Реймонд Маршалл - The Paw in the Bottle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry hid a grin.

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

The woman’s eyes gleamed angrily.

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

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

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

Harry suppressed a shudder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He put his arm round her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry laughed good naturedly.

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

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

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

Harry sat down.

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

Mrs. French made an impatient gesture.

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

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

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

Theo cursed him under his breath.

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

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