So he told her about Alf Mooney’s portrait and how Allan Simpson had seen it and had given him a contract.

“Of course it’s unbelievable,” he said, smiling at her. “I’m now earning fifteen pounds a week, and I’ve been saving like mad for the day when we’d meet again. Simpson is pleased with my work, and I think when my contract runs out I’ll get better terms. I want to break the monopoly clause. At the moment I can’t work for anyone else, nor can I do private work. If I can get him to agree to dropping that clause I should make a lot more money.”

“The wheel turns,” she said with a bitter little smile. “You’re now making more than I. It’s your turn, isn’t it, Harry?”

“But you mustn’t mind,” Harry said, taking her hand. “You remember you once persuaded me to share with you? You were right when you said it didn’t matter who had the money so long as one of us had it. Clair, darling, ever since you’ve been away I have been planning to do things for you. The past doesn’t matter; nothing matters except we love each other. I want you to marry me. Will you? Will you marry me and help me and share with me whatever I have?”

“I don’t want to get married. I’ll live with you, Harry, but not marriage.”

“But why? We’re only asking for trouble if we don’t marry, Clair. Why are you scared of marriage?”

“What’s going to happen to me?” she asked, avoiding his question. “There’s nothing I can do. I can’t run a home, and yet you ask me to marry you. I don’t know enough about anything to earn a living. All I’m good at is picking pockets. Who wants a wife like that?”

“I do, Clair,” Harry said. “We’ll take a service flat somewhere and you can help me in my work. I’ll teach you. Mooney’s no good at lighting. You’ll find it interesting. You’ll meet all the stars. It’ll be fun darling.”

“Fun for them to meet an old lag?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.

“You must stop being bitter, Clair. No one will know about your past You can trust Mooney. He’s the only one who knows, and he likes you. He won’t talk.”

She shifted her shoulders in a hopeless gesture.

“How can I help you?”

“After a couple of weeks you’ll know all about lighting. It’s simple enough and interesting too. Seriously Clair, will you marry me? It’s the only answer. I won’t expect you to do a thing in the flat. All I want is to have you with me for always. Say yes, darling.”

“But Harry, this is ridiculous. You don’t know anything about me. How can you want to marry me?”

“I know all I want to know. We’ll make a fresh start. It’ll be all right. So long as you love me, nothing matters.”

“I love you enough to want to keep you happy, and marrying will only bring you unhappiness, Harry.” She got up and moved restlessly about the room. “I’m no good. You may as well know it now because you’ll find out before long for yourself. I was never any good, and I never will be any good. It’s the way I’m made.”

“That’s nonsense,” Harry said. “If you know what’s right and what’s wrong, and obviously you do, you can get yourself straightened out.”

She shook her head.

“You’re such an old-fashioned darling.” She came over and sat on the floor at his feet “It’s not as easy as that I don’t want to get straightened out as you call it. I have a kink. Ever since I can remember I’ve been in trouble. You wouldn’t think to look at me that my father was a labourer on the railway, would you? Well, he was. We lived in a council house. My mother wasn’t quite all there. She couldn’t read or write; and she scarcely ever did anything to the house. It was a pigsty of a place. I was allowed to run wild, play in the streets, do what I liked. When I was fifteen, my father got drunk one night and came to my room. My mother caught us, and there was a fight. She was thrown downstairs. She broke her back. They gave my father five years, and he got another five years for nearly killing another convict. They put me in a home, but I didn’t stay long. I ran away and got a job in a laundry. That cured me of working for a living.” She reached for a cigarette, lit it and tossed the match angrily into the fireplace. “I’m sorry to be so sordid, Harry, but you must know what you think you want to marry. I and another girl palled up. We worked the big stores, shop lifting. It was a good racket while it lasted. She was caught and given a year. That scared me and I gave it up. Then the war came, and I made friends with an American officer. I lived with him until he went overseas. He introduced me to a pal of his, and I lived with him. If he didn’t give me money — and he was mean sometimes — I stole from him. He had so much he never missed it. He was a ghastly little squirt, but I put up with him because of his money. I hoped he would take me back to America with him. I wanted to go to America. But he went without telling me, and I was left high and dry. For a week or so I had a bad time. I was broke and hadn’t anywhere to live. I spent my nights in air raid shelters and walked the streets for money.” She didn’t look at Harry. “Sorry, darling, but there it is. You’ve got to know the truth. I ran into another man. He was a crook. He taught me to pick pockets. He had three other girls working for him. It was a marvellous racket while it lasted. I’ve never made so much money. Then I met you, Harry. You didn’t realise it, but you saved my neck that evening. That was the first and only time I had a pang of conscience. I hated myself for making you my stooge. I still hate myself.” She stubbed out the cigarette, frowning. “It was my luck to slip up over the cigarette case. I should have given it to Rob... to the man I was working for, but it was such a beauty I couldn’t resist making you a present of it. It was a mad, stupid thing to have done. But then most things I do are mad and stupid.” She made an angry, impatient gesture. “I’m not trying to excuse myself. I’m bad, and until I met you, I didn’t give a damn what I was. Well, that’s the story. Pretty, isn’t it? And don’t think I’m a poor little girl who hasn’t had a chance. I’ve had dozens of chances. I was offered a job once in a hat shop. I could have earned four pounds a week, but picking pockets brought me in thirty to fifty pounds, and I preferred to pick pockets. It was much more exciting and much more profitable, and I was my own mistress. The court missionary wanted me to get a job in a factory. That was sweet, wasn’t it? From eight to five, at five pounds a week. No, thank you! I told her to go to hell. Then some old lady took a fancy to me and wanted me to be her companion. Can you imagine me as a companion to an old lady? Oh, I’ve had lots of chances, but I preferred the easy way. That’s the way I’m made. Well, now you know. So don’t let’s talk about getting married. It’s hopeless.”

Harry had listened to all this in silence.

“I really don’t care what you’ve been, Clair,” he said when she had finished. “What I want to be sure of is you really love me. I think you do. You have said so, but I’d like you to say it once more.”

“Yes, I love you,” she said, looking up at him. “And there are moments, Harry, when I wish I didn’t I’ve never loved anyone but you. Why I should have to pick on you I don’t know. Why couldn’t I have fallen in love with one of my own kind? Someone as worthless and as rotten as I am.”

Harry took her in his arms.

“Please, Clair, don’t talk like that. If you really want to make me happy, marry me. I know you and I will make a go of it. The past doesn’t matter.”

“Do you really mean you want to marry me after what I’ve told you?” she asked blankly. “You can’t mean it, Harry.”

“But I do. Nothing matters so long as I have you. I want you more than anything in the world.”

She studied him for a moment, then dropped her hands in her lap with a gesture of resignation.

“All right; if that’s what you want. But I warn you. I’m no good and I’ll never be any good.”

Harry didn’t believe her.

III

The next three weeks were full of bustling activity for Harry. With Doris’s aid — and she walked herself nearly to a standstill — he found a two-room service flat, well enough furnished, in a quiet Kensington street. The rent was four guineas a week — more than he wanted to pay.

“If your wife cares to look after the flat,” the agent told him, “you can have it for three guineas. It’s small and compact and wouldn’t be difficult to run.”

But Harry had promised Clair she wouldn’t have to do any housework. To have service for the extra guinea was worth it, he told himself, although Doris was scandalised. She admired Clair’s looks and the way she dressed, but felt she should buckle down to a little housework.

“It’s not as if it would kill her,” she said to Mooney.

“You leave her alone,” Mooney said. “She’s all right. There’re some girls who’re fitted to slave in a house. That one isn’t.”

It was lucky for Harry there was little work to be done at the theatre during those three weeks, and he spent most of his time in Clair’s company. She was restless and wanted to go out continuously, and they spent more money than Harry could afford. But he told himself that this was just a fling until she had got used to her freedom.

He seldom saw Allan Simpson, and took his orders from Val Lehmann, Simpson’s business manager. He told Lehmann he was getting married.

“My contract comes up for renewal at the end of the month,” he said. “I was wondering if Mr. Simpson would consider cutting out the monopoly clause. I have a lot of spare time, and I’d like to be able to do some portrait work for myself.”

Lehmann, a serious-looking young man, prematurely bald, whose weak eyes hid behind the thick lenses of his spectacles, said he would have a word with Simpson.

“He doesn’t like the staff doing outside work,” he said, “but in your case he might make an exception. Suppose, instead, I try and get you a raise? What are you getting now?”

“Twenty-five, but out of that I have to pay my two assistants. I’m not clearing much more than ten by the time tax is deducted.”

“Suppose I push him up to thirty? Any good?”

Harry hesitated.

“I’d prefer to do private work, Mr. Lehmann, if I can. I want every shilling I can earn.”

Lehmann smiled. He liked Harry, and thought his work was sound.

“All right. I’ll speak to him. What are you marrying — an extravagant wife?”

The marriage was to take place at the Kensington Registry. Only Mooney and Doris were invited. Clair said she didn’t want any fuss. Harry had been disappointed by her attitude towards the coming wedding. She behaved more like a patient facing a serious operation than a bride.

On the morning of the wedding, as he was shaving, she came into his room.

“Hey!” he said, turning to smile at her. “This isn’t allowed. The groom isn’t supposed to see the bride on the wedding morn. It’s bad luck or something...” But he broke off, seeing how pale and worried she looked. “What’s the matter, Clair?”

She began to say something, stopped, and looked helplessly at him.

“I know,” he said, wiping off his lather. “You’ve got cold feet, haven’t you?” He went to her and put his arms round her. “It’s all right, Clair. Go and get dressed. We’ll have a damned big drink before we go. It’s going to be all right.”

“You’re sure this is what you want, Harry?” she said, looking searchingly at him. “I’ll live with you without marrying you. You don’t have to do this.”

“I want it,” Harry said. “Don’t fuss, darling.”

She pulled away from him and wandered over to the mirror and inspected herself.

“I don’t know why I’m acting like this,” she said impatiently. “I thought I was tough, but this worries me sick. If this is really what you want I’ll go through with it, but, Harry don’t have regrets after, will you?”

As he was going to her the door opened and Mooney appeared resplendent in a new hat and tie.

“What’s all this?” he said, genuinely shocked. “You go back to your room, young lady. Doris is waiting for you. Damn it! One doesn’t marry every day, and one’s got to observe the conventions.”

They were married at noon. The sun shone for them as they came out of the registry, arm-in-arm, both quiet, both a little fearful in their minds.

Mooney and Doris followed them down the steps. Mooney whistled Mendelssohn’s Wedding March under his breath, but he too wasn’t over happy.

“Like a damned funeral,” he whispered to Doris. “We’ve got to get some drinks into these two or they’ll burst into tears.”

They had agreed not to go away for a honeymoon, but to have lunch with Mooney and Doris at the new flat, and then Harry thought it would be nice to drive into the country for the afternoon. He felt it would be romantic to return to Wendover where they once spent such a happy Sunday. Clair rather listlessly agreed.

With Mooney in charge of the drinks, the wedding lunch turned out to be quite a success. Thanks to his overpowering cocktails, Clair came out of her moody depression and joined in Mooney’s hilarity and Doris’s valiant attempts to keep the conversation going. But it was a relief to Mooney and Doris when they saw them off in the Morris, they having volunteered to stay behind and clear up the room and put everything in order for their return.

“Well, we’ve done it,” Harry said triumphantly as they drove through the traffic around Shepherd’s Bush. He had got over his feeling of depression, and was now happy and possessive. “I’m glad we did it, Clair darling. I’ve never been so happy in my life.”

She patted his arm affectionately, but didn’t say anything. Now that she was sobering up, her fears of the future returned. She felt cold in the draughty little car and the roar of its worn-out engine gave her a headache. She wasn’t looking forward to the long drive out to Wendover in this bumping, noisy rattletrap, but Harry looked so happy she hadn’t the heart to suggest they turn back.

Harry was fully occupied in coaxing the car along at a speed of twenty miles an hour and didn’t notice Clair’s growing irritation. He was thinking how wonderful it was that within such an amazingly short time he had acquired a wife, a car and a service flat. Just because he had taken a photograph of Mooney! It was like a fairy story, he told himself.

“Harry darling, isn’t it time you got a better car?” Clair said suddenly, shattering Harry’s day dream. “This one’s falling to bits.”

“Oh, it’s not as bad as all that,” Harry shouted above the roar of the engine. “Of course it’s a bit noisy, but it gets me where I want to go.”

“There’s a frightful draught going up my legs,” Clair complained, holding her skirts down. “We can’t keep this much longer. You are thinking about getting a new one, aren’t you?”

Harry was startled. He thought they were lucky to have a car at all. The idea of buying a new one hadn’t entered his head.

“Well, I don’t know. I don’t think we could afford one just yet. Later, of course, when I make a bit more money, we can think about it. But there’re lots of things we want besides a car, darling.”

“You could get it on the never-never. Let’s do it I’d love another M.G., wouldn’t you?”

“Wouldn’t I!” Harry said, his face clouding. “But we’d never run to it. I’m afraid we’ll have to make do with this for a while. At least, it goes.”

He should have known better to have tempted providence with such a remark. As they went through the gates of the White City towards Western Avenue the engine suddenly died in a flurry of rasping gasps and the car came to a standstill.

“Oh Lord!” Harry said, his heart sinking. “I spoke too soon. Oh, damn it! She’s been going so well all this week.” He got out and lifted the rusty hood.

Clair looked bleak. She was impatient of anything that caused her physical discomfort, and it was cold and draughty in the car and the spring in the seat was sticking into her. Black clouds were creeping over the horizon. She didn’t think from the look of the car roof that it would be watertight.

“You better buck up,” she said, leaning out of the window. “It’s going to pour. I think we ought to turn round and go home.”

Harry, who had just burned his hand on the overheated engine gave her a wan smile.

“We will if I can get her to go again,” he said, peering doubtfully at the engine. “Would you mind getting out for a moment? You’re sitting on the tools.”

“No wonder the seat feels like a lump of iron,” Clair said, getting out She hunched her shoulders against the rising wind. “It’s getting cold and horrid. Please don’t be long.”

Harry collected the tool kit.

“I’ll do my best. I don’t really know what’s wrong.”

Clair got back into the car. It infuriated her to see the other cars going past. She felt sure the drivers were looking contemptuously at the ancient Morris. There was a time, she thought bitterly, when she could have out-paced any of these smug devils in her M.G., and she stamped her feet because she was angry and her feet were cold.

After some minutes, Harry came to the window.

“Blown a gasket,” he said gloomily. “I’m afraid we’re stuck, darling. I’ll have to get a tow.”

“Oh, Harry!” Clair’s face hardened. “Isn’t this sickening? That’s what comes of putting an old crock like this on the road. And now, look, it’s beginning to rain.”

“Well, you wait here,” Harry said. “I’ll find a garage. There must be one quite close. I’m awfully sorry, Clair.” He looked so woebegone that she forced a smile.

“Just one of those things, darling,” she said. “I’ll be all right It’s not your fault Anyway, this settles it. We must get a new car.”

As Harry closed the hood and put away his tools, a big Buick slid to a standstill by them. It was a long, glittering car with white rimmed wheels, a waving wireless mast, and a battery of enormous headlamps.

The driver leaned out of the window.

“Hallo, Ricks, are you in trouble?”

Harry looked up, startled.

“Why, hallo, Mr. Simpson,” he said, and walked over to the Buick. “Yes, I’m stuck. The gasket’s blown.”

“I’ll give you a lift into town if you like or to a garage,” Simpson said. “I’m on my way back.” He glanced with an amused smile at the Morris. “About had her day, hasn’t she?”

Harry grinned ruefully.

“I’m afraid she has. My... my wife’s with me, Mr. Simpson. We would be grateful for a lift.”

Simpson raised his eyebrows, looked again at the Morris and met Clair’s steady stare of interest.

“I didn’t know you were married.” He opened the car door and got out. As usual he was immaculately dressed and Harry felt a twinge of envy. If only he could afford to dress like that, he thought.

“Actually, we got married this morning. May I introduce you?”

“Congratulations.”

Harry was aware that Simpson was looking at Clair with increasing interest. He seemed oblivious to the light rain that was falling.

“Are you off on your honeymoon?” Simpson went on as he strolled over to the Morris.

Seeing him coming, Clair slid out of the Morris. Harry thought she looked suddenly brighter and more lovely.

“Clair, this is Mr. Simpson,” Harry said. “He’s going to give us a lift.”

Clair gave Simpson a quick, calculating look, then smiled.

“That’s very nice of you,” she said, shaking hands. “What a lovely car!”

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” Simpson said. There was a puzzled look in his eyes. “I haven’t had it long. Get in before you get wet.”

He made to open the rear door, but Clair had already opened the door in front and had slid into the seat next to the driving seat.

Simpson closed the door after her.

“You’ve found a very pretty wife, Ricks,” he said, not bothering to lower his voice. “You’d better get in too. Shall we find a garage?”

Harry got in the back and Simpson went around the car and sat behind the driving wheel.

“They’ll have to tow it in I’m afraid,” Harry said.

“That’s damn bad luck.” Simpson turned in his seat to look at Clair. “Were you off on a honeymoon?”

“Honeymoon? Oh no. We’re not having a honeymoon,” Clair said and laughed. “We were going into the country.”

“But surely you’re going to celebrate?”

“Oh, we have. We had lunch with Mr. Mooney.”

Harry listened to this unhappily. Put like that it did sound a dull way of spending a wedding day.

“Mooney?” Simpson laughed. “He’s quite a character.” He started the Buick and drove towards Shepherd’s Bush. “That was a fine portrait your husband took of him.”

“Oh, Harry’s very clever,” Clair said. “You ought to let him take a picture of you, Mr. Simpson.”

Harry stiffened with horror. What was she saying? He looked quickly at Simpson to see his reaction. Simpson seemed amused.

“Why do you say that?” he asked as he steered the big car through the close-packed traffic. “What would a picture of me be good for?”

“Well, you could give it to your wife.”

“I’m not married.”

“You could hang it in one of your theatres then,” Clair said brightly.

“What do you think, Ricks?” Simpson asked laughing. “Do you think the Regent’s lobby would be all the better for a portrait of me? I doubt it myself.”

“I... I don’t know, Mr. Simpson,” Harry said, embarrassed.

“Of course it would,” Clair said. “Harry’s too modest and so are you. The public would like to know what you look like.”

“Here’s a garage,” Simpson said, swinging the car through the open gates. “What’ll you do? Get them to tow it in and collect it later?”

“I don’t suppose they’ll do that,” Harry said. “I’ll have to go back with them.”

The rain was falling steadily now, and Simpson glanced out of the window, frowning.

“Would you like me to drop your wife off at home?” he asked. “Where do you live?”

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Simpson, but we won’t bother you. It’ll be all—”

But Clair interrupted.

“We have a flat in Kensington. Would you really take me back? It’s raining so hard, and I don’t want to get wet.” She turned in her seat to look at Harry. “I’ll wait for you at the flat, darling. You shouldn’t be long or do you think you will?”

Harry got out of the car.

“I’ll be as quick as I can. Are you sure it’s not taking you out of your way, Mr. Simpson?”

Simpson smiled.

“It’s all right. I’m happy to be of service.” He engaged gear and the Buick slid away.

Clair waved to Harry, and he turned to watch the big glittering car edge into the traffic. He could see Clair talking animatedly to Simpson. He stood looking after them, heedless of the rain, a sudden chill at his heart.

