BITER BIT

I leaned against a pillar in the foyer and watched them leaving the theatre.  Five minutes later, as it was beginning to look like another wasted evening, I saw her.  She walked through the foyer and stopped by the street doors, slowly pulling on a pair of long black gloves.  She seemed a bit younger than I would have preferred, but the coat was obviously mink, and I had already wasted too much time.  I studied her a few seconds longer and then approached her.

   "Excuse me," I removed my hat.  "I hope you won't think this too presumptuous of me, but I couldn't help noticing you were alone."

   Wrong approach.  She looked at me with startled apprehension, but said nothing.  I tried again.

   "Please don't be alarmed.  It's just that we've both been alone at the theatre and I wondered if you'd like to join me for a spot of supper."

   Still no response.  Really, Andy, what's happened to your charm?  Let's face it old man, your judgement has let you down for once.  Now extricate yourself as gracefully as possible and do the vanishing trick.  First the flustered smile.

   "I'm sorry if I've offended you."  Now the small embarrassed laugh.  "It's simply that the play was so moving, I felt I simply had to discuss it with somebody."  And now a little shrug.  "However . . . "

   Suddenly, unexpectedly, she smiled.  "I'd be delighted," she said.

   "Thank you," I said.  "If I may introduce myself, I'm Andrew Hamilton."

   "Monique Duval," she said, briefly pressing her hand to mine.

   As I helped her remove her coat in the restaurant I was pleased to note the perfect proportions of her shapely figure in the snug-fitting, short black cocktail dress.  Her looks, too, left little to be desire: pert nose; full, but not overfull, lips; silver rinsed blonde hair, fashionably styled.  She seemed to be about five years younger than myself; certainly no more than thirty-five.  Quite a change, in fact, from my previous two "business" contacts.  I might even enjoy it this time, I decided.

   I held a chair back for her to sit, then sat in the facing chair.  "Your name suggests you may be French.  But you have no accent."

   She smiled.  "French on my father's side, but I've lived in England most of my life."

   "And your family?  Do they live in England or in France?"

   She hesitated, then replied, "My father died in the war.  I live in London with my mother."

   "Oh . . . I'm sorry."

   "That's all right.  It was a long time ago."  She put her elbows on the table and cupped her chin in her hands.  "So tell me, what did you think of Gielgud's performance?"

   By the time we reached the coffee stage I was bored with the theatrical small talk and began to steer the conversation to where I wanted it.

   "Well, it's obvious you love the theatre.  But how is it that someone as attractive as you should have to visit the theatre alone?"

   She pulled a face. "It's a long and involved story.  I wouldn't dream of boring you with the details.  In any case I was supposed to be working tonight and the theatre was a last minute decision."

   "Oh.  You work?"  I almost allowed my face to drop in disappointment, but changed my expression quickly into the cultivated lift of an eyebrow.  Had I been wrong after all?  "I suppose you have to support your mother?"

   "My mother?"  She seemed taken aback, then said hastily, "Oh, father left mother more than adequately provided for, which is fortunate as she's a permanent invalid.  No, I work because I like it, because I want to be independent, and because I can earn so much money."

   It was a good recovery and the story flowed fluently.  But I had caught the momentary hesitation and there and then I knew my senses had not let me down; I knew I was on to a good thing.  For the first time since our meeting I felt able to classify her.

   She presumably took my silence for enquiry as she explained, "I'm a model.  Fashion during the day and photographic in the evenings and, as you can imagine, the useful working life of a model is limited.  That's why I'm determined to make as much as I can while I can, and then do what I've always wanted to do."

   "Oh . . . ?"

   "I want to buy a small hotel in the south of France.  Antibes or Juan."

   "But surely even a small hotel in either place would cost a fortune?"

   "Quite a lot," she agreed, "for what I have in mind.  So you see why I work so hard.  I already have most of what I'll need and I've allowed myself another three years for the rest."

   Well, well.  I had learned far more than I expected, and far more quickly.  Andy, I told myself, this is it my boy.   This could be the one you've always hoped for.  There was still one mystery to be cleared up, but I had the first glimmering of a theory and decided to explore it.

   "What about marriage?" I asked.  "Doesn't that enter into your plans?"

   She grimaced.  "The only men I ever seem to meet are those who can't wait to start pawing me.  That, I'm afraid, is not what I'm looking for.  Should I ever feel the need of male protection, I hope I'll be independent enough to take a man on my own terms."

   "That sounds a bit hard-hearted.  You're not really that cold and calculating, are you?"

   Some of the earlier animation left her face and she stared at me coldly.  "I think the conversation's getting too personal.  Tell me about yourself.  What do you do for a living?"

