Beggar’s Choice (5 page)

I
SOBEL

Please
, Car, don't hide.

I made a fool of myself over Isobel's letter. How she stands Miss Willy I never could make out. Any one else would have stopped trying to stand her years ago. I made a fool of myself because I daren't see Isobel again—I can't answer for myself. She must just think me a low brute who hasn't the manners to answer her. Of course I might write and tell her—No, you don't, you fool! If I wrote a single line to her, I should give myself away. I put her letter away. I meant to destroy it presently. I really did mean to destroy it—but not just at once—not till I'd got it by heart.

And then I took my letter for Box Z.10 and went out to look for Falcon Street.

It was a longish walk, and I had plenty to think about. Part of the time I thought about Fay, and what a knock-down blow it would be for Peter if she got run in—because he felt old Lymington's crash a good deal more than he let on, even to me, and if he were to get another facer over Fay, it might knock him out altogether. What fools women can be! Peter doesn't talk about things, but he feels them a lot. He doesn't write about Fay. I don't think he's mentioned her more than two or three times since he went out, but to my mind that only shows what he feels about her goes too deep down to talk about. Well, I thought about Fay and Peter, and I thought about Isobel's letter, and I wondered what she wanted to say to me. And I thought about my boots and how on earth I was going to get another pair, and I wondered whether Mrs. Bell would let me stay on for a week, and whether the advertisement about the five hundred was a take in. I thought there was bound to be a snag, but even if it only ran to five hundred pence, it would be worth having a shot at it. And then I thought a lot more about Isobel.

I hadn't any idea how to find Falcon Street. People who hadn't any more idea than I had told me to turn to the left and then to the right and keep straight on for half a mile and turn sharp to the left by the policeman. When you ask a man the way, he never says he doesn't know. I went a good bit out of my way after listening for about five minutes to an old gentleman with a beard and a string bag full of lettuce.

When I found Falcon Street, I didn't like the look of it very much. The houses were shabby, and most of them had dirty curtains in the upper windows. One end of the street had a sprinkling of brass plates, but most of the houses looked like cheap lodgings. At the other end were the sort of shops that serve that sort of street—a butcher, whose shop was pretty good propaganda for vegetarianism; a baker, with a window full of flies and wasps; and, bang on the corner, a flourishing looking public house.

The baker was 186, and the butcher 184, so I crossed over, and found the numbers on the other side all muddled up in the crazy way you sometimes find in a London street. The first I struck were 1, 2, 3; and I found that they were, properly, part of Falcon Crescent, which started round the corner. I worked back to 1, and next to it were 203 and 204—and goodness knows what they belonged to. Then I struck 186
A
, which was a little mixed sweet-shop, very grubby. And next to it there was a tobacconist with no number at all. Tobacconists always know everything, so I thought I'd go in and ask for 187 and the International Employment Exchange.

The shop was very dark and stiflingly hot, and thick with the smell of tobacco
cum
fish and chips. I should say at a guess that about six people had been eating fish and chips and drinking beer in some windowless lair opening off the shop. There were seven or eight men banked up between me and the counter, and a girl in a scarlet blouse and a lot of pearls was behind it. I got into a corner out of the way of the door and waited. As I hadn't come to buy, I thought I had better wait until the crowd cleared off. The bother was that it didn't seem to clear. Three of the men were young fellows, lads of the local village, and they were chaffing the girl and getting back rather better than they gave. Then there was a beery old man who said he hadn't got his right change, and a pal of his who was trying to persuade him that he had, and a very large man with a very soft voice who was trying to get the girl to listen whilst he told her what sort of pipe he wanted. The place was like an oven.

I had got out my handkerchief, and had begun to mop my face, when another man came in. He was a fat man in City clothes. He went through the crowd and up to the counter as if the place belonged to him. Perhaps it does. Anyhow the lads rather melted away, and the girl stopped giggling and went out through a door at the back of the shop. There was an appalling influx of fish and chips—so I was right about the lair. And then she came back with a little sallow greasy man with a diamond ring on his little finger and hair oil that I could smell through all the other things.

