people’.s
Lena’s tiny living room was draped all over with her purchases, a mauve silk dress with a fringe round the hem, a man’s grey morning coat, a bunch of scarves, a pair of lace-up girl’s can-can boots, and several little skirts and jumpers. The budgerigar, temporarily manumitted, surveyed all this array from its perch on an art nouveau lamp standard. In a day or two Lena would sell all these clothes to another shop, retaining perhaps one garment. She nearly always lost by these transactions, but sometimes she made a tiny profit. When she saw Finn she recoiled from him, alarmed, inordinately distressed as always by even a pin-head drop of blood.
“You’ve been cut!” as if it had been done to him by someone else.
“Well, well,” said Finn, “so I have. Let’s cover it up, shall we?”
She gave him a lump of cotton wool that might have come out of a pill bottle or been the bedding of a ring. Finn stuck it on his chin. It smelt, like Lena’s clothes, of camphor. She had brought in with her, he saw to his annoyance, a local paper, the
Post
, and he knew at once the cause of her uneasiness. Her eyes followed his.
“There’s been a girl murdered in Kilburn.”
He opened his mouth to speak, guessing what was to come. She came up even closer to him, laid her finger on his lips, and said in a hesitant, fearful voice,
“Did you do it?”
“Come
on,”
said Finn. “Of course I didn’t.” The birdflew down and clung to the hem of the mauve dress, pecking at its fringe.
“I woke up in the night and I was so afraid. Your aura had been all dark yesterday, a dark reddish-brown. I asked the pendulum, and it said to go down and see if you were there, so I went down and listened outside your door. I listened for hours but you weren’t there.”
“Give it here,” said Finn. He took the paper gently from her. “She wasn’t killed in the night, see? She wasn’t killed yesterday. Look, you read it. She was killed last Wednesday week, the fifteenth.”
Lena nodded, clutching on to his arm with both hands like a person in danger of drowning clutches a spar. The bird pecked little mauve beads off the dress and scattered them on the floor.
“You know where we were that Wednesday, don’t you? The day before my birthday it was. All afternoon and all evening we were in here with Mrs. Gogarty, doing Plan-chette. You and me and Mrs. Gogarty. Okay? Panic over?”
Ever since the Queenie business, which had also marked the onset of her trouble, Lena had supposed every murder committed north of Regent’s Park and south of Barnet to have been perpetrated by her son. Had supposed it, at any rate, until Finn proved it otherwise or someone else was convicted of the crime. From time to time there came upon her flashes of terror in which she feared his arrest for murders committed years ago in Harringay or Harlesden. It was for this reason, among others, that Finn intended to make his present enterprise appear as an accident. Had he known what he was doing in those far-off days, had he not been so young, he would have done the same by Queenie and thus saved poor Lena from an extra anguish.
“Panic over?” he said again.
She nodded, smiling happily. One day she might forget, he thought, when he took her with him to India and they lived in the light of the ancient wisdom. She had begunrummaging through the day’s horde of treasures, the budgerigar perched on her shoulder. A cushion, falling out, was caught between an octagonal table and a wicker box. Few objects could fall uninterruptedly to the floor in Lena’s flat. She surfaced, grasping something yellow and woollen.
“For you,” she said. “It’s your size and it’s your favourite colour.” And she added, like any mother who fears her gift won’t be appreciated as it should be, “It wasn’t cheap!”
Finn took off his waistcoat and pulled on the yellow sweater. It had a polo neck. He got up and looked at himself in Lena’s oval mirror with the
Lena’s tiny living room was draped all over with her purchases, a mauve silk dress with a fringe round the hem, a man’s grey morning coat, a bunch of scarves, a pair of lace-up girl’s can-can boots, and several little skirts and jumpers. The budgerigar, temporarily manumitted, surveyed all this array from its perch on an art nouveau lamp standard. In a day or two Lena would sell all these clothes to another shop, retaining perhaps one garment. She nearly always lost by these transactions, but sometimes she made a tiny profit. When she saw Finn she recoiled from him, alarmed, inordinately distressed as always by even a pin-head drop of blood.
“You’ve been cut!” as if it had been done to him by someone else.
“Well, well,” said Finn, “so I have. Let’s cover it up, shall we?”
She gave him a lump of cotton wool that might have come out of a pill bottle or been the bedding of a ring. Finn stuck it on his chin. It smelt, like Lena’s clothes, of camphor. She had brought in with her, he saw to his annoyance, a local paper, the
Post
, and he knew at once the cause of her uneasiness. Her eyes followed his.
“There’s been a girl murdered in Kilburn.”
He opened his mouth to speak, guessing what was to come. She came up even closer to him, laid her finger on his lips, and said in a hesitant, fearful voice,
“Did you do it?”
“Come
on,”
said Finn. “Of course I didn’t.” The birdflew down and clung to the hem of the mauve dress, pecking at its fringe.
“I woke up in the night and I was so afraid. Your aura had been all dark yesterday, a dark reddish-brown. I asked the pendulum, and it said to go down and see if you were there, so I went down and listened outside your door. I listened for hours but you weren’t there.”
“Give it here,” said Finn. He took the paper gently from her. “She wasn’t killed in the night, see? She wasn’t killed yesterday. Look, you read it. She was killed last Wednesday week, the fifteenth.”
Lena nodded, clutching on to his arm with both hands like a person in danger of drowning clutches a spar. The bird pecked little mauve beads off the dress and scattered them on the floor.
“You know where we were that Wednesday, don’t you? The day before my birthday it was. All afternoon and all evening we were in here with Mrs. Gogarty, doing Plan-chette. You and me and Mrs. Gogarty. Okay? Panic over?”
Ever since the Queenie business, which had also marked the onset of her trouble, Lena had supposed every murder committed north of Regent’s Park and south of Barnet to have been perpetrated by her son. Had supposed it, at any rate, until Finn proved it otherwise or someone else was convicted of the crime. From time to time there came upon her flashes of terror in which she feared his arrest for murders committed years ago in Harringay or Harlesden. It was for this reason, among others, that Finn intended to make his present enterprise appear as an accident. Had he known what he was doing in those far-off days, had he not been so young, he would have done the same by Queenie and thus saved poor Lena from an extra anguish.
“Panic over?” he said again.
She nodded, smiling happily. One day she might forget, he thought, when he took her with him to India and they lived in the light of the ancient wisdom. She had begunrummaging through the day’s horde of treasures, the budgerigar perched on her shoulder. A cushion, falling out, was caught between an octagonal table and a wicker box. Few objects could fall uninterruptedly to the floor in Lena’s flat. She surfaced, grasping something yellow and woollen.
“For you,” she said. “It’s your size and it’s your favourite colour.” And she added, like any mother who fears her gift won’t be appreciated as it should be, “It wasn’t cheap!”
Finn took off his waistcoat and pulled on the yellow sweater. It had a polo neck. He got up and looked at himself in Lena’s oval mirror with the
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