The Grab: A Classic Crime Novel. Gordon Landsborough

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СКАЧАТЬ of little Benny Gissenheim on his travels abroad.

      It made me sourer than usual, because I was in no mood to enjoy the boss’s company. I wanted to think, and if I couldn’t get a solution to my thoughts, I wanted to get drunk with the boys, and all that was denied me if I was with B.G.

      But—he made out the paychecks. What he said had to be. So we went out together and down the stairs because there was a notice on the elevator: ‘Out of Order’. It was written in three languages to make sure. My guess is that notice went up every time the old man who ran the elevator had a date with one of the chambermaids.

      Down in the foyer Benny got agitated so much that he began to work when he saw me. Anyway he went through the motions of doing a lot of writing in a big ledger. There was a guy sitting on a bench to one side—a hard bench reserved for visitors calling upon guests at the hotel—probably hard in the hope of making their visits infrequent. He was reading a newspaper, and I remembered thinking at the time that that newspaper must be mighty interesting to keep a man up hear midnight reading it on a hard bench.

      I was going across to make Benny feel really uncomfortable when something timid touched my elbow.

      Something timid said: “He didn’t have any. He says he’s run out.”

      I looked down. There must be something reassuring about the Heggy physiognomy after all for timid dames twice in one evening to pour out their little troubles to me.

      I looked meanly at Benny and said: “You don’t want to believe that guy. Lady, he’s holding out on you, I tell you.”

      That would be just like Benny, I thought. Benny would take it out of a timid dame like this fluttery female just because he lost out in an encounter with Joe P. Heggy.

      She looked wistfully at the pigeon-holes behind Benny’s bowed head where he worked at a table behind the desk. Benny, I knew well enough by this time, was trying hard to avoid the Heggy eye.

      I heard her say: “I would have loved to have seen those mosques in the moonlight.”

      Next second I heard B.G.’s big mouth yapping. He wanted to show off, I suppose, and this timid little dame must have made him feel big and good.

      He said: “That’s no place for a lady after dark. You should keep away from such places because you never know what sort of characters are waiting around for the innocent tourist.”

      That little dame turned on him, all fluttering and pink and her eyes hardly daring to lift to his face. It’s routine No. 1 with most dames, but I reckon that B.G. isn’t worldly wise. She kept saying: “Oh, thank you for warning me. It’s very good of you. I hadn’t realized that it might be dangerous.” And then a lot more eye fluttering and then she said: “That’s the disadvantage of being a frail woman instead of a big strong man.”

      She did everything except say: “...Like you,” but that would have spoilt things—it would have overdone it, if you see what I mean. And I, standing there nodding my head cynically, saw the fish take the bait and the hook and the line and everything.

      It made him feel big and strong and good, and I could see the air go into his chest and fill it out, and I knew he was holding that fat gut of his so that he looked muscular instead of beefy. He was looking at her tolerantly, in a strongman manner, through his impressive-looking American businessman’s glasses, and he was saying: “Perhaps I might find the time to escort you around the mosques, if you’re staying at this hotel.”

      She started fluttering again and thanking him and putting in the odd sentence, which made him feel pleased with himself. I had to hand it to the old gal. She may have been doing it unconsciously, but she had the right line of patter to please B.G.

      I even looked at her suspiciously, because she never struck a false note. And yet she was innocent. She was just a timid middle-aged dear saying the right things because she had been brought up to say them, and she couldn’t think differently.

      I also thought that she looked better than when I’d first seen her. Her face was pinker, and it seemed to give her a little—shall we call it—bloom of youth? And when I looked down her trim, neatly-dressed little figure I thought that maybe the gal wasn’t in too bad shape after all.

      That’s something I’ve noticed before. Every woman has some pretension to beauty. It’s queer, but the first time you see some women you don’t think anything about them at all. Then, when you’ve seen them a few times, you begin to wonder how you missed those little feminine things which make them attractive to we wolves of the world. Some women kind of grow on you. Like oysters and a lot of other things, I suppose.

      I turned. I wanted to speak to Benny. And as I turned I let my eyes trail on the big boob who was my boss.

      He was simpering. You tell me if there’s anything more sickly than the sight of a big fat sham-businessman simpering!

      He was making small play with his glasses. You know what I mean, taking them off and polishing them and then sticking them back on his stubby little wart of a nose. He was still holding his stomach in, and by now it must have been hurting a lot, because there was a lot of stomach and he hadn’t held it in for years.

      Before him, eyes modestly downcast, was that small, rather dainty, rather dowdy piece of goods from England. It was queer to think that that passed-over portion of feminine frumpery could arouse anything in the male breast. Honest to God, not in ten thousand years could she have quickened my pulse by so much as one extra heartbeat.

      And yet in some way she appealed to B.G. I suppose at heart he knew he was a sap and that most men regarded him as such—and most women, too. And I suppose he was wanting a bit of flattery from the other sex, just as we all do. Now he was getting it, and he didn’t seem to see the old-maidishness of his flatterer.

      I let my eyes trail contempt across his face, letting him see my cynical amusement. It made him blush and become indignant, and he switched off that sickening expression of simpering coyness. I never miss a chance to make a boss feel uncomfortable. Why the heck should I do otherwise? Don’t they make me feel uncomfortable all the time?

      I left them. There was a whole lot more important things on my mind than B.G. and the old maid.

      Benny saw me coming and pretended he didn’t. He was making out bills, I suppose, and doing a lot of frowning, as if he was mightily preoccupied.

      I leaned on the reception desk, and never said a word but just stared at him. After a time he had to drop his pose, and then he looked up at me, and with the fear in his brown, shifty eyes, was anger. At that moment I knew that if there was anything mean and nasty that could be done to Joe P. Heggy, Benny would clamour for the job.

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