   "I'm a stockbroker."  As usual the aptness of the title pleased me.  Playing the market summed up my business activity perfectly.

   Later, as we stood outside the restaurant, I asked if I could see her home.

   She said nothing for a few moments, and then, "I'd rather you didn't.  Perhaps you would call a taxi for me."

   I hadn't really expected her to agree, but it did complicate things.  "How about coming to the theatre with me one evening?" I asked.

   "It's very difficult.  I told you how often I have to work evenings."

   "Look," I said, "suppose we arrange to meet here next week, about seven.  I'll give you my phone number and, if you can't make it, you can let me know."

   It was the best I could think of in the circumstances.  At least it put the onus on her to get in touch with me again, and I could see no reason why she shouldn't do so.

   In a way things had worked out rather well and her behaviour and refusal to allow me to accompany her, after her obvious enjoyment of the evening, merely served to strengthen my theory.  I was pretty certain now that there was a "sugar-daddy" somewhere in the background.  It would explain all the hesitancies and weaknesses in her story.  It would also explain that strange remark about men pawing her.  Well, I'd be a refreshing change for her.  The more I thought about it, the more certain I became that she would meet me next week.

   She did.   And the week after.  It became a regular thing for us to meet once a week, see a show, have some supper and, eventually, round off the evening with a drink at my apartment.  Then she would take a taxi home.

   She would never let me accompany her.  I used to take delight in making the offer, just to see what excuse she would make.  It was usually the same one: there was no point in making the journey as she couldn't invite me in.  Her invalid mother could not be disturbed.  It certainly didn't disturb me.  I would have hated to bump into her aged Lothario and possibly deprive her of that wonderful source of income.  That money, I hoped, was going to be very important to my future.

   It was about three months after our first meeting that I decided the time was ripe for my next move.  I waited until we were back at my place, poured us both a brandy, and sat beside her on the settee.  Then I took her hands in mine.

   "Monique, my dear, you know what has happened, don't you?"

   "What do you mean?"

   "You must know I've fallen in love with you."  She laughed, a mixture of amusement and embarrassment.  "Don't laugh.  I'm serious."

   The amusement left her face; the embarrassment remained.  "You don't know me well enough yet to know that."  She forced a smile.  "Or is it my money you're after?"

   I decided to treat the question seriously.  I made myself sound a little stuffy as I said, "Don't be silly, I have money enough of my own.  Anyway, I know you well enough to know that I want to marry you."

   "Oh, Andy, if only I could believe that."

   "You must believe it.  You must have noticed."

   She smiled nervously.  "I suspected it, of course.  But I've been afraid to trust my suspicions."

   My heart leapt with exultation.  I'd done it again.  Perfect timing and faultless execution.  I tightened my grip on her hands.  "Then you feel the same way?  Oh, my darling . . . "  I put my arms around her and tried to kiss her.  A slight tremor ran through her body and she pulled away.  "What is it, Monique?  What have I done wrong?"

   "Oh, Andy . . . darling.  I'm sorry.  I suppose I'm not ready for that yet."

     I remembered what she had said about men pawing her.  It was the principal reason why I had so carefully avoided pressuring her into a physical relationship for the past weeks, despite the physical attraction.  God knows what she had had to endure with her "sugar-daddy".  "That's all right, my sweet.  I understand."

   "I know it's silly of me, but please be patient.  Give me a bit more time.  When we're married . . . "

   "Then you agree?"

   She smiled her assent and, for a moment, I almost felt guilty at what I was going to do.  Happily the weak moment passed.

   "Andy, hold me tight."  I put my arms round her again and she rested her head on my shoulder.  "I'm so happy.  I don't deserve . . ."  Her voice trailed off.  "You know so little about me."

   I knew, or guessed, far more than she imagined.  "I know everything I need to know," I said, thinking of a neat row of figures in black on a bank statement.

   "You're so good," she whispered into my chest.  "And I feel so guilty . . . and nervous."

   "Guilty of what?" I asked.  I wondered if she would tell me.

   She was silent for a moment, then she said, "Andy, let's not wait.  Let's get married straight away.  I'll give up work and . . . "

   I interrupted her.  That would never do.  "No!"  That was too abrupt.  I said it again, gently.  "No.  I'm not going to ask you to do that, darling.  I know how much the dream of owning that small hotel in the south of France means to you.  But just think!  We can share that dream now.  If we open a joint bank account and pool our savings, we could probably buy that hotel in months rather than years.  Think how wonderful that would be, spending our honeymoon in our own hotel in Cannes or Antibes."

