He pushed the glass inner door: it was ajar – he flashed his hand automatically to his pocket, but of course he had no gun. The light was out, but somebody was there: he could hear the breathing, not far from the aspidistra. He himself was exposed in front of the door, with the street lamp beyond. It was no good moving – they could always fire first. He took his hand out of his pocket again, with his cigarette case in it. He tried to stop his fingers shaking, but he was afraid of pain. He put a cigarette in his mouth and felt for a wax match – they mightn’t expect the sudden flash on the wall. He moved a little way forward and suddenly struck with the match sideways. It scraped against a picture frame and flared up. A white childish face sailed like a balloon out of the darkness. He said, ‘Oh, God, Else, you gave me a fright. What are you doing there?’
‘Waiting for you,’ the thin immature voice whispered. The match went out.
‘Why?’
‘I thought you might be bringing her in here. It’s my job,’ she said, ‘to see that clients get their rooms.’
‘That’s nonsense.’
‘You kissed her, didn’t you?’
‘It wasn’t a good kiss.’
‘But it’s not that. You’ve got a right. It’s what she said.’
He wondered whether he had made a mistake in giving her his papers – suppose she destroyed them, out of jealousy? He asked, ‘What did she say?’
‘She said they’d kill you, sure as eggs is eggs.’
He laughed with relief. ‘Well, we’ve got a war on at home. People do get killed. But she doesn’t know.’
‘And here . . .’ she said, ‘they’re after you too.’
‘They can’t do much.’
‘I knew something awful was happening,’ she said. ‘They’re upstairs now, talking.’
‘Who?’ he asked sharply.
‘The manageress – and a man.’
‘What sort of a man?’
‘A little grey man – with steel spectacles.’ He must have slipped out of the cinema before them. She said, ‘They were asking me questions.’
‘What questions?’
‘If you’d said anything to me. If I’d seen anything – papers. Of course I was “mum”. Nothing they could do would make me talk.’ He was moved with pity by her devotion. What a world to let such qualities go to waste. She said passionately, ‘I don’t mind their killing me.’
‘There’s no danger of that.’
Her voice came shivering out from beside the aspidistra. ‘She’d do anything. She acts mad sometimes – if she’s crossed. I don’t mind. I won’t let you down. You’re a gentleman.’ It was a horribly inadequate reason. She went mournfully on, ‘I’d do anything that girl’ll do.’
‘You are doing much more.’
‘Is she going back with you – there?’
‘No, no.’
‘Can I?’
‘My dear,’ he said, ‘you don’t know what it’s like there.’
He could hear a long whistling sigh. ‘You don’t know what it’s like here.’
‘Where are they now?’ he asked. ‘The manageress and her friend?’
‘The first-floor front,’ she said. ‘Are they your – deadly foes?’ God knew out of what twopenny trash she drew her vocabulary.
‘I think they’re my friends. I don’t know. Perhaps I’d better find out before they know I’m here.’
‘Oh, they’ll know by now. She hears everything. What’s said on the roof, she hears in the kitchen. She told me not to tell you.’ He was shaken by a doubt: could this child be in danger? But he couldn’t believe it. What could they do to her? He went cautiously up the unlighted stair: once a board creaked. The staircase made a half-turn and he came suddenly upon the landing. A door stood open; an electric globe, under a pink frilly silken shade, shone on the two figures waiting for him with immense patience.
D. said gently, ‘Bona matina. You didn’t teach me the word for night.’
The manageress said, ‘Come in and shut the door.’ He obeyed her – there was nothing else to do; it occurred to him that never once yet had he been allowed the initiative. He had been like a lay figure other people moved about, used as an Aunt Sally. ‘Where have you been?’ the manageress demanded. It was a bully’s face; she should have been a man, with that ugly square jaw, the shady determination, the impetigo.
He said, ‘Mr K. will tell you.’
‘What were you doing with the girl?’
