The Paw in the Bottle
- Автор: Чейз Джеймс Хэдли
- Год: 1949
- Язык: английский
- Год: Jarrolds
- Жанр: Криминальные детективы
Электронная книга - «The Paw in the Bottle». Краткое содержание книги:
‘I’ll see about that. And while we’re on the subject just how much money are you leaving me?’
‘I was wondering when you were going to ask that. I thought two thousand a year would be enough.’
She wouldn’t get another chance, she thought, and said, ‘Two thousand? After all I’ve done for you? I want more. I want much more. Who else have you to leave your money to? If it hadn’t been for me you wouldn’t be able to finish your precious work. Isn’t that worth more to you? I want five thousand.’
‘Don’t be childish.’
‘I want it and I mean to have it!’
He looked at her, contempt in his eyes.
‘Has it ever crossed your mind, Julie, that I could get rid of you very easily?’
Her anger went like the blowing out of a match flame.
‘Frightened?’ he went on. ‘When a man has committed one murder, a second one doesn’t increase his punishment. What could be easier and more convenient for me than to wring your wretched little neck?’
She backed away.
‘And sometimes, Julie, I feel it would give me such a lot of pleasure. Unfortunately, I don’t seem to be a killer by nature. You may believe it, but I am sorry for what I did to Blanche. She meant nothing to me in the end; she deserved to die, but not at my hands. I shall regret her death as long as I live. The only thing that matters in life, Julie, is peace of mind. That I haven’t got; nor have you. And don’t look so scared. You’re quite safe. I don’t want your death on my conscience and, besides, I don’t fancy touching you. The more I see of you, Julie, the more I realize what an unpleasant young woman you are.’
‘We’ll see about that,’ Julie said furiously. ‘You’ll be sorry for that. You see if you aren’t.’
Wesley laughed at her.
III
Benton sat in the bar of a shabby public house near Charing Cross station. He sipped whisky and stared at the small, wet rings that decorated the wooden top of the table beside which he was sitting. There was a bleak, unhappy expression in his eyes and his thin body was shivering.
He was finished, he told himself. The best way out would be to shoot himself. He had been telling himself this for the past two weeks, but he knew he hadn’t the courage either to kill himself or to face his creditors. He was like a man on a high tight-rope who has lost his nerve and knows that if he makes a move he will fall. He had made up his mind to keep out of the way and do nothing until something happened that forced him into action. He had left his flat in Dover Street and for the last four or five days he had wandered the streets, sleeping at a different hotel each night. He had thirty-five pounds in his pocket and when that had gone there was nothing. He owed a lot of money. He wasn’t sure how much he did owe, but he thought it might be something like twenty thousand pounds. It might be more and he didn’t think it could be less. If they got hold of him they would make him bankrupt. The disgrace of bankruptcy hung over him like a soiled cloak. He would have to give up his club. Ever since his father had made him a member he had never lost the feeling of pride that he had when he entered the dignified portals and had used the big, silent rooms for the first time. He clung fiercely to tradition, knowing there was nothing else to cling to. His school, his club, his flat and the fact his father had been a general were the highlights in his life. They meant more to him than anything else; they and, of course, Blanche. Now he had lost everything and his pale hatred centred on Wesley.
Benton was not a violent man. There was no primitive spark in him that could be flamed to murder. His hatred was spiteful and vindictive but not violent, and as he sat in this dirty little public house he perfected a plan of revenge. It didn’t cross his mind to wreak a physical revenge on Wesley. A blind man would be easy to injure or even to murder, but it would only afford a momentary satisfaction. He wanted something more subtle than that. He wanted Wesley to suffer as he was suffering.
He flicked away a speck of dust on his black overcoat. The gesture was unconscious, but revealed he had at last made up his mind. He could now think of something else besides Wesley, and the speck of dust had caught his eyes as his mind was released from its problem. Although he had been living in ratty little hotels with only a change of clothing he still managed to maintain his finicky elegance, and each morning he lowered his shivering body into a cold bath. His misfortunes had not undermined that traditional habit.
He finished his whisky and walked a little unsteadily across the bar to order another. A girl in a red hat and a dirty mackintosh caught his eye and smiled. She was tall, big-hipped and robust, and for a moment Benton’s mind wavered and he felt a flicker of desire run through him. Then he noticed her grimy hands and a line of dirt round her neck and a faint sour smell that came from her hair as he stood close to her, and he inwardly shivered to think that such a creature could raise in him even for a moment a feeling of desire.
He returned to his table and sat down again, and drank half the whisky, setting the glass carefully on one of the wet rings. He took a cigarette from his case.
‘I’ll have one if you can spare it,’ the girl in the red hat said, coming over to him.
He rose to his feet. A gentleman, his father had told him, behaved like a gentleman even to a whore.
‘I’m afraid you are wasting your time,’ he said in his pale voice. ‘Please excuse me.’
‘I’m in no hurry, cheri. I’ll give you a good time. You can stay an hour if you like.’
Again he felt a flicker of desire like pain run through him, and he thought of Blanche. He was alone now; he didn’t have to keep faith with anyone except himself. He looked again at the girl, appraising her with his pale, lonely eyes and was again horrified with himself for even contemplating going with her.
‘I’m afraid not,’ he said, still courteous. ‘You must excuse me.’
‘You look sort of fed up. I’d make you forget.’
‘I’m afraid not.’ His grimacing smile came and went.
‘Well, buy me a drink. You wouldn’t begrudge me a drink, would you?’
He fingered his loose change in his pocket. He did begrudge her the drink. He needed every penny now, but he felt on him the jeering eyes of three men who were standing at the bar and he was afraid she would make a scene.
‘I’m in a hurry. Here, buy one on me. I really must be going.’
She looked at the half-crown he held out to her and her full lips curled scornfully.
‘You can stick that on the wall. If you didn’t want me why did you make faces at me? Oh, hop it, you mean little rat.’
He left the bar hurriedly, the jeering laughter of the men following him. It was only when he got into the fresh night air that he realized he was drunk and he had to walk carefully. As it was he lurched against an old woman who was walking towards Charing Cross station. She was very old and bent and shabby and she thudded against the wall from the impact of his shoulder.
He stared at her in stupefied horror, raising his hat and muttering apologies. He had never knocked into a woman in his life. A gentleman, no matter how drunk, didn’t fall against a woman. He was crimson with shame.
He saw her old eyes were full of weak rage as she said: ‘You’re drunk, that’s wot you are. Tight as a bloody lord.’
He was fumbling in his pocket for the half-crown that had already been scorned when the old woman recovered her balance and shuffled on, leaving him to gaze after her, a pale spark of anger flaming up in him like the first twinge of tooth-ache. And as he walked to the Strand he muttered to himself, his head down, his shoulders hunched, a bitter, angry figure to interest the curious eyes of the people who passed him.