The Tiger in the Well (33 page)

She stood behind the open door, next to the wall, and held her breath, conscious of the sharp, hot smell of the snuffed candle. In the silence, the lift doors clattered open, and someone stepped out into the room.

Earlier that evening, a meeting had taken place in the hall of the Whitechapel Ethical and Temperance League. This was a body so high-minded that it believed censorship was abhorrent, and would hire out its premises to anyone, even if they wanted to advocate the force-feeding of infants with stolen whiskey.

The members of the Ethical and Temperance League had done a lot of deploring in their time—taking their visitors* money while wringing their hands over the regrettable things they were saying—but they had their work cut out that night, for Mr. Arnold Fox was on the platform.

He was addressing a meeting on the subject of alien immigration, as if he ever spoke on anything else. The audience knew what they were going to get, but no one minds having a prejudice confirmed; and he was in good form, his high, rich voice throbbing with sincerity as it told them how noble they were, how rich and pure was their English stock.

But they liked it best when he got onto how low and verminous were those outside, how filthy their habits, how rotten their bodies with every sort of disease. That was what the audience had come for, and the loathsome, subhuman life forms seemed to throng and gibber in the air as he described them: those red-rimmed eyes, those rotten teeth, those greasy locks, those fleshy noses, that foul stench. . . . The audience sighed and shivered with delicious horror.

Then he excited them even more.

"Purity!" he throbbed. "Purity ... an English girl's birthright, an English rose's most precious possession, the holy temple of her womanhood, her most sacred jewel—ravished! Torn asunder! Plundered and defiled by these bestial monsters of lust and every kind of depravity. ..."

There's nothing like sex for steaming people up. It always works.

At the back of the crowded hall, a dark-eyed man with a cloth cap and a gray muffler stood and watched. Not the speaker—he'd seen him plenty of times before; he was

watching the audience, and he didn't hke the craziness Fox was summoning up. He turned to the man beside him and said softly, "Call 'em off, Dick. Breaking up an ordinary meeting's one thing, but these people are going mad. Best thing tonight is find out all we can. Watch him—listen—trail him. See who's paying. But no violence."

"The boys are ready for it, Mr. Goldberg," said the other man.

"Then unready them," said Goldberg, his dark eyes cold. "Can't you see the stewards.? Didn't you see the coppers outside.'* Which would you rather—be reckless and lose, or be clever and win.'' Don't bother to answer; you'd get it wrong. Just do as I say. I'll fix him, you'll see."

The other man nodded mournfully and slipped away to pass on Goldberg's message. Goldberg turned back to the platform, only to feel his sleeve tugged on the other side. He looked around to find the slight, anxious figure of a young man in spectacles.

"Reuben Singer.'*" he said quietly, under the rant of Fox and the ugly clamor from the audience. "You're Katz's apprentice, aren't you.'' What are you doing here.'' This is dangerous!"

''You re here, Mr. Goldberg, and there's a price on your head."

"I'm used to it. And don't say my name aloud again. Come on, what do you want.''"

"It's the woman with the child. Mr. Katz thought you ought to know, but no one could find you."

Goldberg's eyes suddenly blazed, and Singer shrank back slightly under the intensity of his expression.

"What about her.'* Have they found her.'"'

"No. She's left the child at the Katzes'; Rebecca Meyer's looking after her. Miss Lockhart's disguised herself and gone to spy on the Tzaddik—working as a housemaid. They couldn't persuade her not to. And of course they didn't know ..."

Singer expected dismay or fury; so when a broad smile of mischievous admiration spread across Goldberg's face, the young man was disconcerted.

"What a girl!" said Goldberg. "Magnificent! Who'd have thought of that.'"'

"But doesn't it make our plans more difficult.-^"

"Considerably. It means we'll have to get her out. If only she has the sense to go carefully. ..."

And it was winter again in Goldberg's face. Singer wished he wouldn't do that; you couldn't expect to go about disguised if your face was that expressive. What was more, the men nearby had heard them whispering through the rant from the platform and were turning to stare.