‘Enjoying myself.’ He looked curiously round at the den – that was the best word for it. It wasn’t a woman’s room at all, with its square unclothed table, its leather chairs, no flowers, no frippery, a cupboard for shoes. It seemed made and furnished for nothing but use. The cupboard door was open full of heavy, low-heeled, sensible shoes.
‘She knows L.’
‘So do I.’ Even the pictures were masculine of a kind. Cheap coloured pictures of women, all silk stockings and lingerie. It seemed to him the room of an inhibited bachelor. It was dimly horrifying, like timid secret desires for unattainable intimacies. Mr K. suddenly spoke. He was like a feminine element in the male room; there were traces of hysteria. He said, ‘When you were out – at the cinema – somebody rang up – to make you an offer.’
‘Why did they do that? They should have known I was out.’
‘They offered you your own terms not to keep your appointment to-morrow.’
‘I haven’t made any terms.’
‘They left the message with me,’ the manageress said.
‘They were quite prepared, then, that everybody should know? You and K.’
Mr K. squeezed his bony hands together. ‘We wanted to make sure,’ he said, ‘that you still have the papers.’
‘You were afraid I might have sold them already. On my way home.’
‘We have to be careful,’ he said, as if he were listening for Dr Bellows’ rubber soles. He was dreadfully under the domination even here of the shilling fine.
‘Are you acting on instructions?’
‘Our instructions are so vague. A lot is left to our discretion. Perhaps you would show us the papers.’ The woman didn’t talk any more – she let the weak ones have their rope.
‘No.’
He looked from one to the other – it seemed to him that at last the initiative was passing into his hands; he wished he had more vitality to take it, but he was exhausted. England was full of tiresome memories which made him remember that this wasn’t really his job: he should be at the Museum now reading Romance Literature. He said, ‘I accept the fact that we have the same employers. But I have no reason to trust you.’ The little grey man sat as if condemned with his eyes on his own bitten finger-tips; the woman faced him with that square dominant face which had nothing to dominate except a shady hotel. He had seen many people shot on both sides of the line for treachery: he knew you couldn’t recognise them by their manners or faces: there was no Ganelon type. He said, ‘Are you anxious to see that you get your cut out of the sale? But there won’t be a cut – or a sale.’
‘Perhaps, then, you’ll read this letter,’ the woman suddenly said: they had used up their rope.
He read it slowly. There was no doubt at all of its genuineness; he knew the signature and the notepaper of the ministry too well to be deceived. This, apparently, was the end of his mission – the woman was empowered to take over from him the necessary papers – for what purpose wasn’t said.
‘You see,’ the woman said, ‘they don’t trust you.’
‘Why not have shown me this when I arrived?’
‘It was left to my discretion. To trust you or not.’
The position was fantastic. He had been entrusted with the papers as far as London: Mr K. was told to check up on his movements before he reached the hotel but was not trusted with the secret of his mission: this woman seemed to have been trusted with both the secret and the papers – but only as a last resort – if his conduct were suspicious. He said suddenly, ‘Of course you know what these papers are.
’
She said stubbornly, ‘Naturally.’ But he was sure that, after all, she didn’t – he could read that in her face – the obstinate poker features. There was no end to the complicated work of half-trust and half-deceit. Suppose the ministry had made a mistake . . . suppose, if he handed the papers over, they should sell them to L. He knew he could trust himself. He knew nothing else. There was a horrid smell of cheap scent in the room – it was apparently her only female characteristic – and it was disturbing like scent on a man.
‘You see,’ she said, ‘you can go home now. Your job is finished.’
It was all too easy and too dubious. The ministry didn’t trust him or them or anybody. They didn’t trust each other. Only each individual knew that one person was true or false. Mr K. knew what Mr K. meant to do with those papers. The manageress knew what she intended. You couldn’t answer for anybody but yourself. He said, ‘Those orders were not given to me. I shall keep the papers.’
