1951 - But a Short Time to Live

by James Hadley Chase

  Lehmann nodded.

  "All right, Ricks, you get off. Be on the stage at two o'clock this afternoon."

  Harry badly wanted to ask Simpson if he wouldn't reconsider the monopoly clause, but his nerve failed at the last moment and he left the office.

  "Just my luck!" he thought as he walked down the stairs to the theatre foyer. "I daren't give up this steady job. I might never get another. I'll have to get rid of Mooney. That'll save me five pounds a week, and perhaps I can persuade Lehmann to pay Doris instead of leaving it to me."

  He went back stage where he found Mooney lolling in a chair talking to one of the stage hands.

  "I'd like a word, Alf," Harry said. He had been on "Alf terms with Mooney since they had exchanged places as employer and employee. Even now, it made Harry feel embarrassed to call Mooney by his first name.

  "What's biting you, kid?" Mooney asked, chewing his dead cigar. He waved the stage hand away with a lordly hand.

  Harry leaned against the wings and looked at Mooney unhappily.

  "The fact is, Alf. I can't afford to pay you out of my own pocket any more, I'm sorry, but getting married makes a difference."

  Mooney's eyes hardened.

  "Does it?" he asked. "What's this about Clair getting a job and earning thirty quid a week? I should have thought it would have made it easier."

  Harry reddened.

  "What Clair earns has nothing to do with it," he said. "I have to keep my end up, and I want every penny I earn now. I'm sorry, but you'll either have to accept the fiver Lehmann pays or look for something else. I can't afford any more to make up your money."

  "What do I do — starve?" Mooney asked politely.

  "You won't starve on five pounds a week, and — and . . ." Harry broke off uneasily.

  "Does Clair know about this?"

  "Leave Clair out of it! It's nothing to do with her. The fact is, Alf, you don't really pull your weight, and you know it. If I could get outside work I'd keep you on, but Simpson won't let me and won't give me a raise, so I have to cut somewhere."

  "I wonder why it is," Mooney said gloomily, "that as soon as there's a crisis I'm the poor bastard to suffer. Don't forget, Harry, if it wasn't for me, you wouldn't have this job. I won't believe you are so damned mean as to pass me up after all I've done for you."

  Harry floundered miserably. He hated this, and Mooney knew it. Mooney knew if he kept on long enough Harry would change his mind. He wasn't going to lose five pounds a week because Harry had been fool enough to marry an expensive wife.

  "It's not as if you need the money," he went on. "Clair'll be earning soon, and you'll have more than you know what to do with. You're not going to tell me you're going to make nearly fifty quid a week and are going to begrudge me a miserable fiver. I just don't believe it."

  Put like that it did seem petty and mean, and Harry felt ashamed of himself.

  "No, you're right, Alf," he said wearily. "Forget it, will you? It's just I hate the thought of Clair earning more than I do. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said it."

  Mooney relaxed back into his chair.

  "That's okay, kid," he said. "Think nothing of it. I knew I had only to point out where you were going off the rails. And that stuff about me not pulling my weight. That isn't true, you know. I'm plugging you every minute of the day. Why only just now I was telling that punk electrician what a smart guy you are. It pays to get talked about."

  "I suppose it does," Harry said, not caring if he were talked about or not. "Well, forget it, Alf. Now we've got to get busy. They're putting on a new show. I wonder if you'd run down to Kodaks and get an estimate for me. Mr. Simpson wants it. I'll write down the details."

  "What — me?" Mooney said, horrified.

  chapter twenty-three

  As Harry had foreseen, Clair made an immediate hit at the 22nd Club. She had insisted on doing her act in a mask and had been billed as The Masked Pickpocket. Only Harry knew why anonymity was necessary.

  She was taking no risk of being recognised by any of the men she had stolen from in the past who might happen to visit the night club.

  The mask added to her success. She became a subject for discussion and speculation, and the members of the club continually worried the maître d 'hotel to find out if she was as beautiful as her figure suggested she might be.

