"Why are you sleeping in this room?" Michael asked.
"You"re getting a Mr. Smart, aren"t you?" said Barnes. "Fancy you"re noticing that. Oh, well, I suppose you"ve come to ask for your rooms back?"
Michael with the consciousness of the woman behind those curtained doors knew that he could discuss nothing at present. He felt that all the time her ear was at the keyhole, and he went out suddenly, telling Barnes to meet him at the Orange that night.
Again the beerhall impressed him with its eternal sameness. It was as if a cinema film had broken when he last went out of the Cafe d"Orange, and had been set in action again at the moment of his return. He looked round to see if Daisy was there, and she was. Her hat which had formerly been black and trimmed with white daisies was now, to mark the season, white and trimmed with black daisies.
"Hulloa!, little stranger!" she exclaimed. "Where have you been?"
So exactly the same was the Orange that Michael was almost surprised that she should have observed a pa.s.sage of time.
"You never seem to come here now," she said reproachfully. "Come on. Sit down. Don"t stand about like a man selling matches on the curb."
"How"s Bert?" Michael asked.
"Who?"
"Bert Saunders. The man you were living with in Little Quondam Street."
"Oh, him! Oh, I had to get rid of him double quick. What? Yes, when it came to asking me to go to Paris with a fighting fellow. Only fancy the cheek of it! It would help him, he said, with his business. Dirty Ecnop!
I soon shoved him down the Apples-and-pears."
"I haven"t understood a word of that last sentence," said Michael.
"Don"t you know back-slang and rhyming-slang? Oh, it"s grand! Here, I forgot, there"s something I wanted to tell you. Do you remember you was in here with a fellow who you said his name was Burns?"
"Barnes, you mean, I expect. Yes, he"s supposed to be meeting me here to-night, as a matter of fact."
"Well, you be careful of him. He"ll get you into trouble."
Michael looked incredulous.
"It"s true as I sit here," said Daisy earnestly. "Come over in the corner and let"s have our drink there. I can"t talk here with that blue-nosed---- behind me, squinting at us across his lager." She looked round indignantly at the man in question.
They moved across to one of the alcoves, and Daisy leaned over and spoke quietly and rather tensely, so differently from the usual rollick of her voice that Michael began to feel a presentiment of dread.
"I was out on the Dilly one night soon after you"d been round to my place, and I was with a girl called Janie Filson. "Oo-er," she said to me. "Did you see who that was pa.s.sed?" I looked round and saw this fellow Burns."
"Barnes," Michael corrected.
"Oh, well, Barnes. His name doesn"t matter, because it isn"t his own, anyway. "That"s Harry Meats," she said. And she called out after him.
"Hulloa, Harry, where"s Cissie?" He went as white as ... oh, he did go shocking white. He just turned to see who it was had called out after him, and then he slid up Swallow Street like a bit of paper. "Who"s Cissie?" I said. "Don"t you remember Cissie c.u.mmings?" she said. "That fair girl who always wore a big purple hat and used to be in the Leicester Lounge and always carried a box of chocolates for sw.a.n.k?" I did remember the girl when Janie spoke about her. Only I never knew her, see? "He wasn"t very pleased when you mentioned her," I said. "Didn"t he look awful?" said Janie, and just then she got off with a fellow and I couldn"t ask her any more."
"I don"t think that"s enough to make me very much afraid of Barnes,"
Michael commented.
"Wait a minute, I haven"t finished yet. Don"t be in such a hurry. The other day I saw Janie Filson again. She"s been away to Italy--is there a place called Italy? Of course there is. Well, as I was saying, she"d been to Italy with her fellow who"s a commercial traveler and that"s why I hadn"t seen her. And Janie said to me, "Do you know what they"re saying?" I said, "No, what?" And she said, "Did you read nearly a year ago about a woman who was found murdered in the Euston Road? A gay woman it was," she said. So I said, "Lots of women is found murdered, my dear.
I can"t remember every one I see the picture of." Well, anyone can"t, can they?" Daisy broke off to ask Michael in an injured voice. Then she resumed her tale. "When I was with that fellow Bert I used to read nothing else but murders all the time. Give anyone the rats, it would.
"Lots of women, my dear," I said. And she said, "Well, there was one in particular who the police never found out the name of, because there wasn"t any clothing or nothing found." So I did remember about it, and she said, "Well, they"re saying now it was Cissie c.u.mmings." And I said, "Well, what of it, if it was?" And she said, "What of it?" she said.
"Well, if it was her," she said, "I know who done it." "Who done it?" I asked--because, you see, I"d forgotten about this fellow Burns. "Why, Harry Meats," she said. "That fellow I saw on the Dilly the night when I was along with you.""
"I don"t think you have enough evidence for the police," Michael decided, with half a smile. Yet nevertheless a malaise chilled him, and he looked over his shoulder at the mob in the beer hall.