Mr K.’s voice became shrill. He said, ‘If you go behind our backs . . .’ His underpaid jumpy Entrenationo eyes gave away unguardedly secrets of greed and envy. . . . What could you expect on that salary? How much treachery is always nourished in little overworked centres of somebody else’s idealism. The manageress said, ‘You are a sentimental man. A bourgeois. A professor. Probably romantic. If you cheat us you’ll find – oh, I can think up things.’ He couldn’t face her; it was really like looking into the pit – she had imagination. The impetigo was like the relic of some shameful act from which she had never recovered. He remembered Else saying, ‘She acts like mad.’
He said, ‘Do you mean if I cheat you or cheat our people at home?’ He was genuinely uncertain of her meaning. He was lost and exhausted among potential enemies; the further you got away from the open battle the more alone you were. He felt envy of those who were now in the firing line. Then suddenly he was back there himself – a clang of bells, the roar down the street – fire-engine, ambulance? The raid was over and the bodies were being uncovered; men picked over the stones carefully for fear they might miss a body; sometimes a pick wielded too carelessly caused agony. . . . The world misted over as in the dust which hung for an hour about a street. He felt sick and shaken; he remembered the dead tom-cat close to his face: he couldn’t move: he just lay there with the fur almost on his mouth.
The whole room began to shake. The manageress’s head swelled up like a blister. He heard her say, ‘Quick! Lock the door,’ and tried to pull himself together. What were they going to do to him? Enemies . . . friends. . . . He was on his knees. Time slowed up. Mr K. moved with appalling slowness towards the door. The manageress’s black skirt was close to his mouth, dusty like the cat’s fur. He wanted to scream, but the weight of human dignity lay like a gag over his tongue – one didn’t scream, even when the truncheon struck. He heard her say, ‘Where are the papers?’ leaning down on him. Her breath was all cheap scent and nicotine – half female and half male.
He said apologetically, ‘Fight yesterday. Shot at to-day.’ A thick decisive thumb came down towards his eyeballs: he was involved in a nightmare. He said, ‘I haven’t got them.’
‘Where are they?’ It hovered over his right eye; he could hear Mr K. fiddling at the door. Mr K. said, ‘It doesn’t lock.’ He felt horror as if her hand as well as her face carried infection.
‘You turn it the other way.’ He tried to heave himself upwards, but a thumb pushed him back. A sensible shoe trod firmly upon his hand. Mr K. protested about something in low tones. A scared determined voice said, ‘Was it you who rang, ma’am?’
‘Of course I didn’t ring.’
D. raised himself carefully. He said, ‘I rang, Else. I felt ill. Nothing much. Ambulance outside. I was buried once in a raid. If you’ll give me your arm, I can get to bed.’ The little room swung clearly back – the boot cupboard and the epicene girls in black silk stockings and the masculine chairs. He said, ‘I’ll lock my door to-night or I’ll be walking in my sleep.’
They climbed slowly up to the top floor. He said, ‘You came just in time. I might have done something silly. I think after to-morrow morning we’ll go away from here.’
‘Me, too?’
He promised rashly, as if in a violent world you could promise anything at all, beyond the moment of speaking. ‘Yes. You, too.’
[3]
The cat’s fur and the dusty skirt stayed with him all the night. The peace of his usual dreams was hopelessly broken: no flowers or quiet rivers or old gentlemen talking of lectures. He had always, after that worst raid, been afraid of suffocation. He was glad the other side shot their prisoners and didn’t hang them – the rope round the neck would bring nightmare into life. Day came without daylight; a yellow fog outside shut visibility down to twenty yards. While he was shaving Else came in with a tray, a boiled egg and a kipper, a pot of tea.
‘You shouldn’t have bothered,’ he said. ‘I would have come down.’
‘I thought,’ she said, ‘it would be a good excuse. You’ll be wanting the papers back.’ She began to haul off a shoe and a stocking. She said, ‘O Lord, what would they think if they came in now?’ She sat on the bed and felt for the papers in the instep.
‘What’s that?’ he said, listening hard. He found he dreaded the return of the papers. Responsibility was like an unlucky ring you preferred to hand on to strangers. She sat up on the bed and listened too; then the footsteps creaked on the stairs going down.
