He would recognize it when he saw it. If it were the wrong size, he would go elsewhere and buy the right size. She took a bottle from a shelf, and he at once saw it was the right size.
“Don’t bother to wrap it up.”
He gave her the exact money, and she turned to the till, and to the next customer. He was just one of the many; a nondescript-looking little man in a grey coat and brown hat, wearing spectacles. Nothing there to excite the interest of a young and romantic chemist’s assistant.
He took a bus back to Hyde Park Corner, and walked down Piccadilly to the office. Before going in, he had a sandwich and a large whisky in a public house.
The day wore slowly on.
From time to time, he thought: Perhaps she has not waited till this evening. Perhaps she has had an unexpected attack of indigestion and has already taken the dose.
You couldn’t tell. She might already be dead.
His heart began to beat faster as he contemplated the possibility: that would be finality, and he, Philip Bartels, traveller in wines, would be a murderer.
Shortly after four o’clock he could stand the suspense no longer. He dialled the number of the flat.
Instead of the ringing tone, he obtained a high-pitched whining tone. He dialled a second time with the same result.
With a sick feeling at the back of his throat he dialled O and spoke to the operator.
The cold, impersonal little voice at the other end of the line asked him to hold on. He heard her test the number herself, and then say:
“I’m sorry, caller, the line is out of order.”
“Can you have it put right at once?” He hesitated. “It’s important,” he began and then stopped. He couldn’t afford to make a fuss, to draw attention to himself.
“I’ll report it to the engineers’ department,” said the girl in her cool voice.
“Thank you,” said Bartels humbly. “Thank you.”
He replaced the receiver, and sat staring at the instrument. Then he lifted the receiver again and dialled the number of Mrs Doris Stevenson, who lived in the flat opposite. He heard Doris Stevenson’s thick treacly voice, and said:
“Mrs Stevenson? This is Philip Bartels. I wonder if you would do me a favour? I’ve been trying to ring Beatrice, but the line is out of order. I wonder-”
“I’ll see if she’s in,” interrupted Mrs Stevenson. “Hold on a minute.”
He pictured her bulky form waddling across to his flat door; ringing; waiting.
After a while she came back.
“I think she must be out, Mr Bartels. Can I give her a message?”
“Could you ask her to ring me? The fact is,” he added carefully, “I seem to have lost my cheque book. I want to see if it’s at home by any chance.”
“She can ring from here,” said Mrs Stevenson. “I’ll certainly let her know.”
Bartels thanked her and rang off.
A secretary called Miss Latimer came into his room to collect some pamphlets. She looked at him, picked up the pamphlets, and said:
“Are you feeling all right, Mr Bartels?”
“Of course I’m feeling all right. Why shouldn’t I be?”
“I thought you looked a little pale, that’s all.”
God, did he look as bad as that?
“Oh, nonsense,” he said irritably, and instantly regretted it. This was it, this was one of those unforeseeable things against which you could take no precautions.
He felt the blood flushing into his face. He shouldn’t have shown irritation, he shouldn’t have answered like that. Now she would remember. He had created an incident out of a normal question. Now she would tell the others about it. He felt more blood coming into his face, and put his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands. All he could think of was the phrase: this is it. Apart from that, his brain seemed to have ceased to work properly.
Miss Latimer said nothing, but he knew that she was standing at the door watching him curiously. Finally, when his face was no longer flushed, he looked up at her and smiled.
“I’m sorry I snapped at you, Miss Latimer. The fact is, I feel all right, that is, I haven’t got a headache or anything, but I think I’m getting a cold. I keep feeling cold and then hot and sticky.”
“That’s a cold all right.”
He smiled again. “I suppose it must be. I’ll take some hot whisky tonight.”
“I’ll give you some of my cold pills, Mr Bartels. I’ve got some in my desk. They’re wonderful. Really, they are.”
“Oh, don’t bother, though it’s very nice of you.”
But she had gone. In three minutes she was back, carrying two tubes of pills. She was a plump, good-natured girl. Full of kindly actions, thought Bartels bitterly.
“You take a red one in the morning, a green one at lunch time, and another red one before you go to bed.”
“I don’t really think I need-”
But she would not let him finish. “My sister had a shocking cold coming on last week, and she took them, and they kind of nipped it in the bud. Went right away, it did. Never came on at all. And Leslie, in the despatch department, he swears by them now. Go on, Mr Bartels, take them.”
He took the pills and thanked her, and offered to pay for them, but she would not let him.
Red pills and green pills. A fine physic for the soul. One in the morning, and one at midday and one at night.
But he had done right to take them. Better take them and seem thankful, rather than have word go around that “Mr Bartels was looking queer that afternoon. He wouldn’t say anything. Kind of snappish, he was. But ever so queer he looked. I remember now.”
Better anything than that.
At 4.30 his telephone rang. It was Beatrice.
“Why, hello, Barty!” Beatrice said in surprise. “Anything the matter? Mrs Stevenson left a note on the door telling me to ring you.”
“No, nothing. Why should there be?”
“I just wondered. You don’t often ring up during the day, that’s all.”
“I only wanted to ask you how your indigestion was. That’s all. Anything wrong in that?” The relief he felt was showing itself in mild irascibility. “I rang you up earlier, but the phone is out of order. Where are you speaking from?”
Beatrice laughed. She sounded pleased and flattered because he had telephoned. “A callbox, Mrs Stevenson’s gone out herself now.”
“Mrs Stevenson rang the bell, but said you were out.”
“I wasn’t,” she said. “As a matter of fact, I heard the bell ring.”
“Why didn’t you answer it? I thought you were out,” he said again. He was angry now, and repetitive in his anger.
“I was washing my hair. I had my head in a basin of water, and by the time I had got to the door, she had gone. I was wondering who it was.”
“Is my cheque book at home?”
“Yes, it’s in the bureau.”
“Good. How is your tummy, anyway?”
“The tummy? Oh, it’s all right, thank you, darling. I’ll take my usual dose tonight, but I don’t think I’ll take any more. Don’t bother to buy any more, Barty.”
“All right, then. I must be off now.”
“To Colchester? I should have thought you would have been on your way by now. You’ll be late.”
“Not if I step on it. Bye-bye, Beatrice.”