But Goldberg was equal to that. Beaming with rapture at the starers, he turned his face to Arnold Fox, nodding and clapping his hands together softly in silent ecstasy.

He's mad, Singer thought. Like the English ^rl Lockhart; she must be mad too. . . .

Sally didn't move. The footsteps moved slowly away from the lift—toward the door she was hiding behind—^and stopped.

A voice said in English: "Do the servants clean down here.'"'

It was not a voice Sally knew; German, she thought, precise and prim. But she knew the next voice.

"Of course not," said Michelet. "They are forbidden to come here, Herr Winterhalter."

The secretary, Sally thought.

"You clean it yourself.'*"

"That is so."

"Not very well, I observe. You have dropped candle grease on the floor."

"I have never used a candle down here. It must have been the workmen."

"Mr. Lee will not be pleased. See to it at once."

Sally prayed that the wax would have hardened by now and wouldn't give her away.

After a moment Michelet spoke again.

"May I ask, Herr Winterhalter, has Mr. Lee made provision for a nursemaid?"

"A nursemaid?"

"For the child. If she is to be kept down here, she will need someone to attend to her. I am merely inquiring."

"Not your concern, Michelet."

"I beg your pardon, Herr Winterhalter, it is precisely my concern. The care of every aspect of Mr. Lee's personal life is in my hands. If this child is to become part of the household, and introduced into a . . . well, some kind of relationship with Mr. Lee, it is my duty to make sure that she does not—for instance—die of neglect or starvation."

"She will be fed. Do not be ridiculous."

"And by whom.?"

"One of the servants. It does not matter. Her training will be in my hands."

Sally could hardly breathe. This was Harriet they were talking about. . . .

"No doubt you know best, Herr Winterhalter," said Michelet silkily.

"I do. Do not concern yourself with the matter. It is not in your province."

"The care of Mr. Lee is my province."

"The regulation of the household is mine."

"The regulation of that animal is my concern. No one can manage it but me. The child must be mine as well."

"Yours?"

The single word was loaded with contempt. Sally stood horrified; some bargain was being struck—some disposal of her own daughter was being argued over—but what it was, she daren't think.

"Yes! Mine. If she is to replace that animal—to feed him, wipe his mouth, wash him—those are my responsibilities. It must be / who trains her. Only / know how to do it. And he will back me up!"

"You think so?"

"I know it!"

"He has told me to assume authority. There is no disputing it. I am in charge."

"You know nothing. All you know is correspondence, business, money. He does not want a little ape-secretary; he wants something to replace that monkey when it dies. A little charming creature who will feed him, clean him, hold his cigarettes, please him. / know those arts. You do not. She must be mine to train."

"Too late, Michelet. Mr. Lee himself will confirm what I say. The training of the child will be in my hands."

"Impossible!"

"Certain."

"You will destroy her with your demands."

"These things are scientifically determinable. The precise] degrees of pain, punishment, reward are known and calcu-j lated. There are tables, charts. Nothing will be left to chance,] or instinct, or sentimentality, or whatever qualities you could] manage to bring to it. And remind me, Michelet—^what was] the offense for which you served three years in prison.-^"

Silence.

"I think children came into that, did they not.''" the secretary went on. "It was something, at any rate, that would] make it undesirable to let you have charge of a child. Vei well, we understand each other. There is no more to be said. Stand aside, please, and let me look in the other room."

The light moved toward the door and stopped in the doorway, inches away from Sally as she stood holding her breath behind the door.

"Will this be the child's bedroom.''" Michelet asked, his voice quiet now.

"Possibly." The secretary sniffed. "Strange. There is thej smell of a candle here."

He moved into the room. Sally could see him clearly; ii he'd turned around he would have seen her. He touched a| wall, looked at his fingers, dabbed them on a handkerchief in his pocket, turned back.

Sally kept her head still, the hood shading her face.

Winterhalter moved back to the door and through into the other room.

"The paint is not quite dry yet. The doors will have to remain open until the smell is gone. Give me the key, please."

A jingle of keys, and a moment or two later the clatter of the lift doors opening. Then the sighing of the hydraulics, and the light vanished as the lift moved upward.

