An End and a Beginning Read Free Page B

pub or café, I expect——”
    â€œYou were, were you?”
    The policeman had gone mercilessly through the papers, then he made them into a tidy heap and returned them to the man.
    â€œThought you was begging, thought you might rifle the box.” His sudden loud chuckle surprised the man. “All right. I know. I understand. Tilseys. I know where Tilseys is. Write down the address for you.”
    He tore a sheet from his notebook. “Now then,” he said, directing as he wrote. “Take a 19a at the top of this street, tell the conductor to drop you at the corner of Richmond Street, just walk up on your left, and there it is. Simple, isn’t it? It’s a tearooms for old women, run by old women, never seen a man in the place yet, a lot of old spinsters go there, got religion bad they say, I wouldn’t know. But everything’s as sweet as sweet. There,” watching the hand tremble, “I’m no bloodhound, never was.” He drew clear of the box and the man came away from it.
    â€œGood luck, mate,” he said, and walked off down the street, then turned quickly and called, “and keep out of mischief, and you’ll be all right.”
    â€œAt last. Tilseys. I’ve found it.”
    â€œWhen one’s just out then another’s just in,” reflected the policeman.
    The window was covered with steam. Through it he had a blurred vision, the outlines of chairs and tables, a sickly-looking yellow light. He pushed open the door. The loud clang of the bell made him jump. He saw a line of hats and heads, and the air was alive with the brightest kind of chatter. There was a strong smell of toast and scones, and clouds of steam when teapot lids were raised. He saw feminine fingers stirring vigorously at the contents. A girl came up to him.
    â€œIs this Tilseys?” he asked, keeping the door open with his foot; he looked everywhere but at the girl.
    â€œThis is Tilseys,” she replied, and was quite astonished when he turned his back on her, and went out again. He banged the door after him, and made off for the narrow alley that was flanked by high buildings.
    â€œKeel Row,” he thought. “No, don’t remember Keel Row.” Slowly he retraced his steps. He passed a moneylender’s office, with heavy lettering on the bright, frosted glass. He passed a ship’s chandler, a saddler’s, a pawnshop, a draper. He opened the door again, and went inside. The air still hummed with conversation. The same girl came up again. He noticed her russet-coloured hair, her spotless linen apron.
    He was nervous, afraid to look at her. He spoke quickly. “An appointment, gentleman waiting to see me. Don’t know him. Begins with D.”
    He stared at her so intently that she backed away.
    â€œYes?”
    He had to bend down to speak. He whispered, “The name is Fury.”
    â€œOh! I see.” She paused, then said hurriedly, “Yes, I know. This way, sir.”
    She piloted him along between the tables and chairs. People kept looking up, the tongues had ceased to wag, the atmosphere became conspiratorial. The man smelt the freshly-ground coffee.
    â€œNow I’ll know who D is. Wonder who? Hiding,” he thought. “You could hide here,” and under his breath he exclaimed, “Safe.”
    â€œThis way, please.” They went upstairs, soundlessly, the carpet was inches thick, a bright red. They stopped at a door, a dark corridor, but the smell of toast and scones was everywhere. The girl looked back at him.
    â€œIt’s Mr. Delaney you want,” she said. “He’s in there. I’ll knock.”
    Her smile dazzled him. “Thank you.”
    â€œA Mr. Fury to see Mr. Delaney,” she said.
    There was a croak from within. “Come in.”
    They looked into the room. It was dark, stuffy, they saw nothing. “Mr. Delaney sees everybody here,” she whispered to the man.
    â€œDelaney,