'The same old story,' he said, turning to hang the key on the key rack behind him. 'If it's not the rain, it's something else.'
'You can talk,' the girl said bitterly. 'You don't have to stand in the rain hour after hour.'
'Go away,' Dale said. 'You're breaking my heart.'
He watched her walk down the steps into the wet darkness, shrugged his shoulders and reached for the Evening Standard. He was reading the football news when the girl in the white mackintosh came in.
He looked up, wondering what she wanted. She was a new one to him, and what a looker! He straightened and showed his discoloured teeth in a leering grin.
'Is Mr Crantor in?' the girl asked, her green eyes looking straight at him.
Dale stared at her.
'Yes, he's in. Room 26, on the first floor. He said for you to go up.'
The girl turned away, crossed the hall and walked briskly up the stairs.
Dale whistled silently.
What in the world did a piece like that' want with Crantor? he asked himself. Crantor of all people. She had a hold-all with her. Was she staying? If she didn't come down in an hour, he'd better telephone Crantor.
The girl walked down the dimly lit corridor until she reached room No. 26. She paused outside the door and listened for a moment. Hearing no sound from within the room, she knocked with a gloved hand.
The door opened and Crantor stood in the doorway.
'There you are,' he said, and his single eye moved over her. 'I was beginning to wonder if you were coming.'
She followed him into the large bed-sitting-room.
A shaded reading lamp made a pool of light on the large table on which lay a litter of papers. The rest of the room was in heavy shadows. Neither Crantor nor the girl could see much of each other.
'It's a filthy night,' Crantor said. 'Take off your mac. I'll hang it in the bathroom.'
The girl took off the white mackintosh and her hat and gave them to him. She shook out her hair and crossed over to the mirror above the gas fire.
As Crantor carried the wet things into the bathroom that led off the bed-sitting-room, he thumbed down the light switch, lighting up the big shabby room.
He took his time hanging the wet mackintosh over a chair, then he came back and stood in the bathroom door and looked over at her.
Go on, he said to himself, take a good look at me. Let's see how strong your stomach is, you red-headed beauty.
The girl was wanning the back of her slim legs before the gas fire. She was fumbling for a cigarette as she glanced up and saw him in the full light from the overhead lamp.
It was during the battle for Cassino that Crantor received his face wounds. Redhot splinters of a mortar shell had mangled his features almost beyond repair. Plastic surgeons had worked patiently on him, and considering what he had looked like before he passed through their hands, they succeeded in achieving a minor miracle in giving him some resemblance to a human being. His left eye was covered with a black patch; his thin, cruel mouth was twisted down, and showed some of his lower teeth, fixing his face in a ferocious snarl. The rest of his features looked as if they had been moulded by someone doodling in putty.
The surgeons had told him to let the scars heal and then come back for another series of operations. They assured him in a year or so they would make him a passable-looking guy.
But Crantor had never gone back. He intended to, but he never found the time, and when Alsconi made him his London agent he put the idea out of his head for good. He was certainly not going to spend unprofitable months in a hospital when he could pick up the easy money Alsconi put in his way. Money was more important to him than looks.
After the first bitter months, he took a perverted pleasure in watching people look at him, shudder and look away, and he studied the girl facing him, watching for her reaction.
He was disappointed. She didn't shudder nor did she look away. She examined his face intently with neither pity nor disgust.
'Couldn't they do better than that for you?' she said. 'Or hadn't you the patience?'
Crantor felt a spurt of vicious fury run through him. He had wanted to make her cringe. Now he wanted to take her by her white throat.
'What's it to do with you?' he said. 'I'll look after my mug,' you look after yours.'
'Don't talk to me like that!' the girl said sharply.
Crantor controlled his temper. What was he thinking of? He wanted to make a good impression on this girl, and snarling at her wasn't the way to do it. She was his first contact with Alsconi's organization. She had come all the way from Italy to discuss the arrangements he had made. If he gave satisfaction, there was a chance of promotion. He was ambitious.
He had worked for Alsconi now for two years and he had recently discovered the work he had been doing was of little importance to the organization: it was nothing more than a side-line. Now Alsconi had decided to begin real operations in London, and this was his chance.
'Sorry,' he said and turned on the overhead light. 'I'm still touchy about my face. Who wouldn't be? Here, sit down.
How about a drink?
