Bond Street Story (54 page)

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Authors: Norman Collins

BOOK: Bond Street Story
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“D'you like
Je reviens
?” he asked her suddenly.

It was the only real French that Marcia knew. That was because
Je reviens
was the scent that she always used.

Even in Sir Harry's accent she still recognized it.

“I ... I adore it,” she said.

“Like a bottle? A big one?” he asked.

“Definitely.”

“It's yours,” he told her.

And, as he said it, he cleared his throat for the unpleasant part that was coming. But it was not easy. He had left it too late. Marcia had gathered up her gloves and bag and was on the point of leaving.

“Thank you so much,” she was saying. “Thank you for a lovely lunch. And thank you for showing me your snaps. Thank you.”

It took Sir Harry some time to get her seated again. And, saying what he had to say, proved harder than he anticipated. He was missing his afternoon sleep. In consequence, his mind no longer seemed as clear as it had been. It was inclined to wander. He told Marcia that she was making a big mistake. He said that the one thing that counted with a woman was her reputation, adding that he was sorry that he hadn't met her when they were both younger. He warned her against lying tongues. He asked whether she'd prefer a lump sum or so much monthly. He offered
her a stereoscopic camera of her own if she'd promise to learn to use it properly. He said that no good ever came of trying to snatch at life. He advised her to go easy, and let the youngsters have their fling. He told her that she had the longest eyelashes he'd ever seen on a woman with the exception of an actress whose name began with the letter “L” which was all he could remember of it. He asked for a point-blank answer “yes” or “no,” was she prepared to do as he said, or wasn't she?

It would have been a difficult argument, even for eminent counsel to follow. For Marcia it was frankly impossible. The fact that he had entirely omitted to mention Mr. Rammell's name only made it harder. All the time he had been speaking, Marcia had simply been sitting there admiring him. Never in her life she realized had she been in the presence of a man so wonderfully vital, so dynamic. What he had been saying had been way above her head, she had to admit. But that was always the way of fearfully clever men. It was why she hadn't dared to interrupt him. Why, even now that he had apparently stopped, she couldn't think of anything to say except “thank you.”

But apparently it had been the right answer. Because Sir Harry seemed so pleased, even delighted, with her. He had poured himself out another drink and was sitting there beaming.

“Then what about me setting you up on your own somewhere?”

“Oh ... on my own?” The words sounded familiar and full of a vague foreboding.

“Little hat shop somewhere,” Sir Harry went on. “Or a beauty parlour. Choose your own site.”

“I ... I don't understand,” she said finally.

Not that Sir Harry was in the least put off by that.

“Don't you bother your head about the details,” he said. “Just leave all that to me.”

He was cutting himself another cigar as he was speaking. One of his big ones this time. He had a large cabinet, practically a chest-of-drawers, just beside him. And the cigar was certainly one of the very largest that Marcia had ever seen. As she looked, she realized that, in the sheer art of living, all the other men she had ever known were no better than amateurs. Whereas Sir Harry was a professional. From those beautiful, skin-tight shoes of his, right up to the neatly-cut white wings of hair on either side of the bald part, he exuded the authentic aura of well-preserved expensive maleness. Whatever it was that he wanted her to do, Marcia supposed that the sensible thing would be to do it.

“Of course, you'll need some pocket-money,” he said suddenly.
“No fun being without it. Better leave that side to me, too.”

“Thank you,” Marcia answered.

“And you'd better not go back there,” Sir Harry went on. “Only cause a scene. Just lie low for a bit. Till it all calms down.”

There was a pause.

“Till all what—?” Marcia began.

But Sir Harry was not listening. He had jumped up and gone over to pick up
The Times.
He went rapidly through the paper and then found what he wanted.

“That's it,” he said. “Solves everything. Why not have a breakdown?”

The fears, the forebodings, began to return to Marcia's mind. She allowed herself the nearest thing to a frown that would not cause permanent wrinkles on her forehead.

“A breakdown?” she asked.

Sir Harry gave a little laugh.

“Not a bad one,” he said. “You'll get over it. An ocean cruise is what you want. Something to put you on your feet again. What about three weeks in Bermuda?”