IV

It was after six o’clock before Harry returned to the flat. He was soaked through and angry. Three times he had rung the flat, but there had been no answer. To add to his troubles, the garage at which Simpson had left him wouldn’t send out for his car, and he had to go to two more before he found someone to oblige him. When he arrived with the mechanic he found a policeman waiting for him and was told he would be summoned for obstruction. After he had given the policeman the particulars he required, the mechanic who by then had examined the car, told him it wasn’t worth repairing.

“Cost you more than the car’s worth,” he said. “I’ll tow it to the garage, but if you took my tip you’ll sell it for scrap.”

Harry went back to the garage and had the mechanic’s opinion confirmed. He accepted fifteen pounds ten for the car, and then caught a bus back to Kensington.

He mounted the stairs, feeling depressed at the loss of the car and worried that Clair hadn’t returned home. He opened the front door and called, but there was no answer.

A pretty fine wedding day, he thought savagely.

Doris and Mooney hadn’t cleared up quite as well as they had promised. No doubt Mooney’s cocktails had had an effect on them. Most of the washing-up hadn’t been done, and there was cigarette ash and traces of confetti that Mooney had insisted on showering on Harry and Clair, still on the carpet But where was Clair?

She had left Harry at three o’clock. The drive to the flat couldn’t have taken more than a quarter of an hour. It was now six-ten. Where on earth had she got to?

Harry controlled his rising anger. It was no use going off the deep end, he told himself. After all it was his own fault: he hadn’t planned her wedding day very well. He couldn’t blame her if Simpson had taken her to a show. Or perhaps, he thought hopefully, she was out shopping; getting something special for supper, and would be back any moment. While waiting for her to return he decided to put the flat straight.

He went into the kitchen and finished the washing-up. By the time he had put the last plate away it was six-forty, and he was struggling with a feeling of jealousy and hurt anger. He swept up the confetti, emptied the ash trays and straightened the chair and cushions. As he was putting the dustpan and brush away he heard footsteps running down the passage. A key turned in the lock and Clair came in.

“Oh, Harry! I’m so sorry,” she said. “I had no idea it was as late as this.” She went to him and he noticed she was a little unsteady on her feet, and when she kissed him her breath smelt strongly of whisky.

“Clair!” Harry exclaimed, sharply. “You... you’re a bit on, aren’t you?”

She giggled.

“I am a bit,” she said, and flopped into an armchair. “Give me a cigarette, darling. Phew! What an afternoon!”

Silently Harry gave her a cigarette, lit it for her and then sat opposite her.

“Sorry, Harry,” she said again. “Swear at me if you feel like it I know you’re furious with me.”

“It’s all right,” Harry said. “I... I wondered where you were. I hope you had a good time.”

She sat up and looked straight at him.

“Don’t be forgiving, Harry. That’s not the way to treat me. Give me a damn good slap in the face, but don’t be forgiving.”

Harry lit a cigarette with a hand that trembled.

“Rot!” he said. “Mind you. I think you might have waited for me. But you’re here now, so what does it matter? Have you had anything to eat?”

“Not yet. Don’t you want to know what I’ve been up to?”

“Why yes, of course I do.”

“Darling, you don’t think I’ve been up to mischief, do you? Don’t be so cold and distant.” She got up and sat at his feet. “Oh, I know I had too much to drink, but I’m all right now. He can drink, can’t he?”

“You mean Simpson? I don’t know. I don’t know much about him,” Harry said, his face hardening. “I’m not sure I want to know either.”

“We spent the entire time in the bar of the Regent Theatre,” Clair said. “That chap Lehmann was there too.”

Harry looked bewildered.

“Why didn’t he take you home as he said he would? Why did you go to the theatre?”

“Because I asked him for a job.”

“A job?” Harry stared at her. “But... but you’re working for me.”

“No, I’m not. I couldn’t be bothered messing about with lights, Harry. And besides, I wouldn’t be earning anything. I’m not going to take all your hard earned money. I’m going to earn for myself.”

“What’s the job, then?”

“Well, after we left you, we got talking and he told me he’s putting on a cabaret at the 22nd Club. The season opens in three weeks. I saw he liked the look of me, so I asked him if he could give me a job in the cabaret.”

Harry was dumbfounded.

“But, Clair, what will you do? I didn’t know you had any stage experience.”

“I haven’t. That’s why he’s not paying me much. But he says with my looks and talent I’ll soon acquire the necessary experience. Lehmann is going to coach me.”

“Talent?” Harry repeated. “Darling, what exactly are you going to do?”

She stubbed out her cigarette before replying, and Harry had a feeling she found it difficult to tell him.

“I’m going to do what I’m good at,” she said. “Picking pockets.”

“But darling...” Harry began, shocked.

“Why not? I told him I had practised for years, hoping to go on the stage one day. He believed it. I know he did. The joke was he didn’t think I was as good as I made out. When we got to the flat, I gave him back all his property. I had taken his wallet, his wrist watch, his cuff links, his cigarette case and his keys. I wish you could have seen his face! He said would I go to the Regent Theatre right away so Lehmann could see me. Well, darling. I couldn’t let him get cold, so I went with him. He told me to pick Lehmann’s pockets. He introduced me to Lehmann and we started drinking, and I really went to town on Lehmann. I even got his braces. Simpson said I was sensational. He’s giving me thirty pounds a week, and if I go over big, he’ll double it. I start rehearsals tomorrow.”

Harry felt stunned. After all his hopes and plans, his scheming and hard work to support Clair, she had again stepped in front of him and would be very soon in the position to provide for herself and for him too if he wasn’t careful. Not that he begrudged her triumph. But when would he see her? he wondered. If he had to work all day, and she half the night, what kind of a married life would they have?

“What’s worrying you, Harry?”

“Well, nothing. It’s a bit of a surprise, that’s all. Do you really want to do this, Clair? Wouldn’t you rather work with me?”

“Now look, darling. We must have money. There’re so many things we need. We can’t continue to live in this hole. We must get a car. As a matter of fact, on the strength of the job, I’ve already had a word with a car agent I know. I rang him up in the lobby downstairs. He thinks he can get us something and he’ll spread the payments. He’s a good friend of mine, and he’ll get us something good and quickly. Together we’ll be earning fifty pounds a week. That’s much more like, isn’t it, darling?”

“Yes, I suppose it is,” Harry said doubtfully. “I thought you liked this place.”

“It’s all right, but it’s too small. We could never have a party in here, could we?”

Harry looked round the room. No, they couldn’t entertain more than two people in the small room, but did that matter?

“It worries me,” he said suddenly. “Suppose someone finds out you’ve been in... in—”

“That I’m an old lag?” Clair said with a hard smile. “I’ll take a chance on it, Harry.” She jumped to her feet “Let’s celebrate! After all it is our wedding day. How much money have you got in the flat?”

Harry hesitated.

“Well, I’ve got about ten pounds, but it’ll have to last us until next Friday.”

“Oh, bosh!” She threw her arms round him. “Don’t be such an old caution. I’ll ask Lehmann to give me an advance. Go and make yourself look nice, darling. We’re going out and we’re going to spend every penny of that ten pounds, and then tomorrow I’ll pay it all back to you. This is my treat.”

“Look, Clair,” Harry said firmly. “We’re married. It’s not going to be like that. I’m doing the paying now. The money you earn you must keep for yourself. I’m not having you spending your money on me.”

She looked at him mockingly.

“What does it matter who has the money so long as we have it, remember? Come on, go and get changed.”

She left him and ran into the bedroom. Harry stood undecided, then he went over to the window, and looked into the street. He felt thoroughly dejected. And he stood there for some minutes, thinking of the future. She had said if she made a success of her art Simpson would pay her sixty pounds a week. She was sure to make a success of it. Then she would be earning four times as much as he. How could he hope to hold up his end of the marriage under such conditions? With Mooney and Doris to pay — and Mooney was already hinting he could do with more money, it wasn’t fair competition. They would move to a larger flat, and Clair would pay for it. They would have a car, and Clair would pay for that. He wouldn’t even be able to afford to buy her clothes now she was back to her old standard.

“Harry...”

He turned.

Clair stood in the bedroom doorway, looking at him. She had taken off her dress and was in a flimsy slip.

“What’s the matter, Harry?”

“Nothing. I’m just coming.”

“You’re sore because I’m going to earn more than you, aren’t you?”

“Oh, I know it’s silly,” Harry said, frowning. “But I can’t help it. I’ve always wanted to provide for you, to look after you and — well, it just doesn’t work out that way.”

She came over to him and slipped her arms round his neck.

“Harry darling, I love you. But you are a little selfish about this, aren’t you? If you had your way we would only have your money, and we’d be hard up. Don’t keep me out of it. After all marriage is a partnership. Can’t you look on it that way? I tell you what we’ll do. We’ll have a joint banking account. You’ll pay in everything you earn and so will I. Then we’ll both draw on it for everything we want. That’s the way partners do it, isn’t it?”

She was right, of course. He was being selfish, and marriage was a sort of partnership. But for all that he wished frantically that he could provide for her and give her the things she would buy with her own money.

“I’m sorry, Clair,” he said, and gave her a little hug. “I am being selfish. All right, we’ll pool our resources, and see how we get on. Now, let’s get ready. Where would you like to go?”

“We’re not going anywhere. I’ve changed my mind,” she said, her face against his. “We’ll have a picnic supper and then we’ll go to bed.”

“Oh no, you wanted to go out just now. Don’t let’s change our plans. We ought to celebrate.”

She held him closer.

“We are going to celebrate. Oh, Harry, I know I’m no good, but I’m only thinking of you. I want everything to be right for you. You can see that, can’t you?”

V

The next morning, Harry had a telephone call from Lehmann, asking him to come down to the theatre right away.

“I’ll come with you,” Clair said. “I’m one of the family now. Hurry up and shave, darling. I won’t be ten minutes.”

While Harry was shaving he heard Clair on the telephone. She sounded very animated and once or twice she laughed, and he wondered a little irritably who it was she was talking to. He heard her hang up, and as he was washing the lather off his face, she came into the bathroom.

“That was Maurice,” she said. “The chap who’s getting us a car. He’s got a 1948 Jaguar; it’s just come in. £900, and only done six thousand miles. He says it’s an absolute bargain.”

“Nine hundred pounds,” Harry said, staring at her. “But, darling—”

“Twenty-five pounds a month,” Clair said briskly. “I said we would look at it on our way down to the theatre. I can run to twenty-five a month... it’s nothing.”

“But you haven’t got the job yet,” Harry said. “It might fall through.”

“Then Maurice can have the car back. It’s all right. I know him.” She patted his arm and returned to the bedroom and began to dress.

Harry stood motionless for a moment, then with a helpless shrug, joined her.

The bus or the Underground were far too slow for Clair that morning. It had to be a taxi.

“We’re running away with the money,” Harry muttered as he told the taxi driver to go to Portland Street. “A bus wouldn’t have been much slower.”

“But, darling, we’ve got the money,” Clair said gaily. “In three weeks’ time we’ll be worth fifty pounds a week.”

“You forget there’s income tax,” he pointed out, hating himself for harping on money like this. “We’ll be lucky to get thirty a week by the time tax has been deducted.”

Clair pulled a face.

“Well, thirty’s not bad, and if I go over big, we’ll have even more. Cheer up, darling. After all the taxi won’t be more than a couple of shillings.”

The car salesman, Maurice, turned out to be a swarthy young man with black wavy hair, a blue chin and a hooked nose. He greeted Clair like an old friend, and glanced suspiciously at Harry as if wondering who he was and what he was doing in Clair’s company, and Harry was surprised that Clair introduced him as “This is Harry Ricks”, and not her husband.

Maurice showed them the glittering showy car painted cream and red.

“Special coach work and a bang-on radio,” he said. “We’ll guarantee it. Hop in and come for a run.”

“We’re going down to the Regent,” Clair said. “I’ll drive.”

Because Maurice wanted to explain the controls and gadgets, Harry had to sit in the back. He was silent and moody while Clair and Maurice chatted and laughed as she drove the car along Oxford Street.

“It’s a peach, isn’t it, Harry?” she called over her shoulder. “Would you like to handle her?”

“No, thank you,” Harry said.

He had had very little experience of driving cars, and was scared of the Jaguar. It was all very well driving the old Morris that couldn’t do more than thirty miles an hour, but in traffic, he felt if he even touched the accelerator of this powerful monster with his unsure foot, he would send it rushing madly into the back of a bus.

“I’ll give you seven hundred for it,” Clair said suddenly.

They began to argue while Harry listened, dismayed and angry that he wasn’t even being consulted.

After a strenuous struggle, Clair succeeded in closing the deal at £800.

“I’ll send you a cheque, Maurice, for twenty-five,” she said as she pulled up outside the theatre. “I haven’t the spare for a deposit Okay?”

“For you, my lovely, anything’s okay,” Maurice said. “Keep her. I’ll take a taxi back. The book’s in the glove compartment. Better get her registered today. She’s taxed and insured to the end of the month.”

He got out, beamed through the window at Clair, and looking uncertainly at Harry said, “Well, Clair, any time you have a moment I’ll always be glad to see your pretty face. So long for now.” He nodded to Harry and went off, waving to a distant taxi.

“How do you like it?” Clair asked, turning in her seat. Her face was radiant and her eyes bright “This is much more like it, isn’t it, darling?”

“Yes,” Harry said, and got out of the car. “You won’t leave it here, will you?”

She gave him a quick searching look.

“You don’t mind, Harry? I’m afraid I was a bit high handed, but you see, I know Maurice. If you had dealt with him we should have been here hours arguing about the price. It is what you want?”

“It’s very nice,” Harry said carefully.

“I’m so glad.” Her face lost a little of its radiance. “I’ll run it round to the back.”

“All right I’ll go on in.”

He watched her drive the car away, then entered the theatre. He was shocked at Clair’s irresponsibility. To have bought an eight hundred pound car in less than half an hour, without a thought of future payments or of the money to be found for the tax or insurance seemed to him the height of recklessness.

“If we go on like this,” he thought as he made his way to Val Lehmann’s office, “we’ll be tip to our ears in debt.”

Lehmann was going through a series of sketches, spread out on the top of the grand piano that took up most of the room in his office.

“Hallo, Harry,” he said, looking up and smiling. “We’ve got some work for you. Mr. Simpson has decided to take Crazy Days off. We go into production right away. Here, have a look at these sketches. They’ll give you an idea of the set-up.”

While Harry was examining the sketches, Lehmann sat at his desk, and wrote furiously in a fat notebook he always carried around with him.

“Some wife you’ve picked yourself, Harry,” he said suddenly. “That’s a clever art she’s got. It should go over big at the 22nd. Mr. Simpson’s delighted with her.”

“Is he?” Harry said flatly.

“Oh, and Harry, I’m sorry, but Mr. Simpson won’t break the monopoly clause,” Lehmann went on. “He says if he does it with you, he’ll have to do it with others.”

Harry dropped the sketch he was looking at and turned.

“But it’s important to me, Mr. Lehmann. I... I want the money.”

“Who doesn’t?” Lehmann said, and smiled sympathetically. “You see, Harry, there are very few, if any, photographers on a salary as you are. If you like to work on piece work so to speak and not have a contract it’d be all right, but so long as you’re a member of the staff, private work is out.”

Harry hesitated. To be without the steady twenty-five pounds a week would be too dangerous. There was Mooney and Doris to be thought of.

“Yes,” he said. “I understand. Did... did you get me a raise?”

“Mr. Simpson suggested I bring that up later. Matter of fact, Harry, business isn’t so hot.”

“And yet Simpson could promise Clair sixty pounds a week if she was a success,” Harry thought bitterly.

“I see,” he said and turned back to the sketches.

Clair came in a few minutes later.

“Hallo, Val,” she said, and Harry started, surprised she was already on a Christian name basis. He had never thought of calling Lehmann by his Christian name; in fact, he knew he would have been snubbed if he had done so, and yet here was Clair, after only one meeting, calmly sitting on the edge of Lehmann’s desk, helping herself to a cigarette out of his box and calling him ‘Val’. And what was more surprising Lehmann seemed to like it.

“Hallo, Clair,” Lehmann returned. “What do you want? You can’t come barging in here. I’m busy.”

“Well, I like that!” Clair said smiling. “Didn’t you tell me to come down for a rehearsal this morning?”

“So I did. But we’re going to put on a new show, and I’ll be busy. I’ll have to get Oman to coach you. He’s a good chap. Look, go along to his office and tell him I sent you. Work with him this morning. I’ll have a look at you this afternoon. Mr. Simpson has had a word with him.”

“All right.” Clair did off the desk.

“And work like hell, Clair. You have a lot to do in a short time.”

“Don’t I know it. I’ll work all right.” As she went to the door, she patted Harry’s back affectionately. “Let’s have lunch together, darling.”

“Yes,” Harry said. “I’ll pick you up in Oman’s office.”

“Oh Val,” Clair said, turning. “Look out of the window.”

Lehmann pushed back his chair.

“What now?” he asked with an amiable smile.

“See what we’ve bought.”

He went to the window.

“My word! Is that yours?” he asked, looking down at the glittering Jaguar that was parked in the alley behind the theatre.

“Just got it. It’s a beaut, isn’t it?” Clair said enthusiastically. “It’ll do ninety and the radio’s bang on.”

When she had gone, Lehmann glanced at Harry and raised his eyebrows.

“No wonder you want a rise,” he said. “That must have cost you a packet.”

Harry felt himself go red.

“Well, she wanted a car,” he muttered, and was glad when the door opened at this moment and Allan Simpson came in.

“Have you shown Ricks the photo montage idea yet?” Simpson asked abruptly.

“Haven’t got round to it yet, A.S.,” Lehmann said. “He’s only just come in.”

“Morning, Ricks,” Simpson said, nodding to Harry. “How do you like your wife working for a living? She’s damned clever. If ever you go broke she can always pick pockets, can’t she, Val?”

The two men laughed as if Simpson had made the funniest joke in the world. Harry turned away, afraid they’d see how embarrassed he was. He pretended to examine one of the sketches.

“It was good of you to give her the chance,” he said, feeling Simpson expected him to say something.

“With her looks and talent, she might make a hit,” Simpson said, lighting a cigarette. “Anyway, we’ll try her out at the 22nd and see how she shapes. Oman working with her?” he asked Lehmann.

“She’s with him now.”

“Right; well, let’s get to work. We’ll go over the number Ricks is to work on, and then he can get on with it.” Simpson sat at Lehmann’s desk. “We want life-size enlargements of twenty girls, Ricks. They’re to be framed and used as a back-cloth. The girls will be ready to be photographed this afternoon. Val will show you how we want them to pose. You’d better get the necessary bromide paper, and whatever else you need. I suppose you can tackle a job as big as that?”

“Oh, yes,” Harry said, thinking if he wasn’t on contract the job would be worth a great deal of money.

“Then we want a four times larger than life-size photograph of Jenny Rand. We’d better give that to Kodaks to do. It’s too big for you to handle. Get some good portraits of her and let me see them. We’ll select the one to enlarge. She’ll sit for you tomorrow morning. You might have a word with Kodaks and get an estimate.” He glanced at Lehmann. “That’s all for the moment, isn’t it?”

Lehmann nodded.

