1951 - But a Short Time to Live (8 page)

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

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

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

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

"I'm ready," he said. "What happened to him?"

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

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

"That's right,"

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

"I didn't catch anyone," the policeman returned. "The inspector's talking to Ricks now."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It's all right, Mr. Mooney. It's not half as bad as these chaps are trying to make out."

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

"He said he wanted you so we sent a constable round for you," he said to Mooney. "He's had a nasty crack on the head. By rights he should be in hospital." He looked at Harry and frowned at him.

"You can thank your stars you have a head like a flint stone, my lad," he went on. "Otherwise there'd have been a lot more damage."

Harry touched his forehead and winced.

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

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

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

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

Parkins smiled.

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

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

"That's a lot better," he said. "I wanted that badly."

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

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

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

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

"No, I've still got it, but I lost the roll of film."

Mooney heaved a sigh of relief.

"That doesn't matter. It was the camera I was worrying about."

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

"That's right," Harry said, sipping his tea.

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

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

Parkins looked at Dawson who shook his head.

"Well, he's a new one to us, but we're anxious to catch him," Parkins said, turning back to Harry.

"He's been doing quite a lot of bashing lately. He uses a bicycle chain. When you get that plaster off you'll see the marks. We've had three or four people in here recently with the same marks on their faces. In their case it's been robbery, but somehow I don't think it was robbery in your case. I think you took his photograph, probably without knowing it, and he knocked you out to get the film."

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

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

"You're sure of that?"

"Absolutely."

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

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

"No," he said, and unable to meet Parkins's steady stare, looked away. "No one objected."

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

"There's nothing to think about," Harry said curtly. "No one objected."

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

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

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

Parkins looked at him for a long, uncomfortable moment

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

Harry felt his face redden.

"Yes, I'm sure," he said. "But if I think of anyone I'll let you know."

Parkins rose to his feet

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

"Oh, yes," Harry said grimly. "I'd know him anywhere."

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

"All right," Harry said, and got unsteadily to his feet,

Mooney took his arm.

"I'm right with you, kid," he said. "Take it easy and lean on me."

When they had gone, Parkins stared thoughtfully at Dawson.

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

chapter ten

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Aren't you pleased to see me?"

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

"How are you?"

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

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

"He's an awful liar," Harry said hastily. "You mustn't believe a word he says."

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

"Mind?" Harry said. "No, I don't mind. I don't mind a bit."

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

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

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

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

"But, look, Clair — I suppose I may call you Clair?"

She smiled.

"You may. But look — what?"

Harry struggled to sit up.

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

"You mean you don't want me?" she asked, and her eyes hardened. "Do you want me to go?"

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