“No, I don’t mind.”
“That’s fine. How do you like it here?”
“Not very much,” Julie said truthfully.
“I suppose Mrs. Wesley has been up to her tricks?”
“She has.”
“The usual practical jokes : stuffed snakes, shutting you in the safe?”
Julie stared at him.
“How did you know?”
“Oh, she tries it on everyone. She’s tried it on me. I was locked in that damned safe for ten minutes. I thought I was going to die.”
“Well, I don’t intend to stay here much longer,” Julie said firmly. “She dangerous.”
“Oh, but you must stay. You won’t mind Mrs. Wesley once you get used to her. She leaves you alone after a bit. Never bothers me now. And you’ll like Wesley. He’s a first-rate chap.” Julie leaned against the sink, quite ready now for a gossip. “I can’t imagine how he could have married her,” she said. “She wasn’t always like this, you know,” Gerridge said.
“When they first met she was the rage of London and she was really marvellous. She swept him off his feet. She knew he had bags of money, and she took advantage of him from the very start. She not only chiselled a fat settlement out of him (she’s squandered every penny of that now) but she also persuaded him to agree that if the marriage broke up she was to have another large sum of money. I think he’s pretty sick about that settlement now. As far as she’s concerned it’s heads I win, tails you lose, and she behaves just as she likes.”
“But why doesn’t he give her the money and get rid of her?”
“He can’t afford to. He’s working on an invention that’ll halve the cost and fitting time of pilotless flying equipment and he’s sunk every penny into the research. He just couldn’t afford to pay her off, and she knows it.”
“I think it’s terrible,” Julie said, shocked. “And to be blind as well.”
“Yes,” Gerridge shook his head. “He had a big disappointment this week. A French specialist thought he could operate successfully on his eyes. That’s why we went to Paris.” He glanced at his watch, whistled, slid off the table. “I must be back. I said I’d only be away five minutes. I’ll be seeing you again.”
Later, when Julie was in bed, she heard Gerridge call, “Good night,” and she started up, thinking he was calling to her. She liked Gerridge, and smiled to herself when she realized he was speaking to Wesley. She heard the front door close and it occurred to her she was now alone in the flat with Wesley.
“Well, that’s nothing to worry about,” she thought. “He’s safe. If it’d been Benton I should be scared stiff, but Wesley . . .”
She was dropping off to sleep when a sudden crash of breaking glass startled her awake. She listened, then jumped out of bed, slipped on her dressing-gown.
“He must have had an accident,” she thought, alarmed and went quickly down the passage to Wesley’s room, listened outside the door. She heard movements and she knocked.
“Who’s there?” Wesley asked, then, “Oh, come in, Julie.”
She opened the door. He was standing in the middle of the room, in dressing-gown and pyjamas, and looked helplessly in her direction. He still wore the disfiguring black-lensed glasses, and she found herself wishing he would take them off. At his feet was a smashed tumbler, the contents of which made a dark pool on the carpet.
“Hello, Julie,” he said, with a rueful smile. “Come to rescue me?”
“I heard—” she began, stopped short when she saw blood running down his hand. “Oh! You’ve cut yourself.”
“The damn thing slipped out of my hand, and when I tried to clear it up I dug a bit of glass into my finger.”
“I’ll get a bandage,” Julie said, glad to help him. She quickly brought a first-aid outfit from Blanche’s bathroom. “If you’ll sit down I’ll fix it for you.”
“Thanks.” He groped about, muttered under his breath, “Where’s the chair? I seem to have lost my bearings.”
She took his arm and led him to a chair.
“It’s sickening to be so helpless,” he said as he sat down. “I don’t know what I should have done if you hadn’t come.”
Not knowing quite what to say, and feeling ill at ease, she remained silent. She stopped the bleeding and wound on a bandage. “I’ll put a fingerstall on, then you won’t have any trouble,” she said.
“That’s very nice of you. Were you asleep?”
“Oh, no,” Julie said, as she slipped a wash-leather fingerstall over the bandage and fastened the tape round his wrist. “Is that comfortable?”
“It’s fine.” He flexed his fingers. “Have I made an awful mess?”
“It’s all right, but I’ll clear it up.”
She fetched a dustpan and brush, swept up the pieces of glass and wiped the stain with a cloth.
“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.
II
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.
III
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.”
Terrified, Julie backed into the lounge. Theo slouched in after her, looked round and grunted.
“Pretty good, isn’t it? Fancy wanting to leave a joint like this.” He eyed her speculatively. “You do want to leave, don’t you?”
“I’m going,” Julie said weakly. “And no one’s going to stop me.”