“All right, Ricks, you get off. Be on the stage at two o’clock this afternoon.”

Harry badly wanted to ask Simpson if he wouldn’t reconsider the monopoly clause, but his nerve failed at the last moment and he left the office.

“Just my luck!” he thought as he walked down the stairs to the theatre foyer. “I daren’t give up this steady job. I might never get another. I’ll have to get rid of Mooney. That’ll save me five pounds a week, and perhaps I can persuade Lehmann to pay Doris instead of leaving it to me.”

He went back stage where he found Mooney lolling in a chair talking to one of the stage hands.

“I’d like a word, Alf,” Harry said. He had been on “Alf” terms with Mooney since they had exchanged places as employer and employee. Even now, it made Harry feel embarrassed to call Mooney by his first name.

“What’s biting you, kid?” Mooney asked, chewing his dead cigar. He waved the stage hand away with a lordly hand.

Harry leaned against the wings and looked at Mooney unhappily.

“The fact is, Alf. I can’t afford to pay you out of my own pocket any more, I’m sorry, but getting married makes a difference.”

Mooney’s eyes hardened.

“Does it?” he asked. “What’s this about Clair getting a job and earning thirty quid a week? I should have thought it would have made it easier.”

Harry reddened.

“What Clair earns has nothing to do with it,” he said. “I have to keep my end up, and I want every penny I earn now. I’m sorry, but you’ll either have to accept the fiver Lehmann pays or look for something else. I can’t afford any more to make up your money.”

“What do I do — starve?” Mooney asked politely.

“You won’t starve on five pounds a week, and... and...” Harry broke off uneasily.

“Does Clair know about this?”

“Leave Clair out of it! It’s nothing to do with her. The fact is, Alf, you don’t really pull your weight, and you know it. If I could get outside work I’d keep you on, but Simpson won’t let me and won’t give me a raise, so I have to cut somewhere.”

“I wonder why it is,” Mooney said gloomily, “that as soon as there’s a crisis I’m the poor bastard to suffer. Don’t forget, Harry, if it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t have this job. I won’t believe you are so damned mean as to pass me up after all I’ve done for you.”

Harry floundered miserably. He hated this, and Mooney knew it. Mooney knew if he kept on long enough Harry would change his mind. He wasn’t going to lose five pounds a week because Harry had been fool enough to marry an expensive wife.

“It’s not as if you need the money,” he went on. “Clair’ll be earning soon, and you’ll have more than you know what to do with. You’re not going to tell me you’re going to make nearly fifty quid a week and are going to begrudge me a miserable fiver. I just don’t believe it.”

Put like that it did seem petty and mean, and Harry felt ashamed of himself.

“No, you’re right, Alf,” he said wearily. “Forget it, will you? It’s just I hate the thought of Clair earning more than I do. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said it.”

Mooney relaxed back into his chair.

“That’s okay, kid,” he said. “Think nothing of it. I knew I had only to point out where you were going off the rails. And that stuff about me not pulling my weight. That isn’t true, you know. I’m plugging you every minute of the day. Why only just now I was telling that punk electrician what a smart guy you are. It pays to get talked about.”

“I suppose it does,” Harry said, not caring if he were talked about or not. “Well, forget it, Alf. Now we’ve got to get busy. They’re putting on a new show. I wonder if you’d run down to Kodaks and get an estimate for me. Mr. Simpson wants it. I’ll write down the details.”

“What — me?” Mooney said, horrified.

I

As Harry had foreseen, Clair made an immediate hit at the 22nd Club. She had insisted on doing her act in a mask and had been billed as The Masked Pickpocket. Only Harry knew why anonymity was necessary. She was taking no risk of being recognised by any of the men she had stolen from in the past who might happen to visit the night club.

The mask added to her success. She became a subject for discussion and speculation, and the members of the club continually worried the maître d’hôtel to find out if she was as beautiful as her figure suggested she might be.

Harry was astonished how at home she was on the stage. Her act wasn’t an easy one. She had to move about the restaurant, pausing at tables, talking to the guests and picking their pockets. Then she would return the articles she had taken to the amusement of the onlookers. But the club members soon caught on to what she was up to, and were on their guard. In spite of that she invariably managed to take something belonging to them, and the act developed into a battle of wits which was another reason for its success.

A month after her opening night, Clair returned to the flat at her usual time: a few minutes after one o’clock in the morning, and instead of undressing in the bathroom and creeping into bed as she usually did, she came bursting into the bedroom and woke Harry up.

“Wake up, darling!” she exclaimed, sitting on the bed and turning on the bedside lamp. “I’ve wonderful news!”

Harry grunted, blinked and sat up.

“You have — what?” he asked sleepily.

“You’ll never guess. I’m going into the new revue at the Regent!”

“The Regent!” Harry exclaimed, now wide awake. “But Clair, do you want it? As well as the night club?”

“Of course as well as the night club,” she said, kissing him. “I shall be on at eight-thirty at the Regent, and I don’t have to be at the 22nd until eleven o’clock. I can easily do it.”

“I suppose you can,” Harry said, and dropped back on his pillow. “Well, darling, if it’s what you want then I’m very glad for you.”

“It’s what I want for both of us. We’re really going places now, Harry! I’ve signed a contract. A hundred and fifty a week for the two jobs! Think of it! And Val says I can claim at least thirty a week expenses, and that’ll be tax free of course. Isn’t it marvellous?”

Well, of course it was marvellous, but Harry felt stunned and dismayed, although he made an effort to appear enthusiastic as he watched her undress and listened to her plans.

She danced around the room, shedding her clothes, looking radiant and happy: happier than he had ever seen her, and it grieved him that it was through her own efforts and not his that this had happened.

“We’ll see about another flat right away,” she said as she slipped into her nightdress. “We’re not going to live in this pokey hole another week. Allan says there’s a flat in Park Lane that might suit us. They only want fifteen pounds a week for it, and it’s furnished.”

Allan? So she was now on Christian name terms with Simpson. A girl could get on so much faster than a man if she played her cards properly, Harry thought dejectedly. He had worked for Simpson for nearly a year and was still just an employee.

“And we’re going to get rid of the Jaguar,” Clair went on as she put cold cream on her face.

“Maurice told me this afternoon he has a 195 °Cadillac just come in. He wants fifteen hundred for it, but I know I can beat him down. Think, Harry, a Cad! Won’t it make Allan sit up? I just can’t wait to get it,” and she came running across the room to jump into bed and hug him.

By now Harry was in despair. The gap between their incomes was a yawning chasm. It was hopeless to think of catching her up. A hundred and fifty against fifteen!

“We must be sensible about this, Harry,” she said, her head on his shoulder. “I know how you feel about it. I know you hate me making money. You’ve never used a penny of mine, and you’ve just got to change your ideas. You’ve got to make up your mind to use it until you get on your feet I’ve been talking to Val about you. He thinks you would do better if you worked on your own. And that’s what I want you to do. Don’t renew your contract. Val says they’ll give you the same amount of work anyway, and they’ll have to pay you more. You’ll be able to do other work too. What do you think, darling? Don’t you think it would be sensible not to renew?”

“But I mightn’t make a go of it,” Harry said, doubtfully. “Simpson might get someone else on contract. It’s cheaper that way. After all, I renewed I’d be sure of fifteen pounds a week.”

“But what’s fifteen pounds?” Clair asked impatiently. “On your own you might make hundreds.”

“But I might not. One of us has to be a bit cautious.”

“Oh, but you’re too cautious. For a whole year we can be independent on my money. It’s your chance to experiment. Can’t you see that? I want you to set up a studio in the West End. I’ll finance you, Harry. Then by the time my act’s stale, you’ll be in a position to take over. Isn’t that the sensible thing to do?”

Well, put like that, it was, of course, but Harry was reluctant to take the risk, and still more reluctant to accept Clair’s money.

“I have to think of Mooney,” he said, groping for an excuse to refuse her help without hurting her. “If I give up my contract he won’t be paid by the theatre, and I couldn’t afford to pay him ten pounds a week out of my own money.”

“Mooney?” Clair was scornful. “He’s absolutely useless. It’s about time you got rid of him. I’ve been watching him. He doesn’t do a thing to help you. He just lolls around and pinches the chorus’s bottoms. You’ve put up with him long enough, Harry. It’s time he went.”

“But I can’t do that,” Harry said, shocked. He visualised Mooney’s hurt expression and the endless arguments. “After all, it was through him—”

“Oh, bosh! He didn’t even know you were taking his photograph. He has no claim on you whatsoever. You leave him to me. I know how to handle him. And Harry, will you look for a likely studio? I’ll help you, of course. I’m sure Jenny Rand will recommend you if you ask her. And Val will too. I’m sure you’ll make a go of it.”

“I don’t think I had better,” Harry said, torn between the desire to set up on his own and the safety of another year’s contract. “Something might happen. You might get ill or something, and then we’d be thankful to have a steady income.”

“Oh, Harry, you’re impossible! But I do love you so,” Clair said. “I do want things to go right for you. Please don’t be so cautious. We’ll never get anywhere at this rate. We haven’t much time. We’ll be old before we know where we are. If we don’t do something now, it’ll be too late. I may not want to go on with my act for years and years, and think how wonderful it would be if you were established in business, and we had nothing to worry about. Now is the time. We can afford to take risks. I have a year’s contract. In that time you can get thoroughly established. It’s the only thing to do. You’ve got to do it.”

“Well, all right,” Harry said, still doubtful. “Anyway, I’ll think about it.”

But while he was thinking about it Clair acted. A few days later she told him she had found a studio in Grafton Street, and they were going to look at it right away. She had also seen and approved of the flat in Park Lane. In spite of the high rents of both places, she bullied and bustled Harry into signing the agreements.

The studio was just his idea of what a studio should be, but the rent appalled him.

“What does it matter!” Clair said. “It’s worth it. What’s seventeen pounds a week when you have an address like this? We can afford it, and before long you’ll be making ten times that amount.”

“But there’s the flat as well,” Harry said, distracted. “Do you realise we’ll be paying out over thirty pounds a week on rents alone? We’ll have to earn more than sixty a week to pay it with income tax as it is. We shouldn’t take the flat, Clair. We should stay in Kensington.”

“Oh, nonsense. It’s going to be all right. Faint heart, Harry, darling. It’s a short life, and it’s going to be a merry one. Do stop worrying.”

But it was enough to make anyone worry, Harry thought, to see the way Clair threw her money about. She bought the Cadillac, and was paying two hundred a month for it. She spent pounds on clothes. She had something like a hundred and twenty pounds a month to find for rents as well as living expenses.

Now they had the luxury flat in Park Lane she was continually giving parties, and the drink bill was enormous.

The studio haunted Harry. Thanks to Clair’s determined efforts and to Jenny Rand’s recommendations he did have a fair amount of work to do, but after Doris’s salary and the rent had been paid there was very little left for him. In fact he was several pounds worse off than when he was with Simpson.

Mooney had gone into the dry cleaning business. After Clair had talked to him he mournfully took leave of Harry. Harry hadn’t been there when Clair told Mooney he must go, and Mooney was so quiet and dismal when he said good-bye, Harry guessed Clair hadn’t minced her words.

“You’re making a big mistake, kid,” Mooney said. “To give up a safe job with Simpson for the risky business of working on your own is just foolishness. Well, I don’t suppose you’ll want to listen to an old man. No one ever does. But don’t forget, if you ever get into a mess, come and see me. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s getting out of a mess. If ever you want a job, let me know. I might be able to fix you up in this dry cleaning racket. The guy I’m working for has a good business, but he’s mean with his money.” Mooney sighed. “I wonder why I’m always running into mean people? He’s giving me six quid a week, and for that I have to manage a shop and three girls.” He grimaced. “And they’re as ugly as sin too. Well, so long, kid. No hard feelings. I know it’s not your fault. That girl of yours is as hard as stone, but she’s going to get places. When you don’t care who you trample on, you usually land up at the top. But watch her; she loves you now; make sure she keeps on loving you.”

When Simpson’s revue opened at the Regent, Clair made a hit She had already made a name for herself at the 22nd, and the newspapers were kind to her, but the credit for her success was due to her own hard work and talent.

Harry saw very little of her. He went to the studio just after nine o’clock when she was still sleeping. They had supper together when he returned home. But immediately after the meal she had to get ready for the theatre, and when she returned from the night club he was asleep. The only day they had together was Sunday, and then usually Clair entertained in the evening. She often bemoaned the fact that they saw each so seldom.

“Perhaps it won’t be for long,” she said one evening as she dressed for the theatre. “Perhaps the studio will make a fortune and I can chuck the stage. I wouldn’t mind not having anything to do for a change. This routine of going every night to the Regent and then on to the 22nd is beginning to bore me. After all, it’d be fun to have an evening off sometimes. How are things going, Harry?”

Things weren’t going too well.

“Mind you, it takes time,” Harry said defensively. “But the overheads are killing. And then I have terrific competition. Look at the number of photographers there are around me, and they’re established. Simpson is giving me less and less work to do. Of course I know the show is running now, but when I was under contract with him he was always finding me jobs. Now I only get an occasional portrait. I’m sure he didn’t like me turning down that contract. If it wasn’t for you I don’t believe I’d get anything from him.”

Clair’s face hardened.

“Why didn’t you tell me before? I’ll talk to him. Val promised it wouldn’t make any difference.”

“Better not. You don’t want to get into his bad books. He’s a funny customer.”

“So am I,” Clair said. “He’s not going to get away with it.”

“Don’t you think we should ease off spending for a bit?” Harry said abruptly. “I’ve been looking at the bank statement. We’ve only fifty pounds in the account. Did you know?”

“There’s another hundred and fifty coming in on Friday,” Clair said indifferently. “Why worry?”

“But, darling, we haven’t put anything aside yet for income tax, and there’s the installment to meet on the car. The tax will be horrific. We must start saving for that.”

“Let them whistle for it,” Clair said, and laughed. “You worry too much. I must run, Harry. What are you doing tonight?”

“Oh, I’ll read,” Harry said, shrugging. “There’s not much else to do.”

“I tell you what,” Clair said. “We’ll buy a television set. We ought to have one, and that’ll help pass the time for you. I’ll see about it tomorrow.”

“You’ll do nothing of the kind!” Harry said, jumping to his feet. “This reckless spending has got to stop, Clair! We can’t go on and on having everything we want like this. I don’t want a television, and if you got one I wouldn’t look at it!”

She stared at him in surprise.

“All right, darling, don’t get heated about it,” she said, and threw her arms round his neck. “I only thought you might like it.”

“I don’t want it,” Harry said, curtly. “It’s worrying me stiff we’ll get into debt as it is.”

“Oh, Harry, darling, what a fuss-pot you are. What’s it matter if we do get into debt? Everyone does, so what?”

“Well, I’m not going to,” Harry said. “Now you’d better run along or you’ll be late.”

She kissed him, pressing her face against his.

“You’re not unhappy, are you?” she asked anxiously.

He forced a smile.

“No, only—”

“You don’t regret marrying me?”

“Why Clair...”

“Perhaps you do?”

“No, I don’t, but I sometimes wonder if you have regrets,” he said frowning. “I’m such a damned dud beside you.”

“You’re not!” Clair kissed him again. “You’re having a bad time now, but it’ll come all right. You see, your luck will change. Cheer up, Harry. I love you lots. Say you’re happy.”

“Yes, I’m happy.”

He watched her from the window as she entered the huge, glittering car, and then when she had driven away, he turned and sat down and looked bleakly before him. He wasn’t happy. He hated this kind of life. Their standard of living, the reckless way she spent her money and the approaching income tax demand preyed on his mind.

He thought of Ron Fisher, and remembered what he had said the night he had told him about his first meeting with Clair.

He could hear Ron’s quiet voice as if he were in the room: “I don’t want you to get mixed up with a glamour girl: they always spell trouble sooner or later. I know. I thought I was being smart when I married Sheila.”

If only he could talk his worries over with Ron now! He saw Ron regularly once a month, but it was like seeing a stranger. Ron was so quiet, just sitting in his wheeled chair, scarcely saying a word, brooding all the time, a fixed stare in his eyes.

Sheila was getting a divorce. Ron didn’t seem to grasp that He didn’t seem to grasp anything. The only time a flicker of interest had shown on his face was when Clair went with Harry to see him. She had only been once.

“It’s too damned depressing ever to go again,” she said afterwards.

Ron had looked at her intently for some moments, and then said unexpectedly, “You’re just what I imagined you’d be. Look after him, won’t you? He’s not much good at looking after himself,” and then he seemed to lose interest again, and the rest of the time they spent with him was just like any of the other visits Harry made.

Harry lit a cigarette and reached for his book. He had a couple of hours yet before he went to bed. It was lonely in this big luxurious flat. It was all right when Clair was here, but when she had gone, the place seemed too big. It seemed unfriendly too, almost as if it resented Harry.

He would read until eight-thirty. Then he would listen to Twenty Questions on the wireless. Clair would be in the middle of her act by now. Lehmann had said he thought the show would run another year. What would happen then? In that time the studio should be established. But would it? He tried to get his mind off his worries, but the book didn’t hold him and impatiently he put it down. As he reached for another cigarette the front door bell rang, making him start. For a moment or so he sat still, wondering who it could be. No one ever called when Clair was at the theatre. He got up and went into the hall as the bell rang again.

He opened the front door.

For a moment he didn’t recognise the tall fat man who stood in the passage, his navy blue homburg hat tilted rakishly over one eye; then he felt a prickle run up his spine. It was Robert Brady.

II

Faintly, from down the passage, Harry could hear Kenneth Home introducing the Twenty Questions’ team. He wanted to shut the door and turn on his own wireless: to shut out this apparition from the past and pretend he wasn’t there.

In a voice he didn’t recognise as his own, he said, “What do you want?”

“It’s time we had a little talk,” Brady said, and smiled, showing his gold-capped teeth. He reminded Harry of a well-groomed pig with his pink and white flesh, his small bright eyes and his heavy whistling breathing.

“What about?” Harry said, standing squarely in the doorway. “I’ve nothing to say to you, and I don’t want to listen to you.”

Brady waved his cigar airily.

“There are lots of things we don’t want to do,” he said, lifting his massive shoulders, “but we have to put up with them. If you think for a moment it may occur to you that I could make a lot of trouble for you. Hadn’t you better hear what I have to say?”

“Yes, he could make trouble,” Harry thought, his heart sinking.

“Well, come in,” he said curtly and stood aside.

Brady entered the hall and walked into the sitting-room. He stood looking round, his eyebrows raised, his lips pursed.

“Well, well,” he said. “You’ve come up in the world, haven’t you, my friend? Very different from peddling pictures in the street.”

“Say what you have to say and get out,” Harry said, blood rising in his face.

Brady took off his hat and dropped it on to the table. He walked over to the fireplace and took up a position on the rug before the fire.

“Damned clever girl, isn’t she?” he said. “But clever as she is I never thought she’d do as well as this. Park Lane! My stars! When I first met her she was walking the streets.”

Harry took a sudden step forward. He had a furious urge to smash his fist into the fat pig-like face.

“Be careful, my friend,” Brady cautioned, moving out of Harry’s reach. “You can’t afford to be dramatic. This is not going to be a brawl, you know. You’ll have to be subtle and use whatever brains you have if you’re going to crawl out of this mess. And I don’t think you’ll succeed however much you wriggle.”

