do?'
That settled it, George thought, delighted. He would have to wait for Brant's sister. You couldn't rely on this nasty little specimen to pass on any message.
'All right,' he said, shrugging. 'Perhaps you can tell me when Miss Brant will be here? I'll tell her myself.'
'Who?' asked the little man 'Miss Brant? Never 'eard of 'er.'
'Never mind,' George said firmly. 'It doesn't matter. I'll come back later.'
The green eyes probed his face.
'Do you mean Cora?'
George was startled. 'Yes,' he said. 'Miss Cora Brant.'
A sly, sneering smile came into the green eyes.
'Gawd Almighty! We're putting on side, ain't we?' the little man said. 'Okay, palsy, leave your message. I'll take care of it.'
George's growing dislike for the little man suddenly turned to suspicion. He looked a real had lot: a shady character: a gangster. He could have been anything—a racing tout with a razor, a pimp with a knife
Abruptly he turned to the door. 'I'll see her,' he said shortly. 'Don't you bother.'
He went downstairs. The little man watched him all the way down. As he reached the street door, the little man called after him, 'Now wait. Don't be so 'asty,' but George did not stop. He walked rapidly away, his face hot and red.
At the end of the street he paused and tried to make up his mind what he was to do. Obviously the club wouldn't open until the evening. But what time in the evening? He'd have to find that out. He crossed the road and entered a shabby little tobacconist's. He bought a packet of Player's, and as he was waiting for his change he asked, 'When does Joe's Club open?'
The old woman who had served him shook her head. 'You want to keep away from that place,' she said. 'No good's ever come out of it.'
George opened the packet of cigarettes and lit one. 'Oh?' he said, feeling a stab of excitement. 'What do you know about it?'
'Enough,' the old woman answered shortly, and put the odd coppers on the counter.
George lowered his voice, 'I'm interested,' he said. 'Perhaps you can help me.'
'A den of thieves,' the old woman said, her thin, yellow face creasing in disgust. 'The police ought to lave closed it down long ago. I wish I was the mother of some of those little sluts 'oo go there: I'd warm their backsides for 'em!'
'I'm supposed to meet someone there,' George said, looking at her a little helplessly. 'I don't want to get mixed up in anything. Who's the little bloke with the red hair?'
'You'll get mixed up all right,' the old woman said contemptuously. 'You keep away from that 'ole.'
'Thanks for the tip,' George returned, smiling at her. 'But who is the little bloke with the red hair?'
'That's Little Ernie; everyone knows 'im and his women.'
'What time does the Club open?' George asked again.
'Seven, and take my advice, keep clear of the place. They might take you for a copper, like I nearly did.' The old woman smiled secretly. 'It ain't healthy being taken for a copper in Joe's Club.'
George raised his hat and went out into the sunshine. Dark with a red hone bangle; a den of thieves; Little Ernie and his women. What a wonderful Saturday afternoon!
He caught a bus at the corner of the street and travelled to Hyde Park. There he lost himself in the crowds, listening to the speakers, walking along the Serpentine, sitting on the grass. He didn't mind waiting, because the evening was so full of promise. This was the world that fascinated him: the world he had read about and dreamed about.
At half past six he walked back to Mortimer Street. It had a forlorn, deserted appearance now that the hawkers' barrows had gone and the shops were shut. He went into the public house which was opposite Joe's Club and ordered a pint of bitter. He took his glass to the window, where he could see the club entrance. From the window he had an uninterrupted view of the street. He lit a cigarette and waited.
It was a long wait, but he did not mind. The street was full of interest. After seven o'clock a couple of stout, flashily dressed Jews came along, paused outside the Club, talked for a minute or so and then entered. Almost immediately a blonde woman wearing fox furs came down the street with a coarse, elderly man who was talking excitedly, gesticulating with his hands, an ugly look of rage on his badly shaven face. The woman walked along indifferently. She swayed her hips, and George recognized her for what she was. They, too, disappeared up the stairs to Joe's Club. A little later three young girls—the eldest could not have been more than seventeen— all blonde, all wearing cheap, tight little frocks, all talking in highpitched, nasal voices, disappeared, giggling and yapping, through the shabby doorway.
George ordered another pint and continued to watch. From what he had seen, Joe's Club seemed to attract the most odd type of man and woman from the shadowy night life of London. They were out of place in the sunlit street, like slugs you reveal when you turn over a log that has been lying in thick grass for a long time Sunshine was not for them. Dark streets, dimly-lit pavements, tobacco-laden air, the clink of glasses, the sound of liquor running from a bottle—that was their background. They were the 'wide' boys and girls of London—the prostitutes, the thieves, the pimps, the touts, the pickpockets, the cat burglars, the hangers-on, the playboys and the good-time girls all moving in a steady stream, like a river of rottenness, into Joe's Club.
As George watched them, summed them up, recognized them, he began to think about Brant's sister. Would she turn out to be a brassy, hard little piece like these other girls who had gone up the stairs to Joe's Club? He hated that type of girl. He had no personality to cope with them. He knew what kind of man they liked. He had listened to them in the park often enough. They and their boyfriends: young men with spotty complexions, padded shoulders, snappy felt hats and cigarettes dangling from their loose mouths. Wise cracking: every remark had a double meaning. The girls would scream with shrill laughter, vying with each other in appreciation. You were not
