“Thank you,” said Bohun. “I’m liking it very much.”
“Dry as dust, I expect.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Bohun. “We found a trustee in one of the deed boxes today.”
“Lor!” said Mrs. Magoli, who clearly had no idea what a trustee was. “What will you lawyers get up to next? Now what could you fancy for your afters?”
Bohun inspected the table in the middle of the room which Mrs. Magoli had spread with a fair cloth and covered with a number of dishes, backed by a promising looking wicker-covered flask.
“Ham,” he said. “How on earth do you get ham? I didn’t think there was that much ham in London. Pasta schuta. Bread. Butter. Green olives. To add anything else would be sacrilege and profanation—unless you’ve got a little bit of Carmagnola cheese…”
“I thought that’s what you’d be after,” said Mrs. Magoli. “Got some this morning. Shocking price, I don’t like to tell you what it cost.”
“Then don’t,” said Bohun.
“You’ll be the ruin of me,” said Mrs. Magoli complacently.
“Then we will go down together into bankruptcy,” said Bohun, “fortified by the blamelessness of our lives and strengthened by the inspiration of your cooking.”
When Mrs. Magoli had cleared away the last of the dinner, Bohun took a book from the shelves and started to read. He read steadily, reeling in the lines of print with a nice unfettered action. Page after page was turned, until the little clock on the mantelpiece tinkled out eleven: whereupon Bohun closed the book, marking the place with a slip of white paper on which he scribbled a note. Then he got to his feet and looked out of the window, stooping his height a little to get a view of the skyline over the gable opposite.
The sky was clear, and the night warm for mid-April.
Bohun went back into his bedroom and returned carrying an old raincoat, turned out the fire and the light and went quietly downstairs. A few minutes later he was in Holborn, boarding a late bus, going east.
It was half a dozen fare-stages beyond Aldgate Pump before he alighted. Thereafter he turned south, towards the river, following his nose.
The public houses were long since closed and the only lights which showed were from one or two little all-night cafés. Bohun seemed to know where he was going. He left even these rare lights behind him as he turned down a side street. He was in the factory and warehouse area now, and the street along which he was walking was lined with heavy double doors, steel-roller covered vanways alternating with hoardings.
After a hundred yards he turned down an alleyway which came to a dead end in an ugly square yellow-brick building. Lights were showing in one or two of the windows and Bohun knocked. The front door was unlocked and he went in without waiting for an answer.
The room into which he turned was some sort of office. A gas-fire burned in the grate, and at a table a small bald middle-aged man was seated drinking cocoa out of a large mug.
“Good evening, ’Enery,” said the bald man. His voice declared that he had been born and bred within striking distance of Bow bells. “I thought I reckernised your fairy plates. ’Elp yerself to a cupper.”
“Thanks,” said Henry. “Anything doing tonight?”
“Not tonight, son. You mighter used the blower and saved yerself a journey.”
“That’s all right,” said Henry. “I like the exercise. When’s the next job coming along?”
“I can fitcher in next week, most probable. Peters need a pair for their new place.”
“Peters—isn’t that whisky?”
“Wines and sperrits.”
“That’s apt to be a bit rough, isn’t it?” said Bohun. “I’m not looking for trouble, you know. A quiet life is all I want.”
“Quiet,” said the little man. “It’ll be quiet as a fevver bed. Peters are all right. Very scientific. All the fixings.”
“All right,” said Bohun. “I’ll try anything once. Give me a ring nearer the time. How have you been keeping? How are the pigeons?…”
“Pigeons… There’s no money left in our fevvered friends—take pigs…”
It was an hour and more before Bohun finally set out again into the night. The last bus had long gone to its garage and the streets were empty. He faced the prospect of the walk with equanimity. Walking in the country bored him, but London he loved, and most of all he loved it at night. The shuttered warehouses, the silent streets of offices. The grave, cloaked policemen, the occasional hunting cat. The death of one day’s life.
His long legs carried him steadily westward.
Three o’clock was striking from Lincoln’s Inn Chapel when he turned once more into Malvern Rents.
As he turned his key in the door he stopped in some surprise. Ten yards down, opposite the entrance of the narrow passage, he noticed the rear light of a car. This in itself was unusual at that time of night, but it was not all. Looking up from where he stood he saw that there was a light in his room.
“Curiouser and curiouser,” said Bohun. He shut the shop door quietly and went upstairs.
The thickset man who got up as he came in, said: “I’m sorry to disturb you at such an unorthodox hour, Mr. Bohun. Your landlady gave me permission to make myself at home till you came back.”
He might have been a farmer, with his red face, his heavy build and his hardworn tweed suit. He might have been a soldier in mufti. The hand which he held out to Bohun had the plumping muscles behind the fingers which meant that the owner used his hands as well as his head. The only remarkable thing about this generally unremarkable person was his eyes, which were grey, with the cold grey of the North Sea.
“My name’s Hazlerigg,” went on the newcomer. “I’m from Scotland Yard.”
Bohun had recognised the police car and managed not to look too shaken. The next remark, however, did surprise him.
“I believe you knew Bobby Pollock,” said Hazlerigg.
“Lord, yes,” said Bohun. “Won’t you sit down. Bobby and I were second loots in the Rum Runners. We were in Africa and Italy together. I heard—didn’t he get killed?”
“Yes,” said Hazlerigg. “I had the pleasure of hanging both the responsible parties,” he added.
“I’m glad,” said Bohun. “Bobby was a first-rater. I believe he broke every regulation known to officialdom to get into the army.”
“Yes,” said Hazlerigg. “He told me a lot about you too.”
“Well, I expect you know the worst. About my disability, you mean.”
“I should hesitate to describe para-insomnia as a disability,” said Hazlerigg, “although I know the army regarded it as such.”
“I don’t think that anyone really knows very much about it,” said Bohun, “or that’s the impression I’ve got from talking to a number of different doctors.”
“It’s true, then, that you never sleep more than two hours a night.”
“Two hours is a good night,” said Bohun. “Ninety minutes is about the average.”
“And you don’t suffer any ill effects—excuse me. It’s bad taste, I know, asking questions like that, only I was interested when Pollock told me.”
“It doesn’t make me feel tired, if that’s what you mean,” said Bohun. “It isn’t straightforward insomnia, you know—not as the term is usually understood. The only detail on which the medical profession are at all agreed is that some day I may drop down dead in the street. But what day—or what street—they can’t say.”
“I can’t do better,” said Hazlerigg, “than quote Sergeant Pollock. He said some nice things about you as an infantry officer, then he added, ‘Of course, he was God’s gift to the staff. Imagine a G.S.O. who could work indefinitely for twenty-two hours a day!’ I gather that an officious M.O. tumbled to it in the end and the net result was that you were boarded out.”