  Harry was astonished how at home she was on the stage. Her act wasn't an easy one. She had to move about the restaurant, pausing at tables, talking to the guests and picking their pockets. Then she would return the articles she had taken to the amusement of the onlookers. But the club members soon caught on to what she was up to, and were on their guard. In spite of that she invariably managed to take something belonging to them, and the act developed into a battle of wits which was another reason for its success.

  A month after her opening night, Clair returned to the flat at her usual time: a few minutes after one o'clock in the morning, and instead of undressing in the bathroom and creeping into bed as she usually did, she came bursting into the bedroom and woke Harry up.

  "Wake up, darling!" she exclaimed, sitting on the bed and turning on the bedside lamp. I've wonderful news!"

  Harry grunted, blinked and sat up.

  "You have — what?" he asked sleepily.

  "You'll never guess. I'm going into the new revue at the Regent!"

  "The Regent!" Harry exclaimed, now wide awake. "But Clair, do you want it? As well as the night club?"

  "Of course as well as the night club," she said, kissing him. "I shall be on at eight-thirty at the Regent, and I don't have to be at the 22nd until eleven o'clock. I can easily do it."

  "I suppose you can," Harry said, and dropped back on his pillow. "Well, darling, if it's what you want then I'm very glad for you."

  "It's what I want for both of us. We're really going places now, Harry! I've signed a contract. A hundred and fifty a week for the two jobs! Think of it! And Val says I can claim at least thirty a week expenses, and that'll be tax free of course. Isn't it marvellous?"

  Well, of course it was marvellous, but Harry felt stunned and dismayed, although he made an effort to appear enthusiastic as he watched her undress and listened to her plans.

  She danced around the room, shedding her clothes, looking radiant and happy: happier than he had ever seen her, and it grieved him that it was through her own efforts and not his that this had happened.

  "We'll see about another flat right away," she said as she slipped into her nightdress. We're not going to live in this pokey hole another week. Allan says there's a flat in Park Lane that might suit us. They only want fifteen pounds a week for it, and it's furnished."

  Allan? So she was now on Christian name terms with Simpson. A girl could get on so much faster than a man if she played her cards properly, Harry thought dejectedly. He had worked for Simpson for nearly a year and was still just an employee.

  "And we're going to get rid of the Jaguar," Clair went on as she put cold cream on her face.

  "Maurice told me this afternoon he has a 1950 Cadillac just come in. He wants fifteen hundred for it, but I know I can beat him down. Think, Harry, a Cad! Won't it make Allan sit up? I just can't wait to get it," and she came running across the room to jump into bed and hug him.

  By now Harry was in despair. The gap between their incomes was a yawning chasm. It was hopeless to think of catching her up. A hundred and fifty against fifteen!

  "We must be sensible about this, Harry," she said, her head on his shoulder. "I know how you feel about it. I know you hate me making money. You've never used a penny of mine, and you've just got to change your ideas. You've got to make up your mind to use it until you get on your feet I've been talking to Val about you. He thinks you would do better if you worked on your own. And that's what I want you to do. Don't renew your contract. Val says they'll give you the same amount of work anyway, and they'll have to pay you more. You'll be able to do other work too. What do you think, darling? Don't you think it would be sensible not to re
new?"

  "But I mightn't make a go of it," Harry said, doubtfully. "Simpson might get someone else on contract. It's cheaper that way. After all, I renewed I'd be sure of fifteen pounds a week."

  "But what's fifteen pounds?" Clair asked impatiently. "On your own you might make hundreds."

  "But I might not. One of us has to be a bit cautious."

  "Oh, but you're too cautious. For a whole year we can be independent on my money. It's your chance to experiment. Can't you see that? I want you to set up a studio in the West End. I'll finance you, Harry. Then by the time my act's stale, you'll be in a position to take over. Isn't that the sensible thing to do?"

  Well, put like that, it was, of course, but Harry was reluctant to take the risk, and still more reluctant to accept Clair's money.

  "I have to think of Mooney," he said, groping for an excuse to refuse her help without hurting her.