Sally felt a stream of perspiration trickle down her back. She wanted to lean against the wall, but dared not because of the paint; instead she sank to her knees and let her head rest on the cold floor till she stopped trembling.

Think about it later, she told herself. Get back to bed first.

After waiting for what felt like a long time, she got to her feet and felt for the door. The darkness was complete. Striking a match was out of the question: she'd have to feel her way out of the cellar, risk the crossing of the hall, and get back up the servants' staircase. Supposing the paint was dry, and he'd locked the door. . . .

It took her the best part of an hour. As she closed the green baize door behind her out of the hall and set foot on the first steps, she heard a church clock strike two. She was cold, bone weary, and aching in every limb from the day's hard work and the effort of not making a noise.

Only three flights of stairs now. She reached the top of the first, turned to go up the next—and her heart slammed into her ribs with fear.

Someone was standing there, waiting for her.

He struck a match. In its flare she saw the plump, greedy face of Michelet.

"So it was you," he whispered. "Louisa. The naughty Louisa. Well, mademoiselle, you had better come to my room, hadn't you.'* We will have a nice conversation. I look forward to it very much indeed."

NO JUWES

Once inside his room, he struck another match and lit a lamp. Then without any warning he seized her and kissed her full on the mouth. She could taste cigarettes, Parma vi- i olets, eau de cologne.

He was holding her awkwardly. Her neck was twisted; she couldn't breathe. She pushed him away and gasped.

"Quiet," he hissed. "Mr. Lee is only next-door. His hearing is very acute. Well.'' What is your explanation?"

"My explanation, sir.?"

"Of how you came to be in the cellar. You may count yourself very lucky I did not give you away to that imbecile Winterhalter."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, sir. I didn*t know there was a cellar. I've just been down to the kitchen—to the icebox, sir. To put some ice on my head, because it was aching so. I know I shouldn't have done, but it was unbearable. I don't know who Mr. Winter ... I just don't know what you mean, sir."

His eyes were narrow.

"You were there. I saw the match you threw in the library fireplace, and I saw the drop of wax on the steps. Winterhalter missed that. And what about this.'"'

He lifted her cloak. On the hem was a vague smear that might have been white paint.

"I did that in the post office this morning; they'd just painted the walls. . . . Why are you questioning me like this, Mr. Michelet.?"

11

II

She tried to look innocent, puzzled, hurt. At the same time she let her cloak fall open slightly at the throat. She saw his eyes move there and thought for the first time that she might be able to get away with it.

He let the hem fall and reached up slowly to her jaw. He tilted her chin up and stroked his fingers down her neck to the hollow at the base of her throat. She willed herself to keep still as he traced the length of her collarbone from left to right and back again.

She saw that his eyes were becoming glazed, and coughed slightly, as if she felt ill.

"Please, sir ..." she whispered.

"Louisa, you have been a bad girl," he said in a low, soft voice, almost as if he were mesmerized. "You must not tell me lies. What did you hear him say down there.''"

"I didn't hear no one, sir—honest."

Steeling herself, she put one hand timidly on his chest. He seized it and crushed it to his mouth, and then pulled her to him a second time and ran his hands down her sides under the cloak. She was trembling: Let him think it's nervousness, she thought. He couldn't suspect it was loathing.

"Oh, Mr. Michelet . . . please may I go to my bed, sir.'"' she whispered into his ear. "Another time . . .I'm not well, sir."

"Louisa," he said, and his voice was thick. "You're beautiful. One more kiss."

He pressed his mouth on hers, busily working away like a greedy child with a sweet. She held her breath, making herself loose and passive and doll-like. Presently he stopped.

"Soon," he said, and his eyes were lost. She'd never seen a man so nearly at the edge of his control, but she sensed his fear, too, holding him back: fear of Winterhalter, fear of Lee, fear even of her.

Because he really wasn't sure now whether she'd heard them or not. And he couldn't afford to guess.

He pushed her away. He was clearly the kind of man to like his women frightened, nervous, unwilling. If she had

offered herself blatantly, he'd have turned away with loathing. She must let him think that he was the masterful pursuer and she was the timid victim.