Once back home with Mother, I made an excuse to slip up to my bedroom — naturally, we have separate rooms now — and I looked at what I had in my pocket. It was interesting — a letter from his sister, and two bills from his firm, and a clipping from a newspaper (two years old and very tattered) about a general visiting Russia, and a card about a pigeon race, and a little folder showing all the different shades of a shiny paint you could buy, and a union card, and a photograph of a little girl holding a tricycle, and another of the same little girl standing by herself and laughing. I stared at that photograph a lot, wondering what she could be laughing at.
One time I left it lying about and Mother found it and had a good look at it.
“Who’s this then, Vera?”
“It’s the son of a chap I work with — daughter, I mean.”
“Nice, isn’t it? What’s her name?”
“I don’t know her name. Give it here, Mum.”
“Who’s the chap? Her father, I mean, which is he?”
“I told you, I work with him.”
“Is it Walter?” She had never met Walter, but I suppose I had mentioned his name.
“No, it’s not Walter. It’s Bert, if you must know, and I met his little girl when I went round to his place, so he thought I’d like a photo of her, because she took to me.”
“I see. Yet you don’t know her name?”
“I told you, Mother, I forgot it. You can’t remember everyone’s name, can you? Now give it here.”
She can be very annoying at times. She and my father used to have terrible rows sometimes, when I was small.
As I said, mine is a lonely way of life. I began to dream of those hidden pockets, warm and safe and concealed, each with their secret bits and pieces of life. Everywhere I went I was haunted by pockets. I wished I had emptied all the pockets of that scout — wished it bitterly. You hear people say, “Oh, if I could have my time over again.” That’s how I felt, and I began wasting my life with regret.
Another man might have turned into a miserable little thief, but that was not my way. I’ve never stolen a thing in my whole life.
The third fellow was a disappointment. His pockets were almost empty, though he had some race-course winnings on him that I was able to use towards some little luxuries for Mother.
And then I suppose my luck was in, for the next three I did gave me something of the relief I found with my first... well, my first partner, you might say, to be polite about it. They were all big men. And what they had on them, hidden in their pockets, was very interesting.
Do you know, one of those men was carrying with him a neatly folded copy of a boys’ magazine printed twenty years earlier, when he must have been a boy himself. You’d wonder what he wanted that for! And another had a nautical almanac and a copy of a catalogue of things for sale in a Berlin store and a sickly love letter from a woman called Janet.
All these things I kept locked up. I used to turn them over and over and think of them, and wonder about them. Sometimes, when the men were found to be missing, I could learn a little more about them from the newspapers. That was fun and gave me a great kick. One man was something big in the film world. I think that if life had been different for me, I might have been a... well, a detective. Why not? Of course, I am much happier as I am.
So time went on. I got very careful, more careful after each one. I mean, you never know. Someone may always be watching you. I remember how my dad used to peep round doors at me when I was small, and it gave me a start even when I hadn’t done anything wrong.
Also, I got more curious. It was the intellectual curiosity at work, you see.
Now this brings us up to date, right smack up to date. Today!
See, I mean, it’s been eighteen months since I... well, since I had a partner, as I sometimes think of it. But you get terribly lonely. So I went back to the Seven Dials one, and this time I said to myself, “Vern, my son, you have been very patient, and as a result I’ve got a little treat for you with this one.”
Oh, I was very careful. I watched and watched, and was sure to pick on a type who obviously wasn’t local, just passing through the area, so that there would be nothing to connect him with the Seven Dials.
He was a businessman, quite smart and small, which suited me well. Directly he went in the convenience I was after him, strolling in very slowly and naturally.
This fellow was in the one and only cubicle with the door open — the door hinge was broken, so the door wouldn’t close really. But I don’t change my mind once it is sort of cold and made up, so I went straight over to him and held my little bayonet so that it pricked his throat. He was much smaller than me, so I knew there wouldn’t be a nasty scene; being fastidious, or squeamish you might say, I hate anything nasty like that.
I said to him, “I want to hear about a big secret in your life — something you did that no one knows about! Make it quick, or I’ll do you in!”
His face was a vile color, and Re did not seem to be able to talk, though I could see by his clothes he was a superior man, rather like me in a way. I pricked his throat till it bled and told him to hurry up and speak.
Finally he said, “Leave me alone, for God’s sake! I’ve just murdered a man!”
Well, that’s what he said. It made me mad in a freezing sort of a way. Somehow I thought he was being funny, but before I could do anything, he must have seen the look in my eyes, and he grabbed my wrists and started babbling.
Then he stopped and said, “You must be a friend of Fowler’s! You must have followed me from his flat! Why didn’t I think he might be clever enough for that! You’re a friend of Fowler’s, aren’t you?”
“I’ve never heard of him. I’ve nothing to do with your dirty business!”
“But you knew he was blackmailing me? You must know, or why are you here?”
We stood and stared at each other. I mean, I was really as taken aback by this turn of events as he was. For me this whole thing was meant to be a... well, I mean it was a sort of relaxation; I mean, it really is necessary for me, else I’d probably be flat on my back with asthma and goodness knows what else, and quite unable to lead a normal life, and the last thing I wanted to do was get mixed up with... well, with murder and blackmail and all that.
Just as I had reached the conclusion that maybe I ought to let this one go, he started to draw a gun on me. Directly his hand went down, I knew what he was after — just like in those horrible films that they really should ban from showing where they go for their guns and shoot those big chaps kak-kak-kak out of their pockets!
So I let him have it, very cold and quick, a very beautiful stroke that only comes with practice.
This time I could not wait for any sentimental nonsense. I opened the inspection cover and dropped him down, and then climbed down after him. I took his gun because I wished to examine the beastly thing before disposing of it. And then I slipped my hand into his warm inner pocket.
I found an open envelope containing a strip of film together with some enlargements from the negatives. Those photographs were positively indecent — I mean, really indecent, for they showed a girl, a grown girl, with no clothes on whatsoever. I did not need telling they were something to do with this blackmailer Fowler. They just showed what sort of a mind he had! The world was well rid of him, and this beauty who had tried to shoot me.
In an agony of embarrassment I slipped those vile things into my pocket to be examined later, opened the other hatch, and tipped him into the fast-flowing water. Then I shut down everything, wiped my face on my handkerchief, and walked out into the alley.