   "Oh Andy . . . "

   It took about a fortnight for the banking formalities to be completed.  Then I booked a first-class air ticket to Rio-de-Janeiro for one week later.

   The evening before my departure I lay back on my settee, a glass of brandy by my side, packed suitcases spread around me, too excited to sleep.  Instead I was studying a small blue book which showed the total of three hundred and eighty thousand pounds transferred to the credit of Andrew Hudson's bank account that morning.

   I was reflecting on the structure of that impressive sum.  Most of it had come from Monique.  Three thousand remained of Iris Porter's twelve thousand.  Iris Porter of Bath.  She had been a ghastly creature.  Fifty-five if she was a day, and all she had wanted to do was dive in and out of bed with me.  I laughed, remembering the pleasure it had given me, and the look on her face, when I told her the company she'd allowed me to invest her money in had gone bust.

   And what was the name of that horror in Southport?  Murphy?  Mahoney?  It was an Irish name.  That was it!  Malone!  Mona Malone had provided almost thirty thousand - and another lot of physical gymnastics.

   It was ironic, really.  Of the three of them, Monique was the only one attractive enough to have aroused any desire in me - and she was the only one I had never slept with.  I wondered what it would have been like.  Then I dismissed the thought; there would be attractive women galore in the years to come.

   Then the doorbell rang.  I wondered who the hell would be calling at this time of the night, and opened the door.

   "Hello, Hudson."

   The taller of the two men pushed his way past me into the room and motioned to his companion to join him.

   "What the hell do you want?" I said.

   He smiled.  "Come, come, Hudson.  That's no way to greet an old friend."

   I shrugged off the hand he had put on my shoulder.  "You're no friend of mine, Jarvis.  Take off, and take buddy-boy here along with you."

   "That's right," he said.  "You've never met before.  Allow me to introduce Sergeant Evans.  I dare say you two are going to see a lot more of each other."

   I swallowed.  "Where's the search warrant, Inspector?"  I tried to make the title sound like a dirty word.

   "Search warrant?"  He smiled the guileless smile of a cherub.  "We haven't come here to make a search."  His gaze swept the room and took in the signs of my imminent departure.  "Thinking of taking a trip, Hudson?"

   "Yes.  And I'm extremely busy.  So if you don't mind . . . "

   "Oh, but I do."  He clucked his tongue.  "And you were leaving without saying goodbye."  He turned to the sergeant.  "He's packed far too much, wouldn't you say, Evans?"

   "Look here, Jarvis, what's this all about?  You've got nothing on me."

   "No?"  He grinned.  "It was two years you went down for last time, wasn't it?"

   "That was five years ago.  I did my time.  What are you bothering me for now?"

   Suddenly I felt weak.  I could sense the beads of sweat on my forehead.  This was stupid, I thought.  Neither of the two previous old bags had put in a complaint or I'd have heard from the police long ago.  Anyway, I had covered myself pretty well there.  As for Monique, she hadn't had time to suspect anything yet.  And apart from that I'd kept myself pretty clean.

   Detective Inspector Jarvis started talking to the sergeant.  "You see, Evans?  You see the trouble these people give themselves when they get out of their depth?  They should stick to their regular line of work."

   I was feeling sicker by the second.  There was obviously some mistake, but right now I couldn't afford the time to hang around and straighten it out.  Any delay might be fatal.  I forced my face into a smile.

   "Now see here, Jarvis . . . er . . . Inspector.  I don't know what this is all in aid of, but suppose you both sit down and have a drink.  If you're after information of any kind, you can depend on my cooperation.  You know that."  I took a handkerchief out and mopped my brow.

   "It's too late for that, Hudson," said Jarvis.  "Or should I call you Hamilton?  You know, you people astound me.  You've obviously had a really good racket going for you for the past three years.  I mean, you've been living pretty well, and we haven't been able to lay a finger on you.  Suddenly you get a rush of blood to the head and - wham!" Jarvis smacked an enormous fist into the palm of his other hand.  "We've been watching you for some time.  At first I couldn't believe it was true.  And then you opened that joint bank account."

   I flopped into an armchair.  "Would you mind getting to the point, Inspector."

   Jarvis turned to Sergeant Evans.  "You tell him, Sergeant."

   You know, that was three years ago; and when the sergeant spoke, they were the first and only words he said.  Yet, as if it was only yesterday, I can still hear his words, as he intoned: "Andrew Hudson, otherwise known as Andrew Hamilton, we have a warrant for your arrest, on the charge of living on the immoral earnings of a known prostitute - one Monique Duval."

   They are letting me out tomorrow.