I worked round nearer the counter so as to try and catch the girl when the large man who wanted a pipe had said his piece. And as I stood waiting, I heard the fat City man ask,

“Any news?”

The other man said, “Not yet.” And then he said, “There hasn't been time—is there?”

I couldn't help taking notice of what they said, because the fat man looked so out of place in that beastly hole, and besides, I thought I knew his voice. He had his back to me, so I couldn't see his face. He turned his shoulder, leaned on the counter, and said,

“No, there hasn't been time—to-morrow would be the earliest—but did Benno …” His voice went away into a mumble and I lost the rest.

Fortunately the girl with the red blouse had stopped giggling. The large man was choosing his pipe as slowly and carefully as if his life depended on it. She was most awfully bored, and only said “Yes” and “No” between yawns.

The little man with the hair oil spread out his hands in an eager sort of way.

“Benno give it him—oh yes, he give it him nice—he shove it right into his hand—and there he stand and read it with all his eyes. Five hundred pounds! Something to read about—isn't it?”

He laughed, and I took out my handkerchief and began to mop my face again, and as I mopped it I edged backwards into the dark corner by the door. I didn't think I'd got to go any farther to find No. 187 and the International Employment Exchange. It seemed to me that I'd landed right in the middle of it, and I wanted pretty badly to hear some more about Benno and what he'd been up to. I got into the darkest place I could find and kept my handkerchief handy. And all the time I was puzzling about where I'd heard the fat man's voice, and whilst I was puzzling he took off his bowler and had a mop at his head with a silk handkerchief, and the top of his head was bald. That ought to have been a help, but for the life of me. I couldn't place him. I listened all the harder.

“Bound to rise—he's absolutely on his uppers. Now look here—it's just possible he may come in here. He's at a loose end, and he may get it into his head to come nosing around. If he does, you don't know anything—naturally.”

The little man spread out his hands again, and the diamond on his finger twinkled.

“Not a word. How do I know? If he come, I say nothing—I know nothing—I speak nothing—isn't it?”

The fat man put on his bowler and nodded. Then he beat with his hand on the counter.

“Now look here—that isn't all. If he does come, I want to know what he's looking like and how he speaks. I want you to be sharp. Get him into talk about anything you like and watch him a bit. I want to know how keen he is. You understand?”

The hands went out again.

“Yes, yes, yes—if he come, I see how he look. Hungry?” He threw an abominable cunning into his voice and looked knowingly out of screwed up eyes. “Yes, he will be hungry. Five hundred pounds is a good dinner! He will be hungry to swallow it—isn't it? Oh, my, my, my, my, my!” He began to laugh. “And not a word to the other—no, no, no!”

The man in the bowler lifted the flap of the counter and walked through.

“I want a word with you about that,” he said, and they went out through the door at the back of the shop, and as soon as they were gone I nipped out into the street and got round the corner.

I thought I had found the International Employment Exchange, and I thought I would post my letter even if it did cost me a penny halfpenny; for I had no manner of doubt that I had heard Hair-oil told to size me up, and I thought I wouldn't give him the chance.

VI

September
15
th
—Something has happened which I can't understand at all. I was too wild to write about it last night, but I'm going to put everything down to-day.

I posted my letter to the International Employment Exchange and came back to my room, where I made quite a decent supper of bread and cheese. I was just about ready for it, as I hadn't had anything since breakfast. I'm getting quite good at knowing how long one can go without it's being uneconomic in the long run. I suppose one really used to eat a great deal too much.

