Реймонд Маршалл - The Paw in the Bottle

‘It’s all right now,’ she said. ‘Is there anything else I can do for you?’

He startled her asking, ‘How old are you, Julie?’

‘Twenty-one,’ she told him, wondering why he should ask. ‘And pretty?’

She blushed.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Gerridge says you are and I believe he is a good judge. It’s just occurred to me I shouldn’t be here alone with you. I should have thought of it before. Mrs. Wesley wouldn’t like it.’ He fidgeted with his dressing-gown cord. ‘But I don’t feel inclined to get dressed again and go to my club. I suppose I should, but I’m not going to. All the same I think it would be better not to say anything to Mrs. Wesley that I spent the night here. I shall say nothing and I’ll be glad if you don’t.’

‘Oh, no,’ Julie said, realizing at once that Blanche would be utterly filthy if she knew. ‘I won’t say anything.’

‘Thank you.’ He was unmoved and not in the least embarrassed. ‘It’s a lot of nonsense really, but — well, there it is. You’d better get off to bed now.’

‘Are you sure there’s nothing else I can do for you?’ Julie asked.

‘There is one thing you can tell me before you go,’ he said, and smiled. ‘Did Mr. Benton come here while I’ve been away; Mr. Hugh Benton, my partner?’

Julie nearly said yes, but something in the way he was sit-ting, the way his hands suddenly became still, warned her to be careful. She remembered with a feeling of shame that she had accepted Benton’s hush money.

‘No,’ she said, and hated herself for lying. ‘No one’s been here.’

‘I see.’ He seemed to relax and sank further back into the arm-chair. ‘All right. Good night, Julie. Turn off the light, will you, please? I don’t need it.’

It seemed odd to leave him sitting in the chair in complete darkness: odd and rather sad.

Harry Gleb lit a cigarette and threw the match with unnecessary violence into the grate.

‘It’s no good bawling at me,’ he said sharply. ‘She won’t play. I’ve done what I could, but nothing doing. She walks out to-morrow.’

Mrs. French eyed him. Her face was set and cold.

‘She’s got to stay. We’ll never get another chance to put a girl in there. I know Blanche Wesley. If she walks out, we’re sunk.’

Harry shrugged helplessly.

‘I’ve done my best. I can’t make the girl stay if she’s made up her mind to quit, can I?’

‘The trouble with you is you’re soft,’ Mrs. French said harshly. ‘You ought to have taken the little bitch by the scruff of her neck and given her a damn good hiding. That’s what she wants. She’d do what she’s told if you handled her right.’

Harry scowled at her.

‘I’m not beating women up. I don’t stand for it. We’ll have to think of something else.’

‘Can’t you get into your thick head there is nothing else we can do?’ Mrs. French barked. ‘I’ll talk to her.’

‘You won’t!’ Harry snapped. ‘I tell you it’s no good. Leave the girl alone.’

Mrs. French looked at him intently.

‘You’re not going soft on her, are you, Harry?’

That was the last thing Harry wanted Mrs. French to suspect. He was scared of her. She knew too much about him for safety. There was Dana, too. Mrs. French was expecting him to marry her daughter. If she thought he was going soft on Julie there would be trouble. He didn’t trust her. She might do anything — shop him to the bogies.

‘Don’t talk wet,’ he said. ‘Of course I’m not. She means nothing to me. I just won’t stand for violence. You know that.’

‘It won’t come to violence,’ Mrs. French said. ‘I’ll talk to her. Maybe I’ll threaten her, but nothing more. She’ll behave after I’ve talked to her.’

Harry didn’t like this, but he was scared to protest too strongly.

‘All right, but keep your hands off her. I won’t stand for it, Ma. I’m warning you.’

‘You shove off,’ Mrs. French said curtly. ‘When I want to see you again, I’ll send for you. The job’s still on. Our plans stand. She’ll do what she’s told.’

‘Okay,’ Harry said uneasily, and moved to the door. ‘But don’t touch her. I mean it.’

Mrs. French didn’t reply. When he had gone, she stood thinking. Then she picked up the telephone, dialled a number and waited.

Theo came on the line.

‘Who is it?’ he asked in his nasal whine.

‘Come round here,’ Mrs. French ordered brusquely. ‘I’ve a job for you.’

‘What’s up now? It’s late. I was going to bed.’

‘Harry’s gone soft on the Holland girl. She’s being difficult. I want you to have a little talk with her.’

‘That’s different,’ Theo said cheerfully. ‘That’s not a job, that’s relaxation. I’ll be right over,’ and he hung up.

Theo sat on a park bench, opposite Park Way, his hands in his pockets, his velour hat tilted to the back of his head. A limp cigarette hung from his mouth and the smoke from it curled up into the still air, making him screw up one eye.

It was early; a few minutes to nine o’clock, and Theo was alone in this part of the Park. Except for an occasional bus there was nothing to look at, but Theo was quite happy to sit in the sunshine. Most of his life had been spent doing nothing; standing at street corners, his mind blank, his body resting. He disliked any kind of activity, regarding it only as a means to an end. And when Gerridge came out of Park Way and climbed into the waiting car, Theo sighed. He knew before very long he would have to get busy. Wesley came out some minutes later. The porter at the door guided him to the car, slammed the door and the car drove away.

Theo stubbed out his cigarette, got to his feet. As he entered the vast hall of Park Way, the porter stepped out of his office and eyed him coldly.

‘And what do you want?’ he demanded suspiciously.

‘Going up to see my sister,’ Theo said. ‘Maid at 97. Any objection?’

The porter was suspicious. Theo could see that.

‘Give her a ring if you don’t believe me,’ Theo went on. ‘Tell her it’s her brother, Harry.’

‘Don’t tell me what to do,’ the porter snapped. ‘I don’t know if Mrs. Wesley would like this.’

‘Tell her, too,’ Theo said, grinning. ‘Tell everybody. Let the newspapers in on it. Spread yourself, pal, I’m in no hurry. I want you to be happy about this.’

The porter turned red. He felt he was making a fool of himself.

‘You hop up quick, then,’ he said. ‘Go on and see her; and don’t stay long. I don’t want the likes of you in here.’

‘Didn’t think you would; that’s why I came,’ Theo said.

He slouched over to the automatic lift, opened the door, stepped in, slammed the lift door and pressed the button to the fourth floor.

He leaned against the side of the lift as it shot up between the floors, and lit a cigarette.

‘I’ve got to make it snappy,’ he thought, ‘or else the old blister might be up to see what’s going on.’

He rang the bell of 97, and waited.

Julie opened the door.

‘Hello, Jane,’ Theo said. His hand shot out. His open palm fitted under her chin and he gave her a violent shove, sending her reeling into the lobby. He followed her in, closed the door, raised his fist threateningly.

‘Don’t squawk. I’ve come from Ma French.’

Julie backed away. She saw before her a short, stocky youth (he couldn’t have been more than nineteen) with untidy black hair that fell over his ears and on to his greasy coat collar. His round, fat face was pasty and his eyes were close-set and cruel. There was something horribly vicious and spiteful about him.

‘Don’t get excited, Jane,’ Theo said, and smiled. His teeth were broken and green. ‘We’re going to have a little talk. Go in there. I want to sit down. I’m tired.’