Harry restrained himself. Better hear what he had to say. There would be time enough to hit him when he had finished.

“That’s better,” Brady went on, watching him. “Forget the violence. If you attempt to hit me it’ll only make it worse for Clair. Sit down.” He sat down himself in the most comfortable chair in the room and stretched out his massive legs. “I think I’ll have a whisky. You have whisky, of course? She always knows where to get everything that’s in short supply.”

Harry didn’t move.

“Say what you have to say and get out!”

“You know, this attitude of yours won’t do at all,” Brady said, knocking cigar ash on to the carpet. “You’ll have to be brought to heel. Don’t you realise that a word from me would get Clair tossed out of the theatre? Then you wouldn’t be living quite so well, would you?”

“A word about what?” Harry demanded.

“Well, after all she has been in prison. The newspapers would be interested. A jailbird isn’t a great attraction on the stage. I don’t think Simpson could afford to make an exhibition of her.”

After a moment’s hesitation Harry went to the cellaret and took out a bottle of whisky, a glass and a soda siphon and set them on the table beside Brady.

“That’s much better,” Brady said and poured himself a stiff drink. “That’s much more like it.”

Harry sat down. He was calmer now. The thing to do, he told himself, was to hear what Brady had to say. If it was blackmail he would go at once to Inspector Parkins. He would know how to deal with him.

“This is really astonishing,” Brady went on, after he had tasted the whisky. “She knows how to live, doesn’t she? Just as if she were born to it, instead of spending most of her life in a slum. Of course she has me to thank for it, but I will say she was an apt pupil. When I first met her she had a squalid little room in Shepherd Market. Any Tom, Dick or Harry could have had her for a pound. I dressed her and taught her the tricks. I got her a flat off Long Acre. I taught her how to pick pockets. She learned quickly.” He gave a thin smile. “She turned out to be my best girl. She made me and herself quite a slice of money.” He looked at Harry and frowned. “I wonder what she sees in you.” He paused to hold the glass of whisky under his nose, sniffing at it with a look of pleasure on his face. “She was always an impulsive creature. It’s an odd thing how these tarts fall for some down-at-the-heel rat. I’ve seen it happen dozens of times. I suppose it’s a kind of frustrated mother instinct. But most of them do it. Most of them have some worthless little horror feeding on them, taking their money, whining for clothes like the parasites they are. Still, I can’t understand why she’s fallen for you. Usually she goes for the boys with money.”

Harry said nothing. He stared at Brady, his face white and set.

“Yes,” Brady said. “Boys with the money. Boys like Allan Simpson.” He smiled, his small eyes on Harry’s face. “But perhaps you don’t know about Simpson? I’ve been watching her. As a matter of fact I’ve been following her around for the past week or so. She goes once or twice a week to Simpson’s flat Perhaps you’ve never wondered what she did with herself after her act at the Regent finished and before her act at the 22nd began? Two hours to get into mischief. Two hours, to spend with Simpson. Up to her old tricks, of course. She has a knack of getting things out of men. Once a tart, always a tart: the temptation is too strong for them. It’s too easy.” He glanced round tie room again. “Looks as if she’s come off best But perhaps you didn’t know?”

“Is that all you have to say?” Harry said, controlling his voice with an effort.

“Why, no, certainly not. I haven’t started yet. I just thought you’d be interested to know how she got the job at the night club. She rolls in the hay with Lehmann too. Not that I blame her. Once you’ve done that sort of thing for a living you don’t look on it as anything out of the way.”

“I’m not going to listen to any more of this,” Harry said, getting to his feet. “If you don’t get out, I’ll throw you out!”

Brady laughed.

“Don’t be absurd. Why shouldn’t I tell you this? Don’t you want to know? Of course you do. A man likes to know how his girl provides for him. There’s a name for a man like you. It’s not a pretty one, and it carries a six-months’ sentence.”

“Get out!” Harry said, angrily. “I won’t tell you again! Get out!”

“But I have every right to tell you,” Brady said calmly. “I’m her husband, too.”

Harry felt as if he had received a blow in the face. He took a step back, tried to say something, but the words wouldn’t come.

“So she didn’t tell you? Well, well, how odd of her,” Brady said, smiling. “Odd too she should have married you. I imagined you wouldn’t have objected to living on her without marriage.”

“Did you say you were her husband?” Harry managed to get out.

“Certainly. I’ve been her husband for more than five years.”

“You’re lying!”

“Do you think so? A pity. Of course we didn’t live together after the first year. I have no idea why we did marry. We must have been drunk at the time. It was during the blitz, and while the bombs fell she was seldom sober; nor was I for that matter. It wasn’t much fun for her to walk the streets with bombs and shrapnel coming down. The only thing that kept her going was booze.” His fat finger tapped more ash on to the carpet. “If you don’t believe me, you can always go to Somerset House and check the records. She called herself Clair Selwyn then. Her mother’s name, I believe.”

“I don’t believe a word of it!” Harry burst out. “She’d never marry a swine like you. Get out! If you come here again I’ll tell the police!”

“My poor fellow,” Brady said, smiling. “If I remember rightly the sentence for bigamy is about two years. Imagine how she’d hate that after all this luxury. I think we’d better leave the police out of this, don’t you?”

Harry went to the door and threw it open.

“Get out!”

Brady finished his drink and stood up. He was completely unruffled.

“There’s no point in staying any longer,” he said and picked up his hat. “But I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon. Tell her to expect me. I want money, of course. So long as she pays I’ll keep quiet. That car of hers is fascinating, isn’t it?” He looked round the door admiringly. “Yes, she’s done remarkably well. I should be able to shake her down for quite a bit.” He moved to the door. “Bad luck for you, my friend. By the time I’ve finished with her there won’t be a lot left for you.”

He walked through the doorway, opened the front door, glanced over his shoulder to nod to Harry, then went away, whistling softly under his breath.

III

Clair came into the room, bringing with her a breath of cold air, and her fur coat sparkled with rain.

“Why, Harry! You still up? Why aren’t you in bed?” She paused, sniffed, looked quickly at him. “Have you been smoking a cigar?”

Harry was sitting before the fire. Innumerable cigarette butts lay in the hearth. A cigarette burned between his nicotine-stained fingers.

“Brady’s been here,” he said, not looking at her.

She was moving to the fire, stripping off her gloves as he spoke, and his words brought her to an abrupt standstill.

“Here?” she said, and her face stiffened into an expressionless mask.

He faced her and the sight of the hard, stony face, the bleak set of the painted mouth, the still, glittering eyes shocked him. He had told her a long time ago that he knew a tart when he saw one. He had said she wasn’t like one in any way, but she was now. There was no mistaking the look he had seen so often on the faces of the women of the West End: that strange blend of wooden hardness and callousness that make them look subhuman.

“Yes,” he said, and looked away.

Slowly, as if she wasn’t aware what she was doing, she put her hat, gloves and handbag on the table. Then she opened the cedar-wood box, took out a cigarette and lit it “What did he want?” she asked. Even her voice sounded wooden and harsh.

“Can’t you guess? Come and sit down. He’s going to make trouble.”

Instead of sitting down, she went to the cellaret, brought a glass and poured herself a drink from the bottle of whisky that still stood on the table. Although he wasn’t looking at her he could tell how unsteady her hand was by the rattle of the bottle neck against the glass.

“He said you married him about five years ago,” Harry went on. “Is it true?”

She came slowly to the fire and sat in the easy chair opposite Harry’s.

“Is it true?” he repeated after a long silence.

“Yes, it’s true,” she said. “I heard he had gone to America. I thought I’d never see him again.” She drank some of the whisky and put the glass on the hearth kerb. “I’m sorry, Harry. You wanted it so badly. I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

“I see,” Harry said, and stared in the fire for a long moment. “Oh, well, it’s too late to be sorry about it. I understand, of course. It was my fault for pressing you. I wish you had told me, Clair. Couldn’t you have trusted me?”

“I didn’t want to lose you,” she said sullenly.

“He wants money. He’s coming to see you tomorrow afternoon.”

She didn’t say anything and he glanced at her. She was staring into the fire. She looked old and worn, somehow shop-soiled, as if her bright, glittering veneer had been stripped away to show what was really underneath.

As she remained silent, he said, “It’s blackmail, of course. We could go to the police.”

“Let me think a moment,” she said sharply.

They remained silent for what seemed to Harry to be a long time. She sat rigid, her cigarette in her lips, the smoke curling in a steady spiral to the ceiling. Only her eyes moved; they shifted continuously, like those of an animal in a trap.

“I want to know exactly what happened,” she said suddenly. “Tell me everything. I’m sure he said a lot of filthy things about me, but I want to know everything.”

In a cold, flat voice, Harry told her.

“He’s been watching you,” he concluded. “He says you go quite often to Simpson’s flat.”

She half-started out of her chair.

“That’s a lie, Harry! You don’t believe it, do you?”

He looked straight at her, and her eyes shifted.

“I don’t want to believe it,” he said. “He also said you and Lehmann...” He broke off, seeing the trapped expression on her face. “Is it true?”

“I warned you, didn’t I?” she said harshly. “I told you I was rotten. Well, I am. I don’t make any bones about it. They mean nothing to me. Nothing! All right, I won’t lie to you, Harry. I do go to their flats.” She reached for another cigarette.

“How could you, Clair?” He got to his feet and began to walk aimlessly about the room. “Haven’t you any thought for me? I have to mix with them. Why did you do it?”

“How else do you think I got the Regent job? But don’t you see, Harry, they can’t mean anything to me! You are the only man in my life. Ever since I met you I’ve wanted to do things for you, but I’ve only succeeded in making you unhappy. I couldn’t help it. It was so easy. I knew if I went with them I could handle them.”

“You put money before everything,” Harry said. “That’s where you go wrong. Oh, Clair, why did you do it? We could have been happy if you had left the money side to me. We wouldn’t have had a great deal, but we wouldn’t have been in this mess.”

“I suppose you hate me now,” she said in a hard, flat voice. “Well, I don’t blame you. What are you going to do? Are you going to walk out on me?”

He went to the window, pushed the curtain aside and stared down into the rain-swept street.

“Harry!” She got up and went to him, putting her hand on his arm. “What are you going to do? Are you going to leave me?”

He shook his head.

“It’s all right,” he said, not turning. “We’ll forget about everything for now except Brady. When we’ve dealt with him we can tackle our own problem, but not before.”

“Does that mean you’re going to leave me — in a little while? I must know, Harry. I can’t stand the uncertainty. Can’t you see a man like Simpson couldn’t mean anything to me except what I could get out of him? It’s you I love. My whole life’s centred around you. All I’ve done — this place, the car, the money I’ve made is for you if only you’d accept them. If you’re going to leave me, tell me now.”

Harry turned and looked helplessly at her.

“How I wish you hadn’t done any of this. It’s all right, Clair. I’m not going to leave you. I’d be lying if I said it won’t make a difference; it will, but I still love you, and if you’ll try to change — give up this horrible thirst for money, we’d be so much happier. Can’t you see that? Give up the stage, Clair. Let’s make a fresh start. What does it matter if we’re hard up? Isn’t it better to be hard up than in a mess like this?”

“Do you think Brady will let me give this up now?” she asked. “He’ll want money, and I’ll have to earn it. He’s like a leech. He’ll cling on and suck me dry.”

“We’ll go to the police. It’s the only way to deal with a rat like him.”

“The police? I’ve committed bigamy,” Clair said, her voice rising. “How can we go to the police? Do you think I want to go to prison again?”

“But you’re not going to give him money, are you?” Harry said, anxiously. “He’ll never leave you alone once he knows he can get it out of you. They never do.”

“I know I’m not going to prison. I’d kill myself first.”

“Clair... please—”

“I would! I’d kill myself. I’d rather die than spend a week in prison. You don’t know what it’s like. It was awful. Worse than I ever imagined. Hellish! Shut away from everything. Made to do beastly chores. Nagged and bullied. Shut up behind bars like an animal. No, that’ll never happen to me again. I’m ready this time. I’ll kill myself!”

“You mustn’t talk like that, Clair,” Harry said, shocked. “We haven’t the right to end our own lives.”

She gave a hard, sneering little smile.

“It’s my own life to do what I want with. I know I’ll never go to prison again.” She turned away. “Come on, Harry, let’s go to bed. It’s late and I’m tired.” She picked up her hat and gloves and walked into the bedroom. Her shoulders drooped and she walked listlessly. Watching her, Harry felt a pang of pity for her. It was all partly his fault, he thought, following her into the bedroom. He had been weak. It was too late for regrets. Brady now controlled the situation. Unless they could think of some way out, she would either have to go to prison or pay.

“Do you want to sleep with me?” Clair said abruptly. “I’ll understand if you don’t.”

He knew it was no time to pity himself or to be outraged. She had done what she had done as much for him as for herself. He knew that. He was quite sure in his mind that neither Simpson nor Lehmann meant anything to her. It was horrible that she could have behaved like that, but her background and upbringing set her aside from other women. She was in trouble. This was the time to be generous. He went to her and took her in his arms.

“It’s all right, darling. Let’s forget about it. We’ll see this thing through together. I don’t know how it will end, but whatever happens I’ll be with you.”

IV

The following afternoon, punctually at three o’clock, the front door bell rang.

Clair started at the sound, scattering cigarette ash over her skirt. As she made to get up, Harry stopped her.

“I’ll go. Don’t let him rattle you,” he said.

She had wanted to see Brady alone, but Harry wouldn’t hear of it.

“He may as well know I’m in this with you,” he had said. “I’m not leaving you. I said we’d see this through together and we’re going to.”

They had been sitting on the settee, waiting, since lunch, both smoking, both nervy, and it was a relief to Harry when the bell rang. He crossed the room to the front door.

Brady stood in the passage, expansive, smiling, immaculate and pig-like. Behind him was another man: short, square-shouldered with a mop of tow-coloured hair, a square chin, cold, steady grey eyes and a mouth which was fixed in a perpetual and humourless grin.

Harry recognised the hair at once. This was the man who had hit him with the bicycle chain and who had maimed Ron.

“Ah! So you’re here too?” Brady said, showing his gold-capped teeth in an expansive smile. “Excellent! I wanted a word with you. And Clair? She’s here? A party, eh? Splendid! This is Ben Whelan. You’ve met him before, I believe?”

Whelan looked at Harry and his grin widened. He had small even teeth: very white and strong looking, the teeth of a professional boxer.

“Hallo, chummy,” he said.

Harry stood aside; his mouth dry and his heart hammering.

Brady walked past him into the sitting-room.

Whelan motioned Harry to follow.

“Go ahead, chummy,” he said. “I’m keeping an eye on you.”

As Harry entered the sitting-room, Brady was saying, “How are you, Clair? You look a little peeked, but I expect that’s the excitement of seeing me again. Here’s Ben. He’s been looking forward to this. You were always his favourite brunette.”

“Hallo, baby,” Ben said, sauntering in behind Harry. “How did you get on in quod?”

Clair was standing with her back to the mantelpiece. She was pale and her face was set, but she seemed to have lost her nervousness. There was a wary hardness about her now that surprised Harry.

“It wasn’t a holiday,” she said shrugging. “But then it didn’t cost me anything.”

Brady laughed.

“You always did look on the bright side of things,” he said, dropping his hat on the table. “What do you think of the layout, Ben? Have a look round. She won’t mind.”

“The police aren’t here, if that’s what you’re scared of,” Clair said with a sneer.

“Look all the same,” Brady said to Whelan.

Whelan wandered into the bedroom.

“Let’s have a drink, Clair,” Brady said sitting down. “We may as well be sociable. I’ve seen your act at the Regent. It’s absolutely first rate. The idea of the mask is sheer genius. It must have made you feel very safe.”

“It did,” Clair said coolly. She looked at Harry. “Would you get the drinks, please? Ben drinks gin.”

With hands that were far from steady Harry brought out the gin and whisky and glasses.

“And this young fellow has a business in Grafton Street,” Brady said, looking at Harry with a benign smile. “It’s astonishing how well you both have got on. To think the last time I saw you were both working on the streets. A real success story. Just a spot more,” he went on as Harry poured the whisky into a glass. “That’s about it.” He reached for the glass. “What do you think of it?” he asked Whelan as he came into the room. “Pretty lush, eh?”

“Wouldn’t mind it myself,” Whelan said, and sat down. He shook his head at Brady’s inquiring look. “No one hiding under the bed.” He took the glass of gin from Harry and winked at him. “Landed yourself in a soft spot, haven’t you, chummy?”

Clair went over to the table and poured herself a whisky. She gave Harry a tight little smile.

“What are you earning now, Clair?” Brady asked, stretching out his massive legs.

“A hundred less tax,” she returned promptly.

“Under paid.” Brady shook his head. “Since this little meeting hinges on money I think it would be a good idea to have a look at your passbook.” He held out his hand. “Let me see it.”

“It’s at the bank.”

“You don’t want me to make my own estimate, do you?” Brady said, continuing to smile. “You see, Clair, the way I’ve worked this out is this way. I taught you the tricks of the trade. Therefore I’m entitled to a commission. If it hadn’t been for my experience and skill you wouldn’t be on the stage. I don’t want to be unfair to you, but I’m afraid I can’t trust you about your earnings. You’d better produce either your passbook or some proof of what you earn, otherwise I’ll take a chance on a couple of hundred a week and let it go at that.”

Clair remained still for a long moment, then she shrugged, went to the desk, opened it, took out a buff-coloured envelope and handed it to him.

“Thank you.” He seemed a little surprised as if he hadn’t expected her to give in so tamely. He looked at the passbook and raised his eyebrows. “A hundred and fifty a week,” he said to Whelan. “Very nice. My goodness! You’ve got on, haven’t you? Well, then, let’s come to terms.” He finished his whisky and held the empty glass out to Harry. “Could I trouble you? I think so much better on whisky.”

While Harry poured another drink, Brady did a calculation on the back of the envelope. He whistled softly under his breath. Clair had gone back to the hearth, and was standing with her hands behind her, her face expressionless. Whelan lolled in an armchair, his eyes on Harry.

“Well now,” Brady said, taking the glass from Harry. “Thank you so much. Well, now, let’s get down to business. The position is you have committed bigamy. Being an old lag they’ll probably deal severely with you. At best, you couldn’t hope to get off under eighteen months. It boils down to this, are you prepared to pay for your freedom? Roughly you have about seventy pounds a week, tax free, plus say twenty-five for expenses. Let’s call it a hundred. I don’t want to cripple you so I suggest fifty per cent. Ben will call on you every Saturday morning, and you’ll pay him fifty pounds. So long as you keep up the payments I’ll keep quiet. That’s my proposition.”

Clair studied him. There was a dangerous glitter in her eyes, but her face was expressionless.

“You’ll be sorry, Robert,” she said. “I played fair with you. I could have given you away. A word from me and you’d still get a five-year sentence. You realise that, don’t you?”

Brady chuckled.

“Don’t bluff, precious. You know what happens to a squealer. Ben would take care of you if you did that. You knew he would take care of you if you had talked when you made a fool of yourself over that cigarette case.” He looked over at Harry. “You may not be familiar with underworld methods,” he said genially. “Perhaps you have heard of girls being disfigured by acid. It’s the usual punishment for talking too much.” He turned back to Clair. “It won’t wash, I’m afraid. Even if you did squeak, I’d still get you for bigamy, and when you came out after your stretch Ben would be waiting for you. You’ll have to do better than that.” He finished his whisky, glanced at his watch. “I don’t want to hurry you, but I have another appointment very soon. What do you say — fifty a week or an eighteen months’ stretch?”