Marcia was so much behind him by now that she did not even attempt to catch up.

“It ... sounds divine,” was all she said.

“O.K., then,” Sir Harry said. “That's settled. I'll send the tickets round to you. And the hotel. Fix you up in a good one. Everything paid for. And a bit over,” he added, with a wink. “Quite a nice little bit. More than you're expecting.”

“Thank you,” Marcia said, dropping her eyes from his while she was speaking.

“In the meantime,” he went on, “just keep away from Bond Street. Don't answer the phone. Be out if anyone calls. And return any presents. Make a clean break. And you won't regret it.”

“Shan't I?” Marcia asked helplessly.

She was confused. Really confused by now. But what a wonderful man. So rich in experience of the world. And in the other way, too. Really rich, rich. It had been like living in another world just being with him. So different from his son. She could see how silly it was ever to have imagined that she was in love with Mr. Rammell. It hadn't been love at all. It had been pity. The pity of a truly loving woman who recognizes when a man is in need of someone. But nothing permanent could ever have been built on such a foundation. It was fatal. The kind of love that all too easily turns into contempt. With Sir Harry, on the other hand, it was sheer admiration that she felt. She admitted quite frankly that he
was her superior. Would be ready to worship openly at his feet for ever ...

Sir Harry was already on the phone to Mrs. Rammell.

“Just as I told you,” he was saying. “That's the end of that. Took it very well after I'd explained everything. Saw how hopeless it was. You can go on now just as though nothing'd happened. She'll be out of the country before he knows about it. Just the way I wanted it. Purely private. No scandal. Nothing in the papers.”

 

Chapter Fourty-three
1

By five-thirty there was still no Mr. Bloot. No reply from Artillery Mansions. And no reply from Hetty's little shop. That was what decided Mr. Privett to go round to Finsbury Park and find out for himself.

And it was Chick who opened the door to Mr. Privett when he got there. At least, half-opened, that is. He stood there, as no more than a thin strip of a man with his horseshoe braces showing, and peered suspiciously out into the narrow hallway.

“She's not in,” he said.

But Mr. Privett had no intention of being simply brushed off like that.

“It's not Hetty I want,” he said firmly. “It's Gus.”

Chick kept his shoulder up against the door. Even closed it ever so slightly.

“Not in either,” he told him.

“Has ... has he been in?” Mr. Privett asked.

“Not to my knowledge.”

“You ... you mean you haven't seen him?”

“That's what I said, isn't it?”

Mr. Privett paused.

“Did he come back here last night?”

But Chick did not seem inclined to prolong the conversation.

“How should I know?” he replied. “I don't live here, do I?”

It was this that made Mr. Privett put the direct question that he had been trying to avoid.

“Then what are you doing here now?” he asked.

“Comforting Hetty,” Chick told him.

And that was all. Before Mr. Privett could answer, he had shut the door in his face.

For a moment, Mr. Privett stood where he was. His hand went out towards the door. And then he checked himself. He had no wish to cause a scene. No more ringing. Or kicking at the panels of the door. Nothing like that. But he was already determined on his course of action. That was why he left so hurriedly. And, as soon as he reached the corner of Tregunter Road, he saw what he was looking for. A policeman. He went straight up to him, his voice trembling a little as he put his question.

“Could you tell me the way to the Police Station, please?” he asked. “I want to report a missing person.”

The policeman wasn't exactly the one that Mr. Privett would have chosen if there had been time to look around properly. Too young. And inexperienced. He knew where the station was. But he was doubtful about the procedure for missing persons. Seemed to think that forty-eight hours had to elapse before the police would do anything. And, even after forty-eight hours, he did not seem to know exactly what.

But Mr. Privett was all ready to see to that. When they heard his story they'd do something all right. And then Chick would
have
to open the door.

It was the thought of what the police would find when Chick opened it, that terrified Mr. Privett. He had read of murders in Finsbury Park before. Mr. Bloot wasn't by any means the fighting kind. Too much of a gentleman. Wouldn't raise a hand to defend himself even if Hetty suddenly attacked him. And with Chick there, too! Mr. Privett knew that violence was in Chick's line. Two against one, and Mr. Bloot wouldn't even have stood a chance ...