“I am,” Theo said, and flopped into an arm-chair. “Get the weight off your feet, Jane. Me and you’s going to have a little talk.”
Julie made a dash for the telephone, but before she could reach it, Theo had left his chair, grabbed hold of her and swung her round. As she opened her mouth to scream, he smacked her face. She staggered back with a thin wail of pain and fear, over-balanced and fell on her hands and knees.
“Next time you’ll get my fist,” Theo said. He caught hold of her arm, dragged her up and shoved her roughly into a chair. “What’s the matter with you? Want to get hurt?” Julie began to cry weakly. Satisfied she’d give no more trouble, Theo went back to his arm-chair.
“You’re going through with this job or there’ll be a load of grief coming your way,” he told her. “I don’t want any arguments. If you won’t play with Harry, you’ll play with me.”
“I won’t!” Julie sobbed. “I’ll tell the police! I won’t do it!” Theo laughed.
“That’s what you think,” he said, and took out a limp wallet from his pocket and produced three grimy photographs. “Ere, take a look at these. I pinched them from a police photographer. Real life pitchers. They’ll interest you.”
Julie flinched away.
“I’m not going to look at anything,” she said wildly. “If you don’t go .
“Do you want me to hit you again, you silly mare?” Theo asked, leaning forward. “Look at ‘em or I’ll bash you.”
He threw the photographs into Julie’s lap. She caught a glimpse of disfigured faces and she swept the photographs to the floor with a shudder.
“Pick ‘em up and look at them,” Theo said, getting to his feet. “I’m not going to tell you again.”
Slowly Julie bent down and her fingers touched the photo-graphs, lifted them. She looked at them, her face twisted into a horrible grimace.
“That’s vitriol,” Theo said. “Smashing pitchers. Proper life-like they are. I knew that bride. Her name’s Emmy Parsons. She’s a tart. A nigger did that to her. She wasn’t a bad-looking bride before she got splashed. “Ere, keep looking at ‘em. I haven’t finished yet. That other bride’s Edith Lawson. Fooled around with another bride’s man, so she got splashed. See that? And this other one. Got a proper basin, didn’t she? Slap in the puss. She was a real smasher. Used to work in a café in Leicester Square, but she talked too much. A bloke came in one night, ordered a cuppa coffee, and as she ‘anded it to him he splashed “cr. I was there at the time.” Theo grinned. “She made a noise like a train going through a tunnel. And listen, Jane. The cops never found out who done it. They wouldn’t find out if it happened to you. And it’s going to happen if you don’t play ball with us.”
Julie shivered, dropped the photographs. The sight of the women’s disfigured faces filled her with cold dread. No other threat could have been more effective.
Theo tapped her shoulder.
“Look, this is the stuff.” He held between finger and thumb a little green bottle. “I carry it around, see? And don’t think you can run away and hide. I’m good at finding people. From now on I’m going to watch you. One move out of turn and you’ll get it. Keep your mouth shut and do what you’re told and you’ll be all right. But start something we don’t like and you’ll kiss your looks good-bye. Understand?”
“Yes,” Julie said.
“Right. Well, that’s all for this time, Jane. No more nonsense. We want to know how the safe opens by Wednesday. No excuses. Wednesday, or I’ll be along and I’ll shake you up again. Meet us at the Mayfair Street office at eight o’clock, Wednesday. If you’re not there, you’ll be sorry. Understand?”
“Yes,” Julie said.
“Okay. Now where’s the bathroom?”
She didn’t know why he should want the bathroom, but she was too dazed and frightened to think clearly. She pointed. “Through there.”
“Come on, that’s where we’re going.”
“I don’t want to . . .”
“You’re going to start a lot of trouble for yourself if you don’t get out of that habit, Jane,” he said. “Come on.”
She stumbled down the passage to the bathroom with him at her heels. She had a presentiment that something horrible was going to happen to her, but there was nothing she could do about it.
“Nice joint,” Theo said, closing the bathroom door. “Everything laid on. Almost a pleasure to keep clean. Okay, Jane, just stand by the bath, will you?”
She cringed away from him.
“Please leave me alone,” she implored him. “I’ll do anything : don’t touch me.”
“Don’t be a silly mare,” he said, grinning. “You got me outa bed three hours before my time. You’ve mucked up my morning. Brides don’t do that to me.”
“Please . . .”
“And you don’t either, you -—” The obscenity petrified her.
“See how you like this.” He aimed a light blow at her face so she brought up her hands. Then he hit her viciously in the pit of her stomach.
“Didn’t want you to sick over any nice carpet,” he explained with a cruel little grin, and as she crumpled to the floor and began to retch he sidled out of the bathroom and shut the door.
The Paw in The Bottle Page 9