  "If I give up my contract he won't be paid by the theatre, and I couldn't afford to pay him ten pounds a week out of my own money."

  "Mooney?" Clair was scornful. "He's absolutely useless. It's about time you got rid of him. I've been watching him. He doesn't do a thing to help you. He just lolls around and pinches the chorus's bottoms. You've put up with him long enough, Harry. It's time he went'

  "But I can't do that," Harry said, shocked. He visualised Mooney's hurt expression and the endless arguments. "After all, it was through him — "

  "Oh, bosh! He didn't even know you were taking his photograph. He has no claim on you whatsoever. You leave him to me. I know how to handle him. And Harry, will you look for a likely studio? I'll help you, of course. I'm sure Jenny Rand will recommend you if you ask her. And Val will too. I'm sure you'll make a go of it."

  "I don't think I had better," Harry said, torn between the desire to set up on his own and the safety of another year's contract. "Something might happen. You might get ill or something, and then we'd be thankful to have a steady income."

  "Oh, Harry, you're impossible! But I do love you so," Clair said. "I do want things to go right for you. Please don't be so cautious. We'll never get anywhere at this rate. We haven't much time. We'll be old before we know where we are. If we don't do something now, it'll be too late. I may not want to go on with my act for years and years, and think how wonderful it would be if you were established in business, and we had nothing to worry about. Now is the time. We can afford to take risks. I have a year's contract. In that time you can get thoroughly established. It's the only thing to do. You've got to do it."

  "Well, all right," Harry said, still doubtful. "Anyway, I'll think about it."

  But while he was thinking about it Clair acted. A few days later she told him she had found a studio in Grafton Street, and they were going to look at it right away. She had also seen and approved of the flat in Park Lane. In spite of the high rents of both places, she bullied and bustled Harry into signing the agreements.

  The studio was just his idea of what a studio should be, but the rent appalled him.

  “What does it matter!" Clair said. "It's worth it. What's seventeen pounds a week when you have an address like this? We can afford it, and before long you'll be making ten times that amount."

  "But there's the flat as well," Harry said, distracted. "Do you realise we'll be paying out over thirty pounds a week on rents alone? We'll have to earn more than sixty a week to pay it with income tax as it is. We shouldn't take the flat, Clair. We should stay in Kensington."

  "Oh, nonsense. It's going to be all right. Faint heart, Harry, darling. It's a short life, and it's going to be a merry one. Do stop worrying."

  But it was enough to make anyone worry, Harry thought, to see the way Clair threw her money about. She bought the Cadillac, and was paying two hundred a month for it. She spent pounds on clothes.

  She had something like a hundred and twenty pounds a month to find for rents as well as living expenses.

  Now they had the luxury flat in Park Lane she was continually giving parties, and the drink bill was enormous.

  The studio haunted Harry. Thanks to Clair's determined efforts and to Jenny Rand's recommendations he did have a fair amount of work to do, but after Doris's salary and the rent had been paid there was very little left for him. In fact he was several pounds worse off than when he was with Simpson.

  Mooney had gone into the dry cleaning business. After Clair had talked to him he mournfully took leave of Harry. Harry hadn't been there when Clair told Mooney he must go, and Mooney was so quiet and dismal when he said good-bye, Harry guessed Clair hadn't minced her words.

  "You're making a big mistake, kid," Mooney said. "To give up a safe job with Simpson for the risky business of working on your own is just foolishness. Well, I don't suppose you'll want to listen to an old man. No one ever does. But don't forget, if you ever get into a mess, come and see me. If there's one thing I'm good at, it's getting out of a mess. If ever you want a job, let me know. I might be able to fix you up in this dry cleaning racket. The guy I'm working for has a good business, but he's mean with his money." Mooney sighed. "I wonder why I'm always running into mean people? He's giving me six quid a week, and for that I have to manage a shop and three girls." He grimaced. "And they're as ugly as sin too. Well, so long, kid. No hard feelings. I know it's not your fault. That girl of yours is as hard as stone, but she's going to get places. When you don't care who you trample on, you usually land up at the top. But watch her; she loves you now; make sure she keeps on loving you."

