approaching Rathbone Place, with Laurier’s round the corner. Straight ahead, beyond the other side of Tottenham Court Road, lay the odorous slums and thieves’ kitchens which were not supposed to exist.
Georgette had crossed Rathbone Place. A four-wheeler, whisking out of the Place just after she crossed, momentarily obscured Clive’s view of discreet windows in arabesques of frosted glass below the curly gilded letters Laurier.
On the far pavement she did not turn left in the direction of Laurier’s. Instead she pressed on towards the intersection of Tottenham Court Road with Crown Street and St. Giles’s High Street.
Then, unexpectedly, as Clive quickened his step, trouble was upon him.
IX. ENCOUNTER IN OXFORD STREET
“I DON’T KNOW YOU, sir,” said Georgette, suddenly stopping and turning round. “Why are you following me?”
“And yet, Mrs. Damon, I had the honour of making your acquaintance yesterday. It was for the second time, you said.”
“My name is certainly Mrs. Damon. But you are either mistaken or mad. Why are you following me, sir? Do you mean to molest me?”
Her actress’s voice again rose up clearly.
This was the one weapon, Clive thought with an inner curse, that you could never meet.
Wind blew the sparks from a pieman’s fire. A pavement artist, hunched against the wall in the last stretch of Oxford Street, looked up in blear-eyed glee from a coloured-chalk drawing of Napoleon Bonaparte and a couple of herrings.
“Mrs. Damon, let me assure you—!”
“And I assure you, sir, that if you have made a mistake I shall be glad to excuse you. If you continue to molest me, I shall be obliged to call a policeman.”
The word policeman rang out with peculiar effect above all other noises.
Hitherto there had been any number of well-dressed and stately passers-by. Now the pavement, for yards round Georgette and Clive, was cleared of them as though by magic. They did not hurry; they kept their eyes fixed ahead; they simply vanished. But the word acted with equal magic to whistle up others.
That was where Georgette’s expression changed.
Head raised, innocent blue eyes fixed on Clive, beaded reticule clasped against her breast, she had been poised in an air of martyrdom. Now she looked past him.
“No!” Georgette cried. “No!”
“Oh, yes,” said a heavy, pleased voice Clive recognized only too well. “ I don’t excuse him.”
A self-confident figure, as tall as Clive but more burly, came padding round the corner of Rathbone Place with a wickedly pleased smile and the step of a tame tiger. Tress’s glossy hat was stuck on the back of his head; his chest swelled under a plum-blue greatcoat with an astrakhan collar.
In his right hand, grey-gloved, Tress gripped a thick walking-stick with a silver head. He looked Clive up and down.
“Well, well,” Tress said agreeably, as though just recognizing him. “So it’s Strickland, is it?”
“Now look here, Tress—!”
“Up to your old tricks, eh?”
“No!” cried Georgette, clasping both hands on the reticule. Something honest, something deeply human and likeable, flashed in her blue eyes.
“Got anything to say for yourself, Strickland?”
“Yes. Keep off. I warn you.”
“Oh, you warn me? Why?”
“Do you want a public scene? Here in the street?”
“ You don’t, I’ll be bound.”
“Now look here—”
Tress’s wide-spaced teeth, framed in yellowish Dundreary whiskers with beard-like hair under the chin, appeared in a smile.
“ You don’t want a public thrashing, Strickland. But that’s what you deserve. And that’s what you’re going to get.”
With a lightning-like motion Tress shifted his grip on the walking-stick, lifted it, and slashed it down at the other’s face. Clive’s temper blew to pieces. He slipped aside, swinging his weight to drive his left fist into the middle of Tress’s stomach, at the same moment that powerful hands locked his arms at both sides and flung his weight back
Georgette had crossed Rathbone Place. A four-wheeler, whisking out of the Place just after she crossed, momentarily obscured Clive’s view of discreet windows in arabesques of frosted glass below the curly gilded letters Laurier.
On the far pavement she did not turn left in the direction of Laurier’s. Instead she pressed on towards the intersection of Tottenham Court Road with Crown Street and St. Giles’s High Street.
Then, unexpectedly, as Clive quickened his step, trouble was upon him.
IX. ENCOUNTER IN OXFORD STREET
“I DON’T KNOW YOU, sir,” said Georgette, suddenly stopping and turning round. “Why are you following me?”
“And yet, Mrs. Damon, I had the honour of making your acquaintance yesterday. It was for the second time, you said.”
“My name is certainly Mrs. Damon. But you are either mistaken or mad. Why are you following me, sir? Do you mean to molest me?”
Her actress’s voice again rose up clearly.
This was the one weapon, Clive thought with an inner curse, that you could never meet.
Wind blew the sparks from a pieman’s fire. A pavement artist, hunched against the wall in the last stretch of Oxford Street, looked up in blear-eyed glee from a coloured-chalk drawing of Napoleon Bonaparte and a couple of herrings.
“Mrs. Damon, let me assure you—!”
“And I assure you, sir, that if you have made a mistake I shall be glad to excuse you. If you continue to molest me, I shall be obliged to call a policeman.”
The word policeman rang out with peculiar effect above all other noises.
Hitherto there had been any number of well-dressed and stately passers-by. Now the pavement, for yards round Georgette and Clive, was cleared of them as though by magic. They did not hurry; they kept their eyes fixed ahead; they simply vanished. But the word acted with equal magic to whistle up others.
That was where Georgette’s expression changed.
Head raised, innocent blue eyes fixed on Clive, beaded reticule clasped against her breast, she had been poised in an air of martyrdom. Now she looked past him.
“No!” Georgette cried. “No!”
“Oh, yes,” said a heavy, pleased voice Clive recognized only too well. “ I don’t excuse him.”
A self-confident figure, as tall as Clive but more burly, came padding round the corner of Rathbone Place with a wickedly pleased smile and the step of a tame tiger. Tress’s glossy hat was stuck on the back of his head; his chest swelled under a plum-blue greatcoat with an astrakhan collar.
In his right hand, grey-gloved, Tress gripped a thick walking-stick with a silver head. He looked Clive up and down.
“Well, well,” Tress said agreeably, as though just recognizing him. “So it’s Strickland, is it?”
“Now look here, Tress—!”
“Up to your old tricks, eh?”
“No!” cried Georgette, clasping both hands on the reticule. Something honest, something deeply human and likeable, flashed in her blue eyes.
“Got anything to say for yourself, Strickland?”
“Yes. Keep off. I warn you.”
“Oh, you warn me? Why?”
“Do you want a public scene? Here in the street?”
“ You don’t, I’ll be bound.”
“Now look here—”
Tress’s wide-spaced teeth, framed in yellowish Dundreary whiskers with beard-like hair under the chin, appeared in a smile.
“ You don’t want a public thrashing, Strickland. But that’s what you deserve. And that’s what you’re going to get.”
With a lightning-like motion Tress shifted his grip on the walking-stick, lifted it, and slashed it down at the other’s face. Clive’s temper blew to pieces. He slipped aside, swinging his weight to drive his left fist into the middle of Tress’s stomach, at the same moment that powerful hands locked his arms at both sides and flung his weight back
Similar Books