That was why Mr. Privett was so surprised when he reached the station to see Hetty herself coming out. And she made no attempt to avoid him. Nor did she have the air of a woman who has just been grilled. Questioned. Put through it. On the contrary, she was open. Forthcoming. And defiant.

“Well,” she demanded, “what have you done with him?”

“I ... I came round ...” Mr. Privett began.

But Hetty was away again. Practically accusing him.

“If you think you can hide him from me, you're wrong,” she said. “I'll find him all right, don't you worry. And he's going to get a piece of my mind when I see him. Going off like that all because of nothing.”

“D'you call his budgies nothing?” Mr. Privett asked.

Immediately Hetty rounded on him again.

“So he told you, did he?” Hetty asked. “That means you
have
seen him.”

“Not since last night,” Mr. Privett told her.

“What time?”

“About half past ten. He said he was on his way round to you.”

“Oh, was he indeed?” Hetty replied. “That was nice of him.” She paused for a moment, pondering on the significance of what she had just heard. And when she did speak it was obvious that the piece of information had deeply upset her.

“And next time you see him you can tell him to stay away, so far as I'm concerned,” she said. “Running round the corner to tell
somebody I'd let his blasted budgies out. I might have known it'd be you.”

“He was very upset,” Mr. Privett told her.

But Hetty was not prepared to listen.

“He'll be even more upset when he finds out what's coming to him,” she went on. “Biggest mistake I ever made was marrying him. You can tell him that, too. He's just a big lazy sponger, that's all he is. I can get on better without him.”

“Then why did you come round to the police station, if you don't want to find him?” Mr. Privett asked.

“Because I want to put myself in the right,” she answered. “If he's lost his memory or something, that's his affair. He'd better find it again. I don't want my name in the papers just because of him.”

Mr. Privett took a deep breath. Then he braced himself and faced up to her.

“I think you're being very cruel,” he said. “For all you know, he ... he might be dead.”

“Well, he can't be dead enough to suit me,” Hetty replied. “You can tell him that, too, when you see him.
And
with my compliments.”

It struck Mr. Privett after he had left her that he had never met any other woman whom he hated so much. It wasn't that she was bad looking. Just not his type. Too full. Too big-boned. But he was ready to concede that she was handsome. And even in her present distress she had not let herself go. She was wearing her big fur wrap. And a new hat that Mr. Privett hadn't seen before. No, it was nothing to do with appearances. It was what she had said about Mr. Bloot. Even if she hadn't killed him yet, he certainly wouldn't put it past her now. She was a hard and horrifying human being ...

Or just common, as Mrs. Privett contended.

“How he could ever have thought of marrying her, I don't know,” she said when Mr. Privett described the conversation. “I knew the first time I met her. Saw it at a glance. Common as dirt, that's what she is. He must have been out of his senses. Good riddance, I say.”

“If he's still alive,” Mr. Privett reminded her.

But Mrs. Privett was not inclined towards the gloomy view.

“Can you imagine Gus—?” she began, and then stopped herself. It wasn't so much that she was callous about it herself. Nothing like that. But she did know Mr. Bloot pretty well. Had
shouldered his troubles before this. And she had never known him to be exactly the impetuous kind.

But what had really stopped her was the time. That little jaunt to Finsbury Park had made Mr. Privett more than an hour late already. And, if they were planning to eat anything at all that evening, they might as well have it now before it was completely ruined.

The suspense, the awful feeling of not knowing what had happened, was too much for Mr. Privett. He refused to go to bed. Said that he would rather sit up all night just in case Mr. Bloot turned up suddenly and needed him. Then, Mrs. Privett pointed out that they'd heard him at the front door every other time he'd come, hadn't they? And Mr. Privett went reluctantly upstairs. But not to sleep. He lay first on his back with his hands folded under his head. Then he tried his right side. Then his left. Next he sat up, pulling all the bedclothes off Mrs. Privett. Then he tried lying on his back again. And finally he went downstairs to make himself some tea. That really woke him up. It was nearly three in the morning before he finally dozed off. And then only to dream of stabbings and suicide, bodies flung into wayside ditches or dropped overboard and left drifting pathetically out to sea ...

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