  When Simpson's revue opened at the Regent, Clair made a hit She had already made a name for herself at the 22nd, and the newspapers were kind to her, but the credit for her success was due to her own hard work and talent.

  Harry saw very little of her. He went to the studio just after nine o'clock when she was still sleeping. They had supper together when he returned home. But immediately after the meal she had to get ready for the theatre, and when she returned from the night club he was asleep. The only day they had together was Sunday, and then usually Clair entertained in the evening. She often bemoaned the fact that they saw each so seldom.

  "Perhaps it won't be for long," she said one evening as she dressed for the theatre. "Perhaps the studio will make a fortune and I can chuck the stage. I wouldn't mind not having anything to do for a change. This routine of going every night to the Regent and then on to the 22nd is beginning to bore me. After all, it'd be fun to have an evening off sometimes. How are things going, Harry?"

  Things weren't going too well.

  "Mind you, it takes time," Harry said defensively. "But the overheads are killing. And then I have terrific competition. Look at the number of photographers there are around me, and they're established. Simpson is giving me less and less work to do. Of course I know the show is running now, but when I was under contract with him he was always finding me jobs. Now I only get an occasional portrait. I'm sure he didn't like me turning down that contract. If it wasn't for you I don't believe I'd get anything from him."

  Clair's face hardened.

  "Why didn't you tell me before? I'll talk to him. Val promised it wouldn't make any difference."

  "Better not. You don't want to get into his bad books. He's a funny customer."

  "So am I," Clair said. "He's not going to get away with it."

  "Don't you think we should ease off spending for a bit?" Harry said abruptly. "I've been looking at the bank statement. We've only fifty pounds in the account. Did you know?"

  "There's another hundred and fifty coming in on Friday," Clair said indifferently. "Why worry?"

  "But, darling, we haven't put anything aside yet for income tax, and there's the installment to meet on the car. The tax will be horrific. We must start saving for that."

  "Let them whistle for it," Clair said, and laughed. "You worry too much. I must run, Harry. What are you doing tonight?"

  "Oh, I'll read," Harry said, shrugging. "There's not much else to do."

  "I tell you what," Clair said. "We'll buy a television
set. We ought to have one, and that'll help pass the time for you. I'll see about it tomorrow."

  "You'll do nothing of the kind!" Harry said, jumping to his feet. "This reckless spending has got to stop, Clair! We can't go on and on having everything we want like this. I don't want a television, and if you got one I wouldn't look at it!"

  She stared at him in surprise.

  "All right, darling, don't get heated about it," she said, and threw her arms round his neck. "I only thought you might like it'

  "I don't want it," Harry said, curtly. "It's worrying me stiff we'll get into debt as it is."

  "Oh, Harry, darling, what a fuss-pot you are. What's it matter if we do get into debt? Everyone does, so what?"

  "Well, I'm not going to," Harry said. "Now you'd better run along or you'll be late."

  She kissed him, pressing her face against his.

  "You're not unhappy, are you?" she asked anxiously.

  He forced a smile.

  "No, only—"

  "You don't regret marrying me?"

  "Why Clair

  "Perhaps you do?"

  "No, I don't, but I sometimes wonder if you have regrets," he said frowning. "I'm such a damned dud beside you."

  "You're not!" Clair kissed him again. "You're having a bad time now, but it'll come all right. You see, your luck will change. Cheer up, Harry. I love you lots. Say you're happy."

  "Yes, I'm happy."

  He watched her from the window as she entered the huge, glittering car, and then when she had driven away, he turned and sat down and looked bleakly before him. He wasn't happy. He hated this kind of life. Their standard of living, the reckless way she spent her money and the approaching income tax demand preyed on his mind.

  He thought of Ron Fisher, and remembered what he had said the night he had told him about his first meeting with Clair.

  He could hear Ron's quiet voice as if he were in the room: "I don't want you to get mixed up with a glamour girl: they always spell trouble sooner or later. I know. I thought I was being smart when I married Sheila."