Wodehouse volumes.
In the night, he woke up and remembered Nunne's aunt. Until then he had completely forgotten about her. He reached for his trousers, and felt in the dark for the back pocket. The sheet of notepaper was still there. He struck a match, and read: Gertrude Quincey, The Laurels, Vale of Health, followed by her phone number. He propped it on the chair beside the bed to remind him to phone her in the morning, and lay down again, in the night that now smelt of burnt sulphur, and thought about her. Her figure was slim and attractive; there was something demure about her manner that he found exciting. She was probably fifteen years his senior; perhaps less; perhaps only ten. He speculated idly on the advantages of persuading her to become his mistress, even of marrying her. It would be pleasant to be looked after. But in ten years' time, in fifteen? There was also this business of her being a Jehovah's Witness. Somehow, that did not fit in. He thought of Jehovah's Witnesses as rather slovenly-dressed working-class women.
It would be interesting to find out how serious she was about the Bible classes. Or if her convictions made chastity obligatory.
He knew, with sudden certainty, that there could never be any question of wanting to marry her. It would be a sell-out. There was an intuition of certainty in him that told him that a sell-out for security could never be necessary. He thought instead of making love to her. The idea carried him into sleep.
The following evening he tried phoning her; there was no reply. He depressed the receiver-rest and rang Austin's number; a girl on the switchboard told him that Mr Nunne had gone away for a few days. He returned to his room, feeling curiously disappointed.
Half an hour later he was reading when he heard footsteps ascending the stairs to the old man's room. Someone knocked on the door. A girl's voice called: Mr Hamilton!
There was no reply. The footsteps came down the stairs again. Someone rapped on his door. He called: Come in.
The girl who stood in the doorway said:
I'm sorry to disturb you…
He said: You're Carlotte?
Yes. There is a policeman at the front door…
To see me?
O no! He says someone has thrown a bottle into the street. I think it must be Mr Hamilton. But he won't answer the door. What shall I do?
What makes you think it's him?
It must be. Monsieur Callet is out. Who else could it be?
What do you want me to do?
Could you — go up by the fire escape? He may answer you.
Where's the policeman?
Downstairs.
He climbed out of the window on to the fire escape. A shaft of light came from the open door above.
In the room, the old man squatted on the floor, his back to the door, naked. The choir sang:
Stel a matutina
Salus infirmorum
Refugium peccatorum…
He stood there, uncertain, wondering whether to return quietly to his own room.
When the record stopped, he coughed and knocked on the door. He expected the old man to turn, or start guiltily. Nothing happened. The old man took off the record and selected another from the pile in front of him. Sorme said:
Excuse me…
The old man said over his shoulder:
Come in. Don't stand there.
Sorme advanced into the room.
I'm sorry to trouble you, but there's a policeman down below enquiring about a bottle that somebody threw into the street.
As he spoke, he saw the window was open: it overlooked the street.
The old man said: You are German, are you not?
No, English. So would you mind…?
Yes, all right, all right. Do you like the Roman litany?
He felt irritated and helpless. The old man had a bottle between his knees, with a glass inverted over the neck. The gramophone was a big wooden box; the circle of green baize was loose on the turntable; the wires ran across the room to a radio on the bookshelf. He felt chilled in the draught that blew across the room, and noticed with surprise that the old man was sweating.
I only came to tell you that the policeman seems pretty annoyed. Throwing bottles out of windows causes a lot of trouble…
Tell me, my young friend, do you believe in mortification of the flesh?
He felt suddenly violently angry, and would have enjoyed snatching up the gramophone and smashing it on the perspiring bald head. It was a feeling that he was somehow the victim of a drunk old man. He crossed the room to the door and tried it; it had been locked and the key removed.
The old man said thickly: Sit down and have a drink. What part of Germany do you come from?
Sorme turned round, and was suddenly shocked and repelled by the blotchy nakedness; a tainted spittle of disgust rose in his throat. The old man poured gin into the tumbler, and then inverted the glass over the neck of the bottle again. He shook the bottle so that the glass clinked, and smiled:
You can't get out that way.
He flung out his right arm, pointing; Sorme followed the direction of his finger to a wall cupboard. The door stood open.
Do you know what this is, my young friend, my little German friend?
No.
'Is a map, isn't it? A map. But do you know what it is?
There was a map pinned to the inside of the door; it seemed to be drawn in ink.
Of course you don' know. An' I'm hot goin' a tell you… It's my secret…
He crossed the room quickly and went out of the fire door again. The old man called: Hi, wait a minute! Sorme went down the fire escape and climbed back into his own room.
Well? the girl said.
It's no good; he's drunk. You'll have to tell the policeman it won't happen again. He's too drunk to listen.
She turned and left the room without speaking. He closed the window and knelt by the gas fire, warming his hands. From somewhere downstairs he could hear a deep male voice speaking. The gramophone above was playing again. He was puzzled by the violence of the killing instinct that the old man had aroused in him. Even now, it would have given him pleasure to stand in the doorway and empty a revolver into the repulsive nakedness. The strength of his own hatred surprised him.
His hands were grimy, from touching the rail of the fire escape. He washed them in the kitchen, gradually relaxing as he leaned over the sink, his hands in the warm water.
When he came down again the girl was waiting in his room. She stared back from the bookcase as he came in: Oh — I'm sorry. I hope you don't mind me coming in…
Not at all. What happened?
He says he will have to report it. That's all.
Will you have a glass of wine?
She looked as if about to refuse. He took the bottle out of the cupboard, saying: I'm having one.
Please. Just a little, then.
It was the bottle he had opened the day before and was still nearly full. He poured wine into a tumbler and handed it to her.
Sit down.
