A low voice whispered an appeal quite distinctly through the door. Raven picked up the automatic again; who would have imagined an old woman could be so tough? It touched his nerve a little just in the same way as the bell had done, as if a ghost were interfering with a man's job. He opened the study door; he had to push it against the weight of her body. She looked dead enough, but he made quite sure with the automatic almost touching her eyes. It was time to be gone. He took the automatic with him.
They sat and shivered side by side as the dusk came down; they were borne in their bright small smoky cage above the streets; the bus rocked down to Hammersmith. The shop windows sparkled like ice and 'Look,' she said, 'it's snowing.' A few large flakes went drifting by as they crossed the bridge, falling like paper scraps into the dark Thames.
He said, 'I'm happy as long as this ride goes on.'
'We're seeing each other tomorrow—Jimmy.' She always hesitated before his name. It was a silly name for anyone of such bulk and gravity.
'It's the nights that bother me.'
She laughed, 'It's going to be wearing,' but immediately became serious, 'I'm happy too.' About happiness she was always serious; she preferred to laugh when she was miserable. She couldn't avoid being serious about things she cared for, and happiness made her grave at the thought of all the things which might destroy it. She said, 'It would be dreadful now if there was a war.'
'There won't be a war.'
'The last one started with a murder.'
'That was an Archduke. This is just an old politician.'
She said: 'Be careful. You'll break the record—Jimmy.'
'Damn the record.'
She began to hum the tune she'd bought: 'It's only Kew to you'; and the large flakes fell past the window, melted on the pavement: 'a snowflower a man brought from Greenland.'
He said, 'It's a silly song.'
She said, 'It's a lovely song—Jimmy. I simply can't call you Jimmy. You aren't Jimmy. You're outsize. Detective-sergeant Mather. You're the reason why people make jokes about policemen's boots.'
'What's wrong with "dear", anyway?'
'Dear, dear,' she tried it out on the tip of her tongue, between lips as vividly stained as a winter berry. 'Oh no,' she decided, 'I'll call you that when we've been married ten years.'
'Well—"darling"?'
'Darling, darling. I don't like it. It sounds as if I'd known you a long, long time.' The bus went up the hill past the fish-and-chip shops: a brazier glowed and they could smell the roasting chestnuts. The ride was nearly over, there were only two more streets and a turn to the left by the church, which was already visible, the spire lifted like a long icicle above the houses. The nearer they got to home the more miserable she became, the nearer they got to home the more lightly she talked. She was keeping things off and out of mind: the peeling wallpaper, the long flights to her room, cold supper with Mrs Brewer and next day the walk to the agent's, perhaps a job again in the provinces away from him.
Mather said heavily, 'You don't care for me like I care for you. It's nearly twenty-four hours before I see you again.'
'It'll be more than that if I get a job.'
'You don't care. You simply don't care.'
She clutched his arm. 'Look. Look at that poster.' But it was gone before he could see it through the steamy pane. 'Europe Mobilizing' lay like a weight on her heart.
'What was it?'
'Oh, just the same old murder again.'
'You've got that murder on your mind. It's a week old now. It's got nothing to do with us.'
'No, it hasn't, has it?'
'If it had happened here, we'd have caught him by now.'
'I wonder why he did it.'
'Politics. Patriotism.'
'Well. Here we are. It might be a good thing to get off. Don't look so miserable. I thought you said you were happy.'
'That was five minutes ago.'
'Oh,' she said out of her light and heavy heart, 'one lives quickly these days.' They kissed under the lamp; she had to stretch to reach him; he was comforting like a large dog, even when he was sullen and stupid, but one didn't have to send away a dog alone in the cold dark night.
'Anne,' he said, 'we'll be married, won't we, after Christmas?'
'We haven't a penny,' she said, 'you know. Not a penny—Jimmy.'
'I'll get a rise.'
'You'll be late for duty.'
'Damn it, you don't care.'
She jeered at him, 'Not a scrap—dear,' and walked away from him up the street to No .54, praying let me get some money quick, let this go on this time; she hadn't any faith in herself. A man passed her going up the road; he looked cold and strung-up, as he passed in his black overcoat; he had a hare-lip. Poor devil, she thought, and forgot him, opening the door of 54, climbing the long flights to the top floor, the carpet stopped on the first. She put on the new record, hugging to her heart the silly senseless words, the slow sleepy tune: 'It's only Kew To you, But to me It's Paradise.
They are just blue
Petunias to you,
But to me
They are your eyes.'
The man with the hare-lip came back down the street; fast walking hadn't made him warm; like Kay in The Snow Queen he bore the cold within him as he walked. The flakes went on falling, melting into slush on the pavement, the words of a song dropped from the lit room on the third floor, the scrape of a used needle.
'They say that's a snowflower A man brought from Greenland.
I say it's the lightness, the coolness, the whiteness Of your hand.'
The man hardly paused; he went on down the street, walking fast; he felt no pain from the chip of ice in his breast.
3
Raven sat at an empty table in the Corner House near a marble pillar. He stared with distaste at the long list of sweet iced drinks, of parfaits and sundaes and coupes and splits. Somebody at the next table was eating brown bread and butter and drinking Horlick's. He wilted under Raven's gaze and put up his newspaper. One word 'Ultimatum' ran across the top line.
Mr Cholmondeley picked his way between the tables. He was fat and wore an emerald ring. His wide square face fell in folds over his collar. He looked like a realestate man, or perhaps a man more than usually successful in selling women's belts. He sat down at Raven's table and said, 'Good evening.'
Raven said, 'I thought you were never coming, Mr Chol-mon-deley,' pronouncing every syllable.
'Chumley, my dear man, Chumley,' Mr Cholmondeley corrected him.
'It doesn't matter how it's pronounced. I don't suppose it's your own name.'
'After all I chose it,' Mr Cholmondeley said. His ring flashed under the great inverted bowls of light as he turned the pages of the menu. 'Have a parfait.'
'It's odd wanting to eat ice in this weather. You've only got to stay outside if you're hot. I don't want to waste any time, Mr Chol-mon-deley. Have you brought the money? I'm broke.'
Mr Cholmondeley said: 'They do a very good Maiden's Dream. Not to speak of Alpine Glow. Or the Knickerbocker Glory.'
'I haven't had a thing since Calais.'
'Give me the letter,' Mr Cholmondeley said. 'Thank you.' He told the waitress, 'I'll have an Alpine Glow with a glass of kümmel over it.'