it in his pocket and between the Minister’s stiffened fingers he inserted a scrap of paper. Raven had little curiosity; he had only glanced at the introduction and the nickname at its foot conveyed nothing to him; he was a man who could be depended on. Now he looked round the small bare room to see whether there was any clue he had overlooked. The suitcase and the automatic he was to leave behind. It was all very simple.
He opened the bedroom door; his eyes again photographed the scene, the single bed, the wooden chair, the dusty chest of drawers, a photograph of a young Jew with a small scar on his chin as if he had been struck there with a club, a pair of brown wooden hairbrushes initialled J.K., everywhere cigarette ash: the home of an old lonely untidy man; the home of the Minister for War.
A low voice whispered an appeal quite distinctly through the door. Raven picked up the automatic again; who would have imagined an old woman could be so tough? It touched his nerve a little just in the same way as the bell had done, as if a ghost were interfering with a man’s job. He opened the study door; he had to push it against the weight of her body. She looked dead enough, but he made quite sure with the automatic almost touching her eyes.
It was time to be gone. He took the automatic with him.
2
They sat and shivered side by side as the dusk came down; they were borne in their bright small smoky cage above the streets; the bus rocked down to Hammersmith. The shop windows sparkled like ice and ‘Look,’ she said, ‘it’s snowing.’ A few large flakes went drifting by as they crossed the bridge, falling like paper scraps into the dark Thames.
He said, ‘I’m happy as long as this ride goes on.’
‘We’re seeing each other tomorrow – Jimmy.’ She always hesitated before his name. It was a silly name for anyone of such bulk and gravity.
‘It’s the nights that bother me.’
She laughed, ‘It’s going to be wearing,’ but immediately became serious, ‘I’m happy too.’ About happiness she was always serious; she preferred to laugh when she was miserable. She couldn’t avoid being serious about things she cared for, and happiness made her grave at the thought of all the things which might destroy it. She said, ‘It would be dreadful now if there was a war.’
‘There won’t be a war.’
‘The last one started with a murder.’
‘That was an Archduke. This is just an old politician.’
She said: ‘Be careful. You’ll break the record – Jimmy.’
‘Damn the record.’
She began to hum the tune she’d bought: ‘It’s only Kew to you’; and the large flakes fell past the window, melted on the pavement: ‘a snowflower a man brought from Greenland.’
He said, ‘It’s a silly song.’
She said, ‘It’s a lovely song – Jimmy. I simply can’t call you Jimmy. You aren’t Jimmy. You’re outsize. Detective-sergeant Mather. You’re the reason why people make jokes about policemen’s boots.’
‘What’s wrong with “dear”, anyway?’
‘Dear, dear,’ she tried it out on the tip of her tongue, between lips as vividly stained as a winter berry. ‘Oh no,’ she decided, ‘I’ll call you that when we’ve been married ten years.’
‘Well – “darling”?’
‘Darling, darling. I don’t like it. It sounds as if I’d known you a long, long time.’ The bus went up the hill past the fish-and-chip shops: a brazier glowed and they could smell the roasting chestnuts. The ride was nearly over, there were only two more streets and a turn to the left by the church, which was already visible, the spire lifted like a long icicle above the houses. The nearer they got to home the more miserable she became, the nearer they got to home the more lightly she talked. She was keeping things off and out of mind: the peeling wallpaper, the long flights to her room, cold supper with Mrs Brewer and next day the walk to the agent’s, perhaps a job again in the provinces away from
He opened the bedroom door; his eyes again photographed the scene, the single bed, the wooden chair, the dusty chest of drawers, a photograph of a young Jew with a small scar on his chin as if he had been struck there with a club, a pair of brown wooden hairbrushes initialled J.K., everywhere cigarette ash: the home of an old lonely untidy man; the home of the Minister for War.
A low voice whispered an appeal quite distinctly through the door. Raven picked up the automatic again; who would have imagined an old woman could be so tough? It touched his nerve a little just in the same way as the bell had done, as if a ghost were interfering with a man’s job. He opened the study door; he had to push it against the weight of her body. She looked dead enough, but he made quite sure with the automatic almost touching her eyes.
It was time to be gone. He took the automatic with him.
2
They sat and shivered side by side as the dusk came down; they were borne in their bright small smoky cage above the streets; the bus rocked down to Hammersmith. The shop windows sparkled like ice and ‘Look,’ she said, ‘it’s snowing.’ A few large flakes went drifting by as they crossed the bridge, falling like paper scraps into the dark Thames.
He said, ‘I’m happy as long as this ride goes on.’
‘We’re seeing each other tomorrow – Jimmy.’ She always hesitated before his name. It was a silly name for anyone of such bulk and gravity.
‘It’s the nights that bother me.’
She laughed, ‘It’s going to be wearing,’ but immediately became serious, ‘I’m happy too.’ About happiness she was always serious; she preferred to laugh when she was miserable. She couldn’t avoid being serious about things she cared for, and happiness made her grave at the thought of all the things which might destroy it. She said, ‘It would be dreadful now if there was a war.’
‘There won’t be a war.’
‘The last one started with a murder.’
‘That was an Archduke. This is just an old politician.’
She said: ‘Be careful. You’ll break the record – Jimmy.’
‘Damn the record.’
She began to hum the tune she’d bought: ‘It’s only Kew to you’; and the large flakes fell past the window, melted on the pavement: ‘a snowflower a man brought from Greenland.’
He said, ‘It’s a silly song.’
She said, ‘It’s a lovely song – Jimmy. I simply can’t call you Jimmy. You aren’t Jimmy. You’re outsize. Detective-sergeant Mather. You’re the reason why people make jokes about policemen’s boots.’
‘What’s wrong with “dear”, anyway?’
‘Dear, dear,’ she tried it out on the tip of her tongue, between lips as vividly stained as a winter berry. ‘Oh no,’ she decided, ‘I’ll call you that when we’ve been married ten years.’
‘Well – “darling”?’
‘Darling, darling. I don’t like it. It sounds as if I’d known you a long, long time.’ The bus went up the hill past the fish-and-chip shops: a brazier glowed and they could smell the roasting chestnuts. The ride was nearly over, there were only two more streets and a turn to the left by the church, which was already visible, the spire lifted like a long icicle above the houses. The nearer they got to home the more miserable she became, the nearer they got to home the more lightly she talked. She was keeping things off and out of mind: the peeling wallpaper, the long flights to her room, cold supper with Mrs Brewer and next day the walk to the agent’s, perhaps a job again in the provinces away from
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