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘that’s only Mr Muckerji – a Hindu gentleman. He’s not like the other Indian downstairs. Mr Muckerji’s very respectful.’
He took the papers – well, he’d be free of them very soon now. She put on her stocking again. She said, ‘He’s inquisitive. That’s the only thing. Asks such questions.’
‘What sort of questions?’
‘Oh, everything. Do I believe in horoscopes? Do I believe the newspapers? What do I think of Mr Eden? And he writes down the answers too. I don’t know why.’
‘Odd.’
‘Do you think it’ll get me into trouble? When I’m in the mood I say such things – about Mr Eden, anything. For fun, you know. But sometimes it gets me scared to think that every word is written down. And then I look up sometimes and there he is watching me like I was an animal. But always respectful.’
He gave it up: Mr Muckerji didn’t concern him. He sat down to his breakfast. But the child didn’t go; it was as if she had a reservoir of speech saved up for him – or Mr Muckerji. She said, ‘You meant what you said last night about us going away?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Somehow I’ll manage it.’
‘I don’t want to be a burden to you.’ The novelette was on her tongue again. ‘There’s always Clara.’
‘We’ll do better for you than Clara.’ He would appeal to Rose again. Last night she had been a little hysterical.
‘Can’t I go back with you?’
‘It wouldn’t be allowed.’
‘I’ve read,’ she said, ‘about girls who dressed up . . .’
‘That’s only in books.’
‘I’d be afraid to stay here any more – with her.’
‘You won’t have to,’ he assured her.
A bell began to ring furiously down below. She said, ‘Oh, he’s rightly called Row.’
‘Who is?’
‘The Indian on the second floor.’ She moved reluctantly to the door. She said, ‘It’s a promise, isn’t it? I won’t be here to-night?’
‘I promise.’
‘Cross your heart.’ He obeyed her. ‘Last night,’ she said, ‘I couldn’t sleep. I thought she’d do something – awful. You should ’ave seen her face when I came in. “Was it you who rung?” I said. “Of course it wasn’t,” she said and looked – oh, daggers. I tell you I locked my door when I left you. What was it she was up to in there?’
‘I don’t know for certain. She couldn’t do much. She’s like the devil, you know – more brimstone than bite. She can’t do us any harm if we don’t get
scared.’
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I tell you I’ll be glad to be off from here.’ She smiled at him from the door with joy; she was like a child on her birthday. ‘No more Mr Row,’ she said, ‘or the “short-timers” – no Mr Muckerji – no more of her for ever. It’s my lucky day all right.’ It was as if she were paying an elaborate farewell to a whole way of life.
He stayed in his room with the door locked until the time came to start for Lord Benditch’s. He was taking no chances at all now. He put the papers ready in the breast-pocket of his jacket, and wore his overcoat fastened up to the neck. No pickpocket, he was certain, could get at them; as for violence, he had to risk that. They would all know now that he had the papers with him. He had to trust London to keep him safe. Lord Benditch’s house was like home to a boy playing hide-and-seek in an elaborate and unfamiliar garden. In three-quarters of an hour, he thought, as a clock told eleven-fifteen, everything would be decided one way or another. They would probably try and take some advantage of the fog.
This was to be his route: up Bernard Street to Russell Square Station – they could hardly attempt anything in the Tube – then from Hyde Park Corner to Chatham Terrace – about ten minutes’ walk in this fog. He could, of course, ring up a taxi and go the whole way by car, but it would be horribly slow; traffic-blocks, noise and fog gave opportunities to really driven men, and he was beginning to think that they were driven hard by now. Besides, it was not beyond their ingenuity to supply a taxi themselves. If he had to take a taxi to Hyde Park Corner, he would take one from a rank.
He came downstairs with his heart knocking; he told himself in vain that nothing could possibly happen in daylight, in London: he was safe. But he was glad, nevertheless, when the Indian looked out of his room on the second floor; he was still wearing his frayed and gaudy dressing-gown. It was almost like having a friend at your back to have any witness at all. He would have liked to leave visible footprints wherever he walked, to put it incontestably on record that he had been here.