There was a pause, then he asked, ‘Can you give me Mr. Lamb’s address?’
‘The Bungalow, Connaught Avenue. It’s the fourth turning on the right down the main street.’
‘Thanks.’ He made a note of the address on the scratch pad on the desk. ‘How about accommodation in this town? What’s the hotel like?’
She hesitated, then she said, ‘It’s very bad. The best and the most comfortable place is where I’m staying. Mrs. Loring’s rooming-house. The food is very good and it isn’t expensive.’
Calvin realised he had made a mistake by asking her such a question. He had no wish to live where she did, but now, it was impossible for him to turn down her suggestion.
‘Sounds fine. Well, okay, let me have the address.’
‘It’s on Macklin Drive. The end house. It’s about a mile and a half off the Downside highway.’
‘I’ll find it.’ He put the keys in his pocket and stood up. ‘I guess I’ll call on Mrs. Lamb now, then I’ll come on to Macklin Drive.’ He looked curiously at her. ‘How come you don’t live with your parents?’
He saw her flinch.
‘I haven’t any,’ she said. ‘They died in a road accident five years ago.’
‘That’s too bad.’ Calvin cursed himself. He seemed to be asking all the wrong questions. He moved to the door. ‘You lock up. We’ll talk business on Monday. I’m sure we are going to get along fine together.’
It amused him to bring the painful flush to her face. He watched it for a brief moment before walking quickly down the path and along the sidewalk to the car park.
He drove to Connaught Avenue and pulled up outside Joe Lamb’s bungalow. It was made of brick and timber, showing signs of wear.
Calvin sat in the car for several minutes, looking at the bungalow. This was bank property and his possible inheritance. If Lamb died, he would have to move into this depressing box of a place.
He got out of the car, opened the wooden gate and walked up the path. An elderly woman opened the door. She was bemused and tearful. She stared stupidly at him as he introduced himself.
He spent half an hour with her in a gloomy, cramped sitting-room full of heavy depressing furniture. When he finally left, he knew she thought he was wonderful and because this opinion nattered his odd ego, he didn’t begrudge the time spent with her. He had learned that Lamb was desperately ill. There was no possibility of him returning to work for some months.
Back in the car again, Calvin drove slowly to the highway. He stopped just outside the town at a bar and asked for a double Scotch. It was not yet six o’clock and at this time the bar was empty. He sat on a stool up at the bar and rested his fleshy face between his hands, staring down at the tiny bubbles in his glass.
Months! he thought. He could be stuck in this dreary hole for months and if Lamb died, he could be permanently stuck here. He and Alice Craig would grow grey together. Even when she was fifty, she would still blush when a man looked at her. A fifteen-year jail sentence might be easier to bear. He drank the whisky, nodded to the barman and went out into the gathering darkness.
Macklin Drive was a mile further on at the cross roads. When he finally reached the roaming-house he was pleasantly surprised. This was a compact, three-storey house set in a well-kept garden with a view of the distant hills. Lights showed at the windows. The house looked solid and cheerful and completely unlike the other cheap little houses and bungalows he had seen in the town.
He left his car in the drive and walked up the four steps to the front door. He rang the bell and waited.
There was a pause, then the door swung open and a woman, her back to the light, stood looking at him.
‘I’m Dave Calvin,’ Calvin said. ‘Did Miss Craig…?’
‘Oh, yes. Come in, Mr. Calvin. Alice said you were coming.’
He entered a large hall with a table set in the middle of a fawn-coloured carpet. The lighting was pleasantly subdued. From a room at the end of the passage he could hear music from a television set.
He looked curiously at the woman who had closed the door and he felt a quickening of interest.
She was wearing a dress that had a crimson top and a black skirt. The dress looked home-made and not very well made at that. Her long legs were bare and she was wearing shabby red slippers. Her hair was anyhow and fell to her shoulders: it was brown and might have looked attractive if it had been cared for. She had rather fine features with a longish nose, a large mouth and clear glittering eyes. Her appearance meant little to Calvin, but he was immediately aware of a vital sensual quality in her that sparked off his own sensual quality.
‘I’m Kit Loring,’ she said and smiled. She had good teeth, white and even. ‘I run this place. If you would like to stay here, I would be very happy.’
Calvin switched on his charm.
‘I would be too,’ he said. ‘I have no idea how long I’ll be here, I’m taking over until Mr. Lamb gets better. He’s