When I had finished my supper I opened the drawer where I had put Isobel's letter—and it wasn't there. That sounds awfully bald, but that's how I felt. It wasn't there. I felt as if I'd tried to take a step that wasn't there to take. You know how that brings you up short. I took everything out of the drawer—there wasn't much to take—but the letter wasn't there. Then I went through the other drawers, and every minute I was getting angrier because, although I felt bound to go on looking, I knew that the letter was gone, and that meant that some one had come into my room and taken it. I turned out everything I'd got, and I went through my pockets. But the letter was gone.

I went downstairs in a rage and tackled Mrs. Bell. At first she was as angry as I was, and said no one hadn't ever accused her of
thieving
. But after a bit she sobered down and was pretty decent about it in a sentimental sympathizing sort of way, so I had to beg her pardon, though I really preferred her being angry. I don't know why she should have thought it was a girl's letter, because of course I took care to say it was about business. She told me a long story about a letter she'd had from her husband before they were engaged, and how there was mischief made—“And you couldn't believe the artfulness, nor the perseveringness of that girl Maud. All was fish that came to her net, whether it was her own young gentleman or some one else's—and a bad end was what she did ought to have come to, instead of marrying the greengrocer and riding in her Morris car like a lady. Some folks have all the luck. And don't you never trust a red-haired girl, Mr. Fairfax. Sandy eyelashes too, she had.”

She's not a bad old thing. Just as I was going out, she called me back.

“What about that rent, Mr. Fairfax?” she said in a hesitating sort of voice.

I felt an awful brute.

“I haven't got it, Mrs. Bell.”

“Well, you'd give it me if you had—I know that.”

I thought I had better know the worst, so I asked her if she wanted me to go, but she flared up all over again, and said she wasn't a bloodsucker
nor
a thief, and folks that misjudged other folks would live to be sorry for it. And then she began to cry and talk about her son that was killed at Mons, and I patted her on the shoulder, and she said I was his living image—which I hope to goodness I'm not, because the photograph she's so proud of is pretty awful. And then she got to calling me “my dear,” and I escaped. She's an awfully good old soul.

On the way upstairs I met Fay. Her door opened just as I passed. She had on the green lace frock she was making yesterday, and I should think she'd used the best part of a box of make-up on her face. I can't think why. Her skin's good enough when she leaves it alone. She came out looking at me as if she wanted me to flirt with her. It didn't improve my temper. Women always seem to think they've only to look at you through their eyelashes, to get anything out of you that they want. It makes me wild. So I was going on; but then I thought of something, so I turned back.

“Did you come up to my room for anything whilst I was out?”

She began to put a sort of scarf thing over her head.

“Why should I?”

“I don't know. Did you?”

She looked over her shoulder.

“Would you have been sorry if you'd missed me?”

I suppose it was rude of me, but I said “No.” Fay wants whipping.

She whirled round in a rage.

“Thank you! How polite you are! Do you really flatter yourself that I should come running after you into your beastly attic?”

I said, “I wish you wouldn't talk nonsense. I can't think why you can't answer a plain question. I've lost an important letter, and if you'd been up to my room—”

She stamped her foot.

“Why should I come up to your room?”

“You might have wanted me—and you might have noticed the letter if I'd left it on the table.” Of course I knew I hadn't left Isobel's letter on the table. I knew I had put it in the right-hand top drawer of the chest of drawers.

Fay dropped being angry.

“Would you like me to come and pay you a visit?”

“No, I shouldn't.”

“Perhaps I will some day.”

It's no good talking to her when she's in that mood. I turned my back and went upstairs, and when I was about half way up I heard her run down into the hall so fast that I was afraid she'd break her neck. She didn't. She went out and banged the door as hard as she could.

I went back to my room, and when I opened the door something rustled. I bent down to look. There was a scrap of paper dragging along with the door—I could just see the edge of it. I got it out with a match and looked at it under the gas. It was a scrap of writing-paper with one word on it. The word was, “hide.” Isobel had written it. The piece of paper had been torn from her letter. I looked everywhere, but there were no more pieces. Some one had come into my room whilst I was out and torn up Isobel's letter. I didn't believe it was Mrs. Bell.