“I’ll pay,” Clair said in a cold, flat voice.

“Splendid!” Brady said, and clapped his hands. “Magnificent! What do you think of that, Ben? No hesitation. ‘I’ll pay,’ just like that.”

Whelan grinned.

“Not much else she could do.”

“All right,” Brady said. “Next Saturday Ben’ll be along about eleven o’clock. We’ll take cash. No cheques, and in pound notes. One more little thing. You’ve been working now for about eight weeks. It’s only fair I should be paid for those eight weeks as well. Eight times fifty is four hundred. That’s right, isn’t it?”

Clair didn’t say anything. A tightness came into her face and her eyes hardened.

“Well, then, let’s start with a down payment. I don’t suppose you have four hundred — or have you?”

“No,” Clair said. “I haven’t even a hundred.”

“Always extravagant.” He smiled at Harry. “I never could persuade her to save. Well, we won’t expect miracles then. Let’s say two hundred on Saturday as well as the fifty. And another two hundred in a month’s time. That’s fair, isn’t it?”

“I haven’t two hundred,” Clair said.

“That’s a pity. Well, you’ll have to find it. There’s the car. You can sell that. I don’t think you really want a showy job like that. It’s only ostentatious. You’ll manage to rake it up if you sell the car. Anyway, it’s up to you. Two hundred and fifty pounds or else, by next Saturday. Do you understand?”

Clair didn’t say anything.

“Don’t be sullen,” Brady said gently. “It won’t get you anywhere. Do you understand or don’t you?”

She gave an indifferent shrug.

“Yes, I understand,” she said.

“And I would advise you not to try any tricks,” Brady said, looking sharply at her. “Don’t think you’ll wriggle out of this, because you won’t. You should know me well enough by now.”

She smiled.

“Bravo!” Brady exclaimed. “So you can still smile? Well, that’s fine. Now, let’s see if you can keep it up.” He looked at Harry. “Now you: oh, yes, don’t think I’ve forgotten you. I have a little job for you. You’re going to pull your weight as well. If you don’t, Clair will suffer. I mean that. Do you understand?”

“You leave him out of this!” Clair snapped.

“Ah! No smile now.” Brady shook his finger at her. “You have a soft spot for him still, have you? But he’s in this and he must pull his weight. Your studio is going to be very useful and profitable to me,” he went on to Harry. “I have some negatives I want printed. Ben will give them to you. It will be quite a big order. Five thousand of each. They’re not quite the kind of pictures you’ve been used to handling, but they sell very well at five shillings each. You won’t get paid for the work, but you’ll have the satisfaction of knowing you are keeping Clair out of jail. The police aren’t likely to suspect such a respectable studio as yours. It’s easy enough to get the negatives, but damned difficult to produce a quantity of prints. So you’re going to be busy for the next month or so. If they sell well — and I think they will — we’ll have a lot more for you to do.”

“Oh, no!” Clair cried. “He’s not going to do it! That settles it! You’re not going to get anything now! I’ll go to prison! And I’ll send you there too!”

Brady got slowly to his feet.

“He doesn’t say anything, does he?” He looked at Harry. “Don’t be too hasty. I’ll let you talk it over. Ben will call on you tomorrow with the negatives. You can tell him what you intend to do. I would advise you to do it if you want to keep her out of jail. It’s all or nothing with me.”

“He’s not going to do it!” Clair said. “You’ve overplayed your hand. I’ll go to the police today!”

“Come along, Ben,” Brady said. “We have other things to do than listen to dramatics.”

Whelan got to his feet.

“Tomorrow,” Brady said, glancing at Harry. “If she squeaks to the police Ben will take care of her. Acid makes a mess of a girl’s face. It would make you sick to have to go to bed with her. You two have to make up your minds. I know what I would do.”

Clair went up to him, her face was white and her eyes vicious.

“And I know what I’m going to do! You’re not getting away with this! Don’t you think you are!” And she began to curse him in a high-pitched, harsh voice that shocked Harry.

“Clair! Stop it!” he shouted, went to her and pulled her round to face him. “Stop it!”

She put her hand to her mouth, jerked away from him.

“Get out!” Harry said to Brady.

“Charming little soul, isn’t she? They’re all the same,” Brady said. “Well, Whelan will call on you tomorrow. Don’t forget. About eleven o’clock at your studio. So long for now,” and he sauntered out of the flat with Whelan at his heels.

“Sorry,” Clair said turning. “I couldn’t help myself.” She poured out two inches of whisky and gulped it down. “Well, that’s that. Now we know.”

“Now look, Clair...” Harry began, but she raised her hand, stopping him.

“There’s only one way out of this mess, Harry, and I’m going to take it. I’ve been thinking and thinking all this morning what I should do. I know him. I knew what was coming. Oh, I didn’t know he was going to drag you into it, but I knew he’d strip me. He’s ruthless. You don’t know what a swine he is. Dragging you into it is the last straw. Well, this is where we part, darling. It’s the only way. I’ve made you unhappy, but I’m damned if I’m going to make you one of his sort. No, please,” she went on as Harry began to speak, “it’s the only way. I’m dropping out of sight, and I’ll take care they never find me.”

“We go together,” Harry said firmly. “We’re not parting, Clair. We can pack and get out within an hour. Let’s do it. Somehow, together, we’ll make a go of it.”

She shook her head.

“No, Harry, it’s no good. You’ll never get anywhere with me. I’m rotten, and anything I touch goes rotten. Besides, you’ll have to stay and give evidence against Whelan. At least, we can put him away. Do you think Ron would recognise him?”

“Never mind about Whelan,” Harry said, sitting down and pulling her down beside him. “You’ve got to listen to me. Ever since we met you have held the reins, and I’ve done what you said. Well, it’s going to change now. I’m taking over. It’s time I did. If I hadn’t been so weak this wouldn’t have happened. We’re married, and we’re sticking together. We’re packing and getting out, and we’re going together. We’ll leave everything. We’ll take our clothes, and nothing more. Never mind about Whelan. Let the police pick him up if they can. Brady won’t guess we’d leave everything and bolt, not if we go right away. Well just disappear, and nobody’s ever going to find us.”

Clair stared at him.

“Do you really mean that, Harry?”

“I mean it,” he said, getting to his feet. “Come on, we’re not going to waste a minute. Go and pack.”

“But wait, Harry, let’s make up our minds what we’re going to do,” she said, and slid her arms around his neck and hugged him. “Oh, Harry, do you think we’ll get away with it? I don’t care what happens so long as we’re together.”

“We must get away with it,” he said, holding her to him. “Now go and pack. I want to go to the bank and I want a word with Mooney. He told me if I was in a mess he’d lend me a hand, and I think he will. We’ll need new identity cards and ration books. It’s possible he may know where I can get them.”

Clair looked different now. Her old brightness had come back and her eyes sparkled with excitement.

“This is going to be exciting! To drop out of sight and start again as someone else! I’ll go blonde! You’ll like me blonde, won’t you, darling?”

He caught hold of her and shook her.

“Clair! This isn’t going to be a picnic. We’ll be short of money. We’ll probably have to live in one room. We’ll have to watch our step all the time. I don’t think exciting is quite the word.”

She patted his face and laughed.

“I’m going to love it. Just you and I, Harry! Of course it’s going to be exciting! Look, with the car we could take all we want; our clothes, the wireless and we have a case of scotch. Oh, yes, Harry, let’s take the car!”

He stared at her.

“What are you thinking of? The car isn’t paid for. How can you think like that? Besides, it could be easily traced. Of course we can’t take it. While I’m out, write to that chap Maurice and tell him to collect it Say you’re going away suddenly and don’t want it any more.”

Her face fell.

“Oh. I hadn’t thought of that. Well, all right. I must say it would have been marvellous to have had it with us. But I suppose you’re right. I’ll fix it with Maurice.”

“I’ll get off and see Mooney. Oh, damn, the bank will be closed by now. We have to have money, Clair.”

She went quickly into her bedroom and came out again in a moment, her hands full of rings and jewellery.

“Go and pop these. They’re not much, but you should get sixty or seventy pounds for them.”

He took the jewellery and dropped it into his pocket.

“We’ll have to say good-bye to that fifty in the bank,” he said regretfully. “Once we leave this flat we leave it as two completely different people. There’s no turning back.”

“How about Simpson?”

“Phone Lehmann and tell him you’re going away. Say you’re going abroad or something; only don’t let on what’s happened.”

She nodded.

“All right, Harry, I’ll do it. Try not to be too long, will you?”

“I’ll be as quick as I can. You’ll be here when I come back?”

“Of course.”

“Word of honour?”

She kissed him.

“If you still want me — word of honour.”

He left her getting out suitcases and tossing clothes on to the bed. On the way downstairs he wondered a little fearfully what was going to happen to them. She didn’t seem to realise what was in store for them. To start all over again would be much harder for her than for him. Already she was thinking in terms of a car. One thing was certain, he would keep a tight hold on her. She was not going to get them into another mess like this!

He passed swiftly through the reception hall, his brow creased in a worried frown. He didn’t see Ben Whelan sitting in a deep lounging chair just behind a pillar, but Whelan saw him and grinned.

V

The dry cleaning shop Mooney managed was off Fulham Palace Road: a small, pokey little place with a steam press in the window, three girls who couldn’t have been much more than sixteen, and a back office where Mooney hid himself and chewed at his dead cigar.

The three girls looked up as Harry pushed open the shop door. Mooney had said they were as ugly as sin: an exaggeration, but they weren’t attractive. The three of them were pasty-faced and grimy, but there was nothing about them that soap and water and a course of vitamins couldn’t put right.

“Is Mr. Mooney in?” Harry asked.

The youngest of the three girls jerked her thumb at the office door. She managed to convey by that gesture that if Harry found Mooney in there with his throat cut she wouldn’t grieve.

Harry knocked on the door, turned the handle and entered a dark little room furnished with a desk, a chair, and a steel filing cabinet.

Mooney lolled in the chair with his feet on the desk. It was some weeks since Harry had seen him, and he noticed a change in him. He looked older, a little more seedy and a little more hopeless. There were holes in the soles of his shoes, and his faded tie had grease spots on it. His hat, still resting on the back of his head, was a little more shapeless; his shirt cuffs were frayed and dirty. He stared at Harry, lifted his feet tenderly off the desk and leaned forward, thrusting out his hand.

“Hallo, kid,” he said, his face lighting up. “This is a surprise. Funny thing, I was thinking about you.”

Harry shook hands.

“Nice to see you again,” he said awkwardly. “How goes it? You’re looking fine.”

“Am I?” Mooney grimaced. “I feel awful. Here, sit on the desk. Old Gimpy doesn’t run to two chairs. He doesn’t like me to have visitors. I haven’t a cigar for you, kid. Things are a bit tight at the moment.”

Harry sat on the edge of the desk and lit a cigarette.

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.” Mooney sighed and massaged his forehead with fingers that were not over clean. “Well, it’s something I expected. I never get a break for long. Did you see those girls? How would you like to be shut up with that bunch all day? I miss those dolls in the chorus. The thing I hate most is the smell of an unwashed woman.”

“Yes,” Harry said absently. He wasn’t paying much attention to what Mooney was saying. His mind was too preoccupied with his own worries.

Mooney eyed him thoughtfully.

“What’s up, kid? Something biting you? Got it written all over your face. Anything I can do?”

“Well, yes,” Harry said, lowering his voice. “Can we talk here?”

Mooney nodded.

“They’re too dumb even to listen at a keyhole,” he said. “What’s up?”

“We’re in a mess, Alf. I can’t go into details. You wouldn’t want to hear them anyway. It’s so bad we’re going to do a flit: as bad as that.”

Mooney whistled. A flit was something he had never done, although he had a feeling it wouldn’t be long before he had to do it.

“Bills, eh?” he said gloomily. “I always thought she’d run up bills. Where do I come in?”

“We’re dropping out of sight, and we intend to stay out of sight. It’s got to be done properly. We’ll need new identity cards and ration books. Do you know where I can get them?”

“Well...” Mooney paused, got up and went to the door. He opened it a crack and peered into the shop. Satisfied the three girls were busy gossiping together, he shut the door and sat down again. “It can be done,” he went on in a whisper, “but it costs dough. Do you want me to handle it?”

“Can you?”

Mooney nodded.

“I wish you would then. I want them quickly. A matter of hours.”

“It’ll cost about thirty quid. And that’s cheap. The chap who dishes them out is a pal of mine. If you went to him yourself it’d cost you fifty.”

Harry took out his wallet and counted out thirty-five pounds on the desk.

“And a fiver for yourself, Alf.”

Mooney hesitated, then shook his head.

“No, kid, if you’re in that kind of trouble you’ll need all your dough. I’ve had enough out of you in the past. That’s all right I’m glad to do it.” He pushed five of the pound notes back.

“Thanks, Alf,” Harry said gratefully. “I do want every penny I can lay hands on. But look, here’s a cheque for fifty pounds. It’s all I have in the bank. I can’t get it myself this afternoon so I shall have to leave it. Go to the bank tomorrow and draw it all out. Give twenty-five to Doris and keep the rest for yourself. Will you do that?”

Again Mooney hesitated. The temptation to accept the money made him perspire.

“No again, Harry,” he said, breathing heavily. “I can get this cashed right away. There’s a bloke next door who’ll do it. You’ll be able to use fifty quid better than Doris and me.”

“I’m not leaving Doris high and dry,” Harry said firmly. “Please do what I ask. We can manage with what we’ve got. Keep it, Alf. It’s all right.”

Mooney shrugged. He folded the cheque and tucked it away in his waistcoat pocket.

“Well, okay,” he said, “and thanks. If you know how I could use twenty-five! If you’re sure it’s all right, it’ll save my life.”

“It’s all right. Now, will you get after those identity cards? I’ll call back. When do you think you can get them?”

“By six,” Mooney said, consulting his watch. “Not before.”

Harry stood up.

“All right, I’ll be back. Have them made out in the names of Douglas and Helen Kent. Husband and wife. Last address 23 Sinclair Road, West Ham. All right?”

“My word! You’re coming on,” Mooney said, staring at him. “You’ve got it all planned out, haven’t you?”

Harry nodded.

“Yes,” he said, “and Alf, whatever happens, whatever you hear, not a word. The police may make inquiries. I don’t say they will, but they may. It’s as bad as that. You won’t give us away, will you?”

“You don’t have to ask that, kid,” Mooney said. “It’s Clair, isn’t it? Not you?”

“Yes, but we’re sticking together, Alf.”

Mooney scratched the side of his jaw.

“Yeah, you stick to her. She’s all right. I like her. A bit wild of course. Perhaps a bit too wild, but there’s nothing she wouldn’t do for you.”

“I know,” Harry said. “Well, so long, Alf, I’ll be back at six.”

“Where are you going now?”

“To Grafton Street. There are one or two things I want to pick up, and I want to say good-bye to Doris.”

“To save you coming back here, I’ll meet you at the Duke of Wellington at six. I have to go to Soho, anyway.”

“That’s fine, and thanks, Alf.”

“That’s what I’m here for, kid.” He got up and put on his coat. “We can ride down together as far as Piccadilly. You taking a cab?”

“Yes. Will it be all right for you to leave?”

“It’ll have to be,” Mooney said. He knotted his tie, straightened his hat and put the dead cigar carefully in a drawer of the desk. “I’ve had that damned thing three weeks. Can’t afford cigars at the price they’re asking now.”

He went into the shop.

“Girls, I have to go out. One of you stick around until I get back. I shouldn’t be later than half past six. If Mr. Gimpy phones tell him I had to go to the dentist.”

Three blank pasty faces turned in his direction. Three pairs of dull, indifferent eyes looked from him to Harry.

“Yes, Mr. Mooney.”

Out in the street, Mooney said, “That’s all they ever say, ‘Yes, Mr. Mooney.’ At least those chorus girls said ‘no,’ sometimes.”

Harry waved to a taxi.

As they rattled along Hammersmith Road, Mooney said, “How about Ron, Harry? If you’re going to drop out of sight...”

“I’m no use to Ron,” Harry returned. “If you ever have a moment I’d be glad if you’d see him. Tell him how it is.” He frowned, thinking of Ron, helpless in his chair. “Tell him I’ll write when I settle down.”

“I’ll find time.” Mooney glowered out of the window. “The trouble is to find anything to do with the time I have. Watch your step, Harry. For the love of Mike don’t finish up the way I have. It’s easy to do too. If you’re not settled in a job by the time you’re forty, it’s curtains. Watch that. You’ve got to be fixed up by forty, kid. Don’t forget. It’s important No one wants a man when he’s over forty these days.”

Harry left the cab at the bottom of Bond Street, and walked quickly to Grafton Street. He found Doris busy on an enlargement.

“I thought you weren’t coming in today, Harry,” she said, surprised. “There’ve been a couple of appointments for tomorrow, and Mrs. Grierson has ordered two dozen half plates of the proof we sent her.”

“Dorrie, there’s been a spot of trouble...”

At the tone of his voice she looked up sharply, her plump, good-natured face alarmed.

“I’m getting out,” he went on with a rush. “Don’t ask me anything, Dorrie. It’s just one of those things. I’m disappearing.”

“Is... is Clair going with you?”

He nodded.

“You mean — she’s in trouble?”

“Never mind who’s in trouble,” he said curtly. “I’ve got to get out. Will you cancel all appointments, Dorrie? Will you close the place up? I shan’t be coming back.”

“But you can’t do that,” Doris said, going to him. “Harry, this is daft You’re just beginning to make a go of it. Besides, there’s the lease. You can’t just walk out.”

“I’m walking out,” he said tersely. “Be a good girl, and don’t make things difficult for me. I’ve seen Mooney. He’ll have twenty-five pounds for you. It’s all I can afford. I hope it carries you on for a bit. I’m sorry, Dorrie. Don’t look like that, please. I’m terribly sorry, but I can’t help it.”

“You shouldn’t have married her, Harry. All along I’ve been expecting trouble, and now — this. She’s no good. I don’t care if I do make you angry. I’ve got to tell you. She’s no good, and she never will be any good. Leave her. Forget her. Let her go her own way and you go yours.”

“I love her, Dorrie. I know she isn’t any good. She knows it too, but that doesn’t make any difference. When you love someone as I love her you’re caught. There’s nothing I can do about it. We’re seeing this thing through together.”

“But what about the equipment?” Doris wailed. “And the goodwill? You just can’t walk out...”

“Do what you like with it, Dorrie. If you can make a bit on it, go ahead.” He went to a cupboard, took out his Leica and a handful of films. “That’s all I’m taking. Now I’m going, Dorrie. You won’t see me again. I can’t say how sorry I am, and I’ll miss you. But I won’t forget you, Dorrie. No, don’t cry. It’s just one of those things.” He put his arm round her and gave her a hug, then made quickly for the door. “So long, Dorrie. Alf will be seeing you.” He opened the door, looked back and saw she was struggling with her tears, felt a lump rise in his throat and ran quickly down the passage, down the stairs to the street.

It was only five o’clock. He had an hour to kill, and he walked briskly along Piccadilly, entered a phone booth near Simpson’s and called the Park Lane flat.

