After a moment Margaret shuddered and said: “That frightful man.”
The policeman was briskly unsympathetic. “Can’t really blame him,” he said cheerfully. “This is the most notorious street in London. It’s a fair assumption that a girl alone here at this hour is a Lady of the Night.”
Margaret supposed he was right, although it seemed rather unfair.
The familiar blue lamp of a police station appeared in the morning twilight. The policeman said: “You have a nice cup of tea and you’ll feel better.”
They went inside. There was a counter ahead of them with two policemen behind it, one middle-aged and stocky and the other young and thin. On each side of the hall was a plain wooden bench up against the wall. There was only one other person in the hall: a pale woman with her hair in a scarf and house slippers on her feet, sitting on one of the benches, waiting with tired patience.
Margaret’s rescuer directed her to the opposite bench, saying: “Sit yourself down there for a minute.” Margaret did as she was told. The policeman went up to the desk and spoke to the older man. “Sarge, that’s Lady Margaret Oxenford. Had a run-in with a drunk in Bolting Lane.”
“I suppose he thought she was on the game.”
Margaret was struck by the variety of euphemisms for prostitution. People seemed to have a horror of calling it what it was, and had to refer to it obliquely. She herself had known about it only in the vaguest possible way; indeed she had not really believed it went on, until tonight. But there had been nothing vague about the intentions of the young man in evening dress.
The sergeant looked over at Margaret in an interested way, then said something in a low voice that she could not hear. Steve nodded and disappeared into the back of the building.
Margaret realized she had left her shoes on that doorstep. Now there were holes in the feet of her stockings. She began to worry: she could hardly turn up at the recruiting station in this state. Perhaps she could go back for her shoes in daylight. But they might no longer be there. And she badly needed a wash and a clean dress, too. It would be heartbreaking to be turned down for the A.T.S. after all this. But where could she go to tidy herself? By morning even Aunt Martha’s house would not be safe: Father might turn up there, searching for her. Surely, she thought with anguish, her whole plan was not going to fall apart because of a pair of shoes?
Her policeman came back with tea in a thick earthenware mug. It was weak and had too much sugar in it, but Margaret sipped it gratefully. It restored her resolve. She could overcome her problems. She would leave as soon as she had finished her tea. She would go to a poor district and find a shop selling cheap clothes: she still had a few shillings. She would buy a dress, a pair of sandals and a set of clean underwear. She would go to a public bathhouse and wash and change. Then she would be ready for the army.
While she was elaborating this plan, there was a noise outside the door and a group of young men burst in. They were well dressed, some in evening clothes and others in lounge suits. After a moment Margaret realized they were dragging with them an unwilling companion. One of the men started to shout at the sergeant behind the counter.
The sergeant interrupted him. “All right, all right, quiet down!” he said in a commanding voice. “You’re not on the rugby field now, you know—this is a police station.” The noise muted somewhat, but not enough for the sergeant. “If you don’t behave yourselves I’ll clap the lot of you in the bleedin’ cells,” he shouted. “Now bloody well
They became quiet and released their unwilling prisoner, who stood there looking sulky. The sergeant pointed at one of the men, a dark-haired fellow of about Margaret’s age. “Right—you. Tell me what all the fuss is about.”
The young man pointed at the prisoner. “This blighter took my sister to a restaurant, then sneaked off without paying!” he said indignantly. He spoke with an upper-class accent, and Margaret realized his face was vaguely familiar. She hoped he would not recognize her: it would be too humiliating for people to know that she had had to be rescued by. a policeman after running away from home.
A younger man in a striped suit added: “His name’s Harry Marks and he ought to be locked up.”
Margaret looked with interest at Harry Marks. He was a strikingly handsome man of twenty-two or twenty- three, with blond hair and regular features. Although he was rather rumpled, he wore his double-breasted dinner jacket with easy elegance. He looked around contemptuously and said: “These fellows are drunk.”
The young man in the striped suit burst out: “We may be drunk but he’s a cad—and a thief. Look what we found in his pocket.” He threw something down on the counter. “These cuff links were stolen earlier in the evening from Sir Simon Monkford.”
“All right,” said the sergeant. “So you’re accusing him of obtaining a pecuniary advantage by deception— that’s not paying his restaurant
The boy in the striped suit laughed scornfully and said: “Isn’t that enough for you?”
The sergeant pointed his pencil at the boy. “You remember where you bloody well are, son. You may have been born with a silver spoon in your mouth but this is a police station and if you don’t speak politely you’ll spend the rest of the night in a bleedin’ cell.”
The boy looked foolish and said no more.
The sergeant turned his attention back to the first speaker. “Now can you supply all the details of both accusations? I need the name and address of the restaurant, your sister’s name and address, plus the name and address of the party that owns the cuff links.”
“Yes, I can give you all that. The restaurant—”
“Good. You stay here.” He pointed at the accused man. “You sit down.” He waved his hand at the crowd of young men. “The rest of you can go home.”
They all looked rather nonplussed. Their great adventure had ended in anticlimax. For a moment none of them moved.
The sergeant said: “Go on, bugger off, the lot of you!”
Margaret had never heard so much swearing in one day.
The young men moved off, muttering. The boy in the striped suit said: “You bring a thief to justice and you get treated as if you were a criminal yourself!” But he was passing through the door before he finished the sentence.
The sergeant began to question the dark-haired boy, making notes. Harry Marks stood beside him for a moment, then turned away impatiently. He spotted Margaret, threw her a sunny grin and sat down next to her. He said: “All right, girl? What you doing here, then, this time o’ night?”
Margaret was nonplussed. He was quite transformed. His haughty manner and refined speech had gone, and he spoke with the same accent as the sergeant. For a moment she was too surprised to reply.
Harry threw an appraising glance at the doorway, as if he might be thinking of making a dash for it; then he looked back at the desk and saw the younger policeman, who had not yet said a word, staring at him watchfully. He seemed to give up the idea of escape. He turned back to Margaret. “Who give you that black eye, your old man?”
Margaret found her voice and said: “I got lost in the blackout and bumped into a pillar box.”
It was his turn to be surprised. He had taken her for a working-class girl. Now, hearing her accent, he realized his mistake. Without a blink he reverted to his former persona. “I say, what jolly bad luck!”
Margaret was fascinated. Which was his real self? He smelled of cologne. His hair was well cut, if a fraction too long. He wore a midnight blue evening suit in the fashion set by Edward VIII, with silk socks and patent-leather shoes. His jewelry was very good: diamond studs in his shirt front, with matching cuff links; a gold wristwatch with a black crocodile strap; and a signet ring on the little finger of his left hand. His hands were large and strong- looking, but his fingernails were perfectly clean.
In a low voice she said: “Did you really leave the restaurant without paying?”
He looked at her appraisingly, then seemed to reach a decision. “Actually, I did,” he said in a conspiratorial tone.
“But why?”
“Because, if I’d listened for one more minute to Rebecca Maugham-Flint talking about her blasted horses, I should have been unable to resist the urge to take her by the throat and strangle her.”
Margaret giggled. She knew Rebecca Maugham-Flint, who was a large, plain girl, the daughter of a general, with her father’s hearty manner and parade-ground voice. “I can just imagine it,” she said. It would be hard to think of a more unsuitable dinner companion for the attractive Mr. Marks.
