“Let me do the talking,” he said. “You’re all right. I know girls. You’re the right sort of girl. You’ve had a knock, but that doesn’t matter. You’ll get over it.”
She picked up her bag. “I’m going,” she said. “I don’t let strange men talk to me.”
“I got you that coffee, didn’t I?” he returned, staring at her. “Can’t you do something for me in return?”
She felt his eyes boring into her and through his eyes she felt the strength of his will. It made her feel weak “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Well, shut up talking and give me a chance. There’s a man sitting at the left-hand table at the far end of the room. He’s wearing a black shirt and a white tie. Is he still there?”
She glanced over her shoulder.
A man was sitting at the left-hand table at the far end of the room. He did wear a black shirt and a white tie. His black slouch hat was pushed to the back of his head. In a vague way, he reminded her of Humphrey Bogart.” He was looking in her direction in a disinterested detached way.
“Yes,” she said, wondering what all this meant.
The chauffeur compressed his lips. “He’s following me,” he confided after a moment’s hesitation. “If ever you follow anyone don’t wear clothes that shriek. I noticed that tie half an hour ago, It’s been following me ever since.”
“It’s nothing to do with me,” Susan said, a little bewildered. She drank her coffee and opened her bag.
“It could be,” the chauffeur said. “You’ve had a knock. This is the way to forget it. I want to know who that man is. Will you follow him for me?”
She was so surprised she could only stare at him. “Give you some excitement,” the chauffeur went on. “He wouldn’t expect you. I’d make it worth your while.” He took out a thin packet of pound notes and pushed them across the table.
“Ten pounds,” he went on. “It’s easy money.”
She drew back. “I think you must be mad,” she said, feeling a sudden excitement. “I wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing.”
“Yes, you would,” he returned, looking at the newspaper with a frown on his thin, white face. “I don’t make mistakes. A moment ago you were thinking you’d make a hole in the river.” Now, you’ve almost forgotten what you were howling about. This will round off the night.”
She said reluctantly, “But I’ve never followed anyone before.”
“It’s easy,” he said, still seemingly absorbed in his newspaper. “He’s got a car. It’s a big green Packard. XLA3578. He’s left it at the top of the street. All you have to do is to get in the back and put the rug over you. There’s a rug in the back —I’ve seen it. He’ll follow my car and then go back to Shepherd Market. At least I think that’s where he’ll go, but I want to be sure. It’ll be a night out for you.”
“I’m not going to do it,” Susan said. “He might find me. Then what would happen? Besides, I don’t like the look of him.”
“Nor do I,” the chauffeur said, “but he won’t find you. He’d never think of looking. Can’t you see that? You better make up your mind. We can’t stay here all night.”
“No,” she said. “It’s too ridiculous.”
He looked at her. “It’s exciting,” he said simply. “You don’t look as if you’ve ever had any real excitement. You’re the sort of girl who needs it.”
I don’t know about that, Susan thought, her heart beating rapidly, but tonight I do need something. It would be better than going back to my room.
“Who is he?” she said. “Who are you? Why is he following you?”
The chauffeur rattled the paper impatiently. “Never mind all that,” he said. “When you have followed him, we’ll meet and talk about it. There’s no time to waste now.”
“But I ‘m not going to follow him,” Susan said weakly.
“Ten pounds,” the chauffeur urged. “I ‘ll engage you for the work. Imagine you’re a detective.”
She giggled. This was really too absurd.
“Do you think I look like a detective?”
“That’s why you’re going to be good,” he said. “No one would suspect you.”
He pushed the notes further across the table, screening the move from everyone by the newspaper. “Don’t be a fool. You can use the money. Look upon it as a job.”
She could use the money ail right, she told herself. Jobs didn’t hang on trees. Yes, ten pounds would be useful.
She glanced across at the man in the black shirt. He was lighting a cigarette, not looking in their direction. He looked ruthless and unpleasantly like an American gangster. She shivered, suddenly tense with excitement. She wondered what George would have said if he knew what she was going to do. Poor George who hated her to walk down Fulham Road in the dark. She wished George and his mother were in the cafe. The thought of their shocked horror finally decided her.
“All right,” she said, “I’ll do it,” and immediately regretted saying so.
The chauffeur looked at her. “You could say that, take the money and go home, couldn’t you?”
She faced him. “Yes, I could.”
He eyed her for a moment of time. “But you wouldn’t. Some girls would, but you wouldn’t. I know girls. You’re the right sort.”
Somehow she was flattered, although she knew she ought to have been angry.
“All right,” he said. “Meet me somewhere tomorrow. Outside the Green Man on Putney Hill. Ten o’clock. All right?”
She began to say that she had to look for a job tomorrow but stopped herself in time. She would look for a job in the afternoon, she decided. “All right.”
“A green Packard. XLA3578. At the top of the street. I’ll give you three minutes start and then I’ll come on. He’ll follow me.”
She picked up the notes and put them into her bag. I can’t believe this is going to happen, she thought. I do hope I’m not being stupid. I do hope it will work out all right. She got to her feet and went over to the counter. The waitress took her three-pence and threw the three coppers into the till. She slammed the till drawer as if to say “and good riddance.”
Susan looked back over her shoulder. The chauffeur still hid behind the Evening News. The man in the black shirt was yawning and looking irritably up at the ceiling. There was nothing to show that anything extraordinary was about to happen.
She opened the door and stepped into the street.
I think you had better go home, she said to herself. You don’t know who these men are. You’ll probably be sorry in a little while that you had anything to do with them. There’s still time to give him back his money. There’s still time to catch a 14 bus outside Simpson’s.
But she only hesitated a moment, then aware of a wildly beating heart, she walked up the street in search of the green Packard.
* * *
Butch—his proper name was Mike Egan—drove along the darkened Thames Embankment, his big muscular hands resting on the steering wheel; a cigarette hung limply from his thin lips.
He decided that it had been a pretty good evening. A glance at the dashboard clock showed that it was a few minutes after twelve thirty. Still time to take care of his private affairs, he told himself. He had managed to give Celie the high sign. She knew what that meant. She’d find a way to ditch the old buzzard and be over at her Mews apartment by the time he got there.
Butch pushed his hat to the back of his head and grunted. Celie was all right.
She’d got a head on her. She was a looker too. Odd that he never considered her as “coloured.” Very odd considering how he hated niggers. Take that dinge Gilroy, the drummer at the Gilded Lily. Butch’s mouth tightened. Back in the States he would have taken him for a one-way ride. Here, it didn’t pay to take guys for a ride. These coppers in their funny helmets were dynamite, so he had heard. Anyway, Rollo thought so and Rollo wasn’t the kind who scared easily. Shoot a guy in this country and they hanged you. He shook his head. Some country!