Clair came on the line.

“It’s all right,” he said. “He’s getting everything for us. All right your end?”

“Fine and dandy.” She sounded astonishingly cheerful. “I’ve packed, and now I’m going to bleach my hair...”

“Not on the phone, darling,” he said sharply. “I’ll be back not later than seven. Have you written to Maurice?”

“Yes, and I’ve had a word with Val. He’s furious. He said they’d sue me for breach of contract. I told him to go ahead and sue. Was that all right?”

“It’ll have to be,” Harry said, a tight feeling round his chest. “Well, I’ll get along. See you at seven.”

After wandering the back streets of Piccadilly for what seemed to him to be hours, he eventually made his way to the Duke of Wellington.

The manager was in the bar, and glanced at Harry, frowned in a puzzled way, then came over.

“Good evening,” he said smiling. “I haven’t seen you for a long time — not since that little unpleasantness last — when was it? Last July, wasn’t it?”

“October,” Harry said, pleased to be recognised. “Time flies, doesn’t it? No, I haven’t been in. I’ve been out of town as a matter of fact.”

“Well, have one on the house,” the manager said. “What’ll it be?”

It couldn’t be anything else but beer in the Duke of Wellington, Harry decided. Habit died too hard for that.

“What happened to that girl you were with?” the manager asked as he served Harry with a pint of bitter. “What a beauty! Was she a friend of yours?”

“No,” he said shortly. “I haven’t seen her since.”

“Pity,” the manager said. “Mind you, I don’t suppose she was all she should be, but my goodness! How bedworthy she was!”

Harry grunted, took out a crumpled copy of the Evening Standard, and pointedly began to glance at the headlines.

The manager took the hint, and after saying he hoped to see Harry again he went off to his office.

Already the bar was filling up, and putting down the paper, Harry looked round. The same old faces met his gaze. There were the three men in black homburg hats drinking whiskies and whispering together. There was a grey-faced man and his perky, shabby wife, sitting at a table close by, still drinking port, and looking a little more shabby. There was no sign of the girl with the flat chest who used to hold her companion’s hand so possessively. No man would stand a woman who was so possessive for long, Harry thought. His eyes strayed to the table where he had seen Clair for the first time, and his heart contracted. So much had happened since then. It was quite unbelievable. And now this: dropping out of sight, changing his name, starting again.

He sat for a long time thinking about the past, and the future. The hands of the clock crawled on, reached six, crawled on again. At six-fifteen, the swing doors pushed open and Mooney came in.

“All right?” Harry asked in a low voice as Mooney joined him.

“Yes, it’s all right. Had a little trouble about the price, but I beat him down. Here, stick this in your pocket. It’s all in order. Don’t look at it now.”

Harry put the thick envelope in his pocket.

“I can’t thank you enough, Alf.”

“Forget it, kid,” Mooney said. “You better get off. I know you want to get back to her. Well, kid, I don’t suppose we’ll see each other again, but here’s luck. And tell her luck from me too. Take care of yourself. If ever you want me in a hurry, you can always get me by ringing this number.” He gave Harry a card. “That’s a guy who looks after my post and takes messages for me. Don’t trust him with anything hot. Just say you want to get into touch with me. He’ll give you my address in case I’ve moved. All right?”

Harry took his hand and squeezed it.

“Thanks, Alf. We may meet again. I hope so.”

“So long,” Mooney said. “Keep your pecker up. I’ve been through tough times, but there’re plenty of good ones too. Don’t forget that.”

Harry slapped him on the shoulder and then walked quickly across the bar and into the street. He felt strangely moved at parting with Mooney. Mooney was an odd stick, but whatever: else he was he was loyal.

Harry waved to a taxi and gave the Park Lane address. As soon as the cab was moving he took out the envelope, ripped it open and examined the ration books and identity cards. They were in order, and the names of Douglas and Helen Kent looked strange to him. There was also another envelope with a scrawl of writing on it. Frowning, Harry read the message:

Inside the envelope were twenty-five one pound notes.

VI

Four suitcases and a hatbox stood in the hall. Across the hatbox lay Clair’s mink coat.

Harry closed the front door. All that luggage would want a bit of handling, he thought, pausing to try one of the suitcases. It was heavy. Well, it couldn’t be helped. They would be stupid not to take as many of their clothes as they could. He had no idea how long it would be before they could buy new ones.

“Clair,” he called. “Are you ready?”

He turned the handle of the sitting-room door and entered.

“Everything’s fixed, darling. Mooney’s been...” He broke off, staring.

Clair sat in a huddled heap in one of the armchairs. She was drunk. She looked up at Harry, her face empty, her eyes screwed up the way a short-sighted woman too vain to wear glasses screws up her eyes when she is trying to see something. Her hair was in disorder. The wine-coloured silk blouse she was wearing had a rip in one of the sleeves. One of her stockings had escaped from her suspender clips and had slipped down to her ankle.

It seemed to Harry as he stood before her that he was looking at a stranger. Into his mind, made vacant by shock, came a picture of the past. The memory of something that had happened to him built itself up in his mind the way a picture forms on a television screen. He saw the dark doorway and the old woman wrapped in newspapers sitting there, an empty bottle of gin clutched in a filthy hand, a ghastly smile of invitation on her drink-sodden face as she looked up at him. He heard again the croaking voice and her horrible suggestion. He could smell the drink and the dirt again. And he flinched now as he did then when he remembered the disgusting thing she had done.

“What’s happened, Clair?” he asked.

Her face twitched; the muscles under her white, blotched skin moved the way water moves in the wind.

“I burned my hand,” she said.

He looked at her hands. The fingers of her right hand were blistered and stained a deep yellow. He saw the cigarette between her fingers, glowing red against her flesh and burning another blister, and he was horrified to see she didn’t notice nor appear to feel the burning ember.

“Drop it!” he said sharply, leaning forward and slapped at her hand, knocking the cigarette butt on to the floor. As he placed his foot on it he saw holes in the carpet, burned by cigarette ends where she had dropped them.

“What have you been doing? Oh, Clair, pull yourself together. We’ve got to go. Why have you been drinking like this? What’s the matter?”

“I want you to give me a baby,” she said, looking up at him, her face full of drunken cunning. “I’ve thought it all out. They won’t touch me if you give me a baby.”

“What are you talking about? Clair! Get hold of yourself! We’ve got to go. Don’t you understand?”

“That’s right, isn’t it?” she said, leaning forward to peer at him. Her spirit ladened breath fanned his cheek. “It’s got to be all right! I read somewhere they don’t touch you if you’re in the family way. You’ve got to do it, Harry. If you won’t, I’ll get someone who will.”

He caught hold of her shoulders, dragged her to her feet and shook her.

“Stop talking nonsense!” he said angrily. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

She pushed him away with surprising strength.

“Oh yes, I do,” she said, swaying unsteadily. “It’s you who don’t know what you’re talking about. We’re going to have a baby. At once! It’s the only way out.” Suddenly she began to cry and stumbled against him, clinging to him. “I’m so frightened,” she moaned. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. You must give me a baby, Harry. They don’t hang a woman who’s carrying a child.”

Harry felt a cold prickle run up his spine. Had she gone mad? He caught hold of her arms, pushed her away and stared at her. The cold, bleak terror in her eyes turned him sick.

“What have you done?”

“He’s in there. I... I don’t know what made me do it He caught me packing. He said we’d never get away. I went into the kitchen and he followed me, sneering at me. There was a knife on the table. I caught hold of it...” She broke off, shuddering.

“What are you saying?” Harry said, his heart hammering against his side. “You’re drunk. You’re lying!...”

“You’ve got to give me a baby,” she moaned, wringing her hands. “I don’t want to die! Oh, Harry... Harry... what are we going to do?”

He went quickly into the kitchen, paused in the doorway and then took a slow step back.

Ben Whelan lay on the floor, his knees drawn up and his hands clenched. His dead empty eyes seemed to be watching a big bluebottle that walked stiff-legged across the ceiling.

I

Mr. and Mrs. Douglas Kent lived at 43 Fairfield Road in two rooms on the top floor of a shabby boarding house in the poorer district of Hastings.

Fairfield Road lay at the back of the Old Town, a narrow, twisting hill of a road of cobblestones and small, dirty grey houses. No. 43 was owned by Mrs. Jennifer Bates who had let lodgings for twenty years and prided herself there were no tricks of the trade she didn’t know. Before he was knocked down and killed by one of the new Corporation trolley cars, her husband had made a fair living from a Punch and Judy show. He had been a jolly, red-faced man who had irritated his wife beyond endurance by refusing to quarrel with her. In spite of her continual bickering he left her five hundred pounds with which she bought 43 Fairfield Road.

To look at, Mrs. Bates was not very prepossessing. She was short and fat and bulged in unexpected places. Her face reminded you of a stale crumpet, for it was round and dough-like, and pitted with small-pox scars. She had small inquisitive eyes, and a tight thin mouth. Her hair appeared to be about to come down, but somehow managed to stay up, although there were times when long, grey strands did escape and bob up and down behind her as she walked. She had five lodgers. The Kents and three thin-faced, elderly men, who worked on the railway. These three had been friends for a long time. Any day of the week you could see them from the London trains as they repaired the track or leaned on their shovels to talk to each other in slow, heavy voices. They rose at five o’clock and went to bed at nine. Mrs. Bates seldom saw or heard them for they were gentle, kindly men who believed in making as little noise about the house as possible.

They had been lodging with Mrs. Bates for over ten years, and she had at last come to the conclusion that they were to be trusted as far as anyone could be trusted, and were just the kind of lodgers any landlady would be glad to have.

But she wasn’t anything like so satisfied with the Kents. It was the girl who worried her. The young chap seemed harmless enough, but the girl was another kettle of fish. She was a hard piece if ever there was one! Harder even than Mrs. Bates, who prided herself on her hardness. Anyway, this girl always got the better of Mrs. Bates in any verbal exchange, and there had been quite a few.

Young Kent, usually pale and worried looking, was quick to pour oil on troubled waters. He seemed afraid of offending Mrs. Bates, and his fear did much to mollify her for she liked people to be afraid of her.

The trouble began when she discovered the girl was going to have a baby.

“Not in my house!” she said, pointing an accusing finger at the girl’s thickening waist. “No children! Never ’ad any, and I ain’t starting now. You’ll ’ave to ’op it when it comes, so make up your mind to it.”

The girl had given a sneering little laugh.

“Yap about the chicken when it’s hatched,” she said, and slammed the door in Mrs. Bates’s outraged face.

Well, that was a nice way to talk!

And then one day when the Kents were out, Mrs. Bates had gone into their rooms to satisfy herself they were keeping them clean, and had found three empty gin bottles under the sofa.

That started more trouble.

“No drinking in my house!” she stormed, shaking one of the empty bottles in their faces on their return. “Any more of this, and you’ll have to go!”

“And what else don’t you like? What else can’t we do in this lousy hole?” the girl demanded, her face like granite. “Go and drown yourself, you fat old bitch!”

And that had taken all Kent’s tact to smooth over, but he had done it, explaining in his quiet, anxious voice that his wife wasn’t well and the coming baby worried her, and if Mrs. Bates would overlook the incident he would see it didn’t happen again.

If it wasn’t that he paid regularly and the lack of petrol was ruining the tripper trade, Mrs. Bates wouldn’t have had them in her house after such language, but she didn’t want to lose the forty-five shillings they paid for the rooms, so she allowed herself to be mollified.

Kent had a job at Mason’s, the photographic equipment shop on the seafront. He did the developing and printing, spending hours in the dark room, coming home about seven, looking white and tired. Mrs. Bates had no idea how much he earned, but it couldn’t have been much for he was very shabby and his shoes needed repairing and he looked half starved. The girl was better dressed. In fact, when she first came to No. 43 she had a fur coat that looked like mink. But that disappeared after a while, and Mrs. Bates suspected it had been pawned. But now the girl’s figure was thickening she had to have a couple of new dresses, and they looked cheap enough, Mrs. Bates thought with a contemptuous sniff.

They were an odd couple. Neither of them had any friends. Although they had been in Hastings for over six months they always kept to themselves. No one ever called on them, and when they went out together they invariably went up the hill to the castle and never down to the town.

Kent had told Mrs. Bates they used to live in West Ham, London. He always wanted to live by the sea, he said, and when he saw Mason’s advertisement he had jumped at the chance of working in Hastings. One of these days, he told her, they hoped to have a home of their own, and when he said that there came into his eyes such a look of wistful longing that Mrs. Bates was almost sorry for him.

If it hadn’t been for the girl, Mrs. Bates would have been pleased to have had Kent stay with her. He was no trouble, but the girl was a slut: that was the only word for her. Sometimes Mrs. Bates would hear her slanging Kent, but as soon as she started raising her voice, he somehow persuaded her to quieten down, so, although Mrs. Bates hurried to the foot of the stairs to listen, she never heard what the quarrel was about.

They would have to go before the baby was born. Mrs. Bates told Kent he had better keep his eyes open for a place where squawling brats were tolerated. It’d be a job, she said, with relish. So he had better look sharp or they’d be homeless.

Kent said there was still three months before the baby was born, but he would begin looking immediately.

“Three months?” Mrs. Bates said and laughed. “Don’t you believe it. I can tell by the look of her. It’s coming before then. You mark my words. Them that drinks gin always ’as ’em quick. I know. Inside eight weeks: That’s my guess and I ’aven’t been wrong yet.”

Mrs. Bates always remembered the afternoon the Kents arrived. She had been taking a bit of a rest in the kitchen with a cup of tea and the newspaper. She had been reading about the Park Lane murder: a real sensation if ever there was one.

A man wanted by the police had been found stabbed to death in the kitchen of a Park Lane luxury flat, belonging to a couple named Ricks. The woman, Clair Ricks, had been on the stage doing a pickpocket act and making as much as a hundred and fifty a week. The man, Harry Ricks, had a portrait studio in Grafton Street. Both of them had disappeared, and the police were anxious to find them, believing they could give them information that would lead to an arrest.

So far no trace of them had been found. Detective-Inspector Claud Parkins was in charge of the case. He said the murdered man, Ben Whelan, was believed to have been connected with a gang of pickpockets working in the West End, and he thought the motive of the murder had been blackmail.

Mrs. Bates was speculating about the murder when the front door bell rang, making her start, and when she climbed the steep stairs from the basement and opened the front door she found this couple standing on the step.

With her mind still full of the murder, she showed them the two rooms. The moment she set eyes on the girl she knew she was a bad lot. A blonde, hard-faced bit, she thought, no better than she should be. Wearing a fur coat and coming to a working-class district! And the way she had looked at the two rooms as if they weren’t good enough for her. But the young fellow took her fancy. He was quiet and polite, and was willing to pay two weeks’ rent in advance, and she let them have the rooms.

It was a funny thing, but the girl didn’t move out of the house for four or five weeks. Kent explained she wasn’t well, but to be cooped up in two rooms for five weeks seemed to Mrs. Bates to be going beyond a joke. However, it was her business. If she liked to hide herself away as if she was scared of showing her face in the street, that was her look-out. Mrs. Bates didn’t care so long as she got her money. The young fellow went out every day to business, but once he returned, he stayed indoors even though the summer was hot and fine.

After four or five weeks, and about the time when the newspapers had lost interest in the Park Lane murder, the girl began to go out.

The missing couple hadn’t been found. Another murder had been committed, and Mrs. Bates forgot all about the Park Lane murder and gave her attention to this new one: a girl had been found hacked to pieces in a West End hotel. That was far more intriguing than a stabbing in a kitchen, and the police knew who had done it too, and were after him, so there was a chase to add to the excitement.

Alone in their rooms, the Rents read of the new murder and exchanged glances. It meant the searchlight of publicity would shift away from Clair and Harry Ricks, and that seemed to give them comfort.

II

Even after six months, Harry didn’t feel entirely safe. He had got over the sickening clutch of fear every time he saw a policeman. He had ceased to stiffen every time he heard a footfall on the stairs. But the hunted feeling persisted. He couldn’t open a newspaper without a feeling of dread. It was still a nightmare to walk down Robertson Street, the main shopping thoroughfare, and if anyone came up to him suddenly his heart contracted and he had to control an impulse to run.

It was amazing how they had escaped detection for so long. Probably it was because everything had been prepared for flight, and they were able to disappear and assume new identities before Whelan’s body had been found. He had not been discovered for eight days after they had left the flat.

Clair had been panic stricken. If she had been left alone she would have given herself away. There were times when Harry despaired of her ever getting back to normal. She was ready to run at the slightest thing: a step on the landing, a shout in the street, a sudden braking of a car. But now she was getting back her nerve, and realising that perhaps, after all, she need not have insisted on having a child. Her reaction to the inevitable inconvenience of pregnancy was of trapped fury. At times she would turn on Harry, blaming him for everything, venting her misery and anger on him, cursing the day she ever met him.

Harry was patient with her. His love for her had wilted, but his loyalty was as strong as ever. He couldn’t forget, in spite of her mistakes, what she had done had been more for his sake than hers. He remembered how she had given herself up to the police when Parkins had accused him of stealing the cigarette case. He remembered her past generosity. It was his turn now to provide for her, and how badly he was doing it! Under the circumstances he was lucky to have a job at all. At least it provided him for the first month with an adequate hiding place. The only danger had been the journey to and from the shop. Once he was there he remained in the dark room where no one saw him. But the money wasn’t much. He earned six pounds a week. Forty-five shillings of that went on rent. There was food to buy. In their panic to escape from the Park Lane flat they had only taken a suitcase of clothes apiece, fearing to call a taxi to remove the heavier cases, and they were now running short of clothes.

They had thirty pounds left still from the sale of Clair’s jewellery, but that was slowly dwindling as Clair insisted on having a bottle of gin a week, and Harry suspected that she was going to the pub at the corner of the road when he was at work. He had warned her that once their capital had gone, they would not be able to afford gin, and she turned on him fiercely.

“I’ve got to have something. Do you think I can stay in this blasted room day after day without something to take my mind off it? Oh, don’t look so shocked. As long as the money lasts I’ll drink as much as I like!”

And besides gin she smoked incessantly, whereas Harry had given up cigarettes.

At first he had been pathetically tender and even enthusiastic about the coming child, but Clair soon disillusioned him.

“Look at me!” she raved. “Do you think I want it? If I had thought we’d have got away with it, I wouldn’t have been such a mad fool to have had it. Look what the little beast is doing to my figure! Oh, shut up gaping at me! If it hadn’t been for you this would never have happened!”

And yet, sometimes, she was different, and held him in her arms, crying, her face against his, assuring him she loved him, that she would do anything for him.

“Don’t pay any attention to me, darling,” she said. “I’m so miserable and frightened. Oh, Harry, what is going to become of us? Suppose the child is born, and then they find us? It won’t stop them hanging me then! In a way I wish they’d find us now, then they couldn’t kill me. Don’t you see, the longer they take to find us the worse it is for me.” She pulled away from him and ran distracted fingers through her hair. “I shall go mad! I’m so frightened of having the child. I hate pain! I’m such a stinking coward. Sometimes I think I’ll kill myself. It would be the way out.”

She was continually talking of suicide now, and it worried Harry half out of his mind. She was so reckless, and at times, demented, that he feared she might try to kill herself. He did his best to comfort her, but after these bouts of tenderness and self-pity she would become once more hard and cynical, grumbling about the lack of money, complaining about the two rooms and the food, and smoking incessantly.

