When he drew nearer Mark saw that she was older than he had thought, but painfully thin. When she became aware of his shadow, she looked up and brushed the hair back from her eyes. She had a smudge of dirt on the side of her nose but the rest of her face was scrubbed clean and looked rosy. Her round bright eyes regarded him with guarded curiosity.
“Hallo,” said Mark.
“Watcher want ?” asked the girl.
“Is Mr Leech in?”
“I dunno.”
“Oh, come,” protested Mark. “You must know.”
“I said I dunno an’ I means I dunno,” said the girl. “If yer wants ter know anyfink, wot’s the matter wiv’ going inside?” She pointed towards the open door and then dipped her work-grimed hand into the water. Mark shrugged his shoulders and stepped over the threshold.
A man behind the bar was polishing glasses. Behind him the brasses of the taps and the faucets at the end of the wine and spirit bottles glistened in spite of the gloomy interior. The floor was strewn with clean saw-dust. This main was Clay.
“Watcher want Mr Leech for?” he demanded.
“Is he in ?” asked Mark.
“You ain’t answered my question.”
“I want to see Leech. Tell him so and be quick about it.”
“Can’t see Mr Leech wivvout a good reason,” Clay said stubbornly.
“I have a good reason.”
“If yer ‘ave, wot is it?”
The harsh, monotonous sound of scrubbing came from another room. Clay continued to stare, but finally admitted defeat, opening his lips but closing them again before he demanded grudgingly:
“What’s yer name?”
“Lessing. Mark Lessing. I want to see Leech on important business.”
Clay turned and walked stiffly to a closed door and pushed through it. Outside, feminine voices were raised, and Mark grinned when he heard a woman say :
“Got a toff to see yer, duck ?”
“Wot, me see
Mark lit a cigarette, felt uneasy when Clay did not return after five minutes, then heard more footsteps on the pavement. A quavering voice, that of an old man, demanded:
“You open yet, Lizzie ?”
“Go and hide yerself!” ordered Lizzie. “What’s the use o’ worritting me every morning? You won’t git a drink until twelve o’clock. Git out’ve my way.”
“Now, Lizzie,” remonstrated the man with the quavering voice, “I was only arsking a civil question wot wants a civil answer.” He lowered his voice. “Seen the Masher arahnd?”
“No, I ain’t!”
“If I could see Joe I could tell ‘im a thing or two,” declared the ancient. “If ‘e knew what I knew he wouldn’t mind lettin’ me ‘ave one.” Mark heard Lizzie’s unprintable retort, followed by the shuffling footsteps of the old man. He stepped to the door. Ten yards along the street the man was walking slowly, sliding his feet along the pavement. The heels of his boots were worn down to the uppers, his trousers were ragged and patches were coming away from the stitches. His shirt was filthy. He wore a pair of braces, the back tongues pinned to the top of his trousers. He turned into a little house twenty yards further on. Mark watched him thoughtfully and was startled by Clay’s voice.
“Leech ain’t in,” Clay announced. “It’s no use.”
“Are you quite sure?”
“I said so, didn’t IV
Mark took two half-crowns from his pocket and held them on the palm of his hand.
“If yer was to offer me a fiver I couldn’t tell yer where he is. ‘E ain’t in — you clear out.”
One of the remarkable things about Joe Leech was the fact that normally he made himself available to any caller. A good purveyor of inside information had to be catholic in his friends, and Mark knew his reputation. As well as being the owner of the ‘Saucy Sue’ and a bookmaker, he was a ‘commission agent’. He handled all kinds of strange commodities and took commission on an astonishing variety of transactions. The only times when he was unapproachable were during periods when he had squealed to the police and vengeful criminals were out for his blood. His philosophy of life was that anger burned out, and if one kept out of the way for a few days trouble would blow over. Then Joe Leech, short, plump, and gaudily-dressed, would decorate the drab streets again.
“Clay, you lie too easily,” said Mark, sorrowfully. He pushed past and reached the door. Clay swore and jumped at him, but Mark slipped through the doorway and hurried up the narrow wooden stairs. The house smelt of beer and decaying vegetables. There was a narrow landing with three closed doors and he wondered which of them was Joe Leech’s. »
“. . . murder yer !” Clay was bellowing.