"---- the police!" Daisy exclaimed. "I don"t care about them when I"m positive certain of something. I tell you, I know that fellow Burns, or Meats, or whatever his name is, done it."
"But what am I to do about it?" Michael asked.
"Well, you"ll get into trouble, that"s all," Daisy prophesied. "You"d look very funny if he was pinched for murder while you was out walking with him. Ugh! It gives me the creeps. Order me a gin, there"s a good boy."
Michael obtained for Daisy her drink, and sat waiting for Barnes to appear.
"He won"t come," Daisy scoffed. "If he"s feeling funny about the neck, he won"t come down here. He"s never been down since that night he came down with you. Fancy, to go and do a poor girl in like that! I"d spit in his face, if I saw him."
"Daisy, you really mustn"t a.s.sume such horrible things about a man. He"s as innocent as you or me."
"Is he?" Daisy retorted. "I don"t think so then. You never saw how shocking white his face went when Janie asked him about Cissie."
"But if there were any suspicion of him," Michael pointed out, "the police would have tackled him long ago."
"Oh, they aren"t half artful, the police aren"t," said Daisy. "Nothing they"d like better than get waiting about and seeing if he didn"t go and murder another poor girl, so as they could have him for the two, and be all the more pleased about it."
"That"s talking nonsense," Michael protested. "The police don"t do that sort of thing."
"I don"t know," Daisy argued. "One or two poor girls more or less wouldn"t worry them. After all, that"s what we"re for--to get pinched when they"ve got nothing better to do. Of course, I know it"s part of the game, but there it is. If you steal my purse and I follow you round and tell a copper, what would he do? Why, pinch me for soliciting. No, my motto is, "Keep out of the way of the police." And if you take my advice, you"ll do the same. If this fellow didn"t do the girl in," Daisy asked earnestly, leaning forward over the table, "why doesn"t he come down here and keep his appointment with you to-night? Don"t you worry.
He knows the word has gone round, and he"s going to lie very low for a bit. I wouldn"t say the tecs aren"t watching out for him even now."
"My dear Daisy, you"re getting absolutely fanciful," Michael declared.
"Oh, well, good luck to fanciful," said Daisy, draining her gla.s.s.
"Here, why don"t you come home with me to-night?"
"What, and spend another three hours hiding in a cupboard?"
"No, properly, I mean, this time. Only we should have to go to a hotel, because the woman I"m living with"s got her son come home from being a soldier and she wouldn"t like for him to know anything. Well, it"s better not. You"re much more comfortable when you aren"t in gay rooms, because they haven"t got a hold over you. Are you coming?"
For a moment Michael was inclined to invite Daisy to go away with him.
For a moment it seemed desirable to bury himself in a corner of the underworld: to pa.s.s his life there for as long as he could stand it. He could easily make this girl fond of him, and he might be happy with her.
No doubt, it would be ultimately a degrading happiness, but yet not much more degrading than the prosperity of many of his friends. He had always escaped so far and hidden himself successfully. Why not again more completely? What, after all, did he know of this underworld without having lived of it as well as in it? Hitherto he had been a spectator, intervening sometimes in the sudden tragedies and comedies, but never intervening except as very essentially a spectator. He thought, as he sat opposite to Daisy with her white dress and candid roguery, that it would be amusing to become a rogue himself. There would be no strain in living with Daisy. Love in the way that he had loved Lily would be a joke to her. Why should not he take her for what she was--shrewd, mirthful, kind, honest, the natural light of love? He would do her no wrong by accepting her as such. She was immemorial in the scheme of the universe.
Michael was on the point of offering to Daisy his alliance, when he remembered what Sylvia had said about men and, though he knew that Daisy could not possibly think in that way about men, he had no courage to plunge with her into deeper labyrinths not yet explored. He thought of the contempt with which Sylvia would hail him, were they in this nightmare of London to meet in such circ.u.mstances. A few weeks ago--yesterday, indeed--he might have joined himself to Daisy under the pretext of helping her and improving her. Now he must help himself: he must aim at perfecting himself. Experiments, when at any moment pa.s.sion might enter, were too dangerous.
"No, I won"t come home with you, dear Daisy," he said, taking her hand over the puddly table. "You know, you didn"t kiss me that night in Quondam Street because you thought I might one day come home with you, did you?"
She shrugged her shoulders.
"What"s the good of asking me why I kissed you?" she said, embarra.s.sed and almost made angry by his reminder. "Perhaps I was twopence on the can. I can get very loving on a quartern of gin, I can. Oh, well, if you aren"t coming home, you aren"t, and I must get along. Sitting talking to you isn"t paying my rent, is it?"
He longed to offer her money, but he could not, because it was seeming to him now indissolubly linked with hiring. However genuinely it was a token of exchange, money was eluding his capacity for idealization, and he was at a loss to find a symbol service.