It was a nightmare time for Harry. He felt sure that if Clair didn’t have to pass so much of her time alone, she wouldn’t be in this frame of mind. She wasn’t used to being on her own, and became morbidly depressed by sitting in the shabby little room with its view of the roofs of the Old Town, having nothing to do but to think of the past and the fun she had had and to brood over the coming birth.

He encouraged her to go out. At first, fearful of being recognised, she refused, but as the weeks went by and the newspapers ceased to feature the murder she finally screwed up her courage to make infrequent trips to the shops, but they never went about the town together.

“It wouldn’t be safe,” Harry argued. “They’re still looking for us, and some bright policeman might spot us if we were together.”

So when they did go out in the evening they went up to the Castle where there were no policemen and sat on the hill and looked down at the ruins of the harbour and the sea front, stretching to St. Leonards, and at the crowds moving along the promenade.

Then one day Harry mislaid his fountain pen, and in the search for it, he absent-mindedly opened one of Clair’s drawers. What he saw there turned him cold.

He went into the sitting-room where Clair was manicuring her finger nails.

“Where did you get this?” he demanded, and held up a leather handbag. “I found it in your drawer. It’s new. How did you get it?”

Clair flushed and jumped to her feet.

“How dare you go to my drawer!”

He looked at her. She tried to meet his horrified eyes, then turned away and went over to the window.

“Did you steal it?” he said, his voice husky.

“What if I did? I’ve got to have some decent things. If you can’t get them for me...”

He jerked her round roughly.

“You stupid fool!” his voice was shaking. “Can’t you see that’s what they’re waiting for? They know your tricks. It’s just the thing that’d give them a clue. They’re clever. If the shop you stole it from reports this to the police they’ll wonder if it is you. Don’t you see that?”

“Am I going to live like this all my life?” she cried, her face white with fear. “My other bag’s worn out. Do you think they’ll guess it was me?”

“But, Clair, what is the matter with you?” Harry said hopelessly. “Have you no sense of right and wrong? What if your bag is worn out? You can’t just go out and steal another. Apart from the danger of being caught, can’t you see what a rotten thing it is to do?”

“But I am rotten,” she said defiantly. “I don’t make any bones about that. Am I never to have any fun again or any nice things?”

“Give me time,” he said, desperately. “Let’s get your confinement over first. I’m watching out for something better. I’ll get something, Clair. I’ll get something that’ll make more money. But you’ve got to promise never to steal again.”

She promised sullenly, but insisted on keeping the bag.

“It’s not as if I can take it back,” she said. “I don’t see why I shouldn’t use it now I have it.”

Harry’s immediate task now was to find lodgings for the coming baby. Evening after evening he tramped the back streets, calling on every house which displayed a ‘Board Residence’ sign without success. No one wanted a squawling baby. Some of the landladies he saw were sympathetic. They said they would like to help him, but it wasn’t practicable.

“Visitors don’t like the noise of babies,” they explained as if he didn’t know.

“Why must you go out and leave me?” Clair asked irritably when he returned, hot and tired from one of these fruitless searches. “It’s bad enough to be on my own all day, but then for you to go out...”

Patiently he explained what he had been doing.

“Why bother?” she said angrily. “You don’t think I’m going to keep the brat, do you? I’m not as crazy as that. As soon as I come out of hospital I’m going to dump it on a doorstep.”

Harry was horrified.

“You can’t do a thing like that! It’s our child, Clair. You couldn’t do it! I won’t let you!”

“Oh, don’t give me that mother-love tripe,” she said. “Do you think I’m going to feed it? I hate babies! I won’t touch it! I’ll throw it into the sea!”

Harry had read somewhere that women went a little queer when they were pregnant, and although Clair’s attitude hurt him, he didn’t take it seriously. But he did feel the responsibility for the baby’s comfort and welfare would largely fall on him, and he redoubled his efforts to find a home for it.

There was a chap at the shop he was friendly with. His name was Leonard Wilkins; one of those simple, not very brainy fellows, with a moon-round face, sandy hair and a ready smile. He wore a Christian Crusader badge in his coat lapel, and was always trying to persuade Harry to become a Crusader himself.

“You don’t have to go to church or anything like that,” he explained to Harry one afternoon when he came into the dark room with the morning’s collection of films to be developed. “It’s a club really. We try to help each other. It’s a bit like being a Mason, only it doesn’t cost anything. We’re having a meeting tonight if you’d care to come.”

Harry thanked him.

“I’m afraid I haven’t the time,” he said, as he stripped the red wrapping from the films. “I’m trying to find accommodation. You see, my wife is having a baby, and it isn’t easy to find a place that takes babies. I suppose you don’t know of anything?”

Wilkins reacted to this the way a ferret reacts to the sight of a rabbit.

“I’ll ask the Crusaders,” he said. “That’s just the kind of thing we do. We’d be awfully glad if you and your wife would come along.” His face lit up as he added, “They give you tea and cakes.”

But Harry couldn’t imagine Clair at a Christian Crusader’s meeting, and he tactfully made excuses.

“She’s not very well. I don’t like leaving her. If you can do anything for us I’d be grateful. We want two rooms, and I don’t want to pay more than forty-five shillings. If you hear of anything...”

“We’ll find you something,” Wilkins said confidently, and to Harry’s surprise they did. A couple of days later, Wilkins gave him three addresses. “Mrs. Hamilton’s the best. I’d go along and see her. She has four children of her own. You know where Castle Street is, don’t you?”

The previous day had been wet and cold, and no films had been brought in to be developed, so Harry asked the manager if he could have the afternoon off.

“I’m trying to find rooms,” he explained. “I’ve heard of something and don’t want to miss it.”

“That’s all right. You get off,” the manager said. He liked Harry. He liked the way Harry always finished his work before going home. He liked his willingness and his efficiency.

Mrs. Hamilton’s house in Castle Street conformed to the general pattern of back street seaside houses, but it looked clean and neat from the outside. Mrs. Hamilton answered Harry’s knock on the door. She was accompanied by four small children, who stared up at Harry with intent, curious eyes, and wrestled and punched each other as soon as their curiosity was satisfied. Mrs. Hamilton was a tall, bony woman with lank hair, a distracted expression and large tired eyes. As soon as you saw her you felt she would put up with anything, and when Harry told her he was looking for rooms and his wife was about to have a baby she just nodded dumbly and asked him in.

As soon as the front door had closed behind him, the four children started into a bedlam of sound, and this continued all the time Harry was in the house. They seemed to be endowed with an inspired talent for making a sustained and continuous uproar. One of them hammered a tin tray. Another ran up and down the stairs rattling the banister with a stick. The remaining two punched each other and screamed. It was only by raising his voice to a shout that Harry could make himself heard.

Yes, Mrs. Hamilton had two rooms. No, she didn’t mind babies. She waved a vague hand at the quartet of sound. She had babies of her own. She thought two pounds a week would be fair. She would give them fish suppers for that, but she couldn’t undertake a midday meal.

With the four children following them, they went up the stairs to the top floor. The rooms were small but clean. One of the windows overlooked the sea front. At least the view was better than the one at No. 43 Fairfield Road, but Harry’s heart sank at the noise of the children. He couldn’t imagine Clair standing it for long.

He said he had two more places to see and would let Mrs. Hamilton know one way or the other that evening. He was glad to get into the sunshine again.

But the other two places had been let so it was Mrs. Hamilton’s or nothing. The decision was too difficult to make without consulting Clair, so Harry caught a bus to Fairfield Road, arriving there just after four o’clock, three hours before his usual time.

To his disappointment Clair was out. The two rooms hadn’t been swept or dusted and the bed was still unmade. While waiting for her he straightened the rooms, cleaned them and made the bed. As he put Clair’s nightdress in the wardrobe he caught sight of something tucked away behind one of her dresses. He pulled it out and examined the feather-weight mackintosh with a sinking heart. It was new and expensive looking, and he was sure Clair hadn’t bought it. So she was still at it! With a cold set face he searched through her drawers and the cupboard. The loot he discovered turned him sick. From the amount of articles he found he guessed she must have been systematically pilfering for a long time. Several empty and worn looking wallets he discovered hidden under the mattress told him she had also been picking pockets.

He was standing motionless by the bed on which he had thrown the various articles he had found when Clair came into the room. She moved slowly and heavily, and her face looked white and puffy. She was big with the child now, and she looked tired and depressed. Looking at her he suddenly realised that she wasn’t pretty any more. In some extraordinary way her features had coarsened, and she looked what she was: a drab without a background.

She started violently when she saw him, looked at the bed, then back to him.

They stared at each other for a long moment of time.

“Spying again?” she said, through clenched teeth. “What a dirty little Gestapo you are!”

Harry didn’t say anything. He turned away and went over to the window, leaning his forehead against the dusty pane.

He heard the bed creak as she sat down.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Harry said flatly. “I was just going out. I’ll be back about seven.”

“Don’t go,” she said quickly. “I... I can explain all this. It happened before you found the handbag. I haven’t done it since. I swear it!”

Of course she was lying. Harry could tell that by her over-emphatic tone.

“It’s all right,” he said wearily, and went past her into the other room.

She came to the bedroom door.

“You believe me, don’t you?” she said.

“No, I don’t believe you,” he returned, without looking at her. “But it’s all right. There’s nothing either of us can do about it now,” and still not looking at her he opened the door and went down the stairs to the street below.

It was just after seven when he returned. She was sitting by the window; her face flushed and her eyes bright. He knew that look by now, and what it meant. The bottle of gin, thrust half out of sight under her chair was getting a familiar sight.

Neither of them spoke, and he began to prepare supper, while she remained at the window, smoking.

He was conscious of the danger: in spite of his warnings he was now certain that when she needed anything she would steal it. Something was lacking in her make-up. The only solution was for him either to make enough money to give her what she wanted or to leave her. He knew he could never earn enough to satisfy her demands nor could he leave her in her present condition. He felt trapped. It was like trying to save someone bent on suicide.

III

The reconciliation late that night revealed to him that the link that held him to her was weakening. He could see that her love for him was gradually being pushed into the background by her preoccupation with herself, her discomfort and the bleak outlook of her future. His love for her was being smothered by the sick fear that through her own wanton stupidity she would attract the attention of the police to them.

The following morning, on the way to work, he looked at the newspaper with a feeling of dread. It was difficult to read the paper in the crowded bus, impossible to open it, and he had to wait until he got out at Whiterock before he could turn to the centre page, and then he nearly missed it so insignificant was the paragraph. It was headed:

Harry stood by the bus stop for some minutes. Was this a trick to start them on the run again or had Parkins learned where they were? That was the thing to decide. Should they make a bolt for it or should they stick it out in the hope that it was a false report? His legs felt weak, and his heart hammered against his side, giving him a feeling of breathlessness. He didn’t know whether to catch a bus home or go on to work. Suppose they were already at Fairfield Road?

A man standing nearby looked sharply at him.

“Are you all right, mate?” he asked, and there was a kindly expression of concern on his face. “Feeling a bit faint or something?”

Harry shook his head.

“It’s all right,” he managed to say. “Touch of the sun I expect. I’m all right, thank you.”

Somehow he forced himself to cross the road and walk the few yards to Mason’s shop. Wilkins and the manager had just arrived.

“Did you get the rooms, Kent?” the manager asked as he wrestled with the padlock.

“Yes, thank you,” Harry said.

“You don’t look well,” Wilkins said, staring at him. “I say, Mr. Bertram, doesn’t he look white?”

“Got a bit of a headache,” Harry said, and pushed into the shop. “It’s nothing,” and he went up the stairs to the darkroom.

He’d have to pull himself together, he thought as he entered the stuffy, badly ventilated little room. Should he say he wasn’t well and ask to go home? He couldn’t leave Clair on her own in danger like this. But fear of unemployment was even stronger than the fear of the police. He had already had an afternoon off. If he asked to go home now perhaps the manager might think he was slacking and get rid of him. To lose his job and be without money were to him things as terrifying as death.

Before he could reach a decision, Mr. Bertram came into the darkroom and put a bundle of films on the table.

“Get cracking on those, Kent,” he said. “We had a rush of business when you were away yesterday. They’ll be in for them tonight.”

Harry waited until he had gone, turned off the light and turned on the red safety lamp. He began stripping off the film wrapping. Perhaps he could slip up to Clair in his lunch hour. But supposing, while he wasted time here in the dark room, the police went to Fairfield Road? He forced himself to begin to develop the films. If it were a false alarm, and through panic he lost his job, they would be in an awful mess, he thought He had been unable to save a penny. He had nothing except the money he would receive tomorrow night when Mr. Bertram paid the wages. He would have to wait They couldn’t bolt without money.

The morning passed in a nightmare of sick apprehension. More films kept arriving, and Harry, distracted, worked furiously.

A few minutes to half past twelve when he was ready to go to lunch Mr. Bertram popped his head round the door.

“I’ll get you to cut your lunch hour,” he said. “You won’t mind, will you? There’s a mass of stuff coming in. I’ll send Wilkins up to give you a hand.”

Harry began to protest that he had something very important to do in his lunch hour, but there was a testy, irritable note in Mr. Bertram’s voice and he was afraid to refuse his request.

Wilkins came up after an hour or so and worked on the printing machine.

“Just our luck,” he said with his bright smile that showed he was only grumbling for the sake of grumbling and didn’t really mean it. “The sun’s shining, and everyone seems to be using their cameras. Mr. B. only let me have half an hour for lunch.”

Harry grunted. He would much sooner have been alone.

Wilkins chattered away about the Crusaders, and again tried to persuade Harry to join. Then as he slid a batch of prints into the developing tank he said, “I say, I forgot to tell you. An odd thing happened to me last night. A detective stopped and questioned me.”

Harry stiffened and nearly dropped the bottle of developer he was holding.

“A big chap,” Wilkins continued, obviously pleased with the experience. “He asked to see my identity card. Then he wanted to know where I worked and what my job was. It’s a funny thing, but he seemed to prick up his ears when I said I was in the photographic trade. He wanted to know who else worked in the shop.”

“Did you tell him?” Harry asked, fear clutching at his heart. He was thankful they were working in the light of the ruby lamp otherwise he was sure Wilkins would have seen the fear on his face.

“Certainly not,” Wilkins returned. “I didn’t think it was my business to do that. I told him if he wanted to know about the shop he would have to see the manager.”

“I see,” Harry said, restraining an impulse to rush out of the darkroom and get on a bus to Fairfield Road.

“I suppose they’re looking for someone,” Wilkins said smugly. “I once read a book about the methods of Scotland Yard. It’s marvellous how they work. I wouldn’t rest a minute if they were after me.”

The afternoon seemed interminable to Harry. His one thought was to get home before anything happened. He scarcely listened to Wilkins’s quiet chatter.

It was towards closing time he heard what he had been waiting to hear.

“That’s Mr. Bertram calling you, isn’t it?” Wilkins asked.

“Yes.”

Harry wiped his hands slowly on a towel, aware that his mouth had gone dry. Should he make a bolt for it? But there was no way out except through the shop.

“Kent! I want you a moment,” Mr. Bertram was calling from the bottom of the stairs.

“Coming, sir,” Harry said.

With hands that trembled he reached for his coat and put it on. If it was the police, and they arrested him, what was going to happen to Clair? If only he could reach her by telephone and warn her. But it would be hopeless. Once the police had a description of her from Mrs. Bates, she couldn’t hope to escape.

“Mind how you go out,” Wilkins said. “I have prints in the tank.”

Harry edged out of the room and moved on to the landing, overlooking the shop. His heart gave a lurch when he saw the big man with Mr. Bertram. He had policeman written all over him.

“Hurry up, Kent,” Mr. Bertram said sharply. He was obviously flustered.

“Yes, sir,” Harry said, and came down the stairs. There was still a chance, he told himself, if he kept his head. One false move now and Clair would be the one to suffer. For her sake he had to keep hold on himself.

The detective’s vast bulk blocked the doorway. No chance of making a bolt for it.

“This is a police officer,” Mr. Bertram said with a wan smile. “He’s making a check. Will you show him your identity card?”

Harry felt the quiet, shrewd eyes of the detective examining his face. He took out his wallet and handed his identity card to him.

“Thanks, Mr. Kent,” the detective said. “Sorry to trouble you.” Seconds ticked by while he looked at the card. Harry wondered if he could hear the thudding of his heart. “This your address?” the detective asked.

“Yes.”

“Been in Hastings long?”

“About six months.”

“And you lived at 23 Sinclair Road, West Ham, before that?” the detective went on, looking at the card.

Harry turned cold. It would be only a matter of hours now. The time it would take for the detective to check the address in West Ham.

“That’s right,” he said steadily.

“Where did you work there?”

“Jacksons, the chemist in the High Street,” Harry said, surprised the way the words came without effort or thought.

“Are you married, Mr. Kent?”

“Yes.”

“Kent is expecting a baby,” Mr. Bertram said, smiling. He was a family man himself.

A look of surprise came into the detective’s eyes; just a momentary flicker, but Harry saw it.

“Your wife here too?”

“Of course,” Harry said. “If you don’t mind, what’s all this in aid of?”

The detective’s face relaxed into a smile.

“Looking for a chap,” he said, and handed Harry his identity card. “That’s all right. Sorry to have bothered you. This fellow’s a photographer. We’ve been asked to check all photographic equipment shops.”

“Have you tried Westways?” Mr. Bertram asked, always eager to be helpful. “They’re in Robertson Street.”

“Not yet.” The shrewd grey eyes dwelt thoughtfully on Harry. “Going there now. Well, thank you; sorry to have taken up your time.” He began a slow move to the door. “When’s the baby due, Mr. Kent?”

“Why ask that?” Harry thought.

“About a month. I’m not absolutely sure.”

“Worrying time,” the detective said. “Looks worried, doesn’t he?” he went on to Mr. Bertram.

“I expect I looked like that when my wife was having her first,” Mr. Bertram said smugly. “It is a worrying time. But I’ve got six now. One gets used to the worry after the third, but one doesn’t get used to the disturbed nights.”

“I wouldn’t know,” the detective said, grinning. “I’m a bachelor myself.” All the time he had been talking his eyes dwelt on Harry. “Been married long, Mr. Kent?”

“He is suspicious,” Harry thought. “They must have my description.”

“Five years,” he said, his voice unsteady.

“Good for you. Well, I must get off. Can’t stand around gossiping, and I expect you will want to get home.”

“We close at six,” Mr. Bertram said. “Half an hour yet. Sure that’s all we can do for you?”

The detective again looked at Harry.

“That’s all — anyway for the present.” He nodded and walked out of the shop, mingling with the crowd that moved slowly along the pavement.

“Extraordinary,” Mr. Bertram said. “I wonder who he’s looking for?”

IV

“They’ll be watching the house,” Harry thought as he walked up Fairfield Road. How was he to get Clair out of the house without being seen? And where were they to go? If only he had some money! He had only three shillings on him and nothing in the house.

Suddenly he caught sight of Clair walking slowly ahead of him. Only a hundred yards or so separated her from the house. He lengthened his stride and caught up with her.

“Why, hallo, Harry...” she said, turning.

“Keep walking,” he said in an undertone. His eyes searched the street for anyone looking like a policeman. “Go past the house.”

Fear came into her face and her step faltered, but he took her arm and kept her walking.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, and he could feel her trembling.

“They’re after us. A detective came to the shop. He wanted to see my identity card. I’m pretty sure he suspects who I am, and he has only to check the address in West Ham to know it’s false. They may be watching the house now.”

“Where are we going?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t thought. Have you any money?”

“Not much. About ten shillings.”

“Don’t look at the house. Keep moving. They may be in there waiting for us.”

“We can’t leave our clothes.”

“We’ll have to.”

They went past the house.

“Oh, Harry!” she said. “This finishes it. We can’t go on. I feel awful. It’s no use. I can’t walk far.”

“We’ll go somewhere where we can talk,” Harry said, tightening his grip on her arm. “We’ll go up to the Castle.”

“Look, Harry, leave me. You’ll manage on your own. It’s the only way. I’m sick of this. I’ll kill myself. I’ll walk into the sea.”

“Don’t talk rot!” Harry said fiercely. “We’ll get out of this somehow. Just keep walking.”

“But can’t you see this is the end? It’s no good, Harry. We have nowhere to go, no money, no food, no clothes. Suppose the baby comes? Can’t you see it’s hopeless?”

“We’ve got to think,” Harry said. “We’re not going to give up until we’ve had time to make a plan. Mooney might help us. Let’s get up on the cliff where we can sit down and rest. We’ve got to think of a plan.”

She shrugged helplessly, but continued to walk at his side. It was uphill all the way, and although he helped her along he could tell she was growing tired.

A car came grinding up the hill and he looked back, his heart racing. But the driver was a woman, and acting on the spur of the moment, he signalled to her.

The car stopped by them and the woman looked out of the window, smiling at them. She was fat and jolly-looking.

“I’m going to the golf club,” she said. “That any use to you?”

“Thank you very much,” Harry said, and opened the rear door. “We’re going past there. It’s very kind of you to stop.”

The woman gave Clair a quick look of sympathy.

“You shouldn’t be walking up hills you know,” she said as Clair got into the car. “Is this your first?”

“Yes,” Clair said.

The woman engaged gear and the car continued its slow grind up the hill.

“We’re down on holiday,” Harry said. “We only came yesterday.”

“I’m on holiday too,” the woman told him. “I promised to meet my husband. He’s been playing golf all the afternoon. Do you think you should go so far out of town? The buses don’t run very frequently.”

“It’s all right,” Harry said. “We’re spending the evening with friends. They’ll bring us back. It was a bit of luck you stopping. We just missed the bus.”

“That’s all right then,” the woman returned. “I know what I was like when I had my first.”

They drove on for some time in silence, then the woman said suddenly, “If you like I’ll take you to your friends. I don’t suppose my husband will be finished yet. It’s only half past seven.”

“We won’t trouble you,” Harry said, trying to speak calmly. “We feel like a bit of a stroll.”

“Well, at least it’s flat when you get up there. Going to look at Lover’s Seat?”

“We might,” Harry said, wishing she would stop talking.

Clair dug her fingers into his arm as they overtook and passed a policeman who was walking up the hill, pushing a bicycle.

“There seem to be a lot of policemen about,” the woman said. “That’s the sixth policeman I’ve seen. Do you think they’re looking for someone?”

“I don’t know,” Harry said. “I shouldn’t think so. Isn’t this the time the patrols go out?”

“Is it? There was a police car in Castle Square, and another on the sea front. You may be right. I thought they might be looking for someone. It’s funny how criminals come to the sea, isn’t it? There was that trunk murderer, and that man Heath. I was in Brighton last year...”

Harry ceased to listen. He and Clair exchanged glances. Would this woman remember them? Would there be anything about them in the evening paper to give her a clue?

“Well, we’re just here,” the woman said, slowing down. “You’re sure you don’t want me to take you on? I don’t mind a bit.”

“No, thank you very much,” Harry said. “We’ll get along fine now.”

The car stopped outside the golf club entrance, and Harry and Clair got out. They both looked quickly down the steep hill, but the policeman wasn’t in sight.

“Well, come in and have a drink.”

“We won’t if you don’t mind. My wife hasn’t had any fresh air today. A little walk will do her good.”

“Well, then, good-bye. I hope you both get what you want.”

Harry took Clair’s arm and they began to walk along the narrow lane.

“That policeman will be along in a moment,” Harry said. “We’ll have to get off the road.” He glanced back. The woman was manoeuvring her car through the club entrance. “Come on. Through this hedge.”

They scrambled up the bank and squeezed through a gap in the hedge and into a field.

“Let him go past,” Harry said, pulling Clair down beside him on the grass. Then he caught sight of something in her hand. It was a small, navy-blue handbag. “What’s that?” he asked sharply. “Where did that come from?”

Clair looked woodenly at him.

“It was in the car,” she said, and opened the bag to look inside.

“You mean — you took it?” Harry said, horrified.

“Well, we want money, don’t we? You don’t think I’d be such a fool to miss such an opportunity, do you?”

Harry caught hold of her arm.

“You stole it from that woman?” he said, his voice rising. “Are you mad? She’ll report it! She’ll give a description of us. She might even tell the policeman who’s coming now.”

“We had to have money, didn’t we?” Clair said sullenly. “Let me see what’s she’s got in it,” and she tipped the contents of the purse on to the grass. “Hell!” she said angrily. “Five shillings! I thought it was going to be pounds! Five shillings, not a damned thing else!”

Harry picked up the money and put it in the bag.

“Wait here,” he said curtly. “I’m going back. I’ll drop it outside the club entrance. She might think, in getting out of the car, we knocked it into the road.”

Clair didn’t say anything, and watched him run back, under cover of the hedge.

He peered through the hedge when he reached the golf club entrance. The policeman still wasn’t in sight, nor had the woman driver appeared. He tossed the bag over the hedge and watched it drop in the middle of the road. The policeman would see it, he thought, and would take it into the club. He turned and ran back to where Clair was waiting.

“Don’t ever do that again!” he said, taking her arm and helping her to her feet. “He’s bound to see the purse, and it’ll delay him. Come on, the cliffs aren’t far away. We might find a cave to spend the night in.”

“What’s the good?” Clair asked wearily. “We might as well give up. What’s going to happen tomorrow? What are we going to do for food?”

“Now look here,” Harry said sharply. “You must pull yourself together. We would have been all right if only you hadn’t started stealing. That brought them here. I’m sure of it. We’re going back to London. Mooney will get us new identity cards, and we’ll start again, only this time you’re not going to do anything silly.”

She looked at him and suddenly smiled.

“Silly? You’re a darling, Harry. All right, we’ll go to London and start all over again. Do you know how we’re going to get there?”

“We’ll get there somehow. When it’s dark I’ll phone Mooney. With luck I’ll find him in. I’ll ask him to come down with some money. He’ll do it. I’m sure he will.”

“Do you think he’ll have any money?”

“He’s bound to have some,” Harry said, knowing it was likely that Mooney wouldn’t have any. “Now, come on. We’re wasting time.”

Clair shook her head.

“It would be much more sensible if you left me. I don’t think we’re going to get away with it this time. I have a feeling about it. I think you could, without me. Will you please leave me and go?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not leaving you. Now, come on.”

“I want you to leave me,” she said. “They haven’t anything on you. It’s been my fault all along. Leave me. I want to face this alone. Don’t you understand, Harry? There’s no way out of this mess. Why should they catch you? Look at me! How can I escape them looking like this? I can scarcely get along. If you love me, Harry, go!”

“Let’s find a cave,” Harry said, taking her arm. “I’m not going to leave you, so get that idea out of your head!”

She pulled away from him.

“Can’t you see I don’t want you?” she cried, her face hard. “Get away from me! If you’re with me they’re certain to catch me. Alone, I can do what I like with myself.”

His love for her came surging back at the sight of her white, desperate, frightened face.

“I don’t care what happens as long as we’re together. I know it’s hopeless, but let’s see it through together. Let’s have just a little longer together. Don’t send me away. Our time together may be short: we’re wasting it.”

“Please go, Harry,” she said. “I love you so much. I’ve done you so much harm. Please go now so at least I’ll know I didn’t get you into trouble with the police. I can manage. I’m not afraid. I know what I’m going to do.”

He put his arms round her shapeless body.

“Let’s find a cave,” he said gently. “We have a lot to talk about before they find us.”

V

The sea came surging towards the foot of the cliff, its rollers bursting against the side of the cliff and throwing up foam and spray which came into the cave.

The back of the cave was dry and sheltered. Harry sat on the sandy floor watching the high watery walls come surging forward with a boom and a roar.

Clair lay on her side, her head resting against his knee.

“I’m glad we came,” she said. “I feel safe here. It’s exciting, isn’t it?”

Harry looked at the dark, scurrying clouds, outlined against the moonlit sky. It was exciting, but he would rather have been in his bed at Fairfield Road. This was all right for one night, but what would happen the next day? He was hungry, and although they were sheltered from the wind it was cold, and the spray made a damp atmosphere in the cave.

“It’ll do for tonight,” he said. “In a little while I’m going to phone Mooney.” He peered at his wrist watch. “It’s just after nine. In another half-hour I’ll try to find a phone box.”

She slipped her hand into his.

“Don’t go, Harry. It’s no use. Mooney won’t be able to help us. I’d rather you stay here. In the morning I’ll leave you.”

“We’re not going over that again,” Harry said firmly. “You’re not going to do anything reckless. Let them find us if they can. I’m hoping Mooney will be able to help us. It’s a long chance, but it’s worth trying.”

“You’re good to me, Harry. I’m sorry I’ve been such a slut I wanted to do so much for you, and I’ve done so badly.”

“Don’t talk about it. Let’s try and make something of the future. Are you feeling cold?”

“A little. I wish I’d brought a coat. It seemed so hot...”

“And I wish I’d brought some food. If Mooney can get down here early tomorrow—”

“Don’t go, Harry. It’s wet and dangerous out there. You might slip.”

“I’ll watch out. I’ve been wondering about the tides. Do you think we’re high enough up?”

“Oh yes. The sea doesn’t reach as far as this. The sand here is dry.”

Harry eased her head off his knee and stood up.

“Have my coat for a pillow. I don’t feel cold. You should try and get some sleep.”

“It’s all right.” She lay back, resting her head on her aim. “I’m quite comfortable. You’re not going now?”

“In a little while.” He went to the mouth of the cave and peered down at the swirling water. A wave came rushing up at him, he dodged back, just missing the spray. She was right. It wouldn’t be easy to leave the cave now, but he had to do it. It was their only chance.

“Be careful, Harry. Don’t you see? You can’t go until this dies down, and I don’t think it will.”

He came back to her and sat down again.

“I’ll wait. There’s plenty of time. Try and sleep, Clair. We may have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

“If it wasn’t so cold.”

He took off his coat and put it over her.

“I’m fine,” he said. “I don’t feel it. Now, try and sleep.”

He sat beside her, listening to the roar of the sea, holding her hand. After a while he felt her grip slacken and he bent over her. She was sleeping, and looking at her the full hopelessness of their position struck him. How could they hope to escape? Anyone seeing her would recognise her. Mrs. Bates would give the police a description of them. Together they would be hopelessly conspicuous.

He got quietly to his feet. Mooney was his only hope. He decided to go now. With any luck he might get back before she woke. He felt stiff and cold with the long hours of sitting still, and he rubbed his arms briskly, trying to restore his circulation.

A narrow path led from the cave to the cliff head. When they had come down it, it had been a fairly easy climb as there had been no wind, but now as he went to the mouth of the cave, the wind made him stagger, and sudden rising spray spattered him with sea-water.

Bending his head against the wind, he moved out on to the path. As soon as he was away from the shelter of the cave the wind pounced on him and threatened to blow him off the path into the raging sea below. He clung on to a scrubby bush growing by the path and waited, crouched down, while the wind buffeted him and spray from the heaving waves soaked him.

A few yards ahead of him was another bush, and he made a dash for it, throwing himself flat, gripping at its roots, as the wind once again threatened to have him over. He worked his way to the top of the cliff in this way. Twice he thought he was going to be blown over. Once his foot slipped, and if he hadn’t been holding on he would have fallen to the sea-covered rocks below. He was trembling and breathless by the time he reached the head of the cliffs and lay flat, struggling to recover his breath, dismayed at the thought that it would be impossible to return the same way until the wind had died down.

After a while he got to his feet and moved across the scrub and grass land to the road. Once on the road he was sheltered from the wind, and he broke into a run.

It was moonlight, and the road showed up like a white ribbon. He walked on the grass verge so as to deaden his footfalls and kept his ears pricked for any alarming sound. He remembered seeing an A.A. box as they had come up the road to the cliff. There would be a telephone inside if he could break in.

After what seemed to him to be an endless distance, but which was only a mile or so, he caught sight of the A.A. box. It was locked, and he looked around for something with which he could smash in the door. A big flint stone in the ditch caught his eye and he picked it up, balancing it in his hand.

“I shouldn’t do that, Ricks,” a voice said out of the shadows, and a big, familiar figure stepped from behind the A.A. box.

With a startled gasp Harry dropped the stone and turned to run, but facing him were two policemen, and one of them caught hold of his arm.

“All right,” Detective-Inspector Parkins said. “He’s not going to make trouble, are you, Ricks?”

“No,” Harry said.

“That’s fine. Where is she? Where have you left her?”

“We’ve parted,” Harry said, trying to keep his voice under control. He spoke in a husky whisper. “I don’t know where she is now.”

One of the policemen flashed an electric torch into the darkness, and almost immediately the headlights of a hidden car were turned on, flood-lighting the road.

“Spread out and keep your eyes open,” Parkins called into the darkness. “She may be right near you.”

There was a movement and swishing of grass as a number of men hidden by the high hedge moved about in the field. The car came up slowly and stopped by Harry.

“In you get,” Parkins said. “Don’t let’s have any nonsense.”

“It’s all right,” Harry said, in a low voice. He was thinking of Clair, alone in the cave. Would it be better to tell them? She couldn’t get out without help. He had had to support her on the way down. The way up was much more difficult. He couldn’t leave her there to starve. Suppose she had her baby?

He allowed himself to be pushed into the car and Parkins sat beside him.

“Have a cigarette?” Parkins said amiably.

“No, thank you.”

“Well, you’ve had a run for your money, haven’t you?” A match flared up as Parkins lit his cigarette. He tossed the match out of the car window. It made a tiny spark as it twisted through the air and fell into the grass. The flame flared up and went out.

Harry thought of Clair. He couldn’t let her die alone. She had said she would kill herself if she was cornered. It would be better for them to go together.

“Have you been in Hastings all the time?” Parkins asked.

“Yes.”

“You might have got away with it if she hadn’t started her old tricks. I thought she might. Every police station in the country has been waiting for her to start. Where is she, Ricks? Come on, she’s not in a fit condition to be left on her own. She’s having a baby soon, isn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t want to leave her to look after herself, do you? Where is she?”

“What will happen to her?” Harry asked anxiously.

“How should I know? She’ll stand her trial. She killed him, didn’t she?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do. You needn’t worry, Ricks. We know you hadn’t anything to do with it. I’m not saying you won’t be charged with being an accessory; you probably will. But you’re clear of the murder. Funny thing: Brady cleared you.”

“Brady?”

“Yes. We arrested him a couple of nights ago. We caught one of his girls and she squeaked. He’ll get about five years with any luck. He seemed anxious to clear you and involve Clair. He said he had been following you as he was expecting you to skip. He said you and Mooney met at a pub about the time Whelan died. I’ve seen Mooney and he supports this. When you got back to the flat I suppose you found she had killed him?”

Harry didn’t say anything.

“Where is she?” Parkins went on. “Don’t make things difficult for us.”

“I tell you I don’t know. We parted...”

“We thought you might be in one of those caves up there. The local chap tells me the sea comes up at high tide. Is that where she is?”

“No,” Harry said.

“High tide’s in about half an hour. If she’s there, you’d better say so.”

Harry didn’t believe him, but what was the use of lying? She couldn’t be left alone. He suddenly felt very tired. She said there was no way out of this mess. There wasn’t. He couldn’t leave her in the cave.

“She’s there,” he said in a flat voice. “I’ll take you to her.”

“Now you’re being sensible,” Parkins said. He leaned out of the car and shouted into the darkness. “Bring your men, Jackson. We’re going up to the caves. She’s up there.”

The car began to move slowly up the road. After a while, Harry said: “It’s near here I think.”

The car stopped.

With two policemen each side of him, Harry walked across the grass to the cliff head.

“Down there,” Harry said, pointing into the darkness. “I don’t know if you can get down.”

One of the policemen leaned forward and sent the beam of his flashlight along the wet, slippery path leading to the cave.

“We’ll need a rope, sir,” he said, looking over his shoulder. “That chalk won’t give us a foothold. You couldn’t get down there without a rope.”

Parkins swore softly. The wind buffeted him and he felt cold.

“Where can you get one?”

“There’s a coastguard station not far from here,” the policeman said.

“Well, take the car and get it, and look sharp about it,” Parkins snapped.

Two policemen ran off into the darkness.

Parkins went to the cliff head and flashed his torch along the path. Peering forward at his side, Harry caught sight of Clair standing in the mouth of the cave, looking up at them.

“All right,” Parkins shouted. “We’re getting a rope. We’ll get you out of that in a moment.”

“Is Harry there?” Clair asked, her voice thin and faint against the roar of the sea.

“I’m here,” Harry cried. “It’s no good, Clair. Just wait until they bring a rope. Are you all right?”

He could see how white and tense her face was in the brilliant beam of the torch.

“I’m going to jump, Harry,” she screamed. “Oh, darling, I’m so sorry. It’s been all my fault.”

“Don’t be a fool!” Parkins bawled. “Stay where you are!”

“Clair!” Harry cried, then darted forward and was on the path before Parkins could grab him. “I’m coming, Clair. Wait for me! We’ll go together!”

“Come back!” Parkins raved. “Here, give him a light,” he thrust the torch into a police officer’s hand.

Harry went sliding down the path, clutching at the wet bushes to check his progress.

“Go back!” Clair screamed at him. “You’ll fall!”

Harry had anchored himself to the roots of a small tree, growing out of the cliff face. The path began to crumble under his weight.

“Help him!” Clair cried, leaning forward to peer up at the light shining down on her. “He’ll fall!”

“Don’t move,” Parkins shouted to Harry. “Hang on until we get the rope.”

A shower of stones and chalk came down on Clair as Harry’s feet suddenly slipped from under him. He swung out slowly away from the cliff face, his legs hanging in space, his hands supporting his weight, gripping the shrub, which began to bend.

Clair left the cave and began to climb towards him.

“I’ll hang on for you, Clair,” he shouted. “Come on, darling, well go together.”

“I’m coming,” she said, then stopped with a scream as the wind nearly sent her over. She looked down at the raging sea below and fell on her knees, her hands digging into the thick tufts of grass.

“Clair!” Harry shouted. “I can’t hang on much longer.”

But she didn’t look up or answer him.

Harry felt the shrub coming away from the cliff face. He tried to swing his legs back on to the crumbling path, but the extra strain was too much for the tree roots. He had a brief glimpse of Clair crouching on the path with the sea spray lashing her. He wondered about his unborn child. A second before the roots came away he prayed she would jump.

But she didn’t. She didn’t even see his fall. Blind with terror she was still crouching on the path when the rope arrived